The Perfect Lover

11

She blinked, then stared. “What did you say?”

Her voice was oddly weak.

He set his jaw. “You heard me.” When she continued to stare, dumbfounded, he repeated, “I want to marry you.”

Her eyes only grew rounder. “When did you decide this? And why, for heaven’s sake?”

He hesitated, trying to see ahead. “Kitty. She almost said something over the luncheon table. At some point, she will-she won’t be able to resist. I was already thinking of marriage and didn’t want you imagining, if I waited to speak until after she caused a ruckus, that I was offering because of that.”

With any other lady, letting Kitty create a scandal and then offering ostensibly because of it might have been a reasonable way forward, but not with Portia. She’d never accept an offer made out of social necessity.

“You were already thinking of marriage? To me?” The stunned look in her eyes hadn’t faded. “Why?”

He frowned at her. “I would have thought that was obvious.”

“Not to me. What, precisely, are you talking about?”

“I’m sure you haven’t forgotten you spent last night in my bed.”

“You’re perfectly right-I haven’t. I also haven’t forgotten that I specifically explained that my interest in such proceedings was academic.”

He held her gaze. “That was then. This is now. Things have changed.” An instant passed. Eyes locked on hers, he asked, “Can you deny it?”

Portia couldn’t, but his sudden talk of marriage-as if the subject had always been there, an unstated element between them-left her feeling like a deer suddenly facing a hunter. Paralyzed, unsure which way to turn, shocked, astonished, her wits literally reeling.

When she didn’t immediately reply, he went on, “Aside from all else, your involvement in last night’s proceedings was anything but academic.”

She blushed, lifted her head. Why on earth was he taking this tack? She tried to harry her whirling wits into order. “Regardless, that’s no reason to imagine we should wed.”

It was his turn to stare. “What?”

He uttered the word with such force, she jumped. He took a prowling, menacing step closer.

“You came to my bed-gave yourself to me-and you didn’t expect we would wed?”

Their faces were no more than six inches apart; he really was stunned. Eyes wide, she held his gaze. “No. I didn’t.” She hadn’t got that far in her deliberations.

He didn’t immediately answer, but something changed behind his mask. Then his eyes grew darker, his features harder; a muscle flexed along his jaw.

“You didn’t… just what sort of man do you think I am?”

His voice was a low growl-a very angry growl. He shifted fractionally nearer; she nearly took a step back, only just stopped herself. Spine rigid, she held his gaze, struggled to understand why he was suddenly so furious… wondered if he was pretending… felt her own temper rise.

“You’re a rake.” She said the word clearly, distinctly. “You seduce ladies-it’s the primary characteristic in the occupational description. If you’d married every lady you’d seduced, you’d have to go and live in Arabia because you’d have a harem.” Her voice had gained strength; her belligerence rose to meet his. “As you’re still living here, in this sceptered isle, I feel confident in concluding you don’t marry every lady you seduce.”

He smiled, a feral gesture. “You’re right, I don’t. But you need to revise your occupational description because, like most rakes, I never seduce unmarried, virginal, gently bred ladies.” He stepped closer; this time she backed. “Like you.”

She fought to keep her eyes on his, aware her breathing had accelerated. “But you did seduce me.”

He nodded, and closed the gap between them again. “I did, indeed, seduce you-because I intend to marry you.”

Her jaw dropped; she nearly gasped. Then she dug in her heels, tipped her chin high and locked her eyes, narrowing to shards, on his. “You seduced me because you intended to marry me?”

He blinked. Halted.

She saw red. “What aren’t you telling me?” She jabbed a finger into his chest; he eased fractionally back. “You intended to marry me? Since when?” She flung her arms wide. “When did you decide?”

Even she could hear the almost hysterical, certainly horrified note welling in her voice. She’d evaluated the threat, accepted the risk in going to his bed, but she hadn’t seen, hadn’t known the real threat, the real risk.

Because he’d hidden it from her.

“You-!” She went to box his ear but he caught her fist. “You deceived me!”

“I didn’t! You deceived yourself.”

“Hah! Anyway”-she twisted her hand; he let her go-“you didn’t seduce me-I seduced myself! I was willing. That’s different.”

“Maybe, but it doesn’t change the fact. We were intimate, whatever led to it.”

“Rubbish! I’m not going to marry you because of it. I’m twenty-four. The fact I was a gently bred virgin doesn’t matter.”

He caught her gaze. “It did-it does.”

That he considered the fact gave him some claim over her didn’t need to be stated; it hovered, very real, a tangible truth between them.

She set her chin. “I always knew you were a throwback to medieval times. Regardless, I won’t marry you because of it.”

“I don’t care why you marry me, just as long as you do.”

“Why?” She’d asked before; he still hadn’t answered. “And when did you decide you wanted to marry me? Tell me the truth, all of the truth, now.”

His eyes hadn’t left hers; he drew in a deep breath, then exhaled. Other than that, not a single line in his face or muscle in his body eased. “I decided after the picnic in the ruins. I’d thought of it after we first kissed on the terrace.”

She wished he wasn’t standing so close she couldn’t fold her arms defensively before her. “You must have kissed millions of women.”

His lips twisted. “Thousands.”

“And I’m supposed to believe that because of one kiss-no, two-you decided to marry me?”

Simon very nearly told her he didn’t care what she believed, but behind her anger, he sensed growing fright, the welling of a deep-seated fear, one he understood and had tried hard not to trigger.

He was very close to seriously queering his pitch with her; he might take months, even years, to win her back.

“It wasn’t only that.”

Her jaw set; she tipped her face higher. “What, then?”

Her eyes had clouded; he couldn’t read them. He eased back a little, wasn’t surprised when she shifted back and folded her arms across her chest.

“I’d already decided I wanted a wife and family before leaving London. When I met you here, I realized we would suit.”

She blinked. “Suit? Are you mad? We’re-” She gestured, searching for words. Lowering her arms.

“Too alike?”

“Yes!” Her eyes snapped. “You can hardly claim we’re compatible.”

“Think of the last days. Think of last night. In what matters in marriage, we’re perfectly compatible.” He caught her gaze. “In every conceivable way.”

Portia refused to blush again-he was doing it on purpose. “One night-that’s hardly a reasonable basis on which to make such a decision. How can you tell the next time won’t be”-she gestured wildly-”boring?”

His eyes, burning blue, pinned her. “Trust me. It won’t.”

There was something in his face, a hardness, a ruthlessness, that was quite different from anything she’d seen in him before. She kept her eyes on his, tried to ignore the aggression flowing from him. “You… really are serious.” She was having great trouble taking that in. One moment, she’d been logically following her step-by-step investigation into the physical attractions of matrimony-next thing, here they were, discussing a marriage between them.

He looked up, exhaled through his teeth. “Why is it so hard to imagine I’d want to marry you?” He’d addressed the question to the heavens; he looked down at her. Growled, “And what’s wrong with the idea of marrying me?”

“What’s wrong with the idea of me marrying you?” She heard her voice rise, tried to rein it in. “We’d make our lives a living hell, that’s what! You”-she landed a backhanded slap on his chest-“you’re a despot, a tyrant. A Cynster! You decree and expect to be obeyed-no, not even that! You assume you’ll be obeyed. And you know what I’m like.” She met his gaze, defiant and direct. “I won’t meekly agree with what you dictate-I won’t meekly agree with anything you say!”

His lips had thinned, his eyes had narrowed. He waited a heartbeat. “So?”

She stared at him. “Simon-this is not going to work.”

“It is. It will.”

That was her cue to appeal to the skies. “See?”

“That’s not what’s worrying you.”

She lowered her gaze, looked at him. Blinked. Into soft blue eyes she’d long known to be deceptive-there was nothing soft behind them, nothing but invincible, steely determination, inflexible resolution, rocklike, conqueror-like will… “What… do you mean?”

“I’ve always known what worries you about me.”

Something inside her physically shook. Rocked. She held his gaze for a long moment, finally found the courage to ask, “What?”

He hesitated; she knew he was deciding how much to reveal, how much to confess he’d seen. When he spoke, his voice was even, low, yet still hard. “You’re frightened I’ll try to control you, to curtail your independence, to turn you into the sort of lady you’re not. And that I’ll be strong enough to succeed.”

Her mouth was dry. “And you won’t? Try, or succeed?”

“I’ll almost certainly try, at least to curtail your wilder starts, at times, but not because I want to change you. Because I want to preserve you. I want you for what you are, not for what you’re not.”

The emotional risk she faced with him had just intensified and increased, well-nigh beyond bearing. Her heart had swollen and blocked her throat; it was difficult to draw breath.

“You’re not just saying that?”

He was quite capable of it; he’d just proved he saw far more than she’d ever guessed, that he understood her far better than any other ever had. And he was ruthless, relentless in getting what he wanted.

He wanted her.

She had to believe it-there was no longer any option.

He exhaled, looked down, then met her gaze again. She could see his temper, still very real, in the locked lines of his face. Could sense, even more clearly, his desire to seize, to capture, to simply take.

A conqueror looked at her from behind his eyes.

Slowly, he raised a hand, held it out palm up between them. “Take a chance. Try me.”

She looked at his hand, then raised her gaze to his face. “What are you suggesting?”

“Be my lover until you’re sure enough to be my wife. For the few days we’ve left here, at least.”

She breathed in deeply; her wits were whirling-she couldn’t think. Instinct warned her she hadn’t yet heard all-hadn’t heard why he so amazingly thought they would suit-and perhaps never would. There were other ways to deal with that, to learn what he would not say.

But if she wished to… she’d have to take a chance.

Take a risk far bigger than any she’d imagined.

She’d thought to approach marriage one step at a time, standing on firm ground all the way. Who knew?-she might, at some point, have reached the stage of contemplating marrying him. If she’d followed her logical, cautious route, she would have known what to do. Felt sure what she wanted.

Instead, he’d leapt ahead to a stage she hadn’t until now envisaged, leaving her no time to catch up. Her mind was still reeling, but he was waiting for an answer-would insist on one-indeed, deserved one; she had to rely on instinct alone in deciding what to do.

Her heart quaked; she stiffened her spine.

Lifting her hand, she placed her fingers in his.

They closed strongly, firmly about hers.

The possessive touch jolted her. She lifted her chin, met his eyes. “This doesn’t mean I’m agreeing to marry you.”

He held her gaze, then shifted his hold, lifted her hand to his lips. “You’re agreeing to give me a chance to persuade you.”

Quelling the shiver the brush of his lips and the intent in his eyes evoked, she inclined her head.

Simon silently let out the breath he’d been holding, felt the vise locked about his lungs ease. Never had he imagined dealing with his intended would mean dealing with Portia; she tied him in knots in ways no other ever had.

But he’d got over the worst of it, eased her past the hurdle of his recent shortcomings and refocused them both on what mattered-what was to come. He wasn’t going to dwell on the fact she’d imagined he would seduce her, then let her go; there was no point arguing about her error.

She glanced at him, then turned to continue along the path. He consented but kept hold of her hand, striding slowly beside her.

Knowing she was thinking, analyzing, dissecting. There was no way he could prevent it.

The air beneath the trees was silent, still. Somewhere in the distance a bird called. The path wound through the trees; they could see the forecourt ahead when she stopped. Turned to him.

“If I don’t agree to marry you, what then?”

Lying would make life so much easier. But this was Portia. He met her gaze. “I’ll speak to Luc.”

She stiffened; her eyes flashed. “If you do, I’ll never marry you.”

He let the moment stretch. “I know.”

After a moment, he grimaced. “If it comes to that, we’ll be at stalemate. But it won’t, so there’s no sense worrying about it.”

She narrowed her eyes at him, but then grimaced, too, and turned to walk beside him once more. “You’re very sure.”

They emerged into the forecourt; he looked up at the house. “Of what should be, yes.” Of what was to come-that was another matter.

Reaching the front steps, they went up and through the front door, presently set wide.

In the hall, Portia halted. “I need to think.”

An understatment. She still felt as if she were walking in a dream, that none of what had happened had been real. She wasn’t at all sure what she’d got herself into, what she was now facing.

Where they, he and she, now were.

She drew her hand from his; he released it, but reluctantly. One glance at his face told her he’d much rather she didn’t think, that he was considering distracting her, but then he caught her eye, realized what she’d seen.

He inclined his head. “I’ll be in the billiard room.”

She nodded, turned away, opened the library door, and walked in. The long room was empty. Relieved, she shut the door behind her, leaned back against it. An instant later, she heard his footsteps heading down the hall.

Her back against the panels, she waited for her whirling wits to subside, for her emotions to settle.

Was he right? Could a marriage between them work?

There seemed little point examining the past; now she knew he’d been thinking of marriage all along, his behavior made perfect sense. Even the fact he’d not mentioned marriage until Kitty had made it unavoidable; given all he knew of her, in his shoes, she’d have done the same.

She’d never been one to cut off her nose to spite her face; their past was behind them-it was the future she now had to deal with. The future he’d set so forcefully before her.

Yet she felt as if her horses had bolted and her life was running away with her-out of her control. She’d been so focused on the emotional connection between them, she hadn’t spared much thought for the state that connection might lead them to-eventually, perhaps. He’d obviously been thinking of the state, but had he considered the emotion?

While she’d been investigating that connection step by logical step, he’d impulsively leapt far ahead to one possible conclusion-and was convinced that conclusion was right. Meant to be.

She was usually the impulsive one; he was the stoic male. Yet in this, he was convinced while she was still uncertain, searching for proof, for reassurance.

Grimacing, she pushed away from the door. Doubtless, her caution was a reflection of the fact that she had most at stake; it was she who would take the risk in giving him her hand. Giving him all rights over her-whichever rights he chose to exercise.

He said it would work; he understood her fears-said he wanted her as she was. Again, her decision hinged on trust. Did she trust him to live by that creed, day by day for the rest of their lives?

That was the question to which she would need to find the answer.

One thing, however, was clear. Their connectedness-the emotional link she’d been working to understand-born of their past, immeasurably strengthened by their recent interactions, was very real, all but tangible now between them.

It was still growing, still strengthening.

And he knew it, felt it, recognized it as she did; he was now capitalizing on it, using it. Adding his will to it-something she’d never expected-deliberately pushing it in the direction he, apparently, now wished.

Which led her to the most pertinent question. Was what she sensed between them real or, given his expertise combined with his ruthless will, was it a fabrication to beguile her into marrying him?

The way she’d reacted to his concern that morning replayed in her mind; was he ruthless enough to have fabricated that? She knew the answer: yes.

But had he?

She could sense the emotions-the passions, the desires-he kept reined, held back but insufficiently disguised. Still felt in response an instinctive skittering, an impulse to draw back, from him, from them, from their power and the inherent threat they posed to her, yet that impulse was countered by curiosity, by a potent fascination with what evoked those same desires-with what lay between them, and the promise of all that could.

He could read her thoughts and feelings well-in general, she’d never bothered to conceal either from him. That he should have guessed the single truth she’d always thought she’d kept well hidden simply confirmed that he’d been more attuned to her than she’d guessed. More aware of her than she’d been of him.

Until now, her thoughts of marriage had been abstract, although definitely not with him or any like him. Circumstances had conspired to entrap her, through her curiosity to draw her into his web; he’d now made the prospect of marriage to a tyrant very real.

If she had any sense, she’d refuse him-and run. Fast. Far away.

Yet the notion of running from what might be, what might exist between them, evoked such a strong reaction she knew she’d never do it, turn her back and blithely let it die. If she did, she’d never be able to live with herself; the possibilities along the road he was proposing they follow were endless, exciting-recklessly enticing. Different, unique. Challenging.

All the things she wanted her life to be.

The prospect of marriage to a Cynster without love to ease the way, no longer distant theory but now very real, was like a sword hanging over her head, threatening all she was. Yet despite that, she still did not feel, did not react to him, the man, as if he threatened her at all. He’d been her unwanted and reluctant protector for years; some stubborn part of her adamantly refused to rescript his role.

She sighed. Contraditions assailed her every way she turned; confusion still clouded her mind. The only thing she felt totally confident about was that he, amazingly, was committed to marrying her, while she’d yet to make up her mind.

The magnitude of the change in her life in the past hour left her giddy.

She looked around, forced herself to take slow, steadying breaths. She needed to calm her mind, find her usual even mood in which her intellect normally functioned so incisively.

Her gaze drifted along row upon regimented row of leather-bound spines; she started to circle the room. Forcing herself actually to focus, to note familiar volumes, to think of other things. To connect again with the world she normally inhabited.

She walked around one end of the rectangular room, passing the huge fireplace. The French doors facing the garden stood open; she paced along, admiring the busts set on pedestals between each set of doors, trying not to think of anything else, eventually once again reaching walls covered with shelves.

A desk stood at that end of the room, facing down its length to the main hearth. A smaller fireplace was set in the wall behind it. She glanced at it, her attention caught by the intricate detail of the mantelpiece-

Saw, just visible from where she stood, a small foot clad in a lady’s slipper, lying on the floor behind the desk.

The foot, of course, was attached to a leg.

“Good gracious!” She hurried to the desk and rounded it-

Halted, quivering. Stared.

Grabbed the edge of the desk. Slowly raised her hand to her throat.

She couldn’t drag her gaze from Kitty’s face, suffused, blotched, darkened tongue protruding, blue eyes blankly staring… or the silken cord wound tight about her neck, digging deep into the soft flesh…

“Simon?”

Her voice was far too weak. It took effort to force her lungs to work, to haul in huge breath. “Simon!”

A moment passed; she could hear the clock on the mantelpiece ticking. She felt too faint to let go of the desk, wondered if she’d have to go and look for help…

Footsteps pounded down the corridor, nearing.

The door burst open.

A heartbeat later, Simon was there, hands locking on her arms, eyes searching her face. He followed her gaze, looked, swore-then hauled her to him, away from the dreadful sight, interposing his body between her and the desk.

She locked her fingers in his coat and clung, shaking, buried her face in his shoulder.

“What is it?” Charlie stood in the doorway.

With his head, Simon indicated the area behind the desk. “Kitty…”

Simon held Portia close, aware of her trembling, of the shivers coursing her spine. Propriety be damned; he tightened his arms about her, locked her against him, against his warmth, lowered his head, brushed her temple with his jaw. “It’s all right.”

She gulped, clung even tighter; he felt her battle her reaction, and the shock. Eventually felt her spine stiffen even more. She lifted her head, but didn’t step back. Glanced toward the desk.

At Charlie, who’d looked behind the desk and now sat slumped against the front edge, white-faced, tugging at his cravat. He swore, then looked at Simon. “She’s dead, isn’t she?”

Portia answered, her voice wavering. “Her eyes…”

Simon looked at the door. No one else had arrived. He glanced at Charlie. “Go and find Blenkinsop. Shut the door on your way out. After you’ve sent Blenkinsop here, you’d better find Henry.”

Charlie blinked, then nodded. He got to his feet, drew in a huge breath, tugged his waistcoat down, then headed for the door.

Portia’s shivering was growing worse. The instant the door shut, Simon bent and swung her into his arms. She clutched his coat, but didn’t protest. He carried her to the chairs grouped before the main hearth, set her down in one.

“Wait here.” Visually quartering the room, he located the tantalus, crossed to it, poured a large measure of brandy into a crystal glass. Returning to Portia, he hunkered down beside the chair. Searched her pale face. “Here. Drink this.”

She tried to take the glass from him, in the end had to use both hands. He helped her guide the tumbler to her lips, steadied it so she could sip.

He sat there and helped her drink; eventually, a trace of color returned to her cheeks, a hint of her customary strength returned to her dark eyes.

Easing back, he met them. “Wait here. I’m going to look around before chaos descends.”

She swallowed, but nodded.

He rose, swiftly crossed the room, stood and looked down at Kitty’s crumpled form. She lay on her back, hands high, level with her shoulders-as if she’d struggled to the very last with her murderer.

For the first time, he felt real pity for her; she might have been a social disaster, but that didn’t give anyone the right to end her life. There was anger, too, not far beneath his surface, but that was more complex, not solely on Kitty’s account; he reined it in, mentally cataloging all he could see.

The murderer had stood behind Kitty and strangled her with-he turned and checked-a curtain cord taken from the nearest French doors. Kitty had been the smallest woman present, only a little over five feet tall; it wouldn’t have been all that hard. He looked around the body, looked at her hands, but saw nothing unusual, except that her gown was not the one she’d worn to lunch. That had been a morning gown, relatively plain; this was prettier, a tea gown cut to showcase her voluptuous curves, yet still perfectly acceptable for a married lady.

He looked at the desk, but there was nothing out of place, no half-finished letter, no scratches on the blotter; the pens lay neatly in their tray, the inkstand closed.

Not that he imagined Kitty had repaired to the library to write letters.

Returning to Portia, he shook his head in answer to her questioning look. “No clues.”

He took the glass she held out to him. It was still half-full. He drained it in one gulp, grateful for the warmth the brandy sent spreading through him. He’d been on edge before, thinking of the possible ramifications of his and Portia’s discussion. Now this.

He dragged in a breath and looked down at her.

She looked up, met his eyes.

A moment passed, then she raised a hand, held it up.

He closed his hand about it, felt her fingers lock tight.

She looked toward the door; it burst open-Henry and Blenkinsop rushed in, Ambrose and a footman on their heels.

The following hours ranked among the most ghastly Simon could recall. Shock was far too mild a word to describe how Kitty’s death struck them all. Everyone was stunned, unable to take it in. Despite all that had been going on under their noses throughout the past days, no one had dreamed it would end like this.

“I might at times have thought of strangling her,” James said. “I never dreamed anyone would.”

But someone had.

Of the ladies, most were distraught. Even Lady O; she forgot to lean heavily on her cane, and forgot entirely to thump it on the floor. Drusilla was the most composed, yet even she shook, paled, and sank into a chair when she heard. In death, Kitty garnered far more sympathy than she ever had in life.

Among the men, once the first shock wore off, confusion was the most prevalent emotion. That, and increasing concern over what was to come, how the situation would develop.

Simon’s attention, his awareness, remained fixed on Portia. Hours later, she was still in shock, racked by occasional shivers. Her eyes were huge, her hands still clammy. He wanted to sweep her up, take her away, far away, but that simply wasn’t possible.

Lord Willoughby, the local magistrate, had been sent for; he arrived and, after saying the right things and viewing the body, still sprawled behind the library desk, he repaired to Lord Glossup’s study. After talking to each of the gentlemen in turn, he summoned Portia to tell him her tale.

Simon accompanied her as if by right. She didn’t ask him, he didn’t ask her, but since taking his hand in the library, she’d released it only when absolutely necessary. Ensconced in an armchair by a hastily lit fire in the study, with him sitting beside her on the chair’s arm, she haltingly recounted the details of her gruesome discovery.

Lord Willoughby, pince-nez perched on his nose, took notes. “So you weren’t in the library for more than, shall we say five minutes, before you found Mrs. Glossup?”

Portia thought, then nodded.

“And you didn’t see, or hear, anyone leaving the room, either when you entered the front hall or when you entered the library-is that right?”

She nodded again.

“No one at all?”

Simon stirred, but Willoughby was only doing his job, and as gently as he could. He was an elderly, fatherly sort, but his gaze was sharp; he seemed to realize Portia’s lack of response wasn’t because she was hiding something.

She cleared her throat. “No one.”

“I understand the terrace doors were open. Did you look out?”

“No. I didn’t even go up to the doors-just walked past.”

Willoughby smiled encouragingly. “And then you saw her, and called for Mr. Cynster. You didn’t touch anything?”

Portia shook her head. Willoughby turned to Simon.

“I didn’t see anything-I did look, but there seemed to be nothing unusual in any way, nothing out of place.”

Willoughby nodded and made another note. “Well, then. I believe I needn’t trouble you further.” He smiled gently and rose.

Portia, her hand still in Simon’s, rose, too. “What will happen now?”

Willoughby glanced at Simon, then back at her. “I’m afraid I must summon one of the gentlemen from Bow Street. I’ll send my report off tonight. With luck, an officer will be here by tomorrow afternoon.” He smiled again, this time reassuringly. “They are a great deal better than they used to be, my dear, and in such a case…” He shrugged.

“What do you mean-such a case?”

Again Willoughby glanced at Simon, then grimaced. “Unfortunately, it appears that other than Mr. Cynster here, and Mr. Hastings, none of the gentlemen can account for the time during which Mrs. Glossup was killed. Of course, there are gypsies in the neighborhood, but these days, it’s best to follow proper procedures.”

Portia stared at him; Simon could read her thoughts with ease. She wanted the murderer caught, whoever he was.

Simon turned to Willoughby, and with a nod, he led Portia out.

Willoughby spoke to Lord Glossup, then took his leave.

Dinner, a cold collation, was served early. Everyone retired to their rooms before the sun set.

Sitting on the window seat, arms folded on the sill, chin propped upon them, Portia watched the golden light of the sun slowly fade from the sky.

And thought of Kitty. The Kitty-the many Kittys-she’d glimpsed in recent days. She’d been beautiful, capable of vivacity, of being pleasant and charming, but she’d also been vindictive, shallow, knowingly hurtful to others. Demanding-that, perhaps, had been her greatest crime, perhaps her ultimate folly. She’d demanded that life, all life around her, center on her and her alone.

In all the time Portia had watched, she’d never seen Kitty truly think of anyone else.

A shiver racked her. One point she couldn’t get out of her head. Kitty had trusted someone-she’d gone to meet someone in the library, a place to which she never would have gone for any other purpose. She’d changed her gown; the expectation that had fired her through lunch returned to Portia’s mind.

Kitty had trusted unwisely. And fatally.

But there was more than one way in which to lose your life.

She paused, mentally halted, testing to see if she was yet ready to set Kitty’s death aside and move on to the questions facing her. The evolving, emotionally escalating questions affecting her future, her life, and Simon’s-the lives they had to live regardless of Kitty’s demise.

She’d always known there were deaths that, if a lady wasn’t careful, she might find herself living. How long she’d known the notion applied to her… she honestly couldn’t remember. Perhaps, at base, deep down inside, that had been the reason she’d so determinedly eschewed men-and marriage-for so long.

Marriage, for her, was always going to be a risk, hence her search for the right husband, one who would provide all she required, and allow her to manage him, dictate their interaction, and otherwise go her own way. Her temper would never let her live within a relationship that sought to confine her; she would either break it, or it would break her.

And now here she was, facing the prospect of marriage to a man more than strong enough to bend her to his will. A man she didn’t have it in her to break, but who, if she gave him her hand, could break her if he wished.

She’d always known what Simon was; never, not even at fourteen, had she mistaken his caliber, not seen him for the tyrant he was. But never had she dreamed he would take it into his head to marry her-certainly not before she had thought of marrying him. Yet he had, and she, with her curiosity about marriage born of her wish for a husband-something, thankfully, he still didn’t know-had, quite literally, played into his hands.

And he’d let her.

Hardly surprising; that rang so very true to his nature.

Staring out at the darkening gardens, she thought again of him, of all they’d shared. All she still did not know.

All she still wished to learn.

Was it love that was growing between them? Or something he’d concocted to draw her to him?

Separate from that, was he truly capable of allowing her free rein within reason, allowing her to be as she was? Or was his offer simply a tactic to gain her agreement to their marriage?

Two questions-both were now clear in her mind.

There was only one way to learn the answers.

Try me.

She would have to put him to the test.

She sat by the window and watched the shadows lengthen, darken. Watched night descend, wrapping the gardens in silence.

Thought again of Kitty lying dead in the icehouse.

Felt the blood still coursing her own veins.

She still had her life to live, and that meant making of it what she could. She’d never lacked for courage; never in her life had she walked away from a challenge.

Never had she faced a challenge like this.

To take the situation he had wrought and shape from it the life she wanted, to claim from him-him of all men-the answers, the guarantees she needed to feel safe.

The truth was there was no going back. No pretending that what had happened between them hadn’t, or that what had grown between them, still was growing between them, didn’t exist.

Or that she could simply walk away, from it, from him-that he would let her.

No point pretending at all.

In waistcoat and shirtsleeves, Simon stood by the window in his room watching the waters of the lake turn to ink.

Feeling his mood turn equally black.

He wanted to go to Portia-now, tonight. Wanted to wrap her in his arms and know she was safe. Wanted, with a desire that was new and novel and so unlike passion he couldn’t believe its strength, to make her feel safe.

That was his governing impulse, one he couldn’t indulge.

The fact only fed his deepening disquiet.

She was in her room, alone. Thinking.

There was nothing he could do about it-nothing he could do to influence her conclusions.

He couldn’t recall being so totally uncertain of any other woman in his life; he’d certainly never been so hobbled in his ability to turn a woman to his will.

There was nothing he could do. Unless or until she came to him, he was powerless to persuade her further. To convince her to go forward with him and explore making a marriage work-something to which he was now fully committed. He’d been perfectly serious in promising to find ways to accommodate her as far as he was able.

He would do whatever it took to get her to marry him; the alternative was not something he was prepared to face.

Yet presently, he was helpless. He was accustomed to being in control of his life, to being able to do something about anything that mattered. But in this-something that mattered more than anything else-until she came to him and gave him the chance, there was no action he could take.

His life, his future, were in her hands.

If she gave him few chances to persuade her, then decided against him, he would lose her, no matter that he was stronger than she in all ways that mattered. He could bring all society down on her head, and yet she would not bend. She would not yield. None knew that better than he.

Why he had fixed on a woman of indomitable will he didn’t know, but it was too late to change things.

Chest swelling, he drew in a breath. He’d laughed at his brothers-in-law, hoist years ago with their own petards. He wasn’t laughing now. He was in equally dire straits.

The latch clicked; he turned as the door opened.

Portia entered, turning to close the door behind her. He heard the lock snib before she turned and surveyed him, then, head rising, crossed the room to him.

He held perfectly still. Barely breathed.

Felt every inch the predator watching his prey innocently waltzing his way.

The faint moonlight reached her as she neared; he saw her expression, her level gaze, the determination in her face.

She walked directly to him, reached a hand to his nape, and drew his lips down to hers.

Kissed him.

The fire was still there, between them; it sprang to life as she parted her lips beneath his, as he instinctively responded.

Moving slowly, giving her plenty of time to break away if she would, he slid his hands about her waist, then, when she didn’t complain, slid them further, ultimately closing his arms about her and drawing her close.

She sank against him; something in him unlocked, unfroze, melted away. He kissed her back, wanting more, and she gave it. Unhesitatingly, unstintingly.

He didn’t know what she’d decided, what tack she was now on, knew only the inexplicable relief of having her in his arms. Of having her want him.

She did; she made that abundantly clear, stretching against him, pressing close. Her tongue tangled with his, sensuously sliding, taking the kiss deeper, step by step. Wanting more, taking more, giving more. Kissing him with her usual one hundred percent focus, her customary devotion to the moment.

He knew it was deliberate-that she’d made up her mind to go this way.

Equally deliberate, he set aside his arguments, his persuasions, and simply followed.

Wound his arms about her upper thighs and lifted her against him. She responded with an ardent murmur, twined her arms about his neck and, head bent to his, feasted on his mouth. He paused, distracted, momentarily lost as he fought to appease her demands, then he ravaged her mouth, took command again, and carried her to the bed.

He tumbled them onto it, across it, instinctively rolling to trap her beneath him. She gasped, then grabbed his hair, his shoulders, clung to the kiss and wriggled, wrestled, until he rolled back and let her have her way, let her sprawl atop him, unencumbered by his weight.

Remembered he was the supplicant now, knew she wouldn’t forget. Set himself to appease her, to enthrall and entice her all over again.

Devoted his mind, and his hands, lips, mouth, and tongue, to the task. To giving himself, body and soul, to her.

Felt, in the moment the thought registered, the moment he accepted it and let it stand, a welling rightness, the rising swell of some deeper sea. It infused his touch, flowed through his fingers as he caressed her nape, eased through his body as he settled beneath her.

Openly prepared to let her have her way.

She hesitated, suspicious, but then accepted the unvoiced invitation, rising above him to better savor his mouth. Spreading her hands, she grasped the sides of his face and held him captive as she let out a satisfied sigh, released his lips, and, dark eyes glinting beneath heavy lids, ran her fingers back, into his hair.

Taking that as a sign, he sent his hands stroking over her back, smoothing her gown, then set his fingers to the buttons down her back.

She made a sound of protest; bracing her hands on his chest she pushed up, wriggled until she was straddling his waist, then looked down into his face.

He had no idea what she could see, but he lay still, his hands passive at her sides, watched her study him, waited for her lead.

Portia looked down at him, at his face, lit by the strengthening moonlight pouring through the window. She could read his acquiescence, his willingness to, at least tonight, at least here, be whatever she wanted. Behave in whatever way she decreed.

She wanted-needed-more.

“You suggested a trial. Did you mean it?”

With her above him, he couldn’t see her eyes well enough to read them. He searched her face, hesitated, then said, “I meant we should behave as if we were married so you can see-convince yourself-that it’s possible. That being married to me won’t be the disaster you fear.”

“So you won’t dictate, decree?” She gestured with one hand. “Simply take charge, take control?”

“I’ll try not to.” His jaw firmed. “I’m willing to bend as much as I’m able, to accommodate you within reason, but I can’t-”

When he didn’t go on, she supplied, “Change your stripes?”

She felt him exhale.

“I can’t be someone I’m not, any more than you can accept being forced to be someone you’re not.” He held her eyes with his. “All we can do is try, and make of it what we can.”

The sincerity in his tone slid beneath her guard and touched her. It was enough for now-assurance enough, invitation enough to test him and see.

“Very well. Let’s try it, and see how far we get.”

His hands, large, powerful, strong, remained passive at her sides, not pushing, not pressing… waiting.

She smiled, bent and set her lips to his. Taunted, then, as she felt his hands tense, draw back. Froze him with a glance.

And set her fingers to his cravat. Drew the diamond pin free and slid it into his waistcoat’s edge, then settled to untie the knot, eventually dragging the long strip free. She paused with it dangling from her hand, the possibilities winging through her mind, then she smiled.

Took the long strip between both hands, flipped it to form a blindfold.

Caught his eyes over it. “Your turn.”

The look on his face was priceless, yet he couldn’t refuse to ease up from the bed, propped on his elbows, head bent forward while she secured the white band in place.

“I hope you know what you’re doing,” he muttered.

“I believe I’ll manage.”

With him blind, she could forget all need for guarding her expression, could focus completely on him, on securing what she wished from him.

Fingers on his shoulders, she pressed him back; he lay down again, stretched beneath her across the bed. The headboard and its pile of pillows lay to her right; from behind her left shoulder, the moon shone in, casting faint but sufficient light over him.

She set about creating the scene she had in mind, the stage on which tonight she would test him.