The Perfect Lover (24 page)

She listened; they reached the top of the stairs, discussing dogs, of all things. With barely a pause, they strolled on.

Down the west wing.

Hugely relieved, she hesitated, but knowing which rooms they were in would be useful. Easing from the concealing shadows, hugging the wall, she peeped around the corner.

Both Desmond and Ambrose were well down the corridor; they were nearly at the end when they parted, each entering a room, one to the left, the other to the right.

Letting out the breath she’d been holding, she straightened. Simon had said the third door from the stairs, so she wouldn’t need to risk passing Ambrose’s or Desmond’s doors.

She set out across the foyer. As she passed the stairwell, the clink of billiard balls reached her. She paused, glanced around, then went quickly to the stairhead. Straining her ears, she could just hear the murmur of voices rising from the billiard room.

Charlie’s light voice, James’s quick laugh—and Simon’s deep drawl.

For one instant, she stood there, eyes narrowing, lips thinning, then she turned on her heel and continued to his room.

Opening the door, she swept in, recalled herself enough to shut the door quietly. Given the number of rooms available, it was unlikely any of the others would be quartered immediately next door, but there was no sense taking unnecessary risks.

She surveyed the room, cloaked in shadows, irritated that Simon wasn’t there waiting to greet her. To distract her from thinking about what she was doing. Still, how long could a game of billiards take? She thought, then humphed. Presumably, he’d at least have the sense to come up and see if she’d made use of the information he’d oh-so-subtly imparted.

She moved into the room, ruthlessly quelling the nervous fluttering in her stomach. She’d made her decision; she certainly wasn’t about to change her mind. Her courage was more than up to the challenge.

The west wing rooms were not as large as those in the east wing. This wing seemed older; the ceilings were just as high, but the rooms were narrower. There was no armchair by the hearth, no window seat, no dressing table and therefore no stool, just a tallboy. Two upright chairs flanked the shoulder-high chest of drawers, but they were narrow, hardly comfortable.

She looked at the bed. It was the only sensible place to sit and wait. Sweeping forward, she turned and sat. Bounced, approving the thickness and comfort of the mattress.

Wriggling back to lean against the pillows piled against the headboard, she crossed her arms and fixed her gaze on the door. There was, she supposed, another perspective on Simon’s absence. He obviously hadn’t expected her, hadn’t taken her deciding in his favor for granted.

Given his Cynster arrogance, given his reputation, that definitely ranked as noteworthy.

The window was open; a cool breeze had sprung up. The storm that had threatened had blown past, leaving cooler air in its wake.

She shivered, shifted. She wasn’t cold, yet . . .

She looked at the comforter on the bed, then lifted her gaze, and frowned at the door.

Parting from Charlie at his door, Simon opened it and walked in. Shutting the door, he glanced at the window, noted the moonlight streaming in, and decided not to bother lighting a candle.

Stifling a sigh, he shrugged out of his coat. Slipping the buttons on his waistcoat free, he walked to the chair beside the tallboy and tossed the coat across it. His waistcoat went the same way. Plucking the diamond pin from his cravat, he laid it on the tallboy, then set his fingers to the intricate folds, loosening them, untying the knot—studiously keeping his mind busy with mundane things rather than wondering for how many hours he’d toss and turn tonight.

Wondering how long it would take his obsession to make up her mind.

Wondering how much longer he could manage to play the role of nonchalant seducer. He’d never previously attempted a role so totally foreign to his nature—but he’d never before seduced Portia.

Flicking the ends of the cravat free, he drew it from his throat, went to drop it on the other chair—

A silk gown of some pale shade lay draped neatly across the chair. Apple green silk—his memory supplied the color of the gown Portia had worn that evening. The shade had made her skin appear even whiter, thrown her black hair into sharp contrast, made her dark blue eyes even more startling.

He reached down, trailed his fingertips across the folds—in truth, to convince himself he wasn’t hallucinating. His touch disturbed a pair of diaphanous silk stockings, laid over two lace-trimmed, ruched silk garters.

His mind leapt—to a vision of Portia clad in nothing more than her silk chemise.

Slowly, hardly daring to believe what his rational mind was telling him, he turned.

She was asleep in his bed, her hair a black wave breaking over the pillows.

Soft-footed, he moved closer. She lay on her side, facing him, one hand beneath her cheek. Her lips were fractionally parted. Her lashes lay, ebony crescents against her fair skin.

He could smell the scent she wore; a light, flowery fragrance it rose from her warmth, wreathed through his brain, sank sensual claws into him and tugged.

All he could sense, all he could see, left him giddy.

Triumph soared—immediately he grabbed hold and reined it in. Set his jaw, waited a moment, feeling the blood pound beneath his skin. He’d spent all evening warning himself not to expect this—that with Portia, nothing was ever straightforward and simple.

Yet here she was.

He couldn’t quite grasp it—he felt almost winded. Sucking in a breath, he blew it out softly, reminded himself he shouldn’t overinterpret, read too much into her presence. This was definitely not the moment to let his instincts loose and simply seize.

Yet it had to have taken courage to come to his bed.

She knew him—no other lady he’d bedded knew him as she did. She knew his character, his personality—knew what he’d be like as a husband. Or could make a very well-educated guess.

He’d agreed to teach her all she wanted to know; they’d never spoken of anything more. Anything more binding. Regardless, she would have recognized that in coming to him—in accepting his offer to introduce her to intimacy—she was risking, trusting him with, a great deal more than her maidenhead.

Her independence was a vital part of her, of who she was; to toss something so fundamental on the scales took precisely the kind of reckless courage with which she was so well-endowed. But she wouldn’t have taken the decision lightly, not Portia.

She wouldn’t have missed seeing the danger, even though he’d disguised it as much as he was able.

He had no idea how they—he and she—would make a marriage work; by no stretch of the imagination would it be easy. But it was what he wanted.

All he had to do now was lead her to convince herself that it was what she wanted, too.

Without revealing that marrying her had been his aim all along.

No matter that he trusted her, that was one piece of information she did not need, one vulnerability he had no intention of revealing.

He stood looking down at her as the minutes ticked by, plotting, planning, far too wise to rush in. Once he had the best approach clear in his mind, he girded his loins, stepped to the bed, and sat on the edge beside her.

She didn’t stir. He raised a hand, twined his fingers in her hair, let the silky strands slide. He studied her face, innocent in sleep, then bent and kissed her awake.

She roused slowly, warm and sweetly feminine, then she murmured something unintelligible, shifted onto her back, slid her fingers into his hair and kissed him back.

Invitingly.

He drew back, looked into her eyes, darker than night behind the screen of her lashes. Looked at her lips. “Why are you here?”

Full, sensuous, her lips slowly curved. She drew him back down. “You know perfectly well. I want you to teach me—all.”

On the last word, she kissed him, her tongue sliding between his lips to find his and stroke, caress, taunt. Passion rose, spread like wildfire beneath his skin.

His reins started to slide—he caught them. Pulled back, met her gaze.

“You’re sure? Absolutely sure?” When she raised her brows, faintly mocking, he growled, “You’re sure you won’t change your mind come morning?”

Even as the words left his lips, he realized their idiocy; this was Portia—she never changed her mind.

And, God above, he didn’t want her to.

“Never mind—forget that.” He held her gaze. “Just tell me one thing—does this mean you trust me?”

She didn’t answer immediately—she actually thought. Then she nodded. “In this, yes.”

He let out the breath he’d been holding. “Thank God for that.”

Pulling out of her arms, he stood, yanked his shirt from his breeches, then hauled it off over his head.

P
ortia stared at the muscled expanse of bare chest suddenly on display. Her mouth dried; her logical mind was fighting to pay attention to what he’d asked—
why
he’d asked . . . the rest of her mind didn’t care.

This,
after all, was what she’d wanted to know. To learn.

The rush of uncertainty, of mild panic when his hands fell to his waistband and he flipped the buttons free, was, she lectured herself, only to be expected. Yet it seemed wise to focus on other things—she was warm and cozy, comfortable . . . she shifted, acutely conscious of the caress of her chemise against her skin, of the rougher texture of the sheets.

He turned and sat on the bed; it bowed beneath his weight as he wrenched off his boots and let them fall. His face seemed a study in single-minded determination, set in concentration.

A concentration shortly to be focused on . . .

A shiver slithered down her spine. Her senses leapt when he stood, stripped off his trousers, then turned.

Her eyes locked—not on his. She was conscious of her lips parting, of her eyes growing wider, rounder.

She’d touched, but hadn’t before seen.

The visual was even more impressive than the tactile—at least to her mind. In fact, her mind wasn’t at all sure—

“For God’s sake, stop thinking!”

She blinked; he grabbed the covers and slid beneath. She refocused on his face in the instant he reached for her. Drew her to him.

“Si—”

He kissed her—hard. Arrogantly commanding. Domineering. Instinctively she responded with her own brand of aggression; he immediately gentled—gentled her as she stiffened, shocked by the sheer heat of his skin against hers, of the reality of the heavy, muscled body, tense, naked, and intent, suddenly surrounding her, more than capable of overpowering her.

Despite all, it was a shock—a real, in some ways frightening, shock. In this arena, too, theory was one thing, reality another.

He kept his lips on hers; she couldn’t breathe but through him. She tried to break away, to free her mind enough to think—he wouldn’t allow it. And then, quite abruptly, she was drowning, being dragged inexorably down into a sensual sea.

Above her, angled over her, his legs tangled with hers, his hands spread over her skin, fingers flexing, he held her senses captive, ruthlessly submerged them, held them down until all thought of resistance faded.

Until her mind was filled, not with pleasure, but with anticipation, with yearning. He didn’t let her resurface, but kissed her even more deeply, ravaging her mouth with not even the thinnest veil to screen his intent, his possession. On a gasp, she yielded, not just her mouth, but to the welling need to assuage, to give, to surrender. To appease by offering her body, her self.

And he took. She hadn’t before realized how much he had wanted—quite what he wanted of her. As she glimpsed the reality, a long shudder shook her.

His possession of her mouth eased, but didn’t cease.

He turned his mind to other conquests.

To her breasts. Heated and aching, they swelled beneath his hand. Artful as ever, his fingers teased, kneaded, stroked, caressed. Squeezed.

Heat lanced through her, spread beneath her skin. She moaned, the sound trapped in their kiss; he didn’t stop, didn’t cease his excruciating play.

Only when she arched beneath him and cried out did he release her lips. His hand left her breast; he tugged up her chemise.

“Raise your arms.”

She did, dragging in a huge breath as he drew the chemise up and off. Before she could lower her arms, he caught first one wrist, then the other, shackling them in one fist, anchoring them in the pillows behind her head, lightly bowing her spine.

His chest met her sensitized breasts; she gasped. Fiery delight sliced through her. He bent and took her mouth again, ravenously, then slowly moved his shoulders, back and forth across her, the raspy crinkly hair abrading her breasts, teasing the tight peaks, creating a pleasure that was close to pain.

She was beyond gasping when he finally released her lips to trail hot, openmouthed kisses down the curve of her throat, over the thudding pulse at its base, possessively tracing one collarbone before bending his head and feasting. Trapped as she was, hands above her head, her body bowed, displayed for his delectation, she couldn’t avoid, couldn’t duck the towering wave of awareness that crashed through her—that he ruthlessly sent rushing through her.