The Perfect Lover (13 page)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He waved toward the lake. “Shall we?”

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

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

And between them, things had changed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

They were alone, as alone as the surroundings promised.

Opportunity knocked. Loudly. Yet . . .

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

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

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

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

“So tell me . . .”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She was absolutely certain she couldn’t bear that.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He nodded.

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

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

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

“For your rational, considered, definitive answer.”

She hesitated. “Promise . . . ?”

“Word of a Cynster.”

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

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

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

Facing him fully, she held out her hand.

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

“What . . . ?”

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

She blinked. “Yes, but—”

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

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

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