The Perfect Lover

6

Portia sat at the luncheon table and let the conversations flow past her. She was sufficiently adept to nod here, murmur there; no one realized her mind was elsewhere.

She longed to discuss what she’d learned, but there was no one present suitable for the role of confidante. If Penelope had been here… then again, given her younger sister’s views on men and marriage, perhaps it was as well she was not.

Assessing the other ladies, she mentally ticked them off on her fingers. Not Winifred-she didn’t want to shock her-and certainly not Lucy or the Hammond girls. As for Drusilla…

Kitty, brittlely vivacious as she teased Ambrose and James, seemed the only possibility-a lowering thought.

Portia cast a glance at Lady O, then looked down at her plate. She had a sneaking suspicion that, far from being shocked, Lady O would baldly tell her she’d merely scratched the surface and there was a lot more she’d yet to learn.

She didn’t need further encouragement. Curiosity was eating her from inside out; she didn’t dare catch Simon’s eye in case he guessed. One point they hadn’t discussed was the frequency of her lessons; she didn’t want to appear too… “forward” was the word that leapt to mind. She had a deep-seated conviction it wouldn’t be wise to let him know how fascinated and enthralled she was. He possessed quite enough arrogant pride; she didn’t need to add to it, to give him any reason to feel superior.

Consequently, she rose with the other ladies and went out onto the lawns to sit and idly gossip in the sunshine. Simon watched her go, but he gave no sign; neither did she.

An hour later, Lady O summoned her to help her upstairs.

“Well, then-how are your deliberations progressing?” Lady O slumped back on her bed and let Portia straighten her skirts.

“In a positive but as yet inconclusive manner.”

“That so?” Lady O’s black eyes remained on her face, then she humphed. “You and Simon must have walked for miles.”

She shrugged nonchalantly. “We went down to the lake.”

Lady O frowned at her, then closed her eyes. “Well, if that’s all you have to report, I can only suggest you look lively. We’ve only so many days here, after all.”

She waited; when Lady O said nothing more, she murmured a good-bye and left her.

Slowly, she walked back through the huge house, wondering…

How many days would she need to learn all? Or at least enough? Reaching the long gallery, she turned into one of the deep embrasures and sat on the window seat. Staring, unseeing, at the sunbeams dancing on the wood paneling, she opened her memory, let her senses slide free…

And felt again, carefully mapped the limits of her learning, the frontier beyond which lay so much she’d yet to feel. To know.

She had no idea how long she’d been sitting there, no idea how long Simon had been watching her; as she drew back from her thoughts, she sensed his presence, shifted her gaze, and saw him leaning against the outer edge of the embrasure. Met his blue eyes.

A moment passed, then he raised a brow. “Ready for your next lesson?”

Did it show? She lifted her chin. “If you’re free.”

He had been for the last hour. Simon bit back the words, coolly inclined his head, and straightened.

She rose, her soft skirts falling about her, sheathing her long legs. He reached out, took her hand, fought not to seize it. Calling on every ounce of his expertise, he wound her arm in his and turned down the corridor.

She glanced at his set face. After a moment, she asked, “Where are we going?”

“Somewhere we won’t be disturbed.” He heard the harshness in his voice, knew she’d heard it, too. Nevertheless, he couldn’t resist adding, “Incidentally, if you wish to progress through the various stages to any reasonable conclusion, you’ll need to make yourself available for the purpose.”

She blinked, then faced forward. “I often go to the music room in the afternoon-to practice. I was thinking of going there now.”

“You’re accomplished enough on the piano-you can afford to be distracted for once. Or twice. We’ll only be here for a few days more.”

Halting, he opened a door, set it swinging wide, and ushered her into a small parlor attached to a bedchamber; neither room was presently in use. He’d chosen the room from memory, knowing what it contained.

Portia stopped in the middle of the room, looking about at the lumps of furniture all swathed in Holland covers. He locked the door, then joined her; taking her hand, he drew her toward one of the long, curtained windows. The room faced west, overlooking the pinetum. He swept the curtains wide; sunshine streamed in.

Turning back, he reached for the sheet covering the large piece of furniture facing the window. With a flick, he drew the sheet aside, revealing a wide and lushly cushioned daybed, now bathed in golden light.

Portia blinked. Dropping the sheet, he reached for her. Giving her no time to think, he lifted her and fell, taking her with him, into the cushioned comfort.

They bounced; she giggled, then sobered as her eyes met his. He shifted, propping his shoulders against the daybed’s padded side, settling her alongside him, half over him, within the circle of his arms.

The sun poured over them. Her gaze drifted to his lips. She licked hers, then her eyes flicked up to his. “What now?”

One dark brow rose fractionally; her dark blue eyes remained steady on his. He had absolutely no doubt she was willing.

He smiled, insensibly relieved; lifting a hand to her face, he drew it to his. “Now we play.”

They did-he couldn’t for the life of him remember any interlude like it. Whether it was the simple word or the sunshine warming them, or the silence of the deserted rooms around them, even the anonymity of the shrouded furniture surrounding them, that infused those first moments with a giddy, reckless pleasure he couldn’t tell, but they were both susceptible, both quickly infected with a heady lightheartedness that freed them from the world, left them both focused, not on propriety but on needs-he on hers, she, it seemed, on his.

Within seconds of their lips meeting, she’d relaxed into the kiss, yet her body remained, not stiff, but tensed, like a deer not yet sure of its safety, poised to retreat. He drew her deeper into the kiss and she came readily, offering her mouth, eagerly responding when he took, claimed; he did nothing more, simply waited, let her learn for herself, come to her own conclusion.

He had long ago learned that this particular configuration was most useful for easing a skittish lover; with her in his arms, protected yet not threatened by his weight, by his strength, the illusion of being in control rather than being controlled applied. As with others before, it worked; gradually that telltale tension flowed away, and she sank, warm, supple, vibrantly alive, against him.

His hands on her back stroked, soothed; it was she who shifted back, gave him access to her breasts, flagrantly encouraged him to fondle.

To gradually, inch by inch, wind her tight.

As before, she ultimately broke from the kiss, lifting her head, dragging in a breath, her breasts swelling under his hands. This time, he didn’t stop, let his hands and fingers continue their artful torture.

She opened her eyes and looked down, sucked in another breath as she watched him pander to her senses. Then she lifted her heavy lids and, with her usual directness, met his eyes. “What’s next?”

He held her gaze, tightened his fingers about her nipples, watched her concentration fade… her lids droop. “Are you sure you want to know?”

She opened her eyes; the look she pinned him with would have been imperious, but for the curve of her lips. “Quite sure.” She tried to straighten her lips and failed; she couldn’t have been kittenish if she tried, nor yet played the coquette-she simply didn’t have it in her-but he sensed-could almost feel-the gaiety welling within her, the thrill, the excitement, the anticipation.

It was as if they were exploring something, some unknown landscape between them, all on a personal dare. She had not an ounce of fear in her; she was eager and sure of him, sharing the moment even though she didn’t know what would come…

She trusted him.

The knowledge crashed through him-not just the realization that she did, but all that it-so totally unexpectedly-meant to him.

How he felt.

He drew in a deep breath, fighting the constriction locked about his chest. She’d glanced down, watching his hands knead the tight, heated mounds of her breasts; when she glanced up at him, raising her brows, he had to clear his throat, and surreptitiously shift beneath her.

“If you’re sure…?”

The look she threw him told him to get on with it; he found it impossible not to smile. Her bodice was closed with a row of tiny buttons from neckline to waist; releasing her breasts, he set to work easing the tiny nubs free of their holes.

She blinked, but made not the slightest move to stop him. However, as his hands pressed between them and her bodice gaped, a frown gathered in her eyes; light color rose in her cheeks.

The instant the last button slipped free, he reached for her face, curled one hand about her nape and drew her back down. Caught her gaze in the instant before her lids fell. “Stop thinking.”

He kissed her, long, deeply, claiming her senses in truth for the first time, something he’d been careful, previously, to avoid. She hadn’t needed to know he could kiss her witless, yet if he didn’t deprive her of her considerable wits now, just for a few minutes, she might well draw back…

He was not in the mood to cajole, let alone argue; he no longer possessed sufficient coolheadedness, not where she was concerned, to ease her trepidation with words. And it was that-trepidation, not fear. Simply a hesitation on the brink of the unknown.

Ruthlessly, with the gentlest of touches, he drew her over the edge, over the threshold of her-their-next discovery.

When he let her surface, his hand cupped her breast, skin to silken skin. Their lips parted, but she didn’t draw back; their eyes met briefly from under lowered lids. He continued to touch, trace, felt her shiver. Felt something within him shudder in response.

He was hard, aching; he wanted her with an urgency that stole his breath. He lifted his lips, closing the half inch that separated hers from his, wanting, needing, succor.

She gave it; how she knew, he didn’t know but she kissed him, framed his face, angled hers and pressed deep, then invited, incited-dared him to take. As ravenously as he wished. She met him, matched him, followed, then led.

Eventually drew back as the brief flare between them faded. She made no demur when he pressed her bodice wider, so he could fill both hands and touch, caress, knead. Her breath caught, hitched, then came again, faster. Beneath his palms, her skin burned.

Portia felt giddy-with delight, with a sense of illicit awareness so sharp she could barely breathe. His touch was pure pleasure, more golden than the sunshine that played over them, warmer, more real.

Infinitely more intimate.

She should be shocked-she knew it. The thought floated through her brain. And out.

There was too much to take in, to absorb, to learn. To feel. No missish sentiment, no modesty was strong enough to distract her from the sensuous delight of his fingers, the strength of his hands, the pleasure they conjured.

Fascination was too weak a word for all she felt.

From under her lashes, she glanced down at him, sensed, within herself, a change, a shift, a wish to give him as much pleasure as he was lavishing on her. Was that how it happened? Why sane women made the decision to accept a man’s need and pander to it?

Her mind couldn’t give her the answer; she let the question slide away.

He was looking at her breasts, at his hands upon them; he glanced up, caught her gaze.

Heat welled, and a tide of emotion swept through her; she smiled, deliberately, equally deliberately leaned low, ignoring the press of her breasts into his hands, and kissed him.

Felt him still, drag in a huge breath… then he shifted, tipped her back, and turned so he lay beside her; one hand remained on her breast, the other framed her face. He kissed her-ravished her mouth, sent her senses spinning once more, then slowly, gradually, drew her back.

When he lifted his head they were both breathing raggedly; their gazes met briefly, their lips throbbed. Her fingers were sunk into his shoulders, clutching tight. They both held still, caught in the moment, both aware of the heat, the beat of their hearts-the almost overwhelming yearning.

The moment passed.

Slowly, very slowly, he bent his head and their lips met again in a gentle, clinging, soothing kiss. His hands left her skin; he tweaked her bodice closed, then slid his arms about her and held her-simply held her.

Later, as they left the parlor, Portia glanced back. The daybed lay swathed again; there was no sign that anything dramatic had occurred in the room.

Yet something had happened; something had changed.

Or perhaps been revealed.

Simon drew her out and shut the door; she could read nothing in his face, yet she knew he felt the same. As he twined her arm with his, their gazes touched, held. Then they faced forward and walked back to the gallery.

She needed to think, but the dinner table and the company surrounding it were no help at all. Portia cast an irritated glance at Kitty; she wasn’t the only person thus employed. The woman was a vacillating nitwit; that was the kindest conclusion Portia could reach.

“I hear we’re to have a major luncheon party tomorrow.” Beside her, Charlie raised his brows, then slanted a glance up the table at Kitty. “Apparently she’s organized it.”

Distrust, not to say suspicion, rang in his voice.

“Don’t borrow trouble,” she advised. “She was perfectly reasonable over lunch today. Who knows? Maybe it’s only in the evenings that she…”

“Transforms into a femme fatale, and a peculiarly unsubtle one at that?”

She nearly choked; lifting her napkin to her lips, she bent a frowning look on Charlie.

Unrepentent, he grinned, but the gesture wasn’t humorous. “I’m desolated to disappoint you, m’dear, but Kitty can behave atrociously at any time of day.” He glanced up the table again. “Her attitude seems entirely at whim.”

She frowned. “James said she’d grown worse-worse than she used to be.”

Charlie considered, then nodded. “Yes. That’s true.”

Kitty had started the evening badly, openly flirting-or trying to-with James in the drawing room. Charlie had tried to intervene, only to bring Kitty’s wrath down on his head. Henry had come up and tried to smooth things over, resulting in Kitty’s flouncing off, sulking.

They’d come to the table with Mrs. Archer agitated, as if her nerves were giving way. Others, too, showed signs of distraction, of awareness, reactions they would normally cloak with well-bred ease.

It was, Portia thought, as the ladies rose to repair to the drawing room, as if the genteel facade of the house party was fracturing. It hadn’t cracked and fallen away, but ignoring Kitty’s behavior was proving too great a strain for some.

Like the Hammond girls; confused by it all-hardly surprising, for no one understood-they clustered around Portia, eager to chatter brightly and forget all the black looks. Even Lucy Buckstead, rather more up to snuff and with greater self-confidence, seemed subdued. Portia felt forced to take pity on them; she encouraged them to dwell on the prospects for tomorrow-whether the officers with whom they’d danced at the ball would ride over for the luncheon party, whether the quietly handsome young neighbor, George Quiggin, would attend.

Although her efforts were sufficient to distract Annabelle, Cecily, and Lucy, she could not rid herself of the irritation Kitty evoked. Glancing across the room, she saw Kitty talking airily to Mrs. Buckstead and Lady Hammond. Despite her occupation, Kitty’s eyes were fixed on the doors.

The doors through which the gentlemen would return.

Portia stifled a disgusted humph. An oppressive sense of impending social doom seemed to be spreading outward from Kitty. She, for one, had definitely had enough-and she absolutely had to find some time, and some better place, to think.

“If you’ll excuse me?” With a nod, she stepped back from the three girls and walked to the French doors open to terrace.

Without a single glance right or left, she glided through-into the sweet coolness of the night.

Beyond the light cast through the doors, she stopped and dragged in a huge breath; it tasted delicious, as if it was the first truly free breath she’d managed in hours. All frustration fell from her, slid like a cloak from her shoulders. Lips lifting, she strolled along the terrace, then descended the steps and set out across the lawns.

Toward the lake. She wouldn’t go down to it, not alone, but the new moon rode high, and the lawns themselves were bathed in silvery light. Safe enough for her to wander; it wasn’t that late.

She needed to think about all she’d learned, of what she could make of things thus far. Her hours spent alone with Simon had certainly opened her eyes; what she was seeing was both more and surprisingly different from what she’d expected. She’d assumed the attraction, the physical connection, that occurred between a man and woman would be something akin to chocolate-a taste pleasant enough to wish to indulge in whenever it was offered, but hardly a compulsive craving.

What she’d thus far shared with Simon…

She shivered even though the air was warm and balmy. Walking on, her gaze fixed on the clipped grass five feet ahead of her, she tried to find words to describe what she felt. Was this desire-this urge to do it again? More, to go further? Far further.

Possibly, but she knew herself-at least some of herself-well enough to recognize that mixed in with the purely sensual compulsion there was a healthy vein of curiosity, of her usual determination to know.

Along with the desire, that, too, had grown.

She knew what she wanted to know, what, now she knew it existed, she would not be able to leave be until she’d examined it fully and understood.

There was something-something totally unexpected-between her and Simon.

Walking slowly down the lawns, she considered that conclusion and could not fault it. Even though in this sphere she was untried and inexperienced, she trusted her innate abilities. If her faculties were convinced there was something there to be pursued, then there was.

What it was, however…

She didn’t know; she couldn’t even hazard a guess. Courtesy of her heretofore sheltered life, she didn’t even know if it was normal.

It certainly wasn’t normal for her.

But was it normal for him? Something that occurred with every lady.

She didn’t think so. She was sufficiently familiar with him to sense his moods; toward the end of their interlude lolling on the daybed, when she’d sensed that curious shift between them, he’d been as taken aback as she.

Rack her brains though she did, she couldn’t recall anything specific that had caused the moment-it was as if they’d suddenly simultaneously opened their eyes and realized they’d reached a place they hadn’t expected to find themselves in. They’d both been, not to put too fine a point on it, enjoying themselves-neither had been paying attention, neither had been steering their play…

It was something special because he hadn’t expected it to happen.

She was definitely going to find out more. Discover, uncover, whatever it took. The obvious place to start was to return to the same place, the same spot-that same odd plane of feeling.

Luckily, she had an inkling how to get there. They’d been totally focused on the physical delight, engrossed as only two people who knew each other so well could be. Neither had been watching the other in the sense of gauging the other’s honesty or character; if he’d wanted to say or do anything, she trusted absolutely that he would have said or done it. He viewed her in the same light; she knew that without thinking.

That was the key-they hadn’t been thinking. With each other, they didn’t need to bother; they’d concentrated completely on the doing.

The sharing.

She’d reached the end of the lawns above the lake. It lay ahead and below, dark and fathomless, inky black in its hollow.

No matter how hard she stretched her imagination, she couldn’t-could not-imagine sharing those moments with any other man.

Like a touch, she sensed his presence, felt his gaze. Turning, she watched him come down the lawn toward her, hands in his pockets, shoulders wide, his gaze fixed on her.

Halting beside her, he looked out over the lake, then returned his gaze to her face. “You shouldn’t be out here alone.”

She met his eyes. “I’m not.”

He looked away but she caught the quick lift of his lips.

“How was it”-she waved back at the house-“in there?”

“Ghastly. Kitty’s skating on thin ice. She seems bent on attaching Winfield, despite the fact he’s running the other way. After the earlier fracas, Henry’s retreated, pretending not to notice. Mrs. Archer’s horrified but impotent; Lord and Lady Glossup are increasingly distracted. The only light relief was provided by Lord Netherfield. He told Kitty to grow up.”

Portia smothered an unladylike snort; she’d been consorting with Lady O for too long.

After a moment, Simon looked at her. “We’d better go back.”

The thought didn’t entice. “Why?” She glanced at him. “It’s too early to retire. Do you really want to go back in there and have to smile through Kitty’s performance?”

His look of haughty distaste was answer enough.

“Come on-let’s go down to the lake.” She intended to look in at the summerhouse, but didn’t feel obliged to mention it.

He hesitated, looking not at the lake, but at the summerhouse glimmering faintly at its end. He did, indeed, know her well. She set her chin and looped her arm in his. “The walk will clear your head.”

She had to tug once, but, reluctantly, he went with her, eventually settling to stroll by her side as they turned onto the path around the lake’s rim. He steered her toward the pinetum, away from the summerhouse; head high, she glided along, and said not a word.

The path circumnavigated the lake; to return to the house without retracing their steps, they would have to pass the summerhouse.

Lady O had, as usual, been right; there was a great deal she had yet to learn, to explore, and not over many days in which to do it. In other circumstances, three lessons in one day might be rushing things; in these circumstances, she could see no reason not to grasp this opportunity to pursue her aim.

And to ease her curiosity.

Simon knew what she was thinking. Her airy demeanor deceived him not at all; she was fantasizing about the next stage.

So was he.

But, unlike her, he knew a great deal more; his attitude to the subject was equivocal. It didn’t surprise him that she would seek to rush ahead-indeed, he was counting on her reckless enthusiasm to carry her far further. However…

He could have used a little time to come to grips with what he’d glimpsed that afternoon.

A little time to reorient himself.

And to think of some way to reinforce his control against her temptation-a temptation all the more potent because he knew she wasn’t even aware she possessed it.

He was certainly not fool enough to tell her; the last thing he needed was for her to set out deliberately to wield it.

“You know, I can’t understand what Kitty’s thinking. It’s as if she doesn’t consider others, or their feelings, at all.”

He thought of Henry, of what he had to be feeling. “Is she really that naive?”

After a moment, Portia answered, “I’m not sure it’s a question of naïveté so much as true selfishness-an inability to think of how others feel. She acts as if she’s the only one who’s truly real, as if the rest of us are”-she gestured-“figures on a carousel, twirling about her.”

He grunted. “She doesn’t seem close to even Winifred.”

Portia shook her head. “They aren’t close-indeed, I think Winifred would rather they were even more distant. Especially given Desmond.”

“Is there an understanding there, do you know?”

“There would be if Kitty would let be.”

They walked on in silence. Eventually, he murmured, “It must get very lonely at the center of her carousel.”

A few seconds passed, then Portia tightened her hold on his arm briefly, inclined her head.

They’d strolled around most of the lake; the summerhouse loomed out of the darkness. He allowed her to steer him across the lawn to the steps; he made no demur when she let go of his arm, picked up her skirts, and went up. He cast a quick glance around the lake path, then followed her.

She was waiting in the dimness. In the shadows, her face was a pale oval; he had no hope of reading her eyes. Nor she his.

He halted before her. She raised a hand to his cheek, lifted her face, guided his lips to hers. Kissed him in flagrant invitation. Locking his hands about her waist, glorying in the feel of her supple, slender form anchored between his palms, he accepted and took. Without quarter.

When he finally raised his head, she sighed. Then asked, perfectly equably, “What’s next?”

He’d had the last half hour to formulate the right answer. He smiled; in the darkness, she couldn’t see it.

“Something a little different.” He walked forward, step by slow, deliberate step backing her.

He sensed the skittery excitement that flashed through her. She tensed to glance around, to see where he was steering her, but inherent caution overcame her-she didn’t take her gaze from his face.

The backs of her legs hit the arm of one of the deep chairs. She stopped. He released her, caught her hand, stepped past and around her and sat, reaching for her, pulling her down, perching her on his knees, more or less facing him.

He could feel her surprise. They were now in dense shadow; the moonlight didn’t reach this far.

But she was quick to adjust; he didn’t need to draw her to him. Unbidden, she leaned close, and kissed him.

Invitingly. He was deep in the exchange, caught, captured, before he realized. Not a kitten, not a coquette, but she could, it seemed, when the mood was on her, be a temptress of a different sort.

One infinitely more attractive to him.

He could feel his hunger rise; he fervently prayed she never realized how easily she could conjure it. Call it, lure it, like some beast of prey coming to her hand.

Ready to feast.

His hands, until then spread over her back, over the fine silk of her evening gown, slid forward. She sat up-he assumed to give him better access to her breasts. Instead, she broke the kiss, raised her head.

“I have a suggestion.”

Wariness flooded him, not least because her voice had changed. The tone was lower, richer, as sultry as the night that wrapped about them and screened her eyes, her expression. He could read neither, had to gauge their play-her state-from other things.

Far less accurate things.

“What?”

He saw her lips lift. She set her forearms on his upper chest, leaned in and kissed him lightly. “An addendum to our last lesson.”

What on earth was she about? “Explain.”

She laughed softly; the sound sank into him. “I’d rather show you.” She caught his gaze. “It’s all perfectly reasonable-and only fair.”

It was then he realized she’d undone his waistcoat; his coat had already been open. Before he could react, she shifted on his chest and set nimble fingers to his cravat.

“Portia.”

“Hmm?”

Arguing would get him nowhere; he lifted his hands and helped her untie his cravat. In a gesture of triumph she sat up and drew it free, went to fling it away. A sudden vision flashed across his brain; he caught the cravat and laid it on the chair arm.

She’d already lost interest-hers had focused on the buttons closing his shirt. He shifted, letting her draw the front free of his trousers, then she had it fully open, spread the halves wide-and stopped, staring down at what she’d uncovered.

He would have given an arm to see her face clearly. As it was, he drank in her stillness, her absorption, the sense of fascination that held her as she slowly released the shirt, spread her fingers, and touched.

For a full minute, she simply traced, explored-learned. Then she glanced at his face, registered his reaction, the fact he’d stopped breathing. Her hands stopped for a moment, then touched more boldly.

“You like this.” She moved her hands slowly, sensuously caressing across the wide muscles banding his chest, then down, fingers lightly touching, only to return to spear through the crinkly thatch of brown hair.

He dragged in a breath. “If it pleases you.”

She laughed. “Oh, it pleases me-even more because it pleases you.”

He was in pain, acute pain. The tenor of her voice, sultry, warm, and so oddly mature-so knowing of him and confident of herself-was the most potent siren’s call he’d ever heard. Her weight, warm and femininely alluring, across his thighs, only added to his torment.

Portia stroked, caressed, drank in the sheer delight of touching him, and knowing that, for at least these few minutes, she had him in her thrall. His skin was warm, almost hot, the steely resilience of the muscles beneath utterly fascinating. She was enthralled, but even more, she was thrilled to learn that she, with her touch, could pleasure him as he had her.

Only fair, as she’d said-fair to them both.

At last, he drew a deep, not quite steady breath, and reached for her. He didn’t push her hands away, but urged her to him. Leaving her hands spread on his chest, she eagerly leaned down and gave him her lips, her mouth, her tongue.

The kiss deepened into blatant intimacy, then extended into some arena they’d not before explored; her fingers sank into his flesh, and she pressed her burning palms to his bare skin.

She felt his hands on her back, his fingers busy with the line of buttons down her spine. He undid them all, all the way to where the gown’s opening ended in the small of her back.

The night air was warm; it lay heavy all around them, barely stirring as he urged her up, to sit up and let him draw her gown down.

A shiver, not of modesty but of sheer awareness, shook her. He’d caressed her bare breasts before, but her gown had been there, largely shielding all he’d touched from his sight. But now he drew her gown down and she let him, with only the slightest hesitation freed her arms from the sleeves. The gown collapsed about her waist. She looked at his face as, almost lazily, he reached for the ribbon straps of her chemise.

He didn’t ask permission, but simply tugged them free, perfectly sure he had the right.

She was very glad she could not see his expression; only the fact that they were cloaked in shadows allowed her to sit still and let him peel her chemise down.

The air was warm. Her skin felt hot, her nipples already tight and aching. She felt his gaze on her, roaming, cataloging; she thought his lips lifted, but it wasn’t in a smile.

Then he raised a hand and touched her. Her lids fell, suddenly heavy; she swayed. He closed both hands about her breasts, and she shuddered.

Closed her eyes and gave herself up to feeling, her senses focused on each caress, each knowing touch, the escalating torture. Her skin seemed even more sensitive than before, her nipples so tightly ruched they hurt. An odd hurt that, every time he squeezed, transmuted to heat, to washes of feeling that flooded through her, pooling low in her body.

She cracked open her lids enough to look at his face. Did he know what he was doing to her?

One glance was enough; of course he did. Had he planned the darkness so she’d be amenable? No-she’d been the one to lead him to the summerhouse, but he’d capitalized-was capitalizing-on her plan.

The notion pleased her; one made a move and the other took it further. That seemed right. Encouraging.

As was his touch, the way he kneaded her flesh. She caught her breath and glanced down-watched his hands, dark against the whiteness of her breasts, play, possess.

The heat within her swelled, grew.

“Do you want to go on to the next stage?”

She glanced at him. She didn’t know-couldn’t guess-what the next stage was. Didn’t care. “Yes.”

Simon heard the decision in her voice, could just detect a firming of her jawline. Enough to let out a small sigh of relief.

Forcing his fingers to leave her swollen flesh, he reached for his cravat. She blinked, watched as he smoothed the yard-long strip, folding it to a narrow band. Drawing it tight between his hands, he met her eyes over it. “A suggestion of mine.”

He’d gone along with her suggestion; she could hardly demur at his. She did, however, frown, yet… placing her hands on his chest, she leaned forward and let him tie the blindfold in place.

“Is this really necessary?”

“Not absolutely, but I think you’ll prefer it.”

Her silence screamed that she wasn’t sure how to interpret that. Cinching the knot at the back of her head, he grinned. He released it and she tensed to sit up.

“No.” He slid his palms over her naked back, felt something tighten deep within him in response. “Stay just as you are.” With one hand, he drew her lips to his. “You don’t need to do anything, other than feel.”

Their lips met; he drew her back into the heat, into the familiar intimacy. Her hands, braced on his chest, kept their bodies apart-just as well as this point. He drew her deeper, trapped her senses-seized the moment first to absorb the fact that she was naked to the waist, sitting, waiting, on his knee, then to set the final touches to his preparations.

The darkness she’d handed him was an unexpected boon, the blindfold an added benefit; it would have assuredly taken him longer, otherwise, to find a way, a suitable setting, in which to introduce her to this, the next stage, without risking evoking an instinctive reaction, a wariness, a deep-seated reluctance to be in any man’s control-an instinct with which he knew her to be very well endowed. She’d handed him herself on a platter; of course, he was going to feast.

He eased her up, sitting up himself, his hands sliding over her smooth skin, glorying on their way to cup her breasts anew. The intensity of the kiss increased, pouring heat and fire through them both. He was happy to let it happen, knowing what was to come. When her kisses turned urgent, when her breasts where heated and tight again, he broke the kiss, nudged her head back, set his lips to cruise the long line of her throat.

Her hands slid up, one locking on his shoulder, beneath his shirt. The other slid to his nape, stroking, then spearing into his hair as he bent and laved the pulse point at the base of her throat, then set his lips to it.

Head back, she caught her breath on a soft gasp.

Drawing his lips from her skin, he cupped one breast, lifting the ruched peak-bent his head and took it into his mouth.

The sound she made was a shattered cry of delight; it streaked through him and urged him on. He drew the tortured peak deep, suckled and laved, until she cried out again. He paused only to transfer his attentions to her other breast. He feasted like a conqueror with her his slave, offered up to him. As she was. Not once did she draw back-if anything, she urged him on, wordless in her entreaties, effective nonetheless. He knew every nuance, could interpret and understand every little gasp, every soft moan.

Her fingers sank into his shoulder, clutched tight on his skull. She held him to her, begged him to take. And give.

He did. He fed the conflagration mercilessly-let her sense, know, learn all she wished-but then ruthlessly, determinedly, even against her wishes reined them back, both of them, drew them back from the brink of the furnace, from the scorching flames of desire.

That time was not yet.

They were breathing raggedly when he finally slumped back, and she followed, collapsing on his chest. She murmured, then shifted, sinuously abrading her brutually sensitized breasts against the roughness of his chest. He let her, drew her lips to his, and kissed her, but softly. Let her ease back in her own way.

Finally accepting, she sighed, and sank into his arms, then reached up and pulled off the blindfold.

She looked up at him. Even in the dimness, he would have sworn her eyes glittered. She looked at his lips, licked hers, then met his eyes.

“More.”

Not a question-a demand.

“No.” It hurt to say it. He drew breath, felt desire’s vise locked about his chest. “Be patient.”

Foolish words. He knew that the instant he uttered them, saw a definite flash in her eyes-and reacted instantly, before she could.

He kissed her. Shifted her in his arms, then ravaged her mouth. Simultaneously, deliberately, slid his hands down, over the long planes of her back, down, sliding beneath the back of her gown, down over her flushed skin, over the curves, tracing, learning. Mapping what, one day soon, would be his.

She murmured deep in her throat-not a protest but pure encouragement. He ignored it, but could not draw his hands away, not yet. Not until he’d satisfied some undeniable inner craving to know that much, at least, of her. To know, absolutely, that she would be his-sometime.

Soon.

When he finally raised his head, she opened her eyes, and met his. Fearlessly, without guile or guilt.

She was lying in his arms, bare to the hips, her naked breasts pressed to his bare chest, his hands caressing her bare bottom, her skin dewed with desire.

Desire itself lay naked between them.

Both of them recognized it.

It was an effort to draw breath, but he did.

“We have to go back.”

She studied his face, understood what he meant. Eventually inclined her head.

Going back took time. Letting their senses settle, righting themselves, rearranging their clothes. He didn’t bother retying his cravat but left it about his neck, trusting they’d encounter no one while returning to the house.

They set off, her hand locked in his, walking through the deepening shadows. The moon had sunk low; the gardens were dark.

The house loomed ahead. Portia frowned. “The lights-I would have expected most would still be downstairs. It can’t be that late.”

In truth, she had no idea of the time.

Simon shrugged. “Perhaps, like us, they fled Kitty’s court.”

They walked on; Simon steered her in a different direction to their usual route, she assumed so they could slip into the house unseen. They were still some way from the walls when they heard the thud of footsteps, then the rustle of leaves drawing nearer.

Simon halted; perforce she did, too, in the black shadows thrown by a tree. Silent and still, they waited.

A figure emerged some yards away, cutting down the narrow paths heading away from the house. He didn’t see them, but as he passed from shadow to shadow, they saw him.

Recognition was instant; as before the gypsy continued through the gardens as if he knew every inch of them.

When he was gone, and Simon urged her on, she whispered, “Who the devil is he? Is he really a gypsy?”

“Apparently he’s the leader of a band of gypsies that spends most summers camped nearby. His name’s Arturo.”

They’d nearly reached the house when Simon stopped again. She peered ahead, and saw what he had-the young gardener standing under a tree to their right, near a corner of the mansion. He wasn’t looking their way-he was watching the other face of the house, the one out of their sight. The one the gypsy, Arturo, had most likely come from.

The same wing of the house that contained the family’s private rooms.

Portia glanced at Simon. He looked down at her, then waved her on. The path they were on was lawn, as were most of the paths in the garden, perfect for moving along silently.

They rounded the corner they’d been making for; Simon opened a door and ushered her into a small garden hall. The instant he shut the door, she asked, “Why do you think the gardener’s boy’s out there?”

Simon looked at her, then grimaced. “He’s not a local-he’s one of the gypsies. Apparently he knows his plants-he often works here through the summers, helping with the beds.”

Portia frowned. “But if he was keeping watch for Arturo, why is he still there?”

“Your guess is as good as mine.” Taking her arm, Simon propelled her to the door. “Let’s get upstairs.”

They emerged into one of the minor corridors. No one was around. They strolled nonchalantly, but silently along. Both were used to country houses, to the subtle signs of where people were, the hum of distant conversation; all were presently lacking.

They came upon a candle left burning on a side table. Simon stopped. “Keep watch.”

He swiftly retied his cravat into something that, in the dim corridors, would pass muster if they met anyone.

They went on, but didn’t. When they reached the front hall, she murmured, “It really does look like everyone’s gone up.”

Which seemed odd; a clock they’d passed had given the time as not quite midnight.

Simon shrugged and steered her to the main stairs. They were halfway up when voices reached them.

“It’ll cause a scandal, of course.”

They both stopped, exchanged a glance. It was Henry who had spoken.

Simon moved to the balustrade and looked over; she moved to his side and did the same.

The library door was ajar; inside the room, they could see the back of an armchair, the back of James’s head, and his hand, resting on the chair’s arm, gently swirling a crystal glass holding amber liquid.

“The way it’s shaping, you’ll risk a far greater scandal if you don’t.”

Henry humphed. After a moment, he replied, “You’re right, of course. I just wish you weren’t, that there was some other way…”

His tone told them what-or rather who-was being discussed; as one, she and Simon turned and silently continued up the stairs.

In the gallery, he kissed her fingertips and they parted-no need for words.

Reaching her room without encountering anyone, she wondered what they’d missed. What Kitty had done to send everyone to bed early, and leave Henry and James discussing the relative merits of scandals.