gestured-“figures on a carousel, twirling about her.”
He grunted. “She doesn’t seem close to even Winifred.”
Portia shook her head. “They aren’t close-indeed, I think Winifred would rather they were even more distant. Especially given Desmond.”
“Is there an understanding there, do you know?”
“There would be if Kitty would let be.”
They walked on in silence. Eventually, he murmured, “It must get very lonely at the center of her carousel.”
A few seconds passed, then Portia tightened her hold on his arm briefly, inclined her head.
They’d strolled around most of the lake; the summerhouse loomed out of the darkness. He allowed her to steer him across the lawn to the steps; he made no demur when she let go of his arm, picked up her skirts, and went up. He cast a quick glance around the lake path, then followed her.
She was waiting in the dimness. In the shadows, her face was a pale oval; he had no hope of reading her eyes. Nor she his.
He halted before her. She raised a hand to his cheek, lifted her face, guided his lips to hers. Kissed him in flagrant invitation. Locking his hands about her waist, glorying in the feel of her supple, slender form anchored between his palms, he accepted and took. Without quarter.
When he finally raised his head, she sighed. Then asked, perfectly equably, “What’s next?”
He’d had the last half hour to formulate the right answer. He smiled; in the darkness, she couldn’t see it.
“Something a little different.” He walked forward, step by slow, deliberate step backing her.
He sensed the skittery excitement that flashed through her. She tensed to glance around, to see where he was steering her, but inherent caution overcame her-she didn’t take her gaze from his face.
The backs of her legs hit the arm of one of the deep chairs. She stopped. He released her, caught her hand, stepped past and around her and sat, reaching for her, pulling her down, perching her on his knees, more or less facing him.
He could feel her surprise. They were now in dense shadow; the moonlight didn’t reach this far.
But she was quick to adjust; he didn’t need to draw her to him. Unbidden, she leaned close, and kissed him.
Invitingly. He was deep in the exchange, caught, captured, before he realized. Not a kitten, not a coquette, but she could, it seemed, when the mood was on her, be a temptress of a different sort.
One infinitely more attractive to him.
He could feel his hunger rise; he fervently prayed she never realized how easily she could conjure it. Call it, lure it, like some beast of prey coming to her hand.
Ready to feast.
His hands, until then spread over her back, over the fine silk of her evening gown, slid forward. She sat up-he assumed to give him better access to her breasts. Instead, she broke the kiss, raised her head.
“I have a suggestion.”
Wariness flooded him, not least because her voice had changed. The tone was lower, richer, as sultry as the night that wrapped about them and screened her eyes, her expression. He could read neither, had to gauge their play-her state-from other things.
Far less accurate things.
“What?”
He saw her lips lift. She set her forearms on his upper chest, leaned in and kissed him lightly. “An addendum to our last lesson.”
What on earth was she about? “Explain.”
She laughed softly; the sound sank into him. “I’d rather show you.” She caught his gaze. “It’s all perfectly reasonable-and only fair.”
It was then he realized she’d undone his waistcoat; his coat had already been open. Before he could react, she shifted on his chest and set nimble fingers to his cravat.
“Portia.”
“Hmm?”
Arguing would get him nowhere; he lifted his hands and helped her untie his cravat. In a gesture of triumph she sat up and drew it free, went to fling it away. A sudden vision flashed across his brain; he caught the cravat and laid it on the chair arm.
She’d already lost interest-hers had focused on the buttons closing his shirt. He shifted, letting her draw the front free of his trousers, then she had it fully open, spread the halves wide-and stopped, staring down at what she’d uncovered.
He would have given an arm to see her face clearly. As it was, he drank in her stillness, her absorption, the sense of fascination that held her as she slowly released the shirt, spread her fingers, and touched.
For a full minute, she simply traced, explored-learned. Then she glanced at his face, registered his reaction, the fact he’d stopped breathing. Her hands stopped for a moment, then touched more boldly.
“You like this.” She moved her hands slowly, sensuously caressing across the wide muscles banding his chest, then down, fingers lightly touching, only to return to spear through the crinkly thatch of brown hair.
He dragged in a breath. “If it pleases you.”
She laughed. “Oh, it pleases me-even more because it pleases you.”
He was in pain, acute pain. The tenor of her voice, sultry, warm, and so oddly mature-so knowing of him and confident of herself-was the most potent siren’s call he’d ever heard. Her weight, warm and femininely alluring, across his thighs, only added to his torment.
Portia stroked, caressed, drank in the sheer delight of touching him, and knowing that, for at least these few minutes, she had him in her thrall. His skin was warm, almost hot, the steely resilience of the muscles beneath utterly fascinating. She was enthralled, but even more, she was thrilled to learn that she, with her touch, could pleasure him as he had her.
Only fair, as she’d said-fair to them both.
At last, he drew a deep, not quite steady breath, and reached for her. He didn’t push her hands away, but urged her to him. Leaving her hands spread on his chest, she eagerly leaned down and gave him her lips, her mouth, her tongue.
The kiss deepened into blatant intimacy, then extended into some arena they’d not before explored; her fingers sank into his flesh, and she pressed her burning palms to his bare skin.
She felt his hands on her back, his fingers busy with the line of buttons down her spine. He undid them all, all the way to where the gown’s opening ended in the small of her back.
The night air was warm; it lay heavy all around them, barely stirring as he urged her up, to sit up and let him draw her gown down.
A shiver, not of modesty but of sheer awareness, shook her. He’d caressed her bare breasts before, but her gown had been there, largely shielding all he’d touched from his sight. But now he drew her gown down and she let him, with only the slightest hesitation freed her arms from the sleeves. The gown collapsed about her waist. She looked at his face as, almost lazily, he reached for the ribbon straps of her chemise.
He didn’t ask permission, but simply tugged them free, perfectly sure he had the right.
She was very glad she could not see his expression; only the fact that they were cloaked in shadows allowed her to sit still and let him peel her chemise down.
The air was warm. Her skin felt hot, her nipples already tight and aching. She felt his gaze on her, roaming, cataloging; she thought his lips lifted, but it wasn’t in a smile.
Then he raised a hand and touched her. Her lids fell, suddenly heavy; she swayed. He closed both hands about her breasts, and she shuddered.
Closed her eyes and gave herself up to feeling, her senses focused on each caress, each knowing touch, the escalating torture. Her skin seemed even more sensitive than before, her nipples so tightly ruched they hurt. An odd hurt that, every time he squeezed, transmuted to heat, to washes of feeling that flooded through her, pooling low in her body.
She cracked open her lids enough to look at his face. Did he know what he was doing to her?
One glance was enough; of course he did. Had he planned the darkness so she’d be amenable? No-she’d been
