His eyes hadn’t left hers; he drew in a deep breath, then exhaled. Other than that, not a single line in his face or muscle in his body eased. “I decided after the picnic in the ruins. I’d thought of it after we first kissed on the terrace.”
She wished he wasn’t standing so close she couldn’t fold her arms defensively before her. “You must have kissed millions of women.”
His lips twisted. “Thousands.”
“And I’m supposed to believe that because of one kiss—no, two—you decided to marry me?”
Simon very nearly told her he didn’t care what she believed, but behind her anger, he sensed growing fright, the welling of a deep-seated fear, one he understood and had tried hard not to trigger.
He was very close to seriously queering his pitch with her; he might take months, even years, to win her back.
“It wasn’t only that.”
Her jaw set; she tipped her face higher. “What, then?”
Her eyes had clouded; he couldn’t read them. He eased back a little, wasn’t surprised when she shifted back and folded her arms across her chest.
“I’d already decided I wanted a wife and family before leaving London. When I met you here, I realized we would suit.”
She blinked. “Suit? Are you mad? We’re—” She gestured, searching for words. Lowering her arms.
“Too alike?”
“Yes!” Her eyes snapped. “You can hardly claim we’re compatible.”
“Think of the last days. Think of last night. In what matters in marriage, we’re perfectly compatible.” He caught her gaze. “In every conceivable way.”
Portia refused to blush again—he was doing it on purpose. “One night—that’s hardly a reasonable basis on which to make such a decision. How can you tell the next time won’t be”—she gestured wildly—”boring?”
His eyes, burning blue, pinned her. “Trust me. It won’t.”
There was something in his face, a hardness, a ruthlessness, that was quite different from anything she’d seen in him before. She kept her eyes on his, tried to ignore the aggression flowing from him. “You . . . really are serious.” She was having great trouble taking that in. One moment, she’d been logically following her step-by-step investigation into the physical attractions of matrimony—next thing, here they were, discussing a marriage between them.
He looked up, exhaled through his teeth. “Why is it so hard to imagine I’d want to marry you?” He’d addressed the question to the heavens; he looked down at her. Growled, “And what’s wrong with the idea of marrying me?”
“What’s wrong with the idea of me marrying you?” She heard her voice rise, tried to rein it in. “We’d make our lives a living hell, that’s what! You”—she landed a backhanded slap on his chest—“you’re a despot, a tyrant. A Cynster! You decree and expect to be obeyed—no, not even that! You assume you’ll be obeyed. And you know what I’m like.” She met his gaze, defiant and direct. “I won’t meekly agree with what you dictate—I won’t meekly agree with anything you say!”
His lips had thinned, his eyes had narrowed. He waited a heartbeat. “So?”
She stared at him. “Simon—this is not going to work.”
“It is. It will.”
That was her cue to appeal to the skies. “See?”
“That’s not what’s worrying you.”
She lowered her gaze, looked at him. Blinked. Into soft blue eyes she’d long known to be deceptive—there was nothing soft behind them, nothing but invincible, steely determination, inflexible resolution, rocklike, conqueror-like will . . . “What . . . do you mean?”
“I’ve always known what worries you about me.”
Something inside her physically shook. Rocked. She held his gaze for a long moment, finally found the courage to ask, “What?”
He hesitated; she knew he was deciding how much to reveal, how much to confess he’d seen. When he spoke, his voice was even, low, yet still hard. “You’re frightened I’ll try to control you, to curtail your independence, to turn you into the sort of lady you’re not. And that I’ll be strong enough to succeed.”
Her mouth was dry. “And you won’t? Try, or succeed?”
“I’ll almost certainly try, at least to curtail your wilder starts, at times, but not because I want to change you. Because I want to preserve you. I want you for what you are, not for what you’re not.”