The Perfect Lover (28 page)

But if she wished to . . . she’d have to take a chance.

Take a risk far bigger than any she’d imagined.

She’d thought to approach marriage one step at a time, standing on firm ground all the way. Who knew?—she might, at some point, have reached the stage of contemplating marrying him. If she’d followed her logical, cautious route, she would have known what to do. Felt sure what she wanted.

Instead, he’d leapt ahead to a stage she hadn’t until now envisaged, leaving her no time to catch up. Her mind was still reeling, but he was waiting for an answer—would insist on one—indeed, deserved one; she had to rely on instinct alone in deciding what to do.

Her heart quaked; she stiffened her spine.

Lifting her hand, she placed her fingers in his.

They closed strongly, firmly about hers.

The possessive touch jolted her. She lifted her chin, met his eyes. “This doesn’t mean I’m agreeing to marry you.”

He held her gaze, then shifted his hold, lifted her hand to his lips. “You’re agreeing to give me a chance to persuade you.”

Quelling the shiver the brush of his lips and the intent in his eyes evoked, she inclined her head.

Simon silently let out the breath he’d been holding, felt the vise locked about his lungs ease. Never had he imagined dealing with his intended would mean dealing with Portia; she tied him in knots in ways no other ever had.

But he’d got over the worst of it, eased her past the hurdle of his recent shortcomings and refocused them both on what mattered—what was to come. He wasn’t going to dwell on the fact she’d imagined he would seduce her, then let her go; there was no point arguing about her error.

She glanced at him, then turned to continue along the path. He consented but kept hold of her hand, striding slowly beside her.

Knowing she was thinking, analyzing, dissecting. There was no way he could prevent it.

The air beneath the trees was silent, still. Somewhere in the distance a bird called. The path wound through the trees; they could see the forecourt ahead when she stopped. Turned to him.

“If I don’t agree to marry you, what then?”

Lying would make life so much easier. But this was Portia. He met her gaze. “I’ll speak to Luc.”

She stiffened; her eyes flashed. “If you do, I’ll
never
marry you.”

He let the moment stretch. “I know.”

After a moment, he grimaced. “If it comes to that, we’ll be at stalemate. But it won’t, so there’s no sense worrying about it.”

She narrowed her eyes at him, but then grimaced, too, and turned to walk beside him once more. “You’re very sure.”

They emerged into the forecourt; he looked up at the house. “Of what should be, yes.” Of what was to come—that was another matter.

Reaching the front steps, they went up and through the front door, presently set wide.

In the hall, Portia halted. “I need to think.”

An understatment. She still felt as if she were walking in a dream, that none of what had happened had been real. She wasn’t at all sure what she’d got herself into, what she was now facing.

Where they, he and she, now were.

She drew her hand from his; he released it, but reluctantly. One glance at his face told her he’d much rather she didn’t think, that he was considering distracting her, but then he caught her eye, realized what she’d seen.

He inclined his head. “I’ll be in the billiard room.”

She nodded, turned away, opened the library door, and walked in. The long room was empty. Relieved, she shut the door behind her, leaned back against it. An instant later, she heard his footsteps heading down the hall.

Her back against the panels, she waited for her whirling wits to subside, for her emotions to settle.

Was he right? Could a marriage between them work?

There seemed little point examining the past; now she knew he’d been thinking of marriage all along, his behavior made perfect sense. Even the fact he’d not mentioned marriage until Kitty had made it unavoidable; given all he knew of her, in his shoes, she’d have done the same.

She’d never been one to cut off her nose to spite her face; their past was behind them—it was the future she now had to deal with. The future he’d set so forcefully before her.

Yet she felt as if her horses had bolted and her life was running away with her—out of her control. She’d been so focused on the emotional connection between them, she hadn’t spared much thought for the state that connection might lead them to—eventually, perhaps. He’d obviously been thinking of the state, but had he considered the emotion?

While she’d been investigating that connection step by logical step, he’d impulsively leapt far ahead to one possible conclusion—and was convinced that conclusion was right. Meant to be.

She was usually the impulsive one; he was the stoic male. Yet in this, he was convinced while she was still uncertain, searching for proof, for reassurance.

Grimacing, she pushed away from the door. Doubtless, her caution was a reflection of the fact that she had most at stake; it was
she
who would take the risk in giving him her hand. Giving him all rights over her—whichever rights he chose to exercise.

He said it would work; he understood her fears—said he wanted her as she was. Again, her decision hinged on trust. Did she trust him to live by that creed, day by day for the rest of their lives?

That was the question to which she would need to find the answer.

One thing, however, was clear. Their connectedness—the emotional link she’d been working to understand—born of their past, immeasurably strengthened by their recent interactions, was very real, all but tangible now between them.

It was still growing, still strengthening.

And he knew it, felt it, recognized it as she did; he was now capitalizing on it, using it. Adding his will to it—something she’d never expected—deliberately pushing it in the direction he, apparently, now wished.

Which led her to the most pertinent question. Was what she sensed between them real or, given his expertise combined with his ruthless will, was it a fabrication to beguile her into marrying him?

The way she’d reacted to his concern that morning replayed in her mind; was he ruthless enough to have fabricated that? She knew the answer: yes.

But had he?

She could sense the emotions—the passions, the desires—he kept reined, held back but insufficiently disguised. Still felt in response an instinctive skittering, an impulse to draw back, from him, from them, from their power and the inherent threat they posed to her, yet that impulse was countered by curiosity, by a potent fascination with what evoked those same desires—with what lay between them, and the promise of all that could.

He could read her thoughts and feelings well—in general, she’d never bothered to conceal either from him. That he should have guessed the single truth she’d always thought she’d kept well hidden simply confirmed that he’d been more attuned to her than she’d guessed. More aware of her than she’d been of him.

Until now, her thoughts of marriage had been abstract, although definitely not with him or any like him. Circumstances had conspired to entrap her, through her curiosity to draw her into his web; he’d now made the prospect of marriage to a tyrant very real.

If she had any sense, she’d refuse him—and run. Fast. Far away.

Yet the notion of running from what might be, what might exist between them, evoked such a strong reaction she knew she’d never do it, turn her back and blithely let it die. If she did, she’d never be able to live with herself; the possibilities along the road he was proposing they follow were endless, exciting—recklessly enticing. Different, unique. Challenging.

All the things she wanted her life to be.

The prospect of marriage to a Cynster without love to ease the way, no longer distant theory but now very real, was like a sword hanging over her head, threatening all she was. Yet despite that, she still did not feel, did not react to
him,
the man, as if he threatened her at all. He’d been her unwanted and reluctant protector for years; some stubborn part of her adamantly refused to rescript his role.

She sighed. Contraditions assailed her every way she turned; confusion still clouded her mind. The only thing she felt totally confident about was that he, amazingly, was committed to marrying her, while she’d yet to make up her mind.

The magnitude of the change in her life in the past hour left her giddy.

She looked around, forced herself to take slow, steadying breaths. She needed to calm her mind, find her usual even mood in which her intellect normally functioned so incisively.

Her gaze drifted along row upon regimented row of leather-bound spines; she started to circle the room. Forcing herself actually to focus, to note familiar volumes, to think of other things. To connect again with the world she normally inhabited.

She walked around one end of the rectangular room, passing the huge fireplace. The French doors facing the garden stood open; she paced along, admiring the busts set on pedestals between each set of doors, trying not to think of anything else, eventually once again reaching walls covered with shelves.

A desk stood at that end of the room, facing down its length to the main hearth. A smaller fireplace was set in the wall behind it. She glanced at it, her attention caught by the intricate detail of the mantelpiece—

Saw, just visible from where she stood, a small foot clad in a lady’s slipper, lying on the floor behind the desk.

The foot, of course, was attached to a leg.

“Good gracious!” She hurried to the desk and rounded it—

Halted, quivering. Stared.

Grabbed the edge of the desk. Slowly raised her hand to her throat.

She couldn’t drag her gaze from Kitty’s face, suffused, blotched, darkened tongue protruding, blue eyes blankly staring . . . or the silken cord wound tight about her neck, digging deep into the soft flesh . . .

“Simon?”

Her voice was far too weak. It took effort to force her lungs to work, to haul in huge breath.
“Simon!”

A moment passed; she could hear the clock on the mantelpiece ticking. She felt too faint to let go of the desk, wondered if she’d have to go and look for help . . .

Footsteps pounded down the corridor, nearing.

The door burst open.

A heartbeat later, Simon was there, hands locking on her arms, eyes searching her face. He followed her gaze, looked, swore—then hauled her to him, away from the dreadful sight, interposing his body between her and the desk.

She locked her fingers in his coat and clung, shaking, buried her face in his shoulder.

“What is it?” Charlie stood in the doorway.

With his head, Simon indicated the area behind the desk. “Kitty . . .”

Simon held Portia close, aware of her trembling, of the shivers coursing her spine. Propriety be damned; he tightened his arms about her, locked her against him, against his warmth, lowered his head, brushed her temple with his jaw. “It’s all right.”

She gulped, clung even tighter; he felt her battle her reaction, and the shock. Eventually felt her spine stiffen even more. She lifted her head, but didn’t step back. Glanced toward the desk.

At Charlie, who’d looked behind the desk and now sat slumped against the front edge, white-faced, tugging at his cravat. He swore, then looked at Simon. “She’s dead, isn’t she?”

Portia answered, her voice wavering. “Her eyes . . .”

Simon looked at the door. No one else had arrived. He glanced at Charlie. “Go and find Blenkinsop. Shut the door on your way out. After you’ve sent Blenkinsop here, you’d better find Henry.”

Charlie blinked, then nodded. He got to his feet, drew in a huge breath, tugged his waistcoat down, then headed for the door.

Portia’s shivering was growing worse. The instant the door shut, Simon bent and swung her into his arms. She clutched his coat, but didn’t protest. He carried her to the chairs grouped before the main hearth, set her down in one.

“Wait here.” Visually quartering the room, he located the tantalus, crossed to it, poured a large measure of brandy into a crystal glass. Returning to Portia, he hunkered down beside the chair. Searched her pale face. “Here. Drink this.”

She tried to take the glass from him, in the end had to use both hands. He helped her guide the tumbler to her lips, steadied it so she could sip.

He sat there and helped her drink; eventually, a trace of color returned to her cheeks, a hint of her customary strength returned to her dark eyes.

Easing back, he met them. “Wait here. I’m going to look around before chaos descends.”

She swallowed, but nodded.

He rose, swiftly crossed the room, stood and looked down at Kitty’s crumpled form. She lay on her back, hands high, level with her shoulders—as if she’d struggled to the very last with her murderer.

For the first time, he felt real pity for her; she might have been a social disaster, but that didn’t give anyone the right to end her life. There was anger, too, not far beneath his surface, but that was more complex, not solely on Kitty’s account; he reined it in, mentally cataloging all he could see.

The murderer had stood behind Kitty and strangled her with—he turned and checked—a curtain cord taken from the nearest French doors. Kitty had been the smallest woman present, only a little over five feet tall; it wouldn’t have been all that hard. He looked around the body, looked at her hands, but saw nothing unusual, except that her gown was not the one she’d worn to lunch. That had been a morning gown, relatively plain; this was prettier, a tea gown cut to showcase her voluptuous curves, yet still perfectly acceptable for a married lady.

He looked at the desk, but there was nothing out of place, no half-finished letter, no scratches on the blotter; the pens lay neatly in their tray, the inkstand closed.

Not that he imagined Kitty had repaired to the library to write letters.

Returning to Portia, he shook his head in answer to her questioning look. “No clues.”

He took the glass she held out to him. It was still half-full. He drained it in one gulp, grateful for the warmth the brandy sent spreading through him. He’d been on edge before, thinking of the possible ramifications of his and Portia’s discussion. Now this.