The Perfect Lover

plane.

One she’d never been on before-not with anyone-a plane on which she was still very much feeling her way.

They reached the summerhouse; Simon gestured and they left the path, crossed a short stretch of lawn and went up the steps. The area within, a room open to the breezes, was unusually spacious. Instead of a single point to the roof, there were two, supported by columns flanking the central section, in which two large cane armchairs and a matching sofa were arranged around a low table. The sofa faced the entrance and the lake with the armchairs to either side, all fitted with chintz-covered cushions. Periodicals sat in a cane holder beside the sofa. A window seat ran around the walls, beneath the open arches.

The floor was swept, the cushions plumped, all ready for the enjoyment of whoever ventured in.

She turned just inside the threshold and looked back at the oval lake. Simon’s earlier comment about the privacy of the summerhouse replayed in her mind. From this position, there was no evidence of a house anywhere near, not even a glimpse of a sculpted bed or a stretch of tended lawn. It was easy to forget, easy to believe there was no one else in the immediate world. Just them.

She glanced at Simon and found him watching her. Knew in that instant that he was waiting for her to give him some sign, some indication that she wished to learn yet more, or alternatively that she’d decided she’d learned enough. Casually at ease, blue gaze steady, he simply watched her.

Looking again at the lake, she tried to ignore the sudden leaping of her senses, the distracting conviction that her heart was beating faster and harder.

The other ladies had gathered in the morning room to talk and take their ease; the other gentlemen were either collected in groups, discussing business or politics, or out riding.

They were alone, as alone as the surroundings promised.

Opportunity knocked. Loudly. Yet…

She frowned, walked to one of the wide arches, set her hands on the sill, and looked out. Unseeing.

After a moment, Simon stirred and followed her; despite not looking, she was aware of his prowling grace. He joined her at the arch, propping his shoulder against its side. His gaze remained wholly on her.

Another minute slipped past, then he murmured, “Your call.”

Her lips twisted in a grimace; she lightly drummed her fingers on the sill, then realized and stopped. “I know.” The fact didn’t make things any easier.

“So tell me…”

She would have to. He was only just over a foot away, but at least she didn’t have to meet his eyes, nor speak loudly. She drew breath, drew herself up. Gripped the sill. “I want to learn more, but I don’t want you to get the wrong idea. To misconstrue my intentions.”

The dilemma she’d woken to that morning and come out to the gardens to think through.

He was silent for a moment; she could sense him trying to follow the tack her mind had taken.

“Why, exactly, do you wish to learn more?”

His tone was so even she could read nothing from it; if she wanted to know what he was thinking, she would have to look into his eyes, yet if she was to answer his question, she couldn’t afford to.

She kept her gaze on the lake. “I want to understand, to experience enough so I can comprehend all that exists between a man and a woman that would encourage a woman to marry. I want to know, not be forced to guess. However”-she placed ringing emphasis on the word-“my interest is academic. Totally and completely. I don’t want you to… to… get any incorrect impression.”

Her heart was beating faster, but she’d said it, got the words out. She could feel heat in her cheeks; she had never felt so uncertain in her life. Unsure, unconfident. Ignorant. She hated the feeling. She knew absolutely what she wanted, knew what, if her conscience hadn’t raised its head, she wanted from him. But she couldn’t, absolutely could not ask it of him if there was the slightest chance of his misinterpreting her interest.

She didn’t imagine him to be readily vulnerable-she knew his reputation too well-but things between them had changed, and she wasn’t sure how or why; feeling her way as she was, she couldn’t be certain-as absolutely certain as her heart and honor demanded-that he wouldn’t develop some sudden suceptibility and come to expect, in return for his teachings, more than she was prepared to give.

She was absolutely certain she couldn’t bear that.

Simon studied her profile. Her revelation-her intention, her direction, so reckless and unconventional-was so Portiaesque, it did not evoke the slightest surprise; he’d long been inured to her ways. Had she been any other unmarried lady he’d have been shocked; from her, it all made perfect sense.

It was her courage and candor in stating it, in seeking to make sure he understood-more, in seeking to make sure he did not leave himself open to any hurt-that evoked a surge of emotion. A complex mix. Appreciation, approbation… even admiration.

And a flare of something much deeper. She cared for him at least that much…

If he chose to go forward and accept the risk, however small, that he might fail to change her mind and persuade her into matrimony, he couldn’t claim he hadn’t been warned.

By the same token, informing her that he had decided that she was the lady he intended having as his wife was clearly out of the question. At least for the present. She wasn’t thinking in those terms-that was the challenge he had to overcome, deflecting her mind and her considerable convictions onto the path to the altar. However, given their previous history, given all she knew of him, if at this delicate point he mentioned he intended making her his bride she might well run for the hills.

“I think we need to talk about this-get the situation clear.”

Even to him, his tone sounded too even, almost distant; she glanced briefly at him but didn’t meet his eyes.

“What,” he asked, before she could respond, “specifically do you wish to learn?”

She fixed her gaze once more on the lake. “I want to know”-the color in her cheeks deepened, her chin rose a notch-“about the physical aspects. What is it about their times with their beaux that the maids titter over on the backstairs? What do women-ladies especially-gain from such encounters that inclines them to indulge, and most especially prompts them to marriage?”

All logical, rational questions, at least from her strictly limited point of view. She was patently in earnest, committed, or she wouldn’t have broached the subject; he could sense the tension holding her, all but quivering through her.

His mind raced, trying to map the surest way forward. “To what… point do you wish to extend your knowledge?” He kept all censure from his voice; he might have been discussing the strategies of chess.

After a moment, she turned her head, met his eyes-and glared. “I don’t know.”

He blinked, suddenly saw the way-reached for it. “Very well. As you don’t-logically can’t-know what stages lie along a road you’ve never traveled, if you’re truly serious in wanting to know”-he shrugged as nonchalantly as he could-“we could, if you wish, progress stage by stage.” He met her dark gaze, held it. “And you can call a halt at whatever point you choose.”

She studied his eyes; wariness rather than suspicion filled hers. “One stage at a time?”

He nodded.

“And if I say stop…” She frowned. “What if I can’t talk?”

He hesitated, well aware of what he was committing himself to, yet he felt compelled to offer, “I’ll ask your permission before every stage, and make sure you understand, and answer.”

Her brows rose. “You’ll wait for my answer?”

“For your rational, considered, definitive answer.”

She hesitated. “Promise…?”

“Word of a Cynster.”

She knew better than to question that. Her expression remained haughty, but her lips eased, her gaze softened… she was considering his proposition…

He held his breath, knew her far too well to make the slightest move to press her-battled the compulsion-

She nodded, once, decisively. “All right.”

Facing him fully, she held out her hand.

He looked at it, glanced briefly at her face, then grasped her hand, turned and towed her deeper into the