The Perfect Lover (Cynster 10)

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.”