The Perfect Lover (Cynster 10)

The dilemma she’d woken to that morning and come out to the gardens to think through.

He was silent for a moment; she could sense him trying to follow the tack her mind had taken.

“Why, exactly, do you wish to learn more?”

His tone was so even she could read nothing from it; if she wanted to know what he was thinking, she would have to look into his eyes, yet if she was to answer his question, she couldn’t afford to.

She kept her gaze on the lake. “I want to understand, to experience enough so I can comprehend all that exists between a man and a woman that would encourage a woman to marry. I want to know, not be forced to guess. However”—she placed ringing emphasis on the word—“my interest is academic. Totally and completely. I don’t want you to . . . to . . . get any incorrect impression.”

Her heart was beating faster, but she’d said it, got the words out. She could feel heat in her cheeks; she had never felt so uncertain in her life. Unsure, unconfident. Ignorant. She hated the feeling. She knew absolutely what she wanted, knew what, if her conscience hadn’t raised its head, she wanted from him. But she couldn’t, absolutely could not ask it of him if there was the slightest chance of his misinterpreting her interest.

She didn’t imagine him to be readily vulnerable—she knew his reputation too well—but things between them had changed, and she wasn’t sure how or why; feeling her way as she was, she couldn’t be certain—as absolutely certain as her heart and honor demanded—that he wouldn’t develop some sudden suceptibility and come to expect, in return for his teachings, more than she was prepared to give.

She was absolutely certain she couldn’t bear that.

Simon studied her profile. Her revelation—her intention, her direction, so reckless and unconventional—was so Portiaesque, it did not evoke the slightest surprise; he’d long been inured to her ways. Had she been any other unmarried lady he’d have been shocked; from her, it all made perfect sense.

It was her courage and candor in stating it, in seeking to make sure he understood—more, in seeking to make sure he did not leave himself open to any hurt—that evoked a surge of emotion. A complex mix. Appreciation, approbation . . . even admiration.

And a flare of something much deeper. She cared for him at least that much . . .

If he chose to go forward and accept the risk, however small, that he might fail to change her mind and persuade her into matrimony, he couldn’t claim he hadn’t been warned.

By the same token, informing her that he had decided that she was the lady he intended having as his wife was clearly out of the question. At least for the present. She wasn’t thinking in those terms—that was the challenge he had to overcome, deflecting her mind and her considerable convictions onto the path to the altar. However, given their previous history, given all she knew of him, if at this delicate point he mentioned he intended making her his bride she might well run for the hills.

“I think we need to talk about this—get the situation clear.”

Even to him, his tone sounded too even, almost distant; she glanced briefly at him but didn’t meet his eyes.

“What,” he asked, before she could respond, “specifically do you wish to learn?”

She fixed her gaze once more on the lake. “I want to know”—the color in her cheeks deepened, her chin rose a notch—“about the physical aspects. What is it about their times with their beaux that the maids titter over on the backstairs? What do women—ladies especially—gain from such encounters that inclines them to indulge, and most especially prompts them to marriage?”

All logical, rational questions, at least from her strictly limited point of view. She was patently in earnest, committed, or she wouldn’t have broached the subject; he could sense the tension holding her, all but quivering through her.

His mind raced, trying to map the surest way forward. “To what . . . point do you wish to extend your knowledge?” He kept all censure from his voice; he might have been discussing the strategies of chess.

After a moment, she turned her head, met his eyes—and glared. “I don’t know.”

He blinked, suddenly saw the way—reached for it. “Very well. As you don’t—logically can’t—know what stages lie along a road you’ve never traveled, if you’re truly serious in wanting to know”—he shrugged as nonchalantly as he could—“we could, if you wish, progress stage by stage.” He met her dark gaze, held it. “And you can call a halt at whatever point you choose.”

She studied his eyes; wariness rather than suspicion filled hers. “One stage at a time?”

He nodde

d.

“And if I say stop . . .” She frowned. “What if I can’t talk?”

He hesitated, well aware of what he was committing himself to, yet he felt compelled to offer, “I’ll ask your permission before every stage, and make sure you understand, and answer.”

Her brows rose. “You’ll wait for my answer?”

“For your rational, considered, definitive answer.”

She hesitated. “Promise . . . ?”

“Word of a Cynster.”