The Perfect Lover

by Stephanie Laurens

  “There you are!” Lady Osbaldestone grinned evilly up at him. “You haven’t any sisters or cousins present, so you can’t be employed. Just come with me—there’s someone I want you to meet.”

  “But—” He resisted her tug; she wanted to lead him away from Portia. The damn ball had been going an hour, and this was the closest he’d got.

  Lady O glanced at his face, then around him—at Portia. “Portia? Pshaw!” She flicked her fingers. “No need for you to concern yourself there—and anyway, you don’t even like her.”

  He opened his mouth to refute at least the former.

  Lady O shook her head. “Not your problem if your friend Charlie supplies her with one too many glasses of champagne.”

  “What?” He tried to turn and look.

  Lady O held on to him with a viselike grip. “So what if she gets a mite tipsy? She’s old enough to know what’s what, and strong enough to hold her own. Do her good to have her eyes opened a trifle—silly chit’s twenty-four, after all.” Lady O snorted, and yanked. “Now come along. This way.”

  She waved ahead with her cane; suppressing his welling panic, he conceded. The fastest way to freedom was to fall in with Lady O’s plans. At the first opportunity, he’d escape—and after that, nothing would get in his way.

  Portia saw Lady O lead Simon off, and inwardly sighed, whether with relief or disappointment she wasn’t sure. She didn’t want him hovering in his usual, arrogantly disapproving manner, yet that might not have been his intention. If the look in his eyes earlier was any guide, his attitude to her had changed, but to what she didn’t know, and hadn’t yet had a chance to divine. Regardless, she wanted to try out her new weapon on him. He was one of the three she’d elected to “consider,” and while she was doing quite well with Charlie and James, she’d yet to take a tilt at Simon.

  Still, Charlie and Lieutenant Campion were interesting enough, and sufficiently susceptible to her wiles to count as practice.

  She fixed her gaze on Lieutenant Campion’s face. “So you spend most of the year here in Dorset. Are the winters very cold?”

  Campion beamed and replied. With little encouragement bar her rapt attention—her gaze fixed on his face, her mind cataloging all points of note he let fall—he was happy to divulge a great deal about himself, enough for her to guess his relative wealth, his family’s standing and properties, his enthusiasms both military and personal.

  How very amenable gentlemen were, once one learned the knack. Comments made by her elder sisters regarding managing their husbands replayed in her mind.

  Not that Lieutenant Campion would do for her; he lacked a certain something. Challenge, perhaps; she was quite sure she could wrap him about her little finger—curiously, that didn’t appeal.

  Charlie, who had drifted away, returned, bearing yet another glass of champagne. He offered it with a flourish. “Here you are—you must be parched.”

  She took the glass, thanked him, then sipped. The temperature in the ballroom was rising; the room was now crowded, the heat of bodies combining with the sultry heat of the night.

  Charlie’s gaze had remained on her face. “That was an excellent set of plays at the Theatre Royale this last season—did you get a chance to see them?”

  She smiled. “The first two, yes. The theater’s under new management, I heard.”

  “Indeed.” Lieutenant Campion fixed Charlie with a steady gaze. “I understand . . .”

  It occurred to Portia that Charlie had hoped to exclude the lieutenant with such a question; he hadn’t known Campion spent part of each Season on leave in town. Her lips twitched; the lieutenant continued, expounding at some length.

  Charlie bore the reverse with grace, but seized the opportunity to solicit her hand the instant the musicians resumed playing.

  She accepted, and they waltzed, with vigor, verve, and quite a bit of laughter. Charlie’s earlier reticence had flown; although he was still cautious about letting her know much about himself, he was much more intent on learning all he could of her.

  And her intention. Her direction.

  Well aware of that last, she laughed, gave him her eyes, her attention, but kept her thoughts to herself. Males of Charlie’s and James’s ilk seemed much more interested in learning just where she wished to lead them—what she truly wished to know—presumably wondering if they could assist her in the knowing . . . she smiled and wielded her wits to keep all such answers to herself. She saw no reason unnecessarily to lose what she was starting to suspect was a large part of her newfound allure.

  The most engaging aspect of mentally fencing with gentlemen such as Charlie was that they understood the rules. And how to get around them.

  When the last chord of the waltz faded, and they whirled to a halt, hot, exhilarated, and laughing, he smiled with dazzling charm. “Let’s recoup on the terrace—it’s far too stuffy in here.”

  She kept her smile in place, and wondered if she dared.

  Nothing attempted, nothing gained; she’d never know if she didn’t try.

  “Very well.” She let her smile deepen, accepting the challenge. “Let’s.”

  She turned toward the terrace—and nearly collided with Simon.

  Her nerves leapt; for one instant, she couldn’t breathe. His eyes met hers; his expression was hard but she could read none of his usual disapproval therein.

  “We were about to adjourn to the terrace.” The pitch of her voice sounded a fraction too high; the champagne, no doubt. “It’s grown rather warm in here.”

  She used the excuse to wave a hand before her face. Her temperature had certainly risen.

  Simon’s expression didn’t soften. He looked at Charlie. “I’ve just come from Lady Osbaldestone—she’s asking for you.”

  Charlie frowned. “Lady Osbaldestone? What the devil does the old tartar want with me?”

  “Who knows? She was, however, most insistent. You’ll find her near the refreshment room.”

  Charlie glanced at her.

  Simon’s hand closed about her elbow.

  “I’ll escort Portia out for a stroll—with luck, by the time you’re finished with Lady Osbaldestone, we’ll be back.”

  The suggestion sounded straightforward, yet Charlie wasn’t all that sure; the look he sent Simon said as much. But he had little choice; with a graceful bow to her and a nod to Simon, he headed for the far corner of the room.

  Simon released her; turning, they strolled toward the open French doors.

  She glanced at his face. “Did Lady O really want Charlie? Or are you just being your usual pompous self?”

  He met her gaze for an instant, then waved her through the door. “It’ll be fractionally cooler outside.”

  She stepped out onto the flags. “You made it up, didn’t you?”

  He ushered her along; she swung around and stared at him.

  He searched her face. His eyes narrowed. “You’re tipsy. How many glasses of champagne have you had?”

  Again, he moved her on, his long fingers closing about her elbow as he steered her along the shadowy terrace. There were couples and groups strolling on the terrace and the nearby lawns, availing themselves of what relief there was in the fresher night air.

  “That’s beside the point.” She was quite certain about that. “I’ve never been tipsy before—it’s quite pleasant.” Realizing how true that was, she plucked her elbow from his grip and twirled. “A new experience, and a perfectly harmless one.”

  The look on his face was odd—patronizing, but also something else. Something more taken. A frisson of hope ran through her; would her wiles work on him as well?

  She fixed her eyes on his face, and smiled winningly. Then she laughed and turned to walk on beside him. They were heading away from the bustle and the ballroom into less frequented areas; they could converse freely.

  How silly, now that she thought of it. “No point getting you to talk about
yourself—I know all about you already.”

  The end of the terrace loomed near. She felt his gaze on her face.

  “Actually”—his voice dropped to a deep murmur—“you know very little about me.”

  The words slithered across her nerves, tantalizing, tempting; she merely smiled and let her disbelief show.

  “Is that what you’re after—learning about gentlemen?”

  She couldn’t recall hearing that peculiarly beguiling tone from him before; tilting her head, she considered. Her mind wasn’t, in truth, operating with its customary facility. “Not about gentlemen in general, and not just about them.” They turned the corner of the terrace and continued on; no one else was strolling on this side of the house. She drew in a breath, let it out with, “I want to learn about all the things I haven’t learned about before.”

  There—that should hold him.

  “What things?”

  She whirled and stopped, her back to the house wall; some instinct warned her they were straying too far from the ballroom. Yet she smiled, openly delighted, at him, letting the happy confidence welling inside her show. “Why, all the things I haven’t experienced before.” She flung out her arms, her gaze locking with his. “The excitement, the thrills. All the things gentlemen can show me that I haven’t bothered with, until now.”

  He’d halted, facing her, studying her eyes. His face was in shadow.

  “Is that why you were so keen on strolling out here with Charlie?”

  There was something in his tone that alerted her, that had her wrestling her wits back into place. She held his gaze steadily, and answered with the truth. “I don’t know. It wasn’t my suggestion—it was his.”

  “Hardly surprising, given your wish to learn. And you did come out here.”

  The accusation in his voice focused her wits wonderfully.

  She lifted her chin. “With you. Not him.”

  Silence.

  The challenge lay between them, implicit, understood.

  Their gazes remained locked; neither shifted, broke the spell. The heat of the night intensified and closed about them. She could have sworn things swayed. She could feel the blood beating under her skin, at her temples.

  He was only a foot away; she suddenly wanted him closer, could sense some primal tug.

  So could he. He shifted fractionally nearer, then froze; his face remained in shadow, his eyes unreadable.

  “If it had been Charlie who brought you here, what would you have sought to learn?”

  It took a moment to form an answer; she had to moisten her lips before she could say, “You know him much better than I—what do you think, given this moment, given this setting, I might have learned?”

  Time stretched; her heartbeat made it seem forever. His eyes remained locked on hers, then he shifted, closed the distance. Slowly lowered his head.

  One hand rose to touch her face, long fingers tracing, then cradling, her jaw, tipping her face up.

  So his lips could settle, warm and strong, on hers.

  Her lids fell; her lungs seized. Her senses swam as her body came to sensual life.

  She had nothing to compare it with, that first precious kiss. No man before had dared to step this close, to take such a liberty. If any had, she’d have boxed his ears.

  Simon’s lips moved on hers, warm and pliant, seeking; her fingers gripped the stone behind her, tight.

  All her senses condensed until the gentle, beguiling pressure was all she knew, all she cared about. Her lips throbbed. Her head spun, and it wasn’t from the champagne.

  She’d forgotten to breathe, even now didn’t care. She kissed him back, hesitant, not knowing . . .

  He shifted, not away but closer yet. The fingers about her jaw firmed; the pressure of those beguiling lips increased.

  She parted her own as he seemed to want her to; his tongue slid between—her knees quaked. He seemed to know—how she couldn’t guess; the caresses slowed, slowed, until each touch seemed drenched with languor, with unhurried appreciation, with simple shared pleasure. The dizzying shock of the novel intimacy faded.

  The certain knowledge that she’d never been kissed before rocked Simon; the powerful urge to seize that raced through him in response shocked him to his core. He shackled it, refused to let it show—not in his lips, not through his fingers, not through the slow, mesmerizing play of his tongue.

  She tasted of nectar, of warm peaches and honey. Of summer and goodness, fresh and untouched. He could have happily kissed her for hours, yet . . . he didn’t want to stop at just a kiss.

  He’d backed her against the wall; he leaned one forearm on the cool stone, muscles bunching, fist clenching as he fought the urge to take advantage. To step closer yet, to press against her, to feel her silk-clad curves against him.

  She was tall, long-legged; the impulse to confirm how well they would fit, the driving desire to soothe his aroused body with at least the touch of hers burned hot and strong. Along with an urgent need to fill his palms with her breasts, to duck his head and with his lips follow the tantalizing trail of her pearls to their end.

  But this was Portia. Not even in the heady instant when he tried to break the kiss and she straightened, following his lips with hers, wanting more, and he sank back into her mouth, now freely—unreservedly—offered, did he forget who she was.

  The conundrum was there, from the very first clear in his mind, mocking, jeering at the desire that rose so swiftly for her.

  Every minute he indulged—indulged her, indulged himself—sent the price he would pay for ending the interlude soaring.

  But end it he must. They’d been gone from the ballroom too long.

  And this was Portia.

  The effort to end the kiss and lift his head left him reeling. He lowered his hand from her face, lowered his arm, simply stood, waiting for the desire thundering through his veins to subside to a safe level. Watched her face as her lids fluttered, and rose.

  Her eyes glittered darkly; a flush tinged her pale cheeks—it wasn’t a blush. She blinked, searched his eyes, his expression.

  He knew she would read nothing—nothing she would know to recognize—in the graven lines of his face. In contrast, he could see the thoughts tumbling through her mind, mirrored in her expression.

  No shock—he hadn’t expected it; surprise, curiosity, a thirst to know more. An awakened, intrigued awareness.

  He drew a deep breath, waited a moment more until he was sure she was steady on her feet. “Come—we have to get back.”

  Taking her hand, he turned and drew her with him, back around the corner, onto the main terrace.

  There were two couples at the far end, but otherwise the terrace was deserted. He set her hand on his arm; they continued toward the ballroom in silence.

  The French doors were near; he was thanking his stars she’d been sufficiently distracted to hold her tongue—he wasn’t up to any discussion, not at that moment—when he heard voices.

  Portia heard them, too. Before he could stop her, she stepped to the balustrade and looked over, down to the path below.

  He tugged, but she didn’t move. Something in her stillness alerted him. He moved to her side and looked down, too.

  Hissed whispers floated up to them. Desmond stood with his back to the terrace wall. Kitty stood before him, clinging, her arms wound about his neck.

  Desmond, rigid, was struggling to put her from him.

  Simon glanced at Portia; she met his gaze.

  They turned and strolled back into the ballroom.

  What Kitty was up to, what she hoped to achieve with her outrageous behavior, Portia could not fathom; it was simply beyond her. She put it from her mind—she had far more important matters to ponder.

  Such as the previous evening’s kiss.

  Her first loverlike kiss—hardly surprising it so fascinated her. As she walked the gardens in the cool of the mor
ning, she replayed the moment, relived the sensations, not just of Simon’s lips on hers but of all that had risen in response. The prickle of her nerves, the rush of blood beneath her skin, the welling urge to indulge in much greater physical closeness. No wonder other ladies found the activity addictive; she could almost kick herself for her previous disinterest.

  She had certainly wanted more last night; she still did. And despite her inexperience, even despite his experience, she couldn’t help suspect—feel—that Simon had felt the same. If the opportunity had been there . . . instead, they’d had to return to the ballroom.

  Once back among the dancers, they’d exchanged not a word about the interlude, or indeed, much else; she’d been too consumed with thinking about it, and he, presumably, had seen no reason to comment. She’d eventually retired to her bedchamber, her bed; the remembered sensation of his lips on hers had followed her into her dreams.

  This morning, she’d risen, determined to embrace the experience and go forward. But rather than face Simon over the breakfast table before she’d had a chance to decide on her direction, she’d elected to take breakfast with Lady O in her room.

  Lady O’s blithe comments on the propensity of gentlemen and their natures, peppered with elliptical allusions to the physical aspects of male-female relationships, had only made her more determined to sort out her own mind on the subject and decide how to go on.

  Which was why she was walking alone in the gardens.

  Trying to decide on the importance of a kiss. On how much significance to attach to her response.

  Simon had given no indication that he found kissing her any different from kissing another. She wrinkled her nose as she headed down one of the lawn walks; she was too realistic not to acknowledge that he had to be an expert, that there were sure to be legions of ladies he’d kissed. Yet . . . she felt fairly certain he would kiss her again, if the opportunity presented.

  That much, she felt comfortable with, reasonably sure. The path to the temple lay ahead; without conscious thought, her feet took her in that direction.

  Her own route ahead was much less clear. The more she thought of it the more she felt at sea. Literally, as if she’d set out on a voyage on some fathomless ocean and then discovered she had no notion how to navigate, no map.