Yet here she was.
He couldn’t quite grasp it—he felt almost winded. Sucking in a breath, he blew it out softly, reminded himself he shouldn’t overinterpret, read too much into her presence. This was definitely not the moment to let his instincts loose and simply seize.
Yet it had to have taken courage to come to his bed.
She knew him—no other lady he’d bedded knew him as she did. She knew his character, his personality—knew what he’d be like as a husband. Or could make a very well-educated guess.
He’d agreed to teach her all she wanted to know; they’d never spoken of anything more. Anything more binding. Regardless, she would have recognized that in coming to him—in accepting his offer to introduce her to intimacy—she was risking, trusting him with, a great deal more than her maidenhead.
Her independence was a vital part of her, of who she was; to toss something so fundamental on the scales took precisely the kind of reckless courage with which she was so well-endowed. But she wouldn’t have taken the decision lightly, not Portia.
She wouldn’t have missed seeing the danger, even though he’d disguised it as much as he was able.
He had no idea how they—he and she—would make a marriage work; by no stretch of the imagination would it be easy. But it was what he wanted.
All he had to do now was lead her to convince herself that it was what she wanted, too.
Without revealing that marrying her had been his aim all along.
No matter that he trusted her, that was one piece of information she did not need, one vulnerability he had no intention of revealing.
He stood looking down at her as the minutes ticked by, plotting, planning, far too wise to rush in. Once he had the best approach clear in his mind, he girded his loins, stepped to the bed, and sat on the edge beside her.
She didn’t stir. He raised a hand, twined his fingers in her hair, let the silky strands slide. He studied her face, innocent in sleep, then bent and kissed her awake.
She roused slowly, warm and sweetly feminine, then she murmured something unintelligible, shifted onto her back, slid her fingers into his hair and kissed him back.
Invitingly.
He drew back, looked into her eyes, darker than night behind the screen of her lashes. Looked at her lips. “Why are you here?”
Full, sensuous, her lips slowly curved. She drew him back down. “You know perfectly well. I want you to teach me—all.”
On the last word, she kissed him, her tongue sliding between his lips to find his and stroke, caress, taunt. Passion rose, spread like wildfire beneath his skin.
His reins started to slide—he caught them. Pulled back, met her gaze.
“You’re sure? Absolutely sure?” When she raised her brows, faintly mocking, he growled, “You’re sure you won’t change your mind come morning?”
Even as the words left his lips, he realized their idiocy; this was Portia—she never changed her mind.
And, God above, he didn’t want her to.
“Never mind—forget that.” He held her gaze. “Just tell me one thing—does this mean you trust me?”
She didn’t answer immediately—she actually thought. Then she nodded. “In this, yes.”
He let out the breath he’d been holding. “Thank God for that.”
Pulling out of her arms, he stood, yanked his shirt from his breeches, then hauled it off over his head.
Portia stared at the muscled expanse of bare chest suddenly on display. Her mouth dried; her logical mind was fighting to pay attention to what he’d asked—why he’d asked . . . the rest of her mind didn’t care.
This, after all, was what she’d wanted to know. To learn.
The rush of uncertainty, of mild panic when his hands fell to his waistband and he flipped the buttons free, was, she lectured herself, only to be expected. Yet it seemed wise to focus on other things—she was warm and cozy, comfortable . . . she shifted, acutely conscious of the caress of her chemise against her skin, of the rougher texture of the sheets.
He turned and sat on the bed; it bowed beneath his weight as he wrenched off his boots and let them fall. His face seemed a study in single-minded determination, set in concentration.