He was heavy, hot, and oh so real. He’d withdrawn from her only moments before; her body was slowly returning to itself, to being hers, not his, not filled with him. She felt curiously alive, senses still bright with the lingering glory, her flesh still swollen, hot, still throbbing, her pulse still racing.
In the icehouse, Kitty lay cold, beyond all such feeling.
For long moments, Portia thought of all she and Simon had already shared, and of all they might yet find between them.
And silently vowed not to make Kitty’s mistakes.
She would value trust and devotion, see love for what it was, accept whence it sprang, and with whom.
And make sure-absolutely sure-he did, too.
If what lay between them was love, she wasn’t fool enough to fight it. On the contrary; if it was love, it was worth fighting for.
She glanced down, feathered her fingers through his soft, burnished brown locks, silkier than many a woman’s.
He lifted his head, met her gaze.
She held his, then said, “I’m not going to marry you unless I want to.”
“I know.”
She wondered, wished she could see his eyes more clearly, but the moonlight had faded, cloaking them in shadows.
He exhaled, lifted from her, shifted higher in the bed and settled on his back, drawing her into his arms. The bonelessness of satiation still infusing her, she rested her head on his chest, in the hollow below his shoulder. “I want to learn more,
After a moment, he lifted his head and pressed a kiss to her hair. Lay back. “Go to sleep.”
The words were gentle enough; his thoughts, she suspected, were anything but. He wasn’t an intrinsically gentle man; he wasn’t the sort to resign from a fight, to ride away from the field at the first reverse. He would rally-and drive relentlessly, ruthlessly on toward his goal.
Much good would it do him; she wasn’t going to bend.
But she’d warned him-and he’d warned her. A truce of sorts, complex and conditional but enough to allow them to go on. Not just in exploring what lay between them, but in facing what the next days would bring. The “gentleman from Bow Street” and the inevitable unmasking of Kitty’s murderer. Whatever came, they would face it shoulder to shoulder, bound by an understanding so fundamental it didn’t require stating.
The day had been long; its events had wrought untold upheaval.
Minutes ticked by; the heavy thud of Simon’s heart just beneath her ear soothed and comforted.
Closing her eyes, she surrendered to the night.
Simon woke her as she’d wished to be woken the morning before.
She was a sound sleeper; her body responded to his practiced ministrations even while she slumbered. Spreading her thighs, he settled between and eased into her.
Felt her arch, felt her breath catch, then she sighed, and opened brilliant blue eyes. Eyes so dark they mesmerized; as he moved within her, he felt like he was drowning in their depths.
She rose with him, clinging, clutching, lids falling at the last as she fractured with a soft cry.
A cry that ripped through him, sank talons through striving muscle and bone, wrapped about his gut, his heart, his soul, and hauled him into the void, over the edge of the world and into sweet oblivion.
Cocooned in the covers, he lay fully atop her, acutely conscious of how well they fitted, how perfectly she matched him. She turned her head and their lips met, clinging, caressing. She held him easily in her arms, cradled between her slim thighs.
Dawn was near. He couldn’t let her sleep. He roused her further, rousted her out of bed and into her clothes.
Grumbling, she gave him to understand that early morning was not her favorite time to be sneaking around country houses.
He got her back to her room unobserved, opened her door, kissed her fingers, then bundled her in and shut the door.
Portia heard his retreating footsteps, frowned at the closed panel. She would much rather have remained, safe and warm in his arms, for at least the next hour. Long enough to recoup her energies-energies he’d very efficiently drained. Keeping pace with him through the corridors had required concentration-to keep her muscles moving, ignoring the odd twinges and aches.
She had a strong suspicion he had no real idea how… vigorous he was.
Stifling a sigh, she turned and surveyed the room.
It was as she’d left it last night, the bedcovers turned invitingly down, the window still open, curtains undrawn.
She considered the bed, surely the most sensible option given her state. But if she lay down, she’d fall asleep- she’d have to take off her gown and don her nightdress, or how would she explain to the maid?
The problem was insoluble, at least in her present state; she had insufficient energy to undo the buttons down her back that Simon had just done up.
That left the chair by the hearth or the window seat. The breeze wafting through the window carried a dawn chill; she headed for the armchair. The cold hearth was an uninspiring sight; tugging the chair about to face the window, she dropped into its cushioned comfort with a deep sigh.
And let her mind roam. Looked into her own heart, wondered about his. Revisited her goals, reassessed her aspirations. Recalled with a grimace her earlier thought that of all the gentlemen present, Simon, Cynster as he was, epitomized the most marriageable qualities-what she’d meant, could now see clearly enough to admit, was that the qualities he possessed were those most likely to persuade her to marriage.
His less attractive aspects she also knew well. His overprotectiveness had always irked, yet it was his dictatorial possessiveness that most frightened her. Once she was his, there would be no escape; that was simply the way he was.
She shivered, wrapped her arms around herself-wished she’d thought of fetching her shawl but couldn’t raise enough energy to get up and do so now.
The only way she could accept Simon’s suit-give him her hand and accept all that that meant-was if she trusted him always to consider her feelings, to deal with her, treat with her, not arbitrarily to dictate.
Not a small thing to demand of a tyrant.
Last night, she’d gone to him knowing she’d have the whip hand, trusting that he would allow her to wield it. He could have filched the reins from her whenever he’d wished-yet he hadn’t, even though that restraint had, from all the evidence, cost him dearly.
He’d abided by the conditions she’d set. She’d spent the night safe, reassured of her own vitality, her ability to live and even love. Her ability to trust and gain trust’s reward.
Previously, he’d never have let her dictate terms as he had last night, regardless of the situation. It simply wasn’t in his nature… hadn’t been, but now was, at least with her.
A willingness to share the reins, to try to accommodate her as he’d promised. She’d felt it in his touch, read it in his eyes… events confirmed it truly had been there, and wasn’t just a figment of her wishful imagination.
Which left them going forward, examining the possible.
Beyond the window, the sky turned rosy, then faded into the pale, washed-out blue of a hot summer’s day.
The click of the latch jerked her from her thoughts. Swiveling in the chair, she watched, mentally scrambling, as the cheery little maid who tended her room came bustling in.
The maid saw her; her eyes turned round, her face filled with sympathy. “Oh, miss-did you spend all night there?”
“Ah…” She rarely lied, but… “Yes.” She looked back at the window, gestured. “I couldn’t sleep…”
“Well, that’s hardly to be wondered at, is it?” Bright and breezy, the maid produced a cloth and set to wiping and polishing the mantelpiece. “We heard tell as how it was you found the body-stumbled right over it.”
Portia inclined her head. “Indeed.”
“We was all talking in the servants’ hall, frightened it might be one of the gentlemen, but Mrs. Fletcher, she’s
