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 ha
d 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.
The Perfect Lover Page 12
