All in all, no insurmountable cons presented thems
elves, not from personal considerations.
As for the pros, she knew what she wanted, what she wished. She wanted to learn everything about marriage before she committed herself to the institution; she needed to understand the physical aspects of what she might be getting herself into. The mess Kitty had made of her marriage only underscored the necessity of gaining a proper understanding before approaching the altar; if after all she’d seen this week she allowed herself to make ill-considered choices, she’d never forgive herself.
Understanding marriage in all its aspects had been her initial goal . . . but now there was more. She also wanted to know what the emotional link that had developed between her and Simon truly was—the emotion that made it not just possible, but so very easy to imagine herself going to his bed.
Given Kitty’s behavior, learning that, too, seemed wise.
As matters stood, the only risk she could see in going to Simon’s bed was an emotional one. And that was hypothetical, something she could only guess at, given she did not yet know what the emotion that impelled her to intimacy with him was.
That emotion and its effect were quite real. Likewise, the risk, one to which she couldn’t, with her extensive knowledge of him, close her eyes, nor yet pretend she couldn’t see.
What if the emotion growing between them proved to be love?
She had no idea if it might be; along with men and marriage, love had not featured on her list of subjects to be studied.
She hadn’t come looking for it; that wasn’t why she’d availed herself of his offer to teach her what she wanted to know. Yet she wasn’t fool enough, arrogant enough not to wonder, not to acknowledge that, strange though it seemed, the prospect, the possibility, might now be staring her in the face.
Once they’d indulged—once, twice, however many times it took for her to learn all she wished and to identify that emotion—if it wasn’t love, then they would part, her experiment concluded, her discovery made. That outcome seemed certain and straightforward. The danger did not lie there.
The threat lay on the other side of the coin. If what lay between them proved to be love, what then?
She knew the answer; if it was love, either her for him or him for her, or both, and he recognized it, he would insist on marriage, and she would not easily be able to deny him.
He was a Cynster, after all. Yet if he prevailed, where would that leave her?
Married to a Cynster. Possibly bound by love and married to a Cynster—if anything, that was potentially worse. If love ruled them both, then the situation might be manageable—she really had no idea—but if love affected one but not the other, the outlook was inherently bleak.
Therein lay the risk.
The question facing her, now, tonight, was would she chance it? In essence, was she game?
She blew out a breath, focused on the silhouettes of the trees outside.
If she didn’t pursue the question now—didn’t accept his offer to be seduced—they would go their separate ways within days. She would return to Rutlandshire, curiosity aflame; who else would she find to satisfy her need to know? Who else could she trust?
The chances of their meeting again this summer, let alone in suitable surrounds, were slight, and she had no guarantee that he would remain agreeable to teaching her all she wished next month, let alone in three.
Could she bear to retreat, to turn aside, draw back and not know? Could she live without discovering what, for them, physical intimacy truly represented? What it was that drove them to it? Never learn if it was love, whether both of them were affected by it, and what such an outome would mean?
Her lips twisted, wryly self-deprecating. There was no question there. Reckless, often arrogantly heedless, willful to a fault, she didn’t have the temperament to turn back. Regardless of the risk.
Yet as matters stood, going to Simon tonight might well be her safest, most sensible option. Others might label her reckless and wild, but that argument made perfect sense to her.
There was no sense wasting time.
In order to reach Simon’s room, she had to circle the gallery around the top of the main stairs. Luckily, with all the ladies already in their rooms, there was no one around to see her as she glided from shadow to shadow, past the stairhead and into the corridor leading to the west wing.
At the junction of the west wing and the main house, she had to cross the foyer at the head of the west wing stairs. She’d just entered the open area when she heard heavy footsteps plodding up the stairs.
Quick as a flash, she whisked around, back into the shadows of the corridor she’d just left. The steps came steadily on, two sets, then she heard Ambrose’s voice; Desmond replied. She sent up a quick prayer that their rooms were in the west wing and not in the main wing where she presently stood.
She listened; they reached the top of the stairs, discussing dogs, of all things. With barely a pause, they strolled on.
Down the west wing.
Hugely relieved, she hesitated, but knowing which rooms they were in would be useful. Easing from the concealing shadows, hugging the wall, she peeped around the corner.