The Perfect Lover

13

Much good did it do them; there was so much nervousness about the breakfast table, some starting at every little thing, others sunk in abstraction, that it was impossible to point to any one response to Portia’s appearance as especially indicative.

Everyone was already pale; many looked wan, as if they’d slept poorly.

“If we were to judge by looks alone, at least half the party would qualify as suspects,” Simon muttered, as he and Portia, having quit the breakfast parlor, stepped off the terrace onto the lawn.

“I think there’s a certain amount of guilt doing the rounds.” Many of the older ladies had broken their habit of breakfasting in their rooms and joined the rest of the company in the parlor. “If instead of trying to ignore her, and when they couldn’t do that, trying to rein her in, if they’d talked to Kitty, tried to understand… she didn’t seem to have a friend, a confidante, or anyone to advise her. If she had, maybe someone would know why she was killed. Or maybe she wouldn’t have been killed at all.”

He raised his brows, but forebore to comment. In his family and Portia’s all the females from their earliest years were surrounded by strong women. He had difficulty imagining any other existence.

By unvoiced consent, he and Portia headed for the lake path-cool, soothing. Quiet. Calming.

“The ladies seem to think it’s someone from outside, by which I infer they mean the gypsies.” He glanced at her. “Do you know if any of them have reason to think it really might have been Arturo or Dennis?”

She shook her head. “It’s simply the most unthreatening possibility. To imagine the murderer is someone they know, someone in whose company they’ve spent the last days… that’s quite frightening.”

It was on the tip of his tongue to ask if she was frightened, then he glanced at her face, and swallowed the words. She was too intelligent not to be. While he’d much rather protect her from all such feelings, he couldn’t stop her from seeing, thinking, understanding.

Reluctantly, he accepted that between them it would always be so; if he was to deal with her as she was, that was something that wouldn’t change. She might adjust a little to please him, but it was he who would have to change most-adjust his thinking and modify his reactions-to have any chance of meeting her at the altar.

“This is senseless!” They’d reached the spot before the summerhouse; leaving the path, Portia stalked to the summerhouse steps, swung her skirts around, and sat.

The sunshine washed over her; looking down at her, he wondered if she was still chilled, then he turned and sat beside her, close enough that she could, if she wished, lean against him.

Elbows on her knees, she cupped her chin in her palms and frowned out at the lake. “Which of the men could have killed Kitty?”

“You heard Willoughby-other than Charlie, who was with Lady O, and me, any of them.” After a moment, he added, “As far as I know, that also applies to most of the ladies.”

She turned her head and stared at him. “Winifred?”

“Drusilla?”

She grimaced. “Kitty was so short, it could have been either.”

“Or even one of the others-how can we say?” Setting an elbow on the step behind, he leaned back, a little to the side so he could see her face. “Perhaps Kitty did something in London last Season to make one of them her sworn enemy?”

Portia frowned, then shook her head. “I didn’t get any sense of that-of old and hidden emnity.”

After a moment, he suggested, “Let’s decide who it couldn’t have been. Not the Hammond sisters-they’re too short and I can’t believe it of them. And I think Lucy Buckstead’s in the same class.”

“But not Mrs. Buckstead-she’s large enough, and perhaps Kitty was planning on doing something that would damage Lucy’s chances-she’s the Bucksteads’ only child, after all, and she has set her heart on James.”

He inclined his head. “Mrs. Buckstead remains possible. Not probable, perhaps, but we can’t cross her off our list.”

“And for the same reason, Mr. Buckstead stays a suspect, too.”

He glanced at Portia. “As far as I’m concerned, they’re all suspects. Except me and Charlie.”

She blinked at him. “What about Lord Netherfield?”

He held her gaze. Eventually said, “Until we know who it really is, I’m assuming it could be anyone-anyone still on our list.”

Her lips thinned, then she opened them to argue-

“No.” She blinked at his tone; when she continued to stare, he felt forced to explain, “The murderer tried to kill you. Given it’s you he now has his eye on, I’m not willing to take any chances.” He felt his face harden as he added, in case she’d missed the point, “None. Not one.”

She searched his eyes. He could almost see her thoughts whizzing behind her dark eyes, almost see the balance as she weighed his arguments against what she knew of his character, and all that flowed from it.

In the end, she inclined her head. “All right.”

She looked back at the lake; he quietly exhaled.

“Not Lady O, and not Lady Hammond, either.”

He considered, then acquiesced. “Agreed. Similarly, I think we can eliminate Mrs. Archer.”

“But not Mr. Archer.”

“He’s something of a dark horse. I agree-we can’t ignore him.”

“If we follow your line, theoretically at least any of the Glossup men could be responsible.”

He hesitated. “What do you think of Oswald?”

She frowned, then grimaced. “I honestly felt he avoided Kitty-I think because she saw him and treated him as a child.”

“Hardly comfortable for his ego, but… unless there’s something that would account for him being transformed into a murderous rage-and I honestly haven’t seen any propensity for that in him-then he seems unlikely.”

“Granted. What about Swanston-do we cross him off for the same reason?”

He frowned. “I don’t think we can. He’s Kitty’s brother-there might have been some bone of contention in their past we know nothing of, and he’s neither as easygoing nor as soft as Oswald. If Kitty had prodded too hard, Swanston could physically have done the deed. Whether he did…?”

“Which brings us to Winifred.” She paused, considering. Eventually said, “Do you really think she might have been angry enough over Kitty’s poaching her suitors-even Desmond, even now-that she might have…”

He watched her face. “You know Winifred better than I-do you think she could have?”

For a long minute, she stared out at the dark waters of the lake, then glanced at him, grimaced. “Winifred will have to remain on the list.”

“And Desmond is certainly on it, which, in fact, gives Winifred an even stronger motive.”

Portia pulled a face, but didn’t argue. “Ambrose is on the list, too, which means Lady Calvin and Drusilla must stay on as well.”

After a moment, he asked, “Why Drusilla? I can understand Lady Calvin-she has a great deal invested in Ambrose’s future, and although she’s so reserved, he’s very much the apple of her eye. But as I read things, Drusilla and Ambrose don’t share even the weakest brother-sister bond.”

“True. Nevertheless, Drusilla’s reasons are twofold. One, of us all, she was the angriest at Kitty-Kitty had all the attributes Drusilla lacked, and still she wasn’t content. I’m sure that rankled-Drusilla hadn’t met Kitty before coming down here, so that’s the only explanation I can see for her reaction.”

“And her second reason?”

“Lady Calvin, of course. Not Ambrose, but the pain Lady Calvin would be forced to bear if Ambrose became involved in any scandal.” She met his gaze. “Drusilla is utterly devoted to her mother.”

He raised his brows, but now that she’d pointed it out… “That leaves us with the gypsies, or one of the servants.”

Portia frowned. “I might not approve of Arturo slipping through the shrubbery at all hours, but I can’t see any reason why he would bother to kill Kitty. If it was his child she was carrying…” She stopped. “Oh.”

She looked at him. “Is that a motive do you think? That Kitty told him she was planning on getting rid of the baby… don’t gypsies have a code or something about that?”

He held her gaze. “Most men have a code or something about that.”

She colored. “Yes, of course-but you know what I mean.”

“Indeed, but I think you’re forgetting one thing.”

She raised her brows.

“The timing. Kitty must have conceived in London, not down here. Arturo wasn’t in London.”

“Ah.” Her face cleared. “Of course. So there’s really no reason Arturo would have killed her.”

“Not that I can see. And as for Dennis, even imagining an unrequited love, given he knew Arturo was consorting with Kitty, I can’t see Dennis imagining himself in the running. Again, why kill her?”

“I talked to the maid about how the staff saw Kitty. The girl’s a local and has lived here on the estate all her life. She knows everyone, and is old enough to scent any scandal between stairs. There wasn’t even a hint she considered such a thing vaguely possible-in fact, she told me the maids were frightened the murderer was one of the gentlemen, and they’d been reassured by the housekeeper that it was sure to be the gypsies.”

He snorted. “The gypsies. Always the most convenient scapegoats.”

“Especially if they up stakes and leave.” She paused, mused, “I wonder if the murderer, whoever he is, has thought of that?”

“I’d say he might be counting on it-the gypsies decamping in the dead of night would be his salvation.”

They both sat staring out at the lake, watching the breeze send ripples across the glassy surface. Minutes passed, then Portia sighed.

“The Glossups. We’ve left all of them except Oswald, even Lady Glossup, on our list. Why do you think one of them would have killed Kitty? They’d put up with her for three or more years, and the Archers were staying. Why kill her-and especially why now? There would have to be a very good reason.”

“Two reasons,” he replied, his tone flat and even. “One, divorce-a topic Henry’s only recently been forced to consider. Two, the baby she was carrying that wasn’t any of theirs, but which, if she’d borne it, would have been the next Glossup heir. They might not rank as high as either the Cynsters or the Ashfords, but the Glossups have been around almost as long-they’re an old and, in their way, distinguished house.”

“But she wasn’t going to bear it-she was quite definite about that.”

“You overheard her telling her mother that-how many others knew?”

Portia spread her hands. “How many others knew she was having a baby at all?”

“Only you, those she told, and those they might in turn have told.”

Portia wrinkled her nose. “I told Lady O. And you.”

“Precisely. And there’s always the servants-they overhear more than we think.”

“And the household must have known Kitty and Henry were estranged.”

“Which means it would have been obvious to all that any child Kitty was carrying was not-”

When he stopped, Portia looked at him, then grimaced horrendously. “If the baby wasn’t a Glossup-and it most likely wasn’t-then that would have been bad enough, but what if it was indeed a Glossup?”

“Worse, what if it wasn’t, but Kitty claimed it was?”

“No-you forget. She didn’t want to carry the child.”

“I hadn’t forgotten.” There was ice in his tone. “If she wanted to persuade the father-or someone who might have been the father, or even someone who could not possibly be the father-that it would be wise to help her abort the child…” He met Portia’s gaze. “What better way to persuade James, or Harold, or even Lord Netherfield to aid her than by claiming the baby was a Glossup, just not Henry’s.”

Portia stared at him, her eyes growing round. “You mean… she’d tell James it was Harold’s, or Harold it was James’s, or Lord Netherfield either…”

She put her hand to her chest and swallowed. “Good God!”

“Exactly. And what if Henry found out?”

She held his gaze, then looked away.

After a moment, he went on, “And that’s not even considering the looming likelihood of divorce. For Harold and Catherine, and Lord Netherfield, too, the very concept is shocking, more than it is for us. For their generation, it’s an unthinkable scandal reflecting on all the family.

“We know what Kitty was like, how she delighted in irritating people. We know that she went to the library to meet someone, but we don’t know whom or why. We don’t know what they discussed-what topic drove the murderer to silence her.”

Portia said nothing, her understanding and agreement implicit. After a few minutes, she slipped her hand into his, leaned against his shoulder. Flicking free of her fingers, he lifted his arm and she wriggled closer as he gathered her in.

She sighed. “Kitty was playing with fire on so many fronts, it’s hardly surprising she got burned.”

Luncheon was a subdued affair. Lord Willoughby had informed them they would need to remain until the investigator from Bow Street arrived. Since that individual was expected later in the afternoon, many spent the hours after lunch making discreet arrangements to leave that evening.

Aside from all else, most felt the Glossups should be left to deal with their loss in peace, without the distraction of houseguests; anything else was quite shockingly unthinkable.

The investigator duly arrived-and promptly informed them that they would need to think again.

A large man, heavily built but with an air of determined energy, Inspector Stokes had first spoken with Lord Glossup and Lord Netherfield in the study before being conducted into the drawing room and introduced to the guests en masse.

He inclined his head politely. Portia noticed his eyes, a steady slate grey, moving over each face as their names were said. When her turn came, she regally inclined her head, watched Stokes duly note Simon sitting on the arm of her chair, his arm on its back; then his gaze rose to Simon’s face, he acknowledged his name with a nod, and moved on.

Despite all, her interest was piqued-not in Stokes the man, but Stokes the investigator. How was he going to unmask the murderer?

“I take it, Mr. Stokes, that now you have met us, you have no objections to our departing?” Lady Calvin asked the question, the full weight of her status as an earl’s daughter echoing in her tone.

Stokes didn’t blink. “I regret, ma’am, that until the murderer’s identified, or until I’ve investigated as far as I’m able, that I must request that you all”-his gaze swept the company-“remain at Glossup Hall.”

Lady Calvin colored. “But that’s preposterous!”

“Indeed, sir.” Lady Hammond fluffed her shawl. “I’m sure you mean well, but it’s quite out of the question-”

“Unfortunately, ma’am, it’s the law.”

There was not an ounce of anything anyone could take exception to in Stokes’s tone, nor yet any comfort they could draw from it.

He inclined his head in something resembling a bow. “I regret, ma’am, but it’s quite essential.”

Lord Glossup huffed. “Standard procedures and all that, I understand. No point quibbling-and really, there’s no reason the party can’t continue, except for… well, yes, except for that.”

Portia was sitting across from the Archers. Mrs. Archer appeared still in shock; it was questionable whether she’d taken anything in since being told her younger daughter had been strangled. Mr. Archer, however, was pale but determined; he sat at his wife’s side, a hand on her arm. At Stokes’s words, a glimmer of pain had crossed his features; now he cleared his throat, and said, “I would take it kindly if we could all assist Mr. Stokes in whatever way we can. The sooner he finds Kitty’s murderer, the better it will be for us all.”

There was nothing to be heard in his voice beyond a father’s grief, controlled yet unflaggingly genuine. Naturally, his appeal was met by quiet murmurs and assurances that yes, of course, put like that…

Stokes hid it well, but he was relieved. He waited until the murmurs died, then said, “I understand Miss Ashford, Mr. Cynster, and Mr. Hastings were the first to see the body.” His gaze swung to Portia and Simon; she nodded slightly. “If I could speak with you three first…?”

No real question, of course; the three of them rose and followed Stokes and Lord Glossup to the door.

“You can use the estate office-I told them to clear the rubbish.”

“Actually.” Stokes halted by the door. “I would much prefer to use the library. I believe that’s where the body was found?”

Lord Glossup frowned, but nodded. “Aye.”

“Then it’s unlikely your guests will be keen to spend time there. It would expedite my questioning if I can establish specific points at the scene, so to speak.”

Lord Glossup had to agree. Portia went through the door Stokes held open and led the way to the library; she exchanged a glance with Simon as he opened the library door, was sure he, too, felt Stokes’s request had rather more reason than that.

Whatever it was, it felt undeniably strange to reenter the room where she’d discovered Kitty’s body. Had it only been just over twenty-four hours ago? It felt more like days.

They all paused just inside the door; Stokes closed it, then waved them to the armchairs gathered before the fireplace, at the opposite end of the room from the desk.

Portia sat on the chaise, Simon sat beside her. Charlie took one armchair. Stokes considered them, then sat in the other armchair, facing them. Portia wondered if he was sensitive enough to read the arrangement; it was indeed him against the three of them, at least until they decided if they would trust him.

He drew a notebook from his coat pocket and flipped it open. “Miss Ashford, if you could start by describing exactly what happened from the point where you entered the front hall yesterday afternoon.” He looked up at her. “You were with Mr. Cynster, I understand?”

Portia inclined her head. “We’d been walking in the pinetum.”

He glanced at a sheet he’d unfolded and laid on his knee. “So you’d gone out together through the front door?”

“No. We’d left from the terrace after lunch, and circled around via the lake path, and so on to the pinetum.”

He followed the route on what was clearly a sketch of the house and grounds. “I see. So you entered the front hall from the forecourt. What happened then?”

Step by step, he led her through the moments, leading her to describe her movements remarkably accurately.

“Why did you wander around the room like that? Were you looking for a book?”

“No.” Portia hesitated, then, with a fleeting glance at Simon, explained, “After my discussion with Mr. Cynster I was somewhat overset. I came in here to think and circled the room to calm down.”

Stokes blinked. His gaze shifted to Simon; faint puzzlement showed in his eyes. Neither of them exhibited the slightest sign of any tension between them-quite the opposite.

She took pity on him. “Mr. Cynster and I have known each other since childhood-we frequently upset each other.”

Stokes looked back at her. “Ah.” He met her gaze; she saw a glimmer of respect-he’d realized she’d followed his thoughts well enough to answer the question he hadn’t yet posed. He looked down at his notebook. “Very well. So you continued on around the room…”

She continued her story. When she came to the point of Simon’s rushing in, Stokes stopped her, and switched his interrogation to Simon.

It was easier to appreciate Stokes’s art when it wasn’t directed at her. She watched and listened as he drew a highly detailed and factual account from Simon, then turned his attention to Charlie; Stokes was really very good. All three of them had come prepared to tell him all, yet there remained a reticence, a barrier over which they would speak, but not cross; Stokes was not of their class, not of their world.

They’d all entered the room reserving judgment. She exchanged a glance with Simon, noted Charlie’s more relaxed pose; both of them were revising their opinions of “the gentleman from Bow Street.”

He’d be fighting an uphill battle if they didn’t reach over that barrier and help him understand what had truly been going on, what concerns drove the various members of the house party, what tangled webs Kitty had been weaving before she’d come to grief.

Stokes himself was intelligent enough to know it. Clever enough, now he had their measure, to openly acknowledge it. He’d taken them to the point where others had rushed in and Kitty’s death had become more widely known. Setting aside his map, he looked up, let his gaze linger, then gravely asked, “Is there anything you can tell me-any fact you know, any reason at all you can even imagine-that might have led one of the guests here, or the staff, or even one of the gypsies, to kill Mrs. Glossup?”

When they didn’t immediately react, he straightened in the chair. “Is there anyone at all you suspect?”

Portia glanced at Simon; so did Charlie. Simon met her gaze, read her decision, checked with Charlie, who almost imperceptibly nodded, then looked at Stokes. “Do you have a list of the guests?”

At the end of an hour, Stokes ran his fingers through his hair, and stared at the network of notes he’d made around Kitty’s name. “Was the damned woman looking to get herself strangled?”

“If you’d known her, you’d understand.” Meeting Portia’s gaze, Simon continued, “She seemed incapable of seeing how her actions were affecting others-she didn’t think of others’ reactions at all.”

“This is not going to be easy.” Stokes sighed, waved his notebook. “I’m usually searching for motive, but here we’ve motives aplenty, opportunity for all the household to have done the deed, and precious little to tell us which of them actually did.”

He searched their faces again. “And you’re sure no one has given the slightest sign since-”

The library door opened; Stokes swung around, a frown gathering, then he saw who it was; his expression blanked as he rose to his feet.

As did the others as Lady Osbaldestone and Lord Netherfield, looking like a pair of aged conspirators, carefully shut the door, then-as silently as two largish people using canes could-swept across the room to join them.

Stokes tried to assert his authority. “My lord, ma’am-if you don’t mind, I really need to-”

“Oh, posh!” Lady O declared. “They’re not going to play mum just because we’re here.”

“Yes, but-”

“We came to make sure they told you all.” Leaning on her cane, Lady O fixed Stokes with her best basilisk stare. “Have they told you about the serpent?”

“Serpent?” Stokes’s face was a study in impassivity; he shot a glance at Simon and Portia, clearly hoping they’d rescue him…

When they didn’t immediately respond, his eyes narrowed; he looked back at Lady O. “What serpent?”

Simon sighed. “We hadn’t got that far yet.”

Naturally, there was no getting rid of Lady O after that. They all sat again, Simon relinquishing his seat on the chaise to Lady O and Lord Netherfield and taking up a stance by the hearth.

They related to Stokes the tale of the adder found in Portia’s bed which, by sheer luck, she’d not attempted to lie in having fallen asleep in a chair instead. Stokes accepted the explanation without a blink; Portia exchanged a glance with Simon, relieved.

“Good God! The blackguard!” It was the first Charlie had heard of the adder. He looked at Portia. “I can’t believe you didn’t retire with a fit of the vapors.”

“Yes, well,” Lord Netherfield said. “That’s what the blackguard wants, don’t you see?”

“Indeed.” Stokes’s eyes gleamed. “It means there’s something-something that will give the murderer away.” He looked at Portia, frowned. “Something he thinks you know.”

Portia shook her head. “I’ve thought and thought, and there’s nothing I’ve forgotten, I swear.”

Deep in the house, the dinner gong clanged. It was the second summons, calling them to the table; they’d already ignored the earlier warning that it was time to go and dress. Tonight, they weren’t standing on ceremony; filling Stokes in had seemed far more important than donning silks and retying cravats.

Stokes shut his notebook. “Clearly, the villain, whoever he is, doesn’t realize that.”

“Didn’t realize, maybe, but now I’ve spoken to you and yet still you don’t know his identity, presumably he’ll let be.” Portia spread her hands. “I’ve told you all I know.”

They all rose.

“That’s as may be.” Stokes exchanged a meaningful glance with Simon as they headed for the door. “But the villain might well think you’ll remember the vital point later. If it was important enough for him to try to kill you once, there’s no reason he won’t try again.”

“I say!” Charlie stared at Stokes, then looked at Portia. “We’ll need to guard you.”

Portia halted. “That’s hardly nec-”

“Day and night.” Stokes nodded gravely; he was quite patently sincere.

Lady O thumped the floor. “She can sleep on a trestle in my room.” She grimaced at Portia. “Daresay even you would think twice before getting between the sheets where once you’d seen a serpent.”

Portia managed not to shudder. Glanced instead-pointedly-at Simon; if she was sleeping in Lady O’s room…

He met her gaze directly; his face was set. “Day and night.” He glanced at Charlie. “You and I should be able to handle the days.”

Stunned-not a little irritated by being thus disposed of, like an item to be handed one to the other-Portia opened her lips to protest… realized every face was turned her way, all set, all determined. Realized she’d never win.

“Oh, all right!” Flinging her hands in the air, she stepped to the door. Lord Netherfield opened it for her and offered her his arm.

She took it, heard him chuckle as he led her out.

He patted her hand. “Very wise, m’dear. That was one battle you couldn’t hope to win.”

She managed not to humph. Head high, she swept down the corridor and into the dining room.

Simon followed more slowly, Lady O on his arm. Stokes and Charlie came behind. At the door to the dining room, Stokes took his leave of them, charging Simon with telling the company he’d resume his questions on the morrow before retiring to the servants’ hall.

Charlie headed in to find his seat. Simon steered Lady O through the door.

Pausing on the threshold, ostensibly to rearrange her shawl, she chuckled evilly. “Don’t look so glum. I can’t see across the room-how will I know if she’s there or not?”

Under cover of retaking his arm, she poked him in the ribs. “And I’m a horribly heavy sleeper… no use at all in the guardian stakes, now I think on it.”

Simon managed not to gape-he’d long known she was an incorrigible matchmaker, just plain incorrigible most of the time, yet the idea that she might actually aid him, actively support his pursuit of Portia…

She allowed him to help her into her seat, then dismissed him with a wave. As he headed down the table to the empty place beside Portia, pulled out the chair, paused to look down on her dark head, presently set at an angle that from experience he could interpret quite well, then sat, he reflected that having Lady O as an ally was not a bad thing.

Especially now. Aside from all else, Lady O was pragmatic to a fault; she could be counted on to insist Portia behave sensibly. Safely.

Shaking out his napkin, he glanced briefly at Portia’s haughty face, then allowed the footman to serve him. He-they-might not be out of the woods yet, but he felt more positive than at any time since Portia had learned of his true goal.

By consensus, the tone of the house party was consciously and deliberately altered. As Portia sat sipping tea in the drawing room, she couldn’t help but note that Kitty wouldn’t have approved. The atmosphere was akin to that of a large family gathering, but without any attendant gaiety; those present were comfortable with each other and seemed to have dropped their masks, as if deeming themselves excused by the circumstances from maintaining the usual social facades.

The ladies had retired there; no one expected the gentlemen to join them. The company sat in groups about the long room, talking quietly, no laughter, no drama, just gentle conversation.

Conversation designed to soothe, to settle, to let the horror of Kitty’s murder and the very concept of the investigation now upon them slide into the background.

The Hammond sisters remained pale, but had started to cope; Lucy Buckstead was little better. Winifred, in dark navy, a color that didn’t suit her, looked pallid and wan. Mrs. Archer had not come down for dinner.

As soon as their tea had been drunk, everyone rose and retired. There seemed an unstated sentiment that they would all need their rest to face what the morrow and Stokes’s questions might bring. Only Drusilla had thought to ask Portia what Stokes was like, whether she thought him competent. Portia had answered that she rather thought he was, but there seemed so little evidence that the matter may well remain unresolved.

Drusilla had grimaced, nodded, and moved away.

On helping Lady O to her room, Portia noted the threatened trestle bed had indeed been set up by the empty hearth, on the other side of the room from the main bed. Lady O’s maid was there to help her mistress undress; Portia retreated to the window seat, only then noticing that her own clothes had been fetched from her room. Her gowns hung on a string stretched across the room’s corner; her linens and stockings were neatly laid in her chest, sitting open in the corner. Lifting her head, she saw her brushes and hairpins, her perfume flask and combs all neatly arrayed on the mantelpiece.

Sinking onto the cushioned window seat, she looked out at the darkening gardens, and put her mind to devising an excuse to go wandering that Lady O would accept.

Nothing useful had occurred to her when the maid came to ask if she desired any help getting out of her gown. She shook her head, bade the maid good night, then rose and crossed to the bed.

The candle on the nightstand had already been blown out; Lady O lay propped high on her pillows, eyes closed.

Portia leaned close and kissed her papery cheek. “Sleep well.”

Lady O chuckled. “Oh, I will. Don’t know how you’ll fare, mind you, but you’d better get along and find out.” Eyes still closed, she lifted a hand and made shooing motions toward the door. “Go on, now-off with you.”

Portia simply stared. Then decided she had to ask, “Get along where?”

One old eye cracked open; one black eye transfixed her. “Where do you think?”

When she stood staring, mind swinging wildly, Lady O snorted and closed her eye again. “I’m rather more than seven-gracious heavens, I’m more than seventy-seven! I know enough to recognize what’s going on under my nose.”

“You do?”

“Indeed. Mind you, I’m not sure that you do, and he certainly doesn’t, but that’s as may be.” She settled deeper into her pillows. “Now off you go-no sense wasting time. You’re twenty-four-and he’s what? Thirty? You’ve both wasted time enough as it is.”

Portia couldn’t think how to respond, in the end decided not responding was wisest. “Good night, then.” Turning, she headed for the door.

“Wait a minute!”

At the irritated command, Portia turned.

“Where are you going?”

She pointed to the door. “You just said-”

“Great heavens, gel-do I have to teach you everything? You should change your gown first.”

Portia looked down at her magenta twill. She seriously doubted Simon would care what she wore; knowing him, she wouldn’t be wearing it for long. Lifting her head, she opened her lips to ask why it mattered-

Lady O sighed. “Change into the day gown you intend wearing tomorrow. That way, if any one sees you coming back in the morning, they’ll simply assume you got up early and went for a walk. If they see you in the corridors tonight, they’ll assume you got ready for bed, then remembered something you needed to do, or I’ve sent you to fetch something.” She let out an exasperated snort and fell back on her pillows. “You young things-the things I could teach you… but then again”-she closed her eyes; a wicked smile curled her lips-“as I recall, learning them was half the fun.”

Portia grinned; what else could she do? Obediently, she stripped off the magenta twill and wriggled into a day gown of blue poplin. As she struggled to do up the tiny buttons closing the bodice, she thought of Simon-shortly struggling to undo them again. Still, Lady O’s suggested practice made eminent sense…

She stopped, lifted her head, struck by a wayward thought, a sudden suspicion…

When the last button slipped into place, she walked, not to the door, but back to the bed. Pausing by the bedpost, she looked at Lady O, wondered if she was sleeping…

“Still here?”

“I’m just going, but I wondered… did you know Simon would be here, attending the house party?”

Silence, then, “I knew he and James were close friends from their Eton days. Seemed likely he’d drop by.”

Portia thought of the arguments that had raged at Calverton Chase with Luc, Amelia, her mother, and herself insisting Lady O take someone with her on her journey, thought of Lady O resisting… then finally giving way, agreeing, grudgingly, to take her with her…

Eyes narrowing on the old lady feigning sleep in the bed, Portia wondered how much her and Simon’s present situation owed to the oh-so-subtle manipulations of the ton’s most dangerous harridan.

Decided she didn’t care. Lady O was right-they’d wasted enough time. Straightening, she turned to the door. “Good night. I’ll see you in the morning.”

And it would be morning. One excellent aspect of Lady O’s scheme, now she was in her morning gown, she wouldn’t need to leave Simon before dawn.

Simon was in his room, waiting, wondering if Portia would find a way to come to him-or whether she’d grasp the chance to stay away, to think, to consider, to revisit all the reasons she didn’t want to marry him, and set up barriers against him.

Halting by the window, acutely aware of the tension holding him, he sipped from the glass of brandy he’d been nursing for the past half hour, and looked out at the darkening scene.

He didn’t want her to think too hard about what he would be like as a husband. At the same time, he knew if he tried, no matter how subtly, to steer her away from that path, he’d only dig himself deeper, only confirm he was not to be trusted to let her come to her own decisions.

Hamstrung. That’s what he was. And there was not a damned thing he could do.

She would go her own road, regardless; she was too clear-sighted, too forthright, not to face the facts-his character, hers, and the inherent difficulties-head-on. The only solace he could draw from that was that if-when-she finally decided in his favor, he would know she was committed, eyes open, heart true.

He hesitated, then drained the glass. That was almost worth the torment.

The latch clicked; he turned as she entered, slim, elegant, in a fresh gown. He noted it as she neared, a gentle, confident smile on her lips. He set the glass on the windowsill, freeing his hands to slide about her waist as she came to him-straight into his arms.

He bent his head and their lips met, clung. The embers that, these days, glowed just beneath their cool surfaces ignited, glowed, sent flames licking, teasing.

Realizing the gown closed down the front, he eased his hands around between them. But the buttons were tiny, secure in their loops; he had to release her lips and look to manage them.

“Why did you change?” He could have had her out of her other gown in a minute.

“Lady O.”

He looked up; Portia smiled. “She pointed out that in a day gown, I wouldn’t appear suspicious coming back in the morning.”

His fingers stilled. “She knows you’re here?” Support was one thing; he hadn’t expected such blatant encouragement.

“She virtually pushed me out of the door and suggested we stop wasting time.”

Gaze on the buttons, he caught the laughing note in Portia’s voice, glanced up at her face-and cursed the shadows; he couldn’t see her eyes well enough to read them. “What?”

He knew there was something… something she knew, or had thought of that he hadn’t. That was confirmed when she studied his face, then smiled anew, and shook her head. “Just Lady O-she’s a shocking old lady. I think I’m going to grow up to be like her.”

He humphed derisively. The last button finally slid free.

Reaching up, she drew his lips back to hers. “Now if you’ve finished, I really think we should pay attention to her instructions.”

They didn’t waste time, yet neither did he allow her to rush. This time-for the first time-they were meeting as equals. Both knowing where they were heading, and why; both knowingly going forward, stepping into the furnace hand in hand, side by side.

It was a time to be savored. Remembered. Each touch a reverence, a moment of distilled passion.

He didn’t know what she wanted from the night, what more she was seeking from him, what more he could give. He could only give her all he was, and hope it was enough.

They didn’t move from the window, but shed clothes where they stood, piece by piece. Each earlier discovery revisited, each curve, each hollow, each indentation worshipped anew.

Until they stood naked, until their bodies met skin to skin.

Fire licked over them, hungry, greedy, growing.

Their mouths melded, feeding the conflagration, stoking the flames. Their tongues taunted, teased, tormented.

Hands feasted, fingers spreading, caressing, kneading, probing.

Their urgency grew.

He lifted her. She wrapped her arms about his neck and kissed him voraciously. Wrapped her long legs about his waist, sighed when he entered her, sheathed him lovingly as he pulled her hips down.

Impaled, she held him, speared her fingers through his hair, clenched them, drew his lips back to hers. Feasted as he savored her, filled her, withdrew, then filled her again.

She gave herself unstintingly, holding nothing back, asking for no reassurance.

And he took, claimed her body, yet wanted, yearned for, more.

Portia knew it, could sense in the locked muscles that held her, that flexed and gripped and moved her upon him, that there was a great deal more she had yet to learn, a great deal more he could give her.

If she would.

If she dared.

If she trusted enough…

Her skin was on fire, her body liquid flame, yet he was filling her only so far… not enough. She wanted to feel him deeper, harder, wanted to glory in the solid weight of him holding her down as he filled her.

She dragged her lips from his, realized she was panting. “Take me to the bed.”

Kissed him again as he did; when he bent to set her down on the pillows, she held on, tugged, and toppled him down with her. He swore, went to pull away, thinking he’d hurt her; she wrapped her hands over his buttocks, and hauled him nearer.

“More.”

She sank her nails in and he reacted as she wished, driving farther into her. He shifted, then lifted over her, arms braced, looking down as he thrust deeper, then deeper yet. Until he was there, full and hard and heavy inside her.

Simon looked down at her, and struggled to breathe. Struggled to cling to some semblance of sophistication, to hold back the powerful tide of need that threatened to consume him. And her.

She seemed to sense it, reached up, trailed her fingertips down his cheeks, over his shoulders, down his chest, then pressed her palms to his sides, and urged him down to her.

He bent his head and kissed her, gave her that much, but she wanted more-demanded more. He surrendered and let himself down atop her, degree by degree. Until his weight held her pinned beneath him. He expected her to panic, to wriggle; instead, her tongue thrusting against his, she lifted her legs a touch higher and locked them about his waist.

Eased beneath him, tilted her hips. Opened herself fully to his penetration.

Caught his lower lip between her teeth. Tugged, let go. “Now,” she breathed, her breath flame on his lips. “Show me.”

He met her gaze, eyes glittering under heavy lids.

And did.

Locked his eyes on hers as he drove into her, as she’d wished-harder, deeper. He wanted more than anything to see the color of her eyes, to watch them change, certain they’d be black when she climaxed.

Even as the flames dragged him down, even as he lost touch with reality as his world became only her, his senses caught in the wonder, the glory, the splendor of her body sheathing him, holding him, accepting him, as urgent as his in reaching for the peak, yet still he wanted.

Vowed he would have.

That he’d make love to her in daylight, so he could see her as he took her.

See her eyes, and more.

See her skin. So white and flawless it gleamed like purest pearl; in the shadows, the flush of desire was barely discernible. He wanted to see it, needed to see what he brought her.

Wanted to see the color of her ruched nipples, of her softly bruised lips, of the slick swollen folds between her thighs.

He was aware of every pore of her body moving with his, of the complementarity, the deep and abiding link that seemed to fuse them.

That, at the last, locked them together as they reached the bright peak, senses exploding in a starburst of pleasure before tumbling headlong into bliss.

Satiation, sensual satisfaction-what he experienced with her was so much more than that. Withdrawing from her, slumping by her side, glory singing in his veins, he drew her close, locked her to him, close by his heart.

Where he needed her to be.

Inexpressible comfort flowed through him; he sank into sated dreams.