The Perfect Lover (10 page)

James hesitated for only an instant, then smiled and offered his arm. “If you wish, I would be honored.”

Simon was not surprised at the glance James, straightening, shot him over Lucy’s head. Another plea—this one not to leave him alone with Lucy. Swallowing his own urgency—Portia was unlikely to do anything rash, after all—he consented to stroll and chat, making them a threesome; he could sympathize with James’s desire not to encourage Lucy to imagine there was anything personal developing between them.

“Thank you.” James clapped him on the shoulder as the first dance commenced, and they stood watching Lucy whirl down the set with the young squire who had earnestly solicited her hand. “Now you can see why I was so keen to have you here.”

Simon humphed. “I wouldn’t worry overmuch about Lucy—she might be enthusiastic, but she knows where the lines are drawn. Kitty, however . . .” He glanced at James. “Do you intend remaining here after the houseguests have left?”

“Good God, no!” James shuddered. “I’m leaving in the same hour you are—I think I’ll go visit old Cromer. Northumberland ought to be far enough to outdistance even Kitty.”

Simon grinned and they parted. While socializing with James and Lucy, he’d surreptiously quartered the room and located Portia. She was presently standing along the opposite wall, near the French doors open to the terrace and the balmy evening outside. Charlie flanked her, along with an officer in dress uniform; both were fully engaged, attentive to the exclusion of all else about them, ignoring the glitter and swirl of the ball.

Understandable, for Portia was sparkling. Her dark eyes were alive, her hands gestured gracefully, her face was alight. Even from a distance, he felt the tug. Her attention was wholly given to whichever man was speaking with her; such devotion was guaranteed to fix—transfix—any healthy male.

In any other woman, he’d have labeled such behavior flirting, and been right, but Portia was, he was still prepared to swear, constitutionally incapable of that art. He circled the room, gauging his approach; his gaze on the three, he studied their faces, and doubted even Charlie and her latest conquest, whoever he was, mistook her behavior for the customary invitation.

It was something else. Just what, the mystery of what she was about, only lent her greater charm, made her attraction even more potent.

He was mere yards from her when a hand descended on his arm and gripped with surprising strength.

“There you are!” Lady Osbaldestone grinned evilly up at him. “You haven’t any sisters or cousins present, so you can’t be employed. Just come with me—there’s someone I want you to meet.”

“But—” He resisted her tug; she wanted to lead him away from Portia. The damn ball had been going an hour, and this was the closest he’d got.

Lady O glanced at his face, then around him—at Portia. “Portia? Pshaw!” She flicked her fingers. “No need for you to concern yourself there—and anyway, you don’t even like her.”

He opened his mouth to refute at least the former.

Lady O shook her head. “Not your problem if your friend Charlie supplies her with one too many glasses of champagne.”

“What?” He tried to turn and look.

Lady O held on to him with a viselike grip. “So what if she gets a mite tipsy? She’s old enough to know what’s what, and strong enough to hold her own. Do her good to have her eyes opened a trifle—silly chit’s twenty-four, after all.” Lady O snorted, and yanked. “Now come along. This way.”

She waved ahead with her cane; suppressing his welling panic, he conceded. The fastest way to freedom was to fall in with Lady O’s plans. At the first opportunity, he’d escape—and after that,
nothing
would get in his way.

Portia saw Lady O lead Simon off, and inwardly sighed, whether with relief or disappointment she wasn’t sure. She didn’t want him hovering in his usual, arrogantly disapproving manner, yet that might not have been his intention. If the look in his eyes earlier was any guide, his attitude to her had changed, but to what she didn’t know, and hadn’t yet had a chance to divine. Regardless, she wanted to try out her new weapon on him. He was one of the three she’d elected to “consider,” and while she was doing quite well with Charlie and James, she’d yet to take a tilt at Simon.

Still, Charlie and Lieutenant Campion were interesting enough, and sufficiently susceptible to her wiles to count as practice.

She fixed her gaze on Lieutenant Campion’s face. “So you spend most of the year here in Dorset. Are the winters very cold?”

Campion beamed and replied. With little encouragement bar her rapt attention—her gaze fixed on his face, her mind cataloging all points of note he let fall—he was happy to divulge a great deal about himself, enough for her to guess his relative wealth, his family’s standing and properties, his enthusiasms both military and personal.

How very amenable gentlemen were, once one learned the knack. Comments made by her elder sisters regarding managing their husbands replayed in her mind.

Not that Lieutenant Campion would do for her; he lacked a certain something. Challenge, perhaps; she was quite sure she could wrap him about her little finger—curiously, that didn’t appeal.

Charlie, who had drifted away, returned, bearing yet another glass of champagne. He offered it with a flourish. “Here you are—you must be parched.”

She took the glass, thanked him, then sipped. The temperature in the ballroom was rising; the room was now crowded, the heat of bodies combining with the sultry heat of the night.

Charlie’s gaze had remained on her face. “That was an excellent set of plays at the Theatre Royale this last season—did you get a chance to see them?”

She smiled. “The first two, yes. The theater’s under new management, I heard.”

“Indeed.” Lieutenant Campion fixed Charlie with a steady gaze. “I understand . . .”

It occurred to Portia that Charlie had hoped to exclude the lieutenant with such a question; he hadn’t known Campion spent part of each Season on leave in town. Her lips twitched; the lieutenant continued, expounding at some length.

Charlie bore the reverse with grace, but seized the opportunity to solicit her hand the instant the musicians resumed playing.

She accepted, and they waltzed, with vigor, verve, and quite a bit of laughter. Charlie’s earlier reticence had flown; although he was still cautious about letting her know much about himself, he was much more intent on learning all he could of her.

And her intention. Her direction.

Well aware of that last, she laughed, gave him her eyes, her attention, but kept her thoughts to herself. Males of Charlie’s and James’s ilk seemed much more interested in learning just where she wished to lead them—what she truly wished to know—presumably wondering if they could assist her in the knowing . . . she smiled and wielded her wits to keep all such answers to herself. She saw no reason unnecessarily to lose what she was starting to suspect was a large part of her newfound allure.

The most engaging aspect of mentally fencing with gentlemen such as Charlie was that they understood the rules. And how to get around them.

When the last chord of the waltz faded, and they whirled to a halt, hot, exhilarated, and laughing, he smiled with dazzling charm. “Let’s recoup on the terrace—it’s far too stuffy in here.”

She kept her smile in place, and wondered if she dared.

Nothing attempted, nothing gained; she’d never know if she didn’t try.

“Very well.” She let her smile deepen, accepting the challenge. “Let’s.”

She turned toward the terrace—and nearly collided with Simon.

Her nerves leapt; for one instant, she couldn’t breathe. His eyes met hers; his expression was hard but she could read none of his usual disapproval therein.

“We were about to adjourn to the terrace.” The pitch of her voice sounded a fraction too high; the champagne, no doubt. “It’s grown rather warm in here.”

She used the excuse to wave a hand before her face. Her temperature had certainly risen.

Simon’s expression didn’t soften. He looked at Charlie. “I’ve just come from Lady Osbaldestone—she’s asking for you.”

Charlie frowned. “Lady Osbaldestone? What the devil does the old tartar want with me?”

“Who knows? She was, however, most insistent. You’ll find her near the refreshment room.”

Charlie glanced at her.

Simon’s hand closed about her elbow.

“I’ll escort Portia out for a stroll—with luck, by the time you’re finished with Lady Osbaldestone, we’ll be back.”

The suggestion sounded straightforward, yet Charlie wasn’t all that sure; the look he sent Simon said as much. But he had little choice; with a graceful bow to her and a nod to Simon, he headed for the far corner of the room.

Simon released her; turning, they strolled toward the open French doors.

She glanced at his face. “Did Lady O really want Charlie? Or are you just being your usual pompous self?”

He met her gaze for an instant, then waved her through the door. “It’ll be fractionally cooler outside.”

She stepped out onto the flags. “You made it up, didn’t you?”

He ushered her along; she swung around and stared at him.

He searched her face. His eyes narrowed. “You’re tipsy. How many glasses of champagne have you had?”

Again, he moved her on, his long fingers closing about her elbow as he steered her along the shadowy terrace. There were couples and groups strolling on the terrace and the nearby lawns, availing themselves of what relief there was in the fresher night air.

“That’s beside the point.” She was quite certain about that. “I’ve never been tipsy before—it’s quite pleasant.” Realizing how true that was, she plucked her elbow from his grip and twirled. “A new experience, and a perfectly harmless one.”

The look on his face was odd—patronizing, but also something else. Something more taken. A frisson of hope ran through her; would her wiles work on him as well?

She fixed her eyes on his face, and smiled winningly. Then she laughed and turned to walk on beside him. They were heading away from the bustle and the ballroom into less frequented areas; they could converse freely.

How silly, now that she thought of it. “No point getting you to talk about yourself—I know all about you already.”

The end of the terrace loomed near. She felt his gaze on her face.

“Actually”—his voice dropped to a deep murmur—“you know very little about me.”

The words slithered across her nerves, tantalizing, tempting; she merely smiled and let her disbelief show.

“Is that what you’re after—learning about gentlemen?”

She couldn’t recall hearing that peculiarly beguiling tone from him before; tilting her head, she considered. Her mind wasn’t, in truth, operating with its customary facility. “Not about gentlemen in general, and not just about them.” They turned the corner of the terrace and continued on; no one else was strolling on this side of the house. She drew in a breath, let it out with, “I want to learn about all the things I haven’t learned about before.”

There—that should hold him.

“What things?”

She whirled and stopped, her back to the house wall; some instinct warned her they were straying too far from the ballroom. Yet she smiled, openly delighted, at him, letting the happy confidence welling inside her show. “Why, all the things I haven’t experienced before.” She flung out her arms, her gaze locking with his. “The excitement, the thrills. All the things gentlemen can show me that I haven’t bothered with, until now.”

He’d halted, facing her, studying her eyes. His face was in shadow.

“Is that why you were so keen on strolling out here with Charlie?”

There was something in his tone that alerted her, that had her wrestling her wits back into place. She held his gaze steadily, and answered with the truth. “I don’t know. It wasn’t my suggestion—it was his.”

“Hardly surprising, given your wish to learn. And you did come out here.”

The accusation in his voice focused her wits wonderfully.

She lifted her chin. “With you. Not him.”

Silence.

The challenge lay between them, implicit, understood.

Their gazes remained locked; neither shifted, broke the spell. The heat of the night intensified and closed about them. She could have sworn things swayed. She could feel the blood beating under her skin, at her temples.

He was only a foot away; she suddenly wanted him closer, could sense some primal tug.

So could he. He shifted fractionally nearer, then froze; his face remained in shadow, his eyes unreadable.

“If it had been Charlie who brought you here, what would you have sought to learn?”

It took a moment to form an answer; she had to moisten her lips before she could say, “You know him much better than I—what do you think, given this moment, given this setting, I might have learned?”

Time stretched; her heartbeat made it seem forever. His eyes remained locked on hers, then he shifted, closed the distance. Slowly lowered his head.

One hand rose to touch her face, long fingers tracing, then cradling, her jaw, tipping her face up.

So his lips could settle, warm and strong, on hers.

Her lids fell; her lungs seized. Her senses swam as her body came to sensual life.

She had nothing to compare it with, that first precious kiss. No man before had dared to step this close, to take such a liberty. If any had, she’d have boxed his ears.

Simon’s lips moved on hers, warm and pliant, seeking; her fingers gripped the stone behind her, tight.

All her senses condensed until the gentle, beguiling pressure was all she knew, all she cared about. Her lips throbbed. Her head spun, and it wasn’t from the champagne.

She’d forgotten to breathe, even now didn’t care. She kissed him back, hesitant, not knowing . . .

He shifted, not away but closer yet. The fingers about her jaw firmed; the pressure of those beguiling lips increased.

She parted her own as he seemed to want her to; his tongue slid between—her knees quaked. He seemed to know—how she couldn’t guess; the caresses slowed, slowed, until each touch seemed drenched with languor, with unhurried appreciation, with simple shared pleasure. The dizzying shock of the novel intimacy faded.