The Perfect Lover

18

A footman was waiting at the top of the stairs to conduct them to the room that, on his orders, had been prepared. Not her original room, because of the adder, not Lady O’s room, which had the trestle in it and therefore was too crowded to hold a bath as well. One of the suites that was not often used-a large bedchamber with a large bed, and an adjacent private parlor.

Simon ushered Portia into the bedchamber; two maids were tipping buckets of steaming water into the bath. More buckets stood waiting on the hearth.

He caught Portia’s eye. “Get rid of the maids.”

She raised a mock-haughty brow; her lips were gently curved. She shrugged his coat from her shoulders and handed it to him. One of the maids hurried up to help her out of her gown. Taking the coat, he crossed to the connecting door and went into the parlor to wait.

The coat was damp; he dropped it on a chair and went to stand before the window. Stared out at the silhouettes of the trees and tried not to think, not to dwell on the emotions the day had stirred.

Tried, vainly, to rein in the most powerful-the emotion she and only she had always aroused in him, the emotion he’d always been careful to hide, even from her. Even now.

The past days had seen it grow even more strong, even more insistent.

He heard the main door of the bedchamber open, then shut. Heard the patter of light footsteps, two pairs, die away down the corridor.

Drew in a deep breath, shackled his demons, then crossed to the connecting door.

He eased it open and confirmed Portia was alone.

In the bath. Shampooing her hair.

Girding his loins, he entered and shut the door. Crossed to the main door and snibbed the lock. A straight-backed, spindle-legged chair stood before an escritoire; he picked it up as he passed, carried it to the area before the hearth and set it down, its back to her, and straddled it.

She glanced at him. “As you were so insistent that I dispense with the maids, I presume you’re willing to perform in their place?”

He forced himself to shrug, not to react to the speculation in her dark eyes; the bath was too small. “Whatever you need…”

Crossing his arms on the chair’s back, he let the words trail away, met her gaze, and settled to watch.

Left himself open to a calculated torture.

She made the most of it-lovingly soaping her graceful arms, seductively stroking her long, long legs. When she rose on her knees, the water fell to lap around the very tops of her thighs. The globes of her bottom gleamed invitingly; he had to close his eyes-had to think of something else.

Then she called him to pour water to rinse off her hair. He stood, stiffly, grabbed up a bucket-

She caught his eye. “Slowly. I need to get all this lather out.”

Obediently, he stood beside the tub and poured the water over her while she squeezed and rinsed out her hair. He hadn’t realized how long it was; wet, it reached to her hips, drawing his eyes down…

He had to close them briefly again; jaw clenched, focusing on her head, he continued to tip, the bucket held in a desperately tight grip.

The water ran out.

She slicked back her hair, then grasped the sides of the tub and stood. Water cascaded down, over her shoulders, her breasts, her hips, down her thighs.

His mind blank, his mouth dry, he set the bucket aside, blindly reached for the towels left stacked on a stool. Flicked one out and held it for her, stepping back as, smiling, she stepped out of the tub toward him.

She took the towel, held it to her breasts-considered him.

He met her gaze as stoically as he could, grabbed another towel, opened it, and dropped it on her head.

Heard a smothered giggle.

He proceeded to dry her hair; it held enough water to soak a bed. She let him, ducked and turned as she used the first towel to mop her curves, dry her long limbs.

Then she dropped the towel, wrestled the other from him, and dropped that, too. Nearly stopped his heart by stepping into his arms, arms he was helpless to stop closing about her.

She draped hers about his neck and lifted her face for a kiss.

He obliged without thought, took her lips and her mouth as she offered them, felt his control quake when she blatantly pressed nearer, setting her body to his.

She met his eyes when he lifted his head, determination clear in her gaze. “I want to celebrate.” Her gaze dropped to his lips; stretching up, she brushed them lingeringly with hers. “Now.”

“On the bed.” She was going to be the death of him-he was increasingly sure of that.

As if hearing something of his thoughts in his tone, she tilted her head, studied him. Then smiled. A smile that held too much knowledge, far too much resolution for his liking.

“On one condition.” Her tone had descended to that sultry purr that sent heat shooting straight to his loins. “This time, I want it all.”

He felt something inside him quake. “All?”

“Hmm-mmm.” Her eyes remained locked on his. “All-including whatever it is you hold back.”

For the first time in his life he felt dizzy from sheer lust. He gritted his teeth, spoke gratingly through them. “You don’t know what you’re asking for.”

One dark brow arched, haughty-deliberately challenging. “Don’t I?”

Her tone was beyond teasing.

Before he could respond, smooth as any houri, she turned in his arms, fitted herself back against him, looked over her shoulder, capturing his stunned gaze as she provocatively shifted her bare bottom against his aching erection. Waited for a heartbeat before asking, “Are you sure?”

She did know-it was there in her eyes, a blue so intense it was almost black. He wanted to ask how the devil she knew, but couldn’t think enough to form the sentence.

Couldn’t think beyond the fact she somehow did know his deepest, most primitive desire. And was willing to grant it. Accede to it.

That last was clear as she reached one hand up and, leaning her head back, drew his lips to hers. Took him in, drew him in, took his tongue, caressed it with hers. Urged him to feast. When he did, her hand drifted away; she found both his hands with hers, lifted them to her breasts.

Caught her breath on a soft gasp when he captured the firm mounds.

The sound, half-smothered by their kiss, shot fire through him. He released her lips, his hands full of her bounty, breathed, “Are you sure?”

Her lids flickered as he kneaded, blatantly possessive, then she lifted them. Her eyes were brilliant as she looked into his.

“I’m yours.” The words were certain, assured. “Take me as you wish, however you wish.” She held his gaze steadily. “I want to know all of you-all your wants, all your needs. All your desires.”

The last shackle fell, shattered. Passion roared through him, immeasurely stronger than anything he’d felt before. He released her, turned her, caught her in his arms, locked her to him as he bent his head, captured her mouth-and devoured.

What rode him was not lust, not desire, not even passion, but something that grew from all three, yet was fueled by something more. By a desperate, primitive need-something buried so deep beneath his civilized exterior that few women would ever guess it was there.

Let alone tempt it.

Invite it.

Without breaking the kiss, he lifted her; she clung to him, as greedily desperate as he, as wantonly hungry.

His legs hit the end of the four-poster bed. Gathering his strength, he eased her from him, broke the kiss, juggled her and tossed her onto the brilliant crimson coverlet.

“Wait.”

Portia lay as she’d fallen, on one hip, half over on her stomach, knew she wouldn’t have long to wait. She watched as he stripped off his clothes, let her gaze rest on his face, drank in the austere lines as he flung his waistcoat aside. His features looked harder, more set and angular, than she’d ever seen them. The strength in his body, that invested every movement, was somehow clearer, more intense. Less veiled.

His shirt followed the waistcoat; she twisted back a little to get a better view of the wide expanse of his chest, the hard ridges across his abdomen rippling as he shifted, then bunching as he bent to pull off his boots.

Trousers and stockings went in seconds. And then he stood naked, flagrantly aroused. His gaze locked on her, traveled slowly up her body as he walked to the bed.

He reached out. Traced his palm up the back of her leg, curved his hand about her bottom as he set one knee on the crimson silk.

Lifted his eyes to hers. “You can call a halt at any time.”

She met his gaze, dark and burning-couldn’t quite smile. “You know I won’t.”

He searched her eyes one last time, then he closed his hand and shifted her.

Onto her stomach.

She felt the bed bow as he knelt on either side of her legs. Felt the heat of his body run like fire over the backs of her thighs, over the dewed skin of her bottom as he leaned down, close-and pressed his lips to the base of her spine, just above the cleft of her bottom.

Closed his hands about her hips, held her steady as he worked his way upward, following her spine, planting hot, openmouthed kisses as he went, as if he in truth meant to devour her.

The rough hair of his chest brushed her skin; the heat of him poured over her yet he didn’t lean on her, hovered just an inch above her, taking his weight on his hands as he moved steadily higher, over her, surrounding her-a potent masculine animal who had captured her and was now intent on possessing her.

She couldn’t stop a reactive shiver; closed her eyes for a moment, savoring the wave of heat rising over her, steadily engulfing her, glanced over her shoulder as, pushing her hair aside, he neared her nape.

He lifted his head; for one instant, his blue eyes locked on hers, then he drew back a fraction, straddling her thighs, set his hands to her hips, swept both hard palms slowly up her body, tracing the indentation of her waist, rising up her sides, fingers boldly caressing the sensitive sides of her breasts before sliding down the backs of her arms to grip her elbows.

“Stretch your arms up, above your head.”

He pushed them up and she let him; without their support, she slumped onto the bed, her breasts, nipples already tight, pressing into the crimson silk.

Placing her wrists among the pillows, he released them. “Leave them there-don’t draw your arms down again.”

A command, gravelly and absolute. Her heart thudded, her senses leapt as he reversed the direction of his slow, possessive stroking. She could feel him close, but other than the occasional brush of raspy hair across her skin, he’d touched her only with his hands and lips.

And his gaze. She could feel that, another sort of flame, following his hands as he traced the long lines of her back, down, past her waist, until his thumbs caressed the shallow indentations below her hips.

Her skin prickled; anticipation welled and rushed through her.

To her surprise, he shifted back, shuffling down the bed, his knees on either side of her legs… then his hands closed about her hips; smoothly, he lifted them and drew them back.

Until she was curled on her knees before him.

She started to lift her shoulders from the bed-

“Leave your arms as I told you.”

The tenor of the words sent a flash of expectation sheering through her, wound her nerves even tighter. She’d obeyed before she’d thought-without the use of her arms, she slumped over her knees. Helpless.

Even before she’d fully assimilated the total submission inherent in the pose, one hand settled heavily on her back, just above her waist.

Holding her down.

In the instant she realized, his other hand spread over her bottom, boldly caressed until her skin was damp, then reached farther, to the slick, swollen flesh between her thighs, in this position readily accessible to his probing fingers.

He held her down, ruthlessly touched, stroked, teased-caressed but never penetrated, never gave her greedy, wanting senses the slightest succor, instead stoked her fire until her skin was aflame, until her breaths came in ragged pants.

Until she moaned.

The wanton, abandoned sound shocked her, but it was quickly followed by more. Held immobile, she could gain no surcease from the unrelenting stimulation, from the need that was flaring inside her-burgeoning, building, rising high.

Eyes closed, her hair fanning about her with the restless motion of her head-the only part of her free to move-she bit her lip, tried to hold back the sound welling in her throat.

Couldn’t.

She sobbed. Sobbed again as he raised her hips, turned the sensual rack one notch tighter…

In the instant before she broke and told him precisely what she wanted him to do, he shifted. Opened her with his fingers, guided the broad head of his erection to her entrance-and thrust deliberately and heavily home.

Filled her with one long, sure stroke that pushed all the air from her lungs.

That left her feeling more full of him that she ever had before.

His thighs outside hers, his groin to her bottom, he gripped her hip, withdrew a little way, then surged within her.

Still holding her down, a supplicant before him, her body offered for the enjoyment of his.

An offering he took, accepted, savored-with every hard, deep, too-knowing thrust.

She’d told him she was all his; he’d taken her at her word. As he held her before him and possessed her, deeper, harder, faster, she finally fully understood what that meant.

Couldn’t find it in her to complain.

The fire, the flames, and the love were there, around them, about them, within them. She gave herself up to it all, lost herself in the inferno.

Willingly surrendered.

Simon gasped as he felt her body tighten. Closed his eyes, savored the exquisite sensation of the firm curves of her bottom riding against him as he buried himself in her scalding heat. Again and again and again.

Taking his hand from her back, he clamped both palms about her hips and held her still as, all restraint long gone, he took all he wished-all she’d offered him.

The most potent invitation a woman could issue-to have her however he wished. To possess her, all she was, all the delights her body could offer, without reservation.

His heart thundered, filled to bursting as he filled his senses with her. As, step by step, her body responded, as did his, wanting more, reaching further.

Releasing her hips, he leaned over her, ran his hands up and around, filling them with her breasts, hot, swollen, finding and squeezing her nipples until she cried out, until she sobbed anew.

She’d come alive beneath him, riding his thrusts, meeting them. He bent his head, nuzzled her hair aside, set his teeth to the tendon running along the curve of her neck, and nipped.

Laved as she reacted, as on a wild gasp her body rose beneath his and clenched tight, then imploded, fractured, pulsing as he drove relentlessly into her, deep into the heart of her fire.

Closed his arms around her, holding her immobile as his body reacted to the rippling contractions of hers, as he plunged deeper yet, filling her, following her, over the peak of sensual glory, over the edge of worldly delight and into earthly bliss.

Into a deep void of unutterable satisfaction. The deepest satiation he’d ever known. Her celebration had created a new dimension, taken them to a different plane.

How many minutes passed before he could summon the strength and the wit to lift from her, wrestle the covers from beneath them and, curling her body against his, slump, all but exhausted, into the bed, he had no idea.

He lay there and let the moment wash over him. Let the peace, the knowledge, the absolute certainty sink into him.

They both fell asleep.

When he woke, he found he’d turned on his side, one arm slung over her hip, his body curved spoon-fashion about hers.

She, too, was awake. He knew it from the tension in her body; she was lying on her side facing away from him-he couldn’t see her face.

Coming up on his elbow, he leaned over her.

She turned her head, looked at him, and smiled.

Even in the moonlight, the gesture was glorious.

Raising one hand, Portia touched his cheek, then, still smiling, settled back on her side, feeling him hard, strong, and hot behind her.

He lay passive, yet…

Her smile deepened. Reaching back, she wrapped her fingers around his length. Caressed as she remembered. “You called me a cocktease-did you mean it?”

He grunted. “I wasn’t even sure you’d know what it meant.”

She grinned as, slowly, she ran her thumb over the blunt head of his erection. “Admittedly it’s not something one comes across much in Ovid, but I do know my modern derivations.”

“Derivations?”

The reply was meaningless; he wasn’t thinking about words.

She closed her hand more firmly. “You haven’t answered my question.”

He sucked in a breath; there was a pause before he said, “Not in general, but in specific.”

She thought about that for a moment, fondled not quite absentmindedly as she did. “You mean I tease you?”

It was her turn to catch her breath as he nudged her upper thigh higher, and his artful fingers slid into the softness between her legs.

His fingers played. “You tease my cock simply by existing.”

Her smile threatened to split her face. “How?”

The word was breathless; she angled her hips farther, felt him shift behind her.

“I see you, and all I can think about is sinking it into you.” He fitted the object under discussion to her. “Like this.”

Her eyes fell closed as he slowly, oh-so-slowly slid home. Withdrew, then gave her time to savor every inch of his return.

Her lungs locked; her whole body came alive. Determined, she managed enough breath to say, “I think I rather like being a cocktease-at least in the specific.”

He leaned over her, around her, set his lips to the curve of her ear, pushed his hand beneath her arm, and closed it about her breast-and gave her to understand that, far from disapproving, he liked it, too.

Later, much later, they lay slumped in the bed; he’d settled her, sprawled comfortably over him, her head pillowed on his chest. Idly, Simon played with her hair, sifting the long strands.

Eventually, drew a deep breath.

“I love you. You know that, don’t you?”

Her reply was only a moment in coming. “Yes.” Raising her head, she smiled at him, then crossed her arms, rested her chin on her wrists, and studied his face.

Her eyes were dark and brilliant; he looked into them, waited.

Her smile, that of a woman smugly well satisfied, eased. “I love you, too.” A frown invaded her expression. “I still don’t understand it.”

He hesitated, then offered, “I don’t think love is something one necessarily understands.” God knew he didn’t.

She frowned openly. “Perhaps. But I still can’t stop thinking…”

He stroked his hands lovingly down the long planes of her back. “Has anyone ever told you you think too much?”

“Yes. You.”

“So stop thinking.” He reached farther, suggestively caressed.

She met his eyes, arched a brow. “Make me.”

He held her gaze, confirmed the words were the invitation he’d thought, then smiled-wolfishly. “My pleasure.”

He rolled, taking her with him, trapped her beneath him, and obliged.

Her next coherent thought did not surface until well past dawn.

She might not have been thinking, but he certainly had been. He’d been plotting, planning, but just what she didn’t know.

By the time she reached the breakfast table, he’d convinced Lady O that it was imperative he drive her, Portia, somewhere. She arrived too late to hear where.

“You’ll know when we get there,” was all he would say. Jaw setting in a way she knew well, he gave his attention to a plateful of ham.

She turned to Lady O.

Who waved aside her question before she could ask it.

“Take my word for it-best you let him drive you up to town. You won’t like rocking along slowly with me in the coach-not if you’ve a better option.” She grinned; the old evil light was back in her eyes. “If I were you, I wouldn’t hesitate.”

Which left Portia little option but to go along for the ride.

Helping herself to tea and toast, she looked around the table. The transformation was marked; a lighter atmosphere had taken hold once again. There were still lingering shadows in most people’s eyes, but the relief was immense, and showed in their smiles.

Lady Calvin, of course, had not come down, but neither had the other older ladies, except for Lady O and Lady Hammond.

“She’s taking it hard, poor thing,” Lady Hammond confided. “It was always her dream to see Ambrose in Parliament, and now… to have to face this, and with all it’s revealed of Drusilla as well, she’s quite overset. Catherine’s asked her to stay on for a day or so, at least until she’s well enough to travel.”

Drusilla, unsurprisingly, had not joined the company.

Later, everyone gathered in the front hall for farewells. The coaches were at the door; the Hammonds left first, then the Bucksteads.

Portia noted that, despite his earlier stance, James stood a little apart with Lucy, then walked her to the carriage and handed her up. A plan to invite Lucy to another house party sometime, and James as well, sprang into her wind, fully formed.

To which house was the only point in question.

Then Lady O completed her good-byes and, on Lord Netherfield’s arm, led the way onto the front steps. She and Simon followed in time to hear Lady O tell his lordship, “Quite a lively break, but next time, Granny, leave out the murders. They’re a bit much for my aging constitution to take.”

Lord Netherfield snorted. “Yours and mine both, m’dear. But at least these youngsters acquitted themselves well.” He bent a beaming smile on Simon and Portia, and Charlie and James who’d followed them out. “Seems there’s hope yet for the younger generation.”

Lady O’s snort was infinitely dismissive. “Bite your tongue-don’t want to swell their heads.”

Struggling to hide his smile, Charlie bravely came forward and offered to assist Lady O into the carriage. She accepted with aplomb; once settled, she looked out at Simon and Portia. “I’ll see you two in London.” She met their eyes. “Don’t disappoint me.”

It sounded like a warning to behave; they both read it for what it was-an exhortation of quite a different character.

Lord Netherfield smiled and waved; they did, too, waiting only until the carriage lumbered off before walking to Simon’s curricle, waiting, horses prancing, across the forecourt.

James and Charlie followed them. While Simon ran a careful eye over his bays, James took her hands. “I won’t embarrass you by thanking you again, but I hope we’ll meet in London later in the year.” He hesitated, then glanced at Simon. “You know, Kitty had driven all thoughts of marriage firmly out of my head. Now…” He raised one brow, teasing yet quizzical, “Perhaps there really is hope, and I should revisit the notion.”

Portia smiled. “Indeed, I think you should.” She stretched up and kissed his lean cheek. Then turned to Charlie, raised her brows.

Smiling, too, he met her gaze-then blinked. Glanced at James. “Oh, no-not me. Devotedly fancy-free, that’s me-far too shallow for any discerning lady.”

“Nonsense.” She kissed his cheek, too. “One of these days some highly discerning lady is going to see straight through your facade. And what then?”

“I’ll emigrate.”

They all laughed.

James helped her into the curricle. “And what of you?” he asked Simon as he came up.

Simon looked at her, a long, considering glance, then gave James his hand. “Ask for my opinion in three months.”

James laughed, shook his hand. “I suspect I’ll know your opinion somewhat earlier than that.”

Simon shook Charlie’s hand, then climbed up beside her. He flicked the reins the instant they were settled; with smiles and waves, they were off.

She sat back, and wondered. Her box and bandbox were strapped behind and Wilks had been dispatched with Lady O. There was, of course, nothing the least noteworthy in Simon driving her up to town, nothing the least scandalous in driving in an open carriage alone. They were following Lady O, in whose care she was. All perfectly aboveboard.

Except that he and she were not heading directly to London, but by way of somewhere else. Where she couldn’t imagine, let alone why.

Even though she’d expected not to head for town, she was nevertheless surprised when, on reaching the main gate and the lane, Simon turned his horses west, away from Ashmore.

“The west country?” She racked her brains. “Gabriel and Alathea? Or Lucifer and Phyllida?”

Simon grinned, shook his head. “You don’t know the place-you’ve never been there. I haven’t been there in years.”

“Will we reach there tonight?”

“In a few hours.”

She sat back and watched the hedgerows slide by. Realized the feeling enfolding her was contentment. Even though she didn’t have a clue where he was taking her.

A smile threatened; she suppressed it. Knew if he saw it he’d ask for an explanation; although she could make a good attempt, now was neither the time nor place.

The simple truth was, with no other man could she imagine being in such a situation and simply accepting it with such inner serenity.

She let her gaze drift to his face, watched for a while, then looked forward before he felt her gaze. She trusted him. Absolutely. Not just physically, although between them, in that arena, the truth was now clear-she was his, but he was also hers, and, it seemed, always had been-she also trusted him in all other spheres.

She trusted his strength-that he would never use it against her, but that it would be there, always, whenever she needed its protection. She trusted his loyalty, his will-most importantly, she trusted his heart.

Knew, in her own, that in the vulnerability he’d embraced, faced, and let her see, accepted that she had to see, lay a guarantee to last a lifetime.

Love. The wellspring of trust, the ultimate cornerstone for marriage.

Trust, strength, security-and love.

She, and he, had it all.

All they needed to go on with.

Wherever he was taking her.

Settling back, she faced forward, willing to follow the road before them wherever it led.

It led to the town of Queen Charlton in Somerset, and ultimately to a house called Risby Grange. Simon stopped in the village and took a large room at the inn. Portia made sure she kept her gloves on all the time, but detected no hint that the innwife suspected they were not man and wife.

Perhaps Charlie was right, and the underlying truth showed, regardless of the existence of formalities.

Leaving their bags at the inn, they followed a winding lane, and in midafternoon drove in through the arched gatehouse of Risby Grange.

Simon halted the horses just inside the gatehouse. Before them, sprawled across the crest of the gently rising lawns, the house lay basking in the sunshine, its pale grey stone half-covered with creeper, mullioned windows winking below crenellated battlements.

The house was old, solid, well-kept, but appeared to be deserted.

“Who lives here?” she asked.

“At present, no one other than a caretaker.” Simon set the bays trotting up the drive. “I doubt he’ll be around. I’ve got a key.”

She looked at him, waiting, but he said no more. Reaching the court before the shallow steps leading up to the front door, he turned the horses onto the adjacent lawn. They both jumped down; after tying the reins to a tree and checking the curricle’s brake, he took her hand and they crossed the graveled court, climbed the steps.

He rang the bell; they could hear it jangling deep in the house. They waited, but no one came to let them in.

“The caretaker’s also the gamekeeper-he’s probably out.” Drawing a large key from his pocket, Simon slid it into the lock, turned, then pushed the door wide.

He went in first, looking around; she followed on his heels.

Immediately forgot all her questions over why they were there as curiosity took flight. From the wood-paneled hall with its stained-glass windows, she went from room to room, not waiting for him but leading the way.

From outside, the house had appeared sprawling; inside, it was even more so. Rooms opened from flagged corridors, more corridors sprang from halls, leading hither and yon. Yet every room was gracious, warm, filled with excellent furniture lovingly cared for, with rich fabrics and pretty things, with antiques, and some pieces she recognized as more than that. They were heirlooms.

A fine patina of dust lay over everything, but the house did not exude the musty chill of a place long deserted. Instead, it felt like it was waiting-as if one owner had recently departed, but another was expected at any time. It was a house built for laughter, for warmth and happiness, for a large family to fill its sprawling vastness. That atmosphere pervaded, so definite it was tangible; this was a house that had seen generations grow, that lived and breathed and remained confident of its future, indeed, was eagerly awaiting it.

She knew the Cynster motto, To have and to hold, well enough, recognized it and their coat of arms in various forms-on cushions, on a carved panel, in a pane of stained glass.

Eventually, in the big room on the first floor at the top of the main stairs, standing before the magnificent bay window that overlooked the forecourt, she turned to Simon; he stood leaning against the doorframe, watching her. “Whose house is this?”

He studied her, replied, “Mine.”

She raised her brows, waited.

He grinned. “It was Great-aunt Clara’s. All the others were already married and had their own homes, so she willed this place to me.”

She tilted her head, studied him in return. “Why did we come here?”

Simon pushed away from the doorjamb, walked toward her. “I was on my way here all along-I stopped at the house party on the way.”

Halting beside her, he took her hand, drew her around to face the long view over the lawns to the gatehouse. “I told you-I hadn’t been here for years. My memories of it… I didn’t know how accurate they were. I wanted to confirm it was as I remembered-a house that calls for a wife and family.”

He glanced at her as she glanced at him. “I was right. It does. It’s a house that’s supposed to be a home.”

She held his gaze. “Indeed. And what were you planning to do once you’d confirmed your recollection?”

His lips lifted. “Why, find myself a wife”-he raised her hand to his lips, kept his eyes on hers-“and start a family.”

She blinked. “Oh.” Blinked again, looked out over the lawns.

He closed his hand about hers. “What is it?”

A moment passed, then she said, “You remember when you found me at the lookout, and I vowed I would consider every eligible gentleman… the reason I’d decided to do so was that I’d realized I wanted to have children of my own-a family of my own. To do that, I needed a husband.”

Her lips twisted; she looked at him. “Of course, by that I meant a suitable gentleman who would fall in with my wishes and allow me to rule our joint lives.”

“No doubt.” His tone was acerbic. When she said nothing more but continued to watch him, as if studying him, assessing him anew, he softly asked, “Is that why you’re marrying me?”

She hadn’t said she would, yet both knew it, a given-an understanding already acknowledged, albeit not in words. Her dark eyes sparked, registering his tack, then they softened. Her lips curved.

“Lady O is really quite amazing.”

He’d lost the thread. “How so?”

“She informed me that wanting children, while a perfectly acceptable reason to bring one to consider marriage, was not of itself a sufficiently good reason to marry. However, she assured me that if I kept looking-considering gentlemen to marry-the right reason would eventually present itself.”

He twined his fingers with hers. “And has it?”

She met his eyes, her smile serene. “Yes. I love you, and you love me. Lady O is, as always, right-no other reason will do.”

He drew her into his arms, felt their bodies react the instant they touched, not just sexually but with a deeper, more comforting familiarity. He gloried in the feeling, gloried in her as she draped her arms over his shoulders, as between his hands, he felt her supple strength, in her dark eyes saw an intellect every bit the equal of his. “It won’t be easy.”

“Assuredly not-I refuse to promise to be a comfortable wife.”

His lips twitched. “You’re quite comfortable enough-‘obedient’ is the word you want, or ‘acquiescent’-you’ve never been either.”

“Nonsense-I am when it suits me.”

“Therein lies the rub.”

“I’m not going to change.”

He looked into her eyes. “I don’t want you to. If you can accept that I’m similiarly unlikely to change, we can go on from there.”

Portia smiled. Theirs would not be the marriage she’d wanted; it would be the marriage she needed. “Despite all prior experience, we’ve managed remarkably well so far. If we try, do you think we could make this last a lifetime?”

“With both of us trying, it’ll last.” He paused, then added, “We have the right reasons, after all.”

“Indubitably.” She drew his lips to hers. “I’m starting to believe that love can indeed conqueror all.”

He paused, their lips separated by a breath. “Even us?”

She made a frustrated sound. “You, me-us. Now kiss me.”

Simon smiled. And did.

He’d reached the end of his journey and found all he’d been seeking; in her arms, he’d found his true goal.