The Perfect Lover (Cynster 10)

The French doors were near; he was thanking his stars she’d been sufficiently distracted to hold her tongue—he wasn’t up to any discussion, not at that moment—when he heard voices.

Portia heard them, too. Before he could stop her, she stepped to the balustrade and looked over, down to the path below.

He tugged, but she didn’t move. Something in her stillness alerted him. He moved to her side and looked down, too.

Hissed whispers floated up to them. Desmond stood with his back to the terrace wall. Kitty stood before him, clinging, her arms wound about his neck.

Desmond, rigid, was struggling to put her from him.

Simon glanced at Portia; she met his gaze.

They turned and strolled back into the ballroom.

What Kitty was up to, what she hoped to achieve with her outrageous behavior, Portia could not fathom; it was simply beyond her. She put it from her mind—she had far more important matters to ponder.

Such as the previous evening’s kiss.

Her first loverlike kiss—hardly surprising it so fascinated her. As she walked the gardens in the cool of the mor

ning, she replayed the moment, relived the sensations, not just of Simon’s lips on hers but of all that had risen in response. The prickle of her nerves, the rush of blood beneath her skin, the welling urge to indulge in much greater physical closeness. No wonder other ladies found the activity addictive; she could almost kick herself for her previous disinterest.

She had certainly wanted more last night; she still did. And despite her inexperience, even despite his experience, she couldn’t help suspect—feel—that Simon had felt the same. If the opportunity had been there . . . instead, they’d had to return to the ballroom.

Once back among the dancers, they’d exchanged not a word about the interlude, or indeed, much else; she’d been too consumed with thinking about it, and he, presumably, had seen no reason to comment. She’d eventually retired to her bedchamber, her bed; the remembered sensation of his lips on hers had followed her into her dreams.

This morning, she’d risen, determined to embrace the experience and go forward. But rather than face Simon over the breakfast table before she’d had a chance to decide on her direction, she’d elected to take breakfast with Lady O in her room.

Lady O’s blithe comments on the propensity of gentlemen and their natures, peppered with elliptical allusions to the physical aspects of male-female relationships, had only made her more determined to sort out her own mind on the subject and decide how to go on.

Which was why she was walking alone in the gardens.

Trying to decide on the importance of a kiss. On how much significance to attach to her response.

Simon had given no indication that he found kissing her any different from kissing another. She wrinkled her nose as she headed down one of the lawn walks; she was too realistic not to acknowledge that he had to be an expert, that there were sure to be legions of ladies he’d kissed. Yet . . . she felt fairly certain he would kiss her again, if the opportunity presented.

That much, she felt comfortable with, reasonably sure. The path to the temple lay ahead; without conscious thought, her feet took her in that direction.

Her own route ahead was much less clear. The more she thought of it the more she felt at sea. Literally, as if she’d set out on a voyage on some fathomless ocean and then discovered she had no notion how to navigate, no map.

Would the next time she was kissed feel the same? Or had last night’s reaction been because it was the first time? Would she have felt the same if another gentleman had kissed her? If Simon were to kiss her again, would she feel anything at all?

To get right to the heart of the matter, was how she felt when a given gentleman kissed her even relevant?

The answers were hidden beneath a miasma of inexperience. Straightening her shoulders, she lifted her head—she would simply have to experiment and find out.

Decision taken, she felt much more positive. The temple appeared before her, a small marble folly with Ionic columns. It was surrounded by lush flower beds; as she started up the steps, she noticed a gardener, a youngish man with a thick thatch of black hair, weeding one of the beds. He glanced up at her; she smiled and nodded. He blinked, looking rather uncertain, but politely nodded back.

Portia stepped up to the marble floor of the temple—and immediately realized why the gardener had looked uncertain. The temple was filled with words—an altercation. If she’d been paying attention she would have heard it before she climbed the steps. The gardener would be able to hear every word. In the quiet of the garden, he could hardly help it.

“Your behavior is unconscionable! I did not bring you up to comport yourself in such a manner. I can’t conceive what you think to achieve by such appalling displays!”

The melodramatic tones belonged to Mrs. Archer. The words rose up from where Portia assumed a seat was set on the outside of the temple, overlooking the view. Within the temple, the words echoed and grew.

“I want excitement in my life!” Kitty declared in ringing tones. “You married me to Henry and told me I’d be a lady—you painted the position of his wife in glowing colors! You led me to believe I’d have everything I’d ever want—and I haven’t!”

“You can’t possibly be so naive as to imagine all in life will be precisely as you dream!”

Portia was glad someone was saying what needed to be said, but she had absolutely no wish to overhear it. Silently, she turned and went back down the steps.