The Perfect Lover

5

James’s words proved prophetic; the priory was every bit as accommodating as he’d intimated. Located on an escarpment, the ruins were extensive; while the views were not as good as those from the lookout, they were nonetheless very pleasant.

The stretch of ancient, overgrown lawn where the picnic was set out afforded a pleasant vista over valley and fields merging into a blue-grey distance. The day was warm, but the sun remained hidden by light cloud; a wafting breeze stirred the leaves and set the wildflowers nodding.

Once the food and wine were consumed, the older members of the party were content to sit back and swap tales and opinions on society and the world. Everyone else dispersed to explore the ruins.

They were as romantic as any young lady might wish, the tumbled stones well settled, not dangerous, in parts overgrown with creepers. Here and there an arch remained, framing a view; in other places walls still stood. A portion of the cloisters provided a sunny nook in which to take one’s ease.

Since seeing her walking in the gardens that morning, Simon had been unable to shift his attention from Portia. Even when she was not directly in view, he was aware of her, like the caress of silk across naked skin-her presence now affected him in precisely the same way. He watched her, helpless not to, even though he knew she was aware of it. He wanted to know-had to know-couldn’t let go of the possibilities that unlooked-for kiss on the terrace had raised.

He hadn’t intended it; he knew she hadn’t either, yet it had happened. Why such an interaction, so minor in the scheme of such things, should so grip his interest was a riddle he wasn’t sure he needed solved.

Yet he couldn’t leave it, couldn’t shake aside the insane idea that had rushed into his mind on a torrent of conviction and taken up implacable, immovable residence. The idea that had kept him awake half the night.

Regardless of his impluses, he knew better than to crowd her or to make their awareness of each other public knowledge. When, with the others, she happily rose and set out to explore, he ambled along some distance behind, with Charlie and James supposedly keeping a general eye on proceedings.

The Hammond girls went quickly ahead, hallooing and giggling. Oswald and Swanston, clinging to spurious superiority, followed, but not too fast. Desmond walked beside Winifred; they parted from the other ladies, taking a different route into the ruins. Drusilla, Lucy, and Portia strolled on, Portia swinging her hat by its ribbons.

Henry and Kitty had remained with the elders-Mrs. Archer, Lady Glossup, and Lady O had all felt the need to engage Kitty in conversation. James, therefore, was relaxed and smiling as they walked through the arch into what had once been the church’s nave.

Simon, too, smiled.

It took him fifteen minutes to lose James to Drusilla Calvin. When she paused to rest on a fallen stone, urging Lucy and Portia to go on, Simon paused, too, frowning, communicating his thoughts to James without words; James felt obliged to remain with Drusilla, entertaining her as best he could.

Charlie was a more difficult proposition, not least because he, too, had his eye on Portia-quite why, and with what aim, Simon was certain Charlie himself didn’t know. Considering his tactics, with Charlie beside him he lengthened his stride, closing the distance to Lucy and Portia, eventually joining them.

Both turned and smiled.

He addressed himself to Lucy. “So are the ruins all you’d hoped for?”

“Indeed, yes!” Face alight, eyes shining, Lucy spread her arms wide. “It’s quite wonderfully atmospheric. Why, one could easily imagine a ghost or two, even a sepulchral company of monks slowly making their way up the nave, censers swinging. Or perhaps a chant, emanating through the mists when there’s no one there.”

Portia laughed. Simon looked at her, caught her eye; distracted, she didn’t utter the response she’d been about to make.

Leaving Charlie to say, “Oh, there’s many more possibilities than that.” He flashed Lucy his most engaging smile. “What about the crypt? Now there’s a place for imaginings. The tombs are still there, guaranteed to send a shiver down your spine.”

Lucy’s eyes had grown round. “Where?” She swiveled, looking around. “Is it near?”

Her gaze returned to Charlie, eager and appreciative; as usual, he responded in his customary way.

“It’s on the other side of the church.” With a flourish, he offered his arm, totally distracted from his earlier aim by the giddy enthusiasm in Lucy’s eyes. “Come-I’ll escort you there. If you’re a lover of atmosphere, you won’t want to miss it.”

Lucy happily slipped her hand in his arm. Over her head, Charlie arched a brow at Simon and Portia. “Coming?”

Simon waved him on. “We’ll stroll on a little way. We’ll meet you in the cloisters.”

Charlie blinked, hesitated, then inclined his head. “Right-ho.” He turned back to Lucy; they started on their way. “There’s a story about a sound heard on dark and moonless nights…”

Simon turned back to Portia in time to see her smile, then she caught his eye; her smile faded. Head rising, she studied his face, his eyes. He studied hers, and couldn’t tell what she was thinking.

He waved, directing her on along the old paved path that wound down and around to the priory’s kitchen gardens. She turned, stepped out.

“You knew about the crypt, didn’t you?”

He followed close behind her, coming alongside as the path evened out. “Charlie and I have visited often over the years.”

Portia smothered a grin and dutifully strolled on. He had a habit of not specifically answering questions he would rather not, questions whose answers revealed more of him than he wished to have known. Yet she was more than content to spend some time alone with him; she had no real interest in the ruins, but there were other matters she wished to explore.

They walked on in silence, oddly companionable. The sun briefly broke through, warm, but not too strong; she didn’t feel obliged to put on her hat-aside from anything else, it made conversing with tall gentlemen difficult.

She could feel his gaze as they walked, feel his presence, and something more, a facet of his behavior she’d noticed years before, but which had only become clear in recent days. The constant flirting-Kitty, James, Charlie, Lucy, even the Hammond girls-had sharpened the contrast; Simon never flirted, never extended himself to engage, unless he had a purpose-unless he acted with intent.

He prowled beside her now, long strides lazy, the disguised power that invested every movement never more apparent. They were in an ancient place, alone. Whatever they said, whatever happened between them here would not need to conform to any social requirements. Only their own.

Whatever they wished, whatever they wanted.

She drew a deep breath, aware of her bodice tightening, aware that he noticed. A tingle of anticipation tickled her spine. They’d reached the kitchen gardens, originally walled, but now the walls were crumbling. The ruined kitchens lay to one side, the remains of the prior’s house beyond them. She stopped, glanced around. They were out of sight of everyone, essentially private. She turned to face Simon.

A scant foot lay between them. He’d halted and was waiting, watching-waiting to see what tack she’d take. Knowing she wouldn’t be able to resist taking-doing-something.

She lifted her chin. Fixed her eyes on his.

Couldn’t find the words.

His eyes narrowed, searched hers, then he raised a hand, slowly, placed the tip of one finger beneath the angle of her jaw, just beneath her ear, and traced forward, tipping her face up. The simple touch sent sensation skittering through her, left her skin tingling.

She was tall, but he was a good half head taller; his fingertip beneath the point of her chin brought their faces closer.

“I assume you’re intent on learning more?”

His voice was deep, hypnotic. She kept her gaze locked with his. “Naturally.”

She could read absolutely nothing in his face, yet the sense of being considered, like prey, grew.

“What did you have in mind?”

The invitation was blatant-and exactly what she wanted.

She raised her brows, faintly haughty, knowing the challenge would not escape him-and he would not escape it. “I’d imagined the next step.”

His lips curved, just a little; now that she knew what they felt like, she found them fascinating, both visually and in the expectation of how they would feel…

“And just what had you imagined that to be?”

She watched the words form on his lips; they took a moment to penetrate her brain. Then she hauled her gaze up to his eyes, blinked. “I’d imagined… another kiss.”

Calculation flashed through his eyes, enough to tell her she might have answered differently, that there was more yet she could have learned… if she’d known to ask for it.

“Another kiss? So be it”-his head lowered, her lids followed-“if that’s all you really want.”

The last words drifted into her mind, pure temptation, as his lips settled on hers, warm, firm, more definite this time, more sure, more commanding. She knew how to respond now and did, parting her lips, inviting him in. His hand shifted, long fingers sliding to cup her nape, his thumb remaining beneath her chin, holding her steady as he angled his head and-as she’d demanded-took the kiss further.

Deeper, into some realm that was hotter, more exciting. More intimate.

She felt it in her bones, felt her senses unfurl like petals under a sensual sun. And went forward with eagerness and delight.

Lifting one hand, she lightly touched, lingeringly traced his cheek. Drew breath from him and kissed him back-shyly testing, trying, mimicking-growing more assured when she sensed, not only his acceptance, but beneath his expertise and his strength, an elusive, beguiling need.

Caught in the deepening intimacy of the kiss, in the slow tangle of their tongues, the long moments of disguised but insistent plunder, she was nevertheless aware of his arm closing around her, of his other hand spreading over her back, supporting her, trapping her, easing her nearer, tempting her closer yet.

His strength was a palpable force surrounding her; she was tall and slender while he was taller, broader, infinitely stronger. She felt like a reed to his oak, not that he would snap her, but that he could, and would, bend her to his will…

A shiver raced through her, an echo of what must have gone through some other woman, centuries before, when she’d stood, caught, in some long-ago Cynster’s embrace. Just because time had passed didn’t mean anything had changed; he was very much that earlier conqueror, disguised only by a veneer of sophistication. Scratch him, and the roar would be the same.

She knew it, yet the knowledge didn’t stop her from inviting more. Indeed, the implicit challenge only made her bolder. Bold enough to close the distance between them until her bodice brushed his coat, until her skirts tangled with his legs and covered his boots, to rest her forearm on his shoulder and spear her fingers, slowly, experimentally, through his soft hair.

Simon felt his control quake; he locked every muscle against the rampant urge to draw her fully against him. To give his clamoring senses that much ease at least, to feel her lithe body molded to his. Cleaving to his as she would, sometime…

But not yet.

He could feel the compulsion rising within him and fought to suppress it, let it find expression only in his increasingly ravenous plundering of her mouth.

Soft, warm, she offered and he took, flagrantly claiming, guiding her deeper into the intimacy, until her lips, tongue, the succulent recesses of her mouth were his to savor as he wished.

He wanted much more. Wanted the promise of the body in his arms-wanted to claim it, to dictate her surrender, to have her soft body offered up as appeasement to the hardness of his.

A second kiss-that was all she’d asked for. Even though he knew in his conqueror’s soul that she wouldn’t complain if he took their interaction further, he knew her. Far too well to make the mistake of giving her more than she’d haughtily requested. She was foolish to trust him, him or any man, as she was, yet he was too wise in her ways not to abide by the letter and intent of her trust.

He intended to build on it, and so gain a great deal more.

Drawing back to safe ground was an effort, accomplished step by step, degree by reluctant degree. When their lips finally parted, they remained for an instant, heads close, breaths mingling. Then he lifted his head, and she did the same, blinking up at him. Realizing, as did he, as her eyes searched his, that the landscape between them had altered. New vistas had opened up, ones neither had previously imagined might be. She was enthralled… as was he.

She realized his hands were about her waist; dragging in a breath she stepped back. He let her, his fingers releasing, reluctantly sliding from her.

Her eyes were still locked on his, but her mind was racing. She was still short of breath, suddenly uncertain. She looked lost.

He smiled-charmingly. Reaching out, he tucked a stray curl back behind her ear. Raised a brow, faintly teasing. “Satisfied?”

She wasn’t deceived, but recognized his tack-his offer of an easy way back to the world they’d left; he saw her understanding in her eyes. Along with her hesitation.

But then she straightened and inclined her head, haughty as ever. “Indeed.” A smile flitted about her lips; abruptly she turned away, toward the path that would lead them around and back to the others. “That was perfectly… satisfactory.”

He hid a grin as he fell in on her heels. Farther along, he took her hand to help her over a jumble of tumbled stones, and kept it. When they approached the cloisters, he wound her arm in his; they strolled on, outwardly easy, in reality all aware.

By unspoken agreement they would hide that last, but continue to explore it in private.

Reaching the cloisters, they heard the others’ voices; he conducted her in, watching her still but with a new and quite different intent. He needed to ensure she remained comfortable with him, that she felt no qualms about approaching him, being with him, ultimately asking more of him.

He was perfectly prepared to teach her all she wished-all she would ever need to learn. He wanted her to turn to him for her next lesson. And the next.

Holding her in his arms, feeling the strength of the compulsion she evoked, sensing her reaction, had been enough to answer the question in his mind.

His insane, wild, previously inconceivable idea wasn’t such a crazed notion after all.

He wanted her as his wife-in his bed, bearing his children. The scales had shattered and fallen from his eyes with a resounding crash. He wanted her by his side. Wanted her. He didn’t truly understand why-why her-yet he’d never felt so certain of anything in his life.

The next morning, lounging against the frame of the open French doors of the library, Simon kept watch over the terrace doors of the morning room, the downstairs parlor, and the garden hall, the doors through which Portia might emerge to go walking in the gardens.

He’d known her for years, knew her character, her personality, her temper. He knew how to deal with her. If he pushed, overtly steered her in any direction, she’d either dig in her heels or go the opposite way on principle, regardless of whether that was in her best interests.

Given what he wanted of her, what position he wished her to fill, the fastest way to achieve all he desired was to lead her to think it was her idea. That it was her leading and him following, not the other way around.

An added benefit of such a plan was that it made redundant any declaration on his part. There’d be no need for him to admit to his compulsive desire, let alone the feelings that spawned it.

Tactics and carefully guarded strategy would be his most certain route to success.

The morning room doors opened; Portia, in a gown of blue muslin sprigged with deeper blue, stepped through, shutting the doors behind her. Strolling to the edge of the terrace, she looked across the lawn toward the temple, then she turned and went down the steps, heading for the lake.

Pushing away from the doorframe, taking his hands from his pockets, he set out in pursuit.

Reaching the stretch of lawn above the lake, she slowed, then she sensed his approach, glanced back, halted, and waited.

He studied her as he neared; the only signs of consciousness, of her recollection of their last moments together alone, were a slight widening of her eyes, a hint of color beneath her fine skin, and, of course, her rising head and uptilted chin.

“Good morning.” She inclined her head, as ever faintly regal, but her eyes were on his, wondering… “Did you come out for a stroll?”

He halted before her, met her gaze directly. “I came to spend time with you.”

Her eyes widened a fraction more, but she’d never been missish; with her he would stand on firmer ground if he dealt with her openly, honestly, eschewing social subtleties.

He waved toward the lake. “Shall we?”

She glanced that way, hesitated, then inclined her head in acquiescence. He fell in beside her; in silence, they walked to the edge of the lawn, then on down the slope to the path around the lake. By unspoken consent, they turned toward the summerhouse.

Portia strolled on, glancing at the trees and bushes and the still waters of the lake, struggling to appear nonchalant, not at all sure she was succeeding. This was want she wanted-a chance to learn more-yet this was not an arena in which she had any experience, and she didn’t want to founder, to put a foot wrong, to end over her head, out of her depth.

And between them, things had changed.

She now knew what it felt like to have his hands locked about her waist, to sense his strength close, closing around her. To know herself in his physical control… her reaction to that still surprised her. She never would have thought she would like it, let alone crave it more.

Over all the years, in all that lay between them, there never had been any physical connection; now that there was, it was surprisingly tempting, enthralling… and its existence had shifted their interaction to an entirely different plane.

One she’d never been on before-not with anyone-a plane on which she was still very much feeling her way.

They reached the summerhouse; Simon gestured and they left the path, crossed a short stretch of lawn and went up the steps. The area within, a room open to the breezes, was unusually spacious. Instead of a single point to the roof, there were two, supported by columns flanking the central section, in which two large cane armchairs and a matching sofa were arranged around a low table. The sofa faced the entrance and the lake with the armchairs to either side, all fitted with chintz-covered cushions. Periodicals sat in a cane holder beside the sofa. A window seat ran around the walls, beneath the open arches.

The floor was swept, the cushions plumped, all ready for the enjoyment of whoever ventured in.

She turned just inside the threshold and looked back at the oval lake. Simon’s earlier comment about the privacy of the summerhouse replayed in her mind. From this position, there was no evidence of a house anywhere near, not even a glimpse of a sculpted bed or a stretch of tended lawn. It was easy to forget, easy to believe there was no one else in the immediate world. Just them.

She glanced at Simon and found him watching her. Knew in that instant that he was waiting for her to give him some sign, some indication that she wished to learn yet more, or alternatively that she’d decided she’d learned enough. Casually at ease, blue gaze steady, he simply watched her.

Looking again at the lake, she tried to ignore the sudden leaping of her senses, the distracting conviction that her heart was beating faster and harder.

The other ladies had gathered in the morning room to talk and take their ease; the other gentlemen were either collected in groups, discussing business or politics, or out riding.

They were alone, as alone as the surroundings promised.

Opportunity knocked. Loudly. Yet…

She frowned, walked to one of the wide arches, set her hands on the sill, and looked out. Unseeing.

After a moment, Simon stirred and followed her; despite not looking, she was aware of his prowling grace. He joined her at the arch, propping his shoulder against its side. His gaze remained wholly on her.

Another minute slipped past, then he murmured, “Your call.”

Her lips twisted in a grimace; she lightly drummed her fingers on the sill, then realized and stopped. “I know.” The fact didn’t make things any easier.

“So tell me…”

She would have to. He was only just over a foot away, but at least she didn’t have to meet his eyes, nor speak loudly. She drew breath, drew herself up. Gripped the sill. “I want to learn more, but I don’t want you to get the wrong idea. To misconstrue my intentions.”

The dilemma she’d woken to that morning and come out to the gardens to think through.

He was silent for a moment; she could sense him trying to follow the tack her mind had taken.

“Why, exactly, do you wish to learn more?”

His tone was so even she could read nothing from it; if she wanted to know what he was thinking, she would have to look into his eyes, yet if she was to answer his question, she couldn’t afford to.

She kept her gaze on the lake. “I want to understand, to experience enough so I can comprehend all that exists between a man and a woman that would encourage a woman to marry. I want to know, not be forced to guess. However”-she placed ringing emphasis on the word-“my interest is academic. Totally and completely. I don’t want you to… to… get any incorrect impression.”

Her heart was beating faster, but she’d said it, got the words out. She could feel heat in her cheeks; she had never felt so uncertain in her life. Unsure, unconfident. Ignorant. She hated the feeling. She knew absolutely what she wanted, knew what, if her conscience hadn’t raised its head, she wanted from him. But she couldn’t, absolutely could not ask it of him if there was the slightest chance of his misinterpreting her interest.

She didn’t imagine him to be readily vulnerable-she knew his reputation too well-but things between them had changed, and she wasn’t sure how or why; feeling her way as she was, she couldn’t be certain-as absolutely certain as her heart and honor demanded-that he wouldn’t develop some sudden suceptibility and come to expect, in return for his teachings, more than she was prepared to give.

She was absolutely certain she couldn’t bear that.

Simon studied her profile. Her revelation-her intention, her direction, so reckless and unconventional-was so Portiaesque, it did not evoke the slightest surprise; he’d long been inured to her ways. Had she been any other unmarried lady he’d have been shocked; from her, it all made perfect sense.

It was her courage and candor in stating it, in seeking to make sure he understood-more, in seeking to make sure he did not leave himself open to any hurt-that evoked a surge of emotion. A complex mix. Appreciation, approbation… even admiration.

And a flare of something much deeper. She cared for him at least that much…

If he chose to go forward and accept the risk, however small, that he might fail to change her mind and persuade her into matrimony, he couldn’t claim he hadn’t been warned.

By the same token, informing her that he had decided that she was the lady he intended having as his wife was clearly out of the question. At least for the present. She wasn’t thinking in those terms-that was the challenge he had to overcome, deflecting her mind and her considerable convictions onto the path to the altar. However, given their previous history, given all she knew of him, if at this delicate point he mentioned he intended making her his bride she might well run for the hills.

“I think we need to talk about this-get the situation clear.”

Even to him, his tone sounded too even, almost distant; she glanced briefly at him but didn’t meet his eyes.

“What,” he asked, before she could respond, “specifically do you wish to learn?”

She fixed her gaze once more on the lake. “I want to know”-the color in her cheeks deepened, her chin rose a notch-“about the physical aspects. What is it about their times with their beaux that the maids titter over on the backstairs? What do women-ladies especially-gain from such encounters that inclines them to indulge, and most especially prompts them to marriage?”

All logical, rational questions, at least from her strictly limited point of view. She was patently in earnest, committed, or she wouldn’t have broached the subject; he could sense the tension holding her, all but quivering through her.

His mind raced, trying to map the surest way forward. “To what… point do you wish to extend your knowledge?” He kept all censure from his voice; he might have been discussing the strategies of chess.

After a moment, she turned her head, met his eyes-and glared. “I don’t know.”

He blinked, suddenly saw the way-reached for it. “Very well. As you don’t-logically can’t-know what stages lie along a road you’ve never traveled, if you’re truly serious in wanting to know”-he shrugged as nonchalantly as he could-“we could, if you wish, progress stage by stage.” He met her dark gaze, held it. “And you can call a halt at whatever point you choose.”

She studied his eyes; wariness rather than suspicion filled hers. “One stage at a time?”

He nodded.

“And if I say stop…” She frowned. “What if I can’t talk?”

He hesitated, well aware of what he was committing himself to, yet he felt compelled to offer, “I’ll ask your permission before every stage, and make sure you understand, and answer.”

Her brows rose. “You’ll wait for my answer?”

“For your rational, considered, definitive answer.”

She hesitated. “Promise…?”

“Word of a Cynster.”

She knew better than to question that. Her expression remained haughty, but her lips eased, her gaze softened… she was considering his proposition…

He held his breath, knew her far too well to make the slightest move to press her-battled the compulsion-

She nodded, once, decisively. “All right.”

Facing him fully, she held out her hand.

He looked at it, glanced briefly at her face, then grasped her hand, turned and towed her deeper into the summerhouse.

“What…?”

He stopped a few feet before one of the columns. Looked back at her and raised a brow. “I assumed you’d want to progress to the next stage?”

She blinked. “Yes, but-”

“We can’t do that by the arch, in full view of anyone who might wander by the lake.”

Her lips formed an O as he drew her past him, twirling her to face him. Freeing her hand, he lifted both his to frame her face, tipping it up as he stepped closer and lowered his head.

He kissed her, waited only until the steel went from her spine and she surrendered her mouth, then he backed her, slowly, step by deliberate step, until the column was at her back. She stiffened with surprise, but when he didn’t press her against the wood, she relaxed, bit by bit, gradually let herself become engrossed in the kiss.

For long moments, he did nothing more-simply kissed her and let her kiss him back. Sank into the softness of her mouth, with lips and tongue caressed, enticed, then let her play. Let her sense and grow accustomed to the give and take, to a slower, less overwhelming rhythm.

To the simple familiar pleasure.

She was taller than the average, a fact he appreciated; he didn’t need to tip her face so far back, could stand with her comfortably. The column behind her merely delineated their space, providing something she could later lean back against… assuming she agreed to their next stage.

The thought sent heat sliding insidiously through him. He angled his head, pressed the kiss deeper, made her cling to the exchange. Releasing her face, he reached for her waist, spanned it with his hands, then slid them around, over the fine muslin, feeling the silky shift of her chemise between the gown and her skin.

She made a soft sound and pressed nearer; he met her lips, met her tongue-and eased her back, gently, until she stood against the column. She relaxed against it; her hands, previously resting passively on his shoulders, shifted, slid up, back, around. Spreading her fingers, she speared them slowly through his hair, let it fall.

Then she twined her arms about his neck and stretched up against him, meeting his lips with increasing ardor, her lithe body bowing.

Inwardly, he smiled, let his hands slide over her back, tracing the long line of the muscles framing her spine, up, then down. He kissed her deeply, sensed the heat rising beneath her skin, felt the soft mounds of her breasts, pressed to his chest, firm.

Her perfume rose and wreathed through his mind, teased his senses. He held to the kiss, letting his hands do no more than caress the firm planes of her back, over and over.

And waited.

More. Portia knew she wanted more than this. Kisses were all very well, exceedingly pleasant, heady and intoxicating, sending warmth sliding through her, bringing her senses alive. And the feel of his hands, cool and hard, and the unstated promise in their steady, deliberate stroking, sent shivers of anticipatory delight down her spine. But now expectation crawled along her nerves; her senses were avidly agog. Waiting. Ready.

For the next stage.

He’d said he’d show her. She wanted to know, to learn of it. Now.

She drew back from the kiss, found it required real effort; when their lips finally, reluctantly, parted, she didn’t move back, only lifted her suddenly heavy lids enough to meet his gaze from beneath her lashes.

“What’s the next stage?”

His eyes met hers; his seemed darker, a more intense blue. Then he answered. “This.”

His hands shifted, leaving her back to slide forward to her sides. His thumbs cruised, brushing the sides of her breasts.

Sensation streaked through her; her senses abruptly focused-followed, hungrily, greedily, as he stroked deliberately again. Her knees quaked; she suddenly found a use for the column behind her, leaned back against it. He followed her lips with his, brushed them as his wicked thumbs circled lightly, tantalizingly-just enough for her to understand…

He lifted his head, met her eyes. “Yes? Or no?”

His thumbs circled again, too lightly… if she’d had the strength she’d have told him what a stupid question it was. “Yes,” she breathed. Before he could ask if she was sure, she drew his lips back to hers, certain she would need that much anchor to the world.

She felt his lips curve, but then his hands shifted again and she forgot-stopped thinking-about anything else bar the delicious delight that flowed from his touch, from the languid, repetitive caresses, alternately firm then teasingly insubstantial. Increasingly explicit, more openly sensual, more overtly possessive.

Until he closed his hands, slowly, firmly about her breasts, until he took her tightly budded nipples between his thumbs and fingers, and squeezed.

Fire lanced through her.

Gasping, she broke from the kiss. The pressure about her nipples eased.

“No! Don’t stop.”

Her voice surprised her-a sultry command. She cracked open her lids, glanced at his face. His eyes met hers. There was something-some expression-she’d never seen in them before. His face was hard, very angular. His lips, thin yet mobile, were not quite straight.

Obediently, he squeezed again; once again, sensation speared, spread and tingled beneath her skin. Warmth followed, rushing through her, washing her inhibitions away.

She let her lids fall on a pleasured sigh.

“Do you like it?”

She tightened her arms and drew his lips back to hers. “You know I do.”

He did, of course, but he hadn’t wanted to miss hearing her admission. It pleased him-a consolation prize given the limitations of their present engagement.

The severe limitations-the open ardor of her response more than warmed him; it was a spur to which he couldn’t react.

Yet.

She was warm and alive beneath his hands; her breasts filled them, hot, firm, swollen. Her delight, her pleasure, was there in her kiss, in the eagerness investing her supple frame.

When he closed his hands more definitely and kneaded, she made a sound deep in her throat and kissed him back, flagrantly demanding…

It was suddenly a battle to stay exactly where he was and not press closer, not trap her against the column, mold her to him, ease his pain against her softness. He drew breath, felt his chest swell, grappled, and hung on to his control-

Clang! Clang!

The sound was off-key, sufficiently grating to distract them both.

They broke the kiss; he hauled in a breath, hands sliding to her waist as he turned.

Clang! Clang!

“It’s the luncheon gong.” Portia blinked, slightly dazed, up at him. “They’re ringing it outside. There must be others wandering the gardens, too.”

He hoped so, hoped it wasn’t just they being so specifically summoned. He stepped back, reached for her hand. “We’d better get back.”

She met his gaze briefly, then nodded. Let him take her hand and lead her down the steps.

As they walked quickly back up the lawns, he made a mental note to reinforce his reins before her next lesson. To prepare himself for the temptation, the better to resist it.

He glanced at her, walking steadily beside him, her stride longer than most women’s. She was absorbed, thinking-he knew about what. If he made a mistake, let his true intent show, he couldn’t rely on her naïveté to blind her to it. She might not see the truth immediately, but later, she would. She would analyze and dissect everything that passed between them, all in the name of learning.

Looking ahead, he inwardly grimaced. He was going to have to ensure she didn’t learn more than was good for her.

Such as the truth of why he was teaching her.