The Perfect Lover (35 page)

Portia thought of the arguments that had raged at Calverton Chase with Luc, Amelia, her mother, and herself insisting Lady O take someone with her on her journey, thought of Lady O resisting . . . then finally giving way, agreeing, grudgingly, to take her with her . . .

Eyes narrowing on the old lady feigning sleep in the bed, Portia wondered how much her and Simon’s present situation owed to the oh-so-subtle manipulations of the ton’s most dangerous harridan.

Decided she didn’t care. Lady O was right—they’d wasted enough time. Straightening, she turned to the door. “Good night. I’ll see you in the morning.”

And it would be morning. One excellent aspect of Lady O’s scheme, now she was in her morning gown, she wouldn’t need to leave Simon before dawn.

Simon was in his room, waiting, wondering if Portia would find a way to come to him—or whether she’d grasp the chance to stay away, to think, to consider, to revisit all the reasons she didn’t want to marry him, and set up barriers against him.

Halting by the window, acutely aware of the tension holding him, he sipped from the glass of brandy he’d been nursing for the past half hour, and looked out at the darkening scene.

He didn’t want her to think too hard about what he would be like as a husband. At the same time, he knew if he tried, no matter how subtly, to steer her away from that path, he’d only dig himself deeper, only confirm he was not to be trusted to let her come to her own decisions.

Hamstrung. That’s what he was. And there was not a damned thing he could do.

She would go her own road, regardless; she was too clear-sighted, too forthright, not to face the facts—his character, hers, and the inherent difficulties—head-on. The only solace he could draw from that was that if—
when
—she finally decided in his favor, he would know she was committed, eyes open, heart true.

He hesitated, then drained the glass. That was almost worth the torment.

The latch clicked; he turned as she entered, slim, elegant, in a fresh gown. He noted it as she neared, a gentle, confident smile on her lips. He set the glass on the windowsill, freeing his hands to slide about her waist as she came to him—straight into his arms.

He bent his head and their lips met, clung. The embers that, these days, glowed just beneath their cool surfaces ignited, glowed, sent flames licking, teasing.

Realizing the gown closed down the front, he eased his hands around between them. But the buttons were tiny, secure in their loops; he had to release her lips and look to manage them.

“Why did you change?” He could have had her out of her other gown in a minute.

“Lady O.”

He looked up; Portia smiled. “She pointed out that in a day gown, I wouldn’t appear suspicious coming back in the morning.”

His fingers stilled. “She knows you’re here?” Support was one thing; he hadn’t expected such blatant encouragement.

“She virtually pushed me out of the door and suggested we stop wasting time.”

Gaze on the buttons, he caught the laughing note in Portia’s voice, glanced up at her face—and cursed the shadows; he couldn’t see her eyes well enough to read them. “What?”

He knew there was something . . . something she knew, or had thought of that he hadn’t. That was confirmed when she studied his face, then smiled anew, and shook her head. “Just Lady O—she’s a shocking old lady. I think I’m going to grow up to be like her.”

He humphed derisively. The last button finally slid free.

Reaching up, she drew his lips back to hers. “Now if you’ve finished, I really think we should pay attention to her instructions.”

They didn’t waste time, yet neither did he allow her to rush. This time—for the first time—they were meeting as equals. Both knowing where they were heading, and why; both knowingly going forward, stepping into the furnace hand in hand, side by side.

It was a time to be savored. Remembered. Each touch a reverence, a moment of distilled passion.

He didn’t know what she wanted from the night, what more she was seeking from him, what more he could give. He could only give her all he was, and hope it was enough.

They didn’t move from the window, but shed clothes where they stood, piece by piece. Each earlier discovery revisited, each curve, each hollow, each indentation worshipped anew.

Until they stood naked, until their bodies met skin to skin.

Fire licked over them, hungry, greedy, growing.

Their mouths melded, feeding the conflagration, stoking the flames. Their tongues taunted, teased, tormented.

Hands feasted, fingers spreading, caressing, kneading, probing.

Their urgency grew.

He lifted her. She wrapped her arms about his neck and kissed him voraciously. Wrapped her long legs about his waist, sighed when he entered her, sheathed him lovingly as he pulled her hips down.

Impaled, she held him, speared her fingers through his hair, clenched them, drew his lips back to hers. Feasted as he savored her, filled her, withdrew, then filled her again.

She gave herself unstintingly, holding nothing back, asking for no reassurance.

And he took, claimed her body, yet wanted, yearned for, more.

Portia knew it, could sense in the locked muscles that held her, that flexed and gripped and moved her upon him, that there was a great deal more she had yet to learn, a great deal more he could give her.

If she would.

If she dared.

If she trusted enough . . .

Her skin was on fire, her body liquid flame, yet he was filling her only so far . . . not enough. She wanted to feel him deeper, harder, wanted to glory in the solid weight of him holding her down as he filled her.

She dragged her lips from his, realized she was panting. “Take me to the bed.”

Kissed him again as he did; when he bent to set her down on the pillows, she held on, tugged, and toppled him down with her. He swore, went to pull away, thinking he’d hurt her; she wrapped her hands over his buttocks, and hauled him nearer.

“More.”

She sank her nails in and he reacted as she wished, driving farther into her. He shifted, then lifted over her, arms braced, looking down as he thrust deeper, then deeper yet. Until he was there, full and hard and heavy inside her.

Simon looked down at her, and struggled to breathe. Struggled to cling to some semblance of sophistication, to hold back the powerful tide of need that threatened to consume him. And her.

She seemed to sense it, reached up, trailed her fingertips down his cheeks, over his shoulders, down his chest, then pressed her palms to his sides, and urged him down to her.

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.

T
he next morning, Kitty, more accurately Catherine Glossup née 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,
polite
society will see no reason to look further.”

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
could
be one of them.”

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.
Poor
Kitty?

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
something
to help Stokes.”