The Perfect Lover (Cynster 10)

James laughed; Simon nudged him aside and he stood back, letting Simon steer Portia up the stairs.

“We’ll catch up with you later,” James called as they ascended.

Simon flicked him a look. “Tomorrow.”

Jaw set, he drew Portia on.

A footman was waiting at the top of the stairs to conduct them to the room that, on his orders, had been prepared. Not her original room, because of the adder, not Lady O’s room, which had the trestle in it and therefore was too crowded to hold a bath as well. One of the suites that was not often used—a large bedchamber with a large bed, and an adjacent private parlor.

Simon ushered Portia into the bedchamber; two maids were tipping buckets of steaming water into the bath. More buckets stood waiting on the hearth.

He caught Portia’s eye. “Get rid of the maids.”

She raised a mock-haughty brow; her lips were gently curved. She shrugged his coat from her shoulders and handed it to him. One of the maids hurried up to help her out of her gown. Taking the coat, he crossed to the connecting door and went into the parlor to wait.

The coat was damp; he dropped it on a chair and went to stand before the window. Stared out at the silhouettes of the trees and tried not to think, not to dwell on the emotions the day had stirred.

Tried, vainly, to rein in the most powerful—the emotion she and only she had always aroused in him, the emotion he’d always been careful to hide, even from her. Even now.

The past days had seen it grow even more strong, even more insistent.

He heard the main door of the bedchamber open, then shut. Heard the patter of light footsteps, two pairs, die away down the corridor.

Drew in a deep breath, shackled his demons, then crossed to the connecting door.

He eased it open and confirmed Portia was alone.

In the bath. Shampooing her hair.

Girding his loins, he entered and shut the door. Crossed to the main door and snibbed the lock. A straight-backed, spindle-legged chair stood before an escritoire; he picked it up as he passed, carried it to the area before the hearth and set it down, its back to her, and straddled it.

She glanced at him. “As you were so insistent that I dispense with the maids, I presume you’re willing to perform in their place?”

He forced himself to shrug, not to react to the speculation in her dark eyes; the bath was too small. “Whatever you need . . .”

Crossing his arms on the chair’s back, he let the words trail away, met her gaze, and settled to watch.

Left himself open to a calculated torture.

She made the most of it—lovingly soaping her graceful arms, seductively stroking her long, long legs. When she rose on her knees, the water fell to lap around the very tops of her thighs. The globes of her bottom gleamed invitingly; he had to close his eyes—had to think of something else.

Then she called him to pour water to rinse off her hair. He stood, stiffly, grabbed up a bucket—

She caught his eye. “Slowly. I need to get all this lather out.”

Obediently, he stood beside the tub and poured the water over her while she squeezed and rinsed out her hair. He hadn’t realized how long it was; wet, it reached to her hips, drawing his eyes down . . .

He had to close them briefly again; jaw clenched, focusing on her head, he continued to tip, the bucket held in a desperately tight grip.

The water ran out.

She slicked back her hair, then grasped the sides of the tub and stood. Water cascaded down, over her shoulders, her breasts, her hips, down her thighs.

His mind blank, his mouth dry, he set the bucket aside, blindly reached for the towels left stacked on a stool. Flicked one out and held it for her, stepping back as, smiling, she stepped out of the tub toward him.

She took the towel, held it to her breasts—considered him.

He met her gaze as stoically as he could, grabbed another towel, opened it, and dropped it on her head.