The Perfect Lover (Cynster 10)

Silence, then, “I knew he and James were close friends from their Eton days. Seemed likely he’d drop by.”

Portia thought of the arguments that had raged at Calverton Chase with Luc, Amelia, her mother, and herself insisting Lady O take someone with her on her journey, thought of Lady O resisting . . . then finally giving way, agreeing, grudgingly, to take her with her . . .

Eyes narrowing on the old lady feigning sleep in the bed, Portia wondered how much her and Simon’s present situation owed to the oh-so-subtle manipulations of the ton’s most dangerous harridan.

Decided she didn’t care. Lady O was right—they’d wasted enough time. Straightening, she turned to the door. “Good night. I’ll see you in the morning.”

And it would be morning. One excellent aspect of Lady O’s scheme, now she was in her morning gown, she wouldn’t need to leave Simon before dawn.

Simon was in his room, waiting, wondering if Portia would find a way to come to him—or whether she’d grasp the chance to stay away, to think, to consider, to revisit all the reasons she didn’t want to marry him, and set up barriers against him.

Halting by the window, acutely aware of the tension holding him, he sipped from the glass of brandy he’d been nursing for the past half hour, and looked out at the darkening scene.

He didn’t want her to think too hard about what he would be like as a husband. At the same time, he knew if he tried, no matter how subtly, to steer her away from that path, he’d only dig himself deeper, only confirm he was not to be trusted to let her come to her own decisions.

Hamstrung. That’s what he was. And there was not a damned thing he could do.

She would go her own road, regardless; she was too clear-sighted, too forthright, not to face the facts—his character, hers, and the inherent difficulties—head-on. The only solace he could draw from that was that if—when—she finally decided in his favor, he would know she was committed, eyes open, heart true.

He hesitated, then drained the glass. That was almost worth the torment.

The latch clicked; he turned as she entered, slim, elegant, in a fresh gown. He noted it as she neared, a gentle, confident smile on her lips. He set the glass on the windowsill, freeing his hands to slide about her waist as she came to him—straight into his arms.

He bent his head and their lips met, clung. The embers that, these days, glowed just beneath their cool surfaces ignited, glowed, sent flames licking, teasing.

Realizing the gown closed down the front, he eased his hands around between them. But the buttons were tiny, secure in their loops; he had to release her lips and look to manage them.

“Why did you change?” He could have had her out of her other gown in a minute.

“Lady O.”

He looked up; Portia smiled. “She pointed out that in a day gown, I wouldn’t appear suspicious coming back in the morning.”

His fingers stilled. “She knows you’re here?” Support was one thing; he hadn’t expected such blatant encourageme

nt.

“She virtually pushed me out of the door and suggested we stop wasting time.”

Gaze on the buttons, he caught the laughing note in Portia’s voice, glanced up at her face—and cursed the shadows; he couldn’t see her eyes well enough to read them. “What?”

He knew there was something . . . something she knew, or had thought of that he hadn’t. That was confirmed when she studied his face, then smiled anew, and shook her head. “Just Lady O—she’s a shocking old lady. I think I’m going to grow up to be like her.”

He humphed derisively. The last button finally slid free.

Reaching up, she drew his lips back to hers. “Now if you’ve finished, I really think we should pay attention to her instructions.”

They didn’t waste time, yet neither did he allow her to rush. This time—for the first time—they were meeting as equals. Both knowing where they were heading, and why; both knowingly going forward, stepping into the furnace hand in hand, side by side.

It was a time to be savored. Remembered. Each touch a reverence, a moment of distilled passion.

He didn’t know what she wanted from the night, what more she was seeking from him, what more he could give. He could only give her all he was, and hope it was enough.

They didn’t move from the window, but shed clothes where they stood, piece by piece. Each earlier discovery revisited, each curve, each hollow, each indentation worshipped anew.

Until they stood naked, until their bodies met skin to skin.

Fire licked over them, hungry, greedy, growing.