The Perfect Lover (46 page)

Lord Glossup rose, his well-bred features reflecting patent disgust. “Mr. Stokes, if you’ve heard all you need?”

Stokes straightened. “Indeed, sir. I’m sure we can . . .”

He and Lord Glossup discussed arrangements for holding Ambrose. The rest of the company dispersed.

All the ladies hesitated, then Lady O heaved herself to her feet. “Catherine, my dear, I think we should retire to the drawing room—tea would be most welcome. I daresay Drusilla will wish to retire immediately, but I believe the rest of us could do with a restorative.”

Portia rose; Simon laid a restraining hand on her arm. Lady O glanced back at them, saw, nodded. “Indeed—
you
should go up and take a bath, and get out of those wet clothes. Unhealthy to do otherwise—your brother won’t forgive me if I send you home with a chill.”

There was just enough emphasis in her words, just enough gleam in her old black eyes to tell them she was determined to send Portia home with something else.

Simon merely inclined his head, acknowledging her message. Lady O humphed and stumped off, the other ladies in her train, Lady Calvin supported by Lady Glossup and Mrs. Buckstead.

“Come on.” Taking Portia’s arm, he steered her toward the far doors, those closer to the main stairs.

Stokes intercepted them. “One last thing—I have to consider whether or not to lay charges against Miss Calvin.”

Both Simon and Portia looked back at Drusilla, sitting alone on the chaise now that the others had all departed. She was staring at her brother; he was leaning forward, forearms on his thighs, his gaze fixed on his bound hands.

Portia shivered, and looked at Stokes. “What a dreadful thing jealousy can be.”

Stokes nodded, met her gaze. “She didn’t mean to harm anyone else. I accept she had no idea Ambrose was so murderously inclined.”

“I don’t think charges are necessary.” Portia lifted her head. “She’s brought censure enough down on her head—her life will not be easier because of what she’s done.”

Stokes nodded, looked to Simon.

He was far less inclined to be lenient, but was aware much of his reaction was because Portia had been the one most threatened. When he didn’t immediately speak, she glanced at him . . . he realized he had no choice. She would read him like a book if he gave rein to his impulses. He nodded curtly. “No charges. No point.”

She smiled slightly, then looked at Stokes.

The three of them exchanged glances, relieved, satisfied. Little needed to be put into words. Stokes was not of their class, yet they’d formed a friendship; they all recognized that.

Stokes cleared his throat, looked away. “I’ll be off at first light with Mr. Calvin. It’s best—lets people get back to their lives that much sooner.” He looked back at them. Put out his hand. “Thank you. I’d never have nabbed him if you and Mr. Hastings hadn’t helped.” They shook hands. “I hope . . .” Stokes colored slightly, but forced himself to go on, “the necessary charade didn’t do any real violence to your feelings.”

Simon glanced at Portia. She smiled at Stokes. “The revelations were quite interesting—I believe we’ll survive.”

She slanted a glance at him; feeling exposed, he fought to suppress a growl. Retook her arm. “There’s a bath awaiting you upstairs.”

With last smiles and farewells, they left Stokes.

James was waiting with Charlie in the hall.

“Thank you—both of you.” James beamed; he took Portia’s hands. “I haven’t heard it all yet, but even so—how very brave you’ve been.”

This time Simon didn’t suppress his growl. “For God’s sake!—the last thing I need is for
that
to go to her head.”

James laughed; Simon nudged him aside and he stood back, letting Simon steer Portia up the stairs.

“We’ll catch up with you later,” James called as they ascended.

Simon flicked him a look. “Tomorrow.”

Jaw set, he drew Portia on.

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.