He bent his head and kissed her, gave her that much, but she wanted more-demanded more. He surrendered and let himself down atop her, degree by degree. Until his weight held her pinned beneath him. He expected her to panic, to wriggle; instead, her tongue thrusting against his, she lifted her legs a touch higher and locked them about his waist.
Eased beneath him, tilted her hips. Opened herself fully to his penetration.
Caught his lower lip between her teeth. Tugged, let go. “Now,” she breathed, her breath flame on his lips. “Show me.”
He met her gaze, eyes glittering under heavy lids.
And did.
Locked his eyes on hers as he drove into her, as she’d wished-harder, deeper. He wanted more than anything to see the color of her eyes, to watch them change, certain they’d be black when she climaxed.
Even as the flames dragged him down, even as he lost touch with reality as his world became only her, his senses caught in the wonder, the glory, the splendor of her body sheathing him, holding him, accepting him, as urgent as his in reaching for the peak, yet still he wanted.
Vowed he would have.
That he’d make love to her in daylight, so he could see her as he took her.
See her eyes, and more.
See her skin. So white and flawless it gleamed like purest pearl; in the shadows, the flush of desire was barely discernible. He wanted to see it, needed to see what he brought her.
Wanted to see the color of her ruched nipples, of her softly bruised lips, of the slick swollen folds between her thighs.
He was aware of every pore of her body moving with his, of the complementarity, the deep and abiding link that seemed to fuse them.
That, at the last, locked them together as they reached the bright peak, senses exploding in a starburst of pleasure before tumbling headlong into bliss.
Satiation, sensual satisfaction-what he experienced with her was so much more than that. Withdrawing from her, slumping by her side, glory singing in his veins, he drew her close, locked her to him, close by his heart.
Where he needed her to be.
Inexpressible comfort flowed through him; he sank into sated dreams.
14
The next morning, Kitty, more accurately Catherine Glossup nee Archer, was laid to rest in the Glossup family plot beside the tiny church in Ashmore village.
Everyone from the house attended, bar only the handful of servants left to prepare the wake.
As for the county, the surrounding families were represented by the patriarchs; none of their ladies attended.
Therein lay a message Portia, Simon, and Charlie could read with ease. Standing back, ready to lend an arm should Lady O or Lord Netherfield require one, they watched as the usually jocular neighbors, many of whom they’d met at Kitty’s luncheon, somberly came forward to speak with the family, to murmur condolences, then, clearly uncomfortable, walk away.
“That doesn’t look good,” Charlie murmured.
“They’re reserving judgment,” Portia replied.
“Which means they believe there’s a reasonable chance one of the Glossups…” Simon let his words trail away; none of them needed to hear the truth stated.
The service had been the usual sober affair, somewhat abbreviated given the circumstances and of a darker tone. As if a cloud now hovered over them all, or at least over Glossup Hall. A cloud that would only be dissipated by the unmasking of Kitty’s murderer.
When the right words had been said, all condolences offered and received, the gathering broke up. After seeing Lady O and Lord Netherfield into the carriage they were sharing, Simon handed Portia up into his curricle, followed, and took up the reins as Charlie clambered up behind; with a flick of his wrist, he set his bays in motion, stepping smartly down the lane.
Minutes went by, then Charlie swore.
Portia turned to look at him.
“Sorry.” He grimaced. “I was just recalling James’s face. And Henry’s.”
“Let alone Lord and Lady Glossup’s.” Simon’s tone was tight. “They’re all trying to put a brave face on it, yet they can see what’s coming, and there’s precious little they can do to avoid it.”
Portia frowned. “It’s not fair. They’re not the only ones who might have murdered Kitty.”
“Given Kitty’s performance at the luncheon party, doubtless repeated, embroidered, and spread far and wide,
Charlie swore again, this time with more feeling. “That’s just what I meant. No matter that they were the victims of Kitty’s antics in the first place, dashed if now they aren’t the victims of her murderer.”
Portia felt forced to point out, “It
Charlie snorted. “And pigs might fly.”
She glanced at Simon; he kept his eyes on the road, but from the grim set of his mouth, she assumed he agreed with Charlie. Understandable, she supposed; they were such close friends of James’s, and of the family, too.
Facing forward, she thought about what she felt, not with her head but with her heart. When the gates of the Hall loomed ahead, she said, “Actually, everyone here, excepting you both and me, and the younger girls, Lady O, Lady Hammond, and Mrs. Archer, are in similar straits, even if they haven’t understood that yet.”
Charlie humphed. “If the silence over the breakfast table this morning was anything to judge by, most have realized-they’re just avoiding thinking about it.” After a moment, he added, “Not every day one attends a house party and finds oneself embroiled in murder.”
Simon drew up in the forecourt; a groom came running. Simon handed over the reins, then helped her down. The first of the other carriages was coming slowly up the drive; Simon exchanged a glance with her, then caught Charlie’s eye-the three of them moved off, taking the path into the pinetum.
Reversing the route she and Simon had walked prior to her stumbling on poor Kitty’s body… Portia caught herself up.
After a moment, she linked her arm in Simon’s; he glanced at her face, but said nothing. They walked slowly under the trees, Charlie trailing, equally pensive, behind them.
In their indignation over their friends’ being tarred with unwarranted suspicions, they, and very likely all others, had forgetten that Kitty was indeed poor Kitty; Kitty was dead. No longer able to walk under trees with a man by her side, to wake in his arms, filled with a soft urgency that blossomed into bliss.
She had it all, and Kitty had nothing.
Poor Kitty, indeed.
“We have to find out who the murderer is.” She looked up, looking ahead. “Surely we must be able to do
“Can we?” Charlie asked. “I mean… will he let us, do you think?”
“He was at the funeral.” Simon paced by Portia’s side. “He was watching everyone, but he’s guessing where we know enough to be sure.” He caught Portia’s eye. “Perhaps we should offer our services?”
She nodded, determined. “We should.”
“But before we do that”-they’d reached the lake path; Charlie came up beside them-“we’d better head back to the house and put in an appearance at the wake.”
They did. The gathering was held in the drawing room, curtains half-drawn. With a meaningful nod to them both, Charlie went to talk to James, standing a little apart, a glass in his hand.
Simon and Portia circulated; few of the local gentlemen had come back to the house-the company was primarily
