The Perfect Lover (17 page)

Head back, she caught her breath on a soft gasp.

Drawing his lips from her skin, he cupped one breast, lifting the ruched peak—bent his head and took it into his mouth.

The sound she made was a shattered cry of delight; it streaked through him and urged him on. He drew the tortured peak deep, suckled and laved, until she cried out again. He paused only to transfer his attentions to her other breast. He feasted like a conqueror with her his slave, offered up to him. As she was. Not once did she draw back—if anything, she urged him on, wordless in her entreaties, effective nonetheless. He knew every nuance, could interpret and understand every little gasp, every soft moan.

Her fingers sank into his shoulder, clutched tight on his skull. She held him to her, begged him to take. And give.

He did. He fed the conflagration mercilessly—let her sense, know, learn all she wished—but then ruthlessly, determinedly, even against her wishes reined them back, both of them, drew them back from the brink of the furnace, from the scorching flames of desire.

That time was not yet.

They were breathing raggedly when he finally slumped back, and she followed, collapsing on his chest. She murmured, then shifted, sinuously abrading her brutually sensitized breasts against the roughness of his chest. He let her, drew her lips to his, and kissed her, but softly. Let her ease back in her own way.

Finally accepting, she sighed, and sank into his arms, then reached up and pulled off the blindfold.

She looked up at him. Even in the dimness, he would have sworn her eyes glittered. She looked at his lips, licked hers, then met his eyes.

“More.”

Not a question—a demand.

“No.” It hurt to say it. He drew breath, felt desire’s vise locked about his chest. “Be patient.”

Foolish words. He knew that the instant he uttered them, saw a definite flash in her eyes—and reacted instantly, before she could.

He kissed her. Shifted her in his arms, then ravaged her mouth. Simultaneously, deliberately, slid his hands down, over the long planes of her back, down, sliding beneath the back of her gown, down over her flushed skin, over the curves, tracing, learning. Mapping what, one day soon, would be his.

She murmured deep in her throat—not a protest but pure encouragement. He ignored it, but could not draw his hands away, not yet. Not until he’d satisfied some undeniable inner craving to know that much, at least, of her. To know, absolutely, that she would be his—sometime.

Soon.

When he finally raised his head, she opened her eyes, and met his. Fearlessly, without guile or guilt.

She was lying in his arms, bare to the hips, her naked breasts pressed to his bare chest, his hands caressing her bare bottom, her skin dewed with desire.

Desire itself lay naked between them.

Both of them recognized it.

It was an effort to draw breath, but he did.

“We have to go back.”

She studied his face, understood what he meant. Eventually inclined her head.

Going back took time. Letting their senses settle, righting themselves, rearranging their clothes. He didn’t bother retying his cravat but left it about his neck, trusting they’d encounter no one while returning to the house.

They set off, her hand locked in his, walking through the deepening shadows. The moon had sunk low; the gardens were dark.

The house loomed ahead. Portia frowned. “The lights—I would have expected most would still be downstairs. It can’t be that late.”

In truth, she had no idea of the time.

Simon shrugged. “Perhaps, like us, they fled Kitty’s court.”

They walked on; Simon steered her in a different direction to their usual route, she assumed so they could slip into the house unseen. They were still some way from the walls when they heard the thud of footsteps, then the rustle of leaves drawing nearer.

Simon halted; perforce she did, too, in the black shadows thrown by a tree. Silent and still, they waited.

A figure emerged some yards away, cutting down the narrow paths heading away from the house. He didn’t see them, but as he passed from shadow to shadow, they saw him.

Recognition was instant; as before the gypsy continued through the gardens as if he knew every inch of them.

When he was gone, and Simon urged her on, she whispered, “Who the devil is he? Is he really a gypsy?”

“Apparently he’s the leader of a band of gypsies that spends most summers camped nearby. His name’s Arturo.”

They’d nearly reached the house when Simon stopped again. She peered ahead, and saw what he had—the young gardener standing under a tree to their right, near a corner of the mansion. He wasn’t looking their way—he was watching the other face of the house, the one out of their sight. The one the gypsy, Arturo, had most likely come from.

The same wing of the house that contained the family’s private rooms.

Portia glanced at Simon. He looked down at her, then waved her on. The path they were on was lawn, as were most of the paths in the garden, perfect for moving along silently.

They rounded the corner they’d been making for; Simon opened a door and ushered her into a small garden hall. The instant he shut the door, she asked, “Why do you think the gardener’s boy’s out there?”

Simon looked at her, then grimaced. “He’s not a local—he’s one of the gypsies. Apparently he knows his plants—he often works here through the summers, helping with the beds.”

Portia frowned. “But if he was keeping watch for Arturo, why is he still there?”

“Your guess is as good as mine.” Taking her arm, Simon propelled her to the door. “Let’s get upstairs.”

They emerged into one of the minor corridors. No one was around. They strolled nonchalantly, but silently along. Both were used to country houses, to the subtle signs of where people were, the hum of distant conversation; all were presently lacking.

They came upon a candle left burning on a side table. Simon stopped. “Keep watch.”

He swiftly retied his cravat into something that, in the dim corridors, would pass muster if they met anyone.

They went on, but didn’t. When they reached the front hall, she murmured, “It really does look like everyone’s gone up.”

Which seemed odd; a clock they’d passed had given the time as not quite midnight.

Simon shrugged and steered her to the main stairs. They were halfway up when voices reached them.

“It’ll cause a scandal, of course.”

They both stopped, exchanged a glance. It was Henry who had spoken.

Simon moved to the balustrade and looked over; she moved to his side and did the same.

The library door was ajar; inside the room, they could see the back of an armchair, the back of James’s head, and his hand, resting on the chair’s arm, gently swirling a crystal glass holding amber liquid.

“The way it’s shaping, you’ll risk a far greater scandal if you don’t.”

Henry humphed. After a moment, he replied, “You’re right, of course. I just wish you weren’t, that there was some other way . . .”

His tone told them what—or rather who—was being discussed; as one, she and Simon turned and silently continued up the stairs.

In the gallery, he kissed her fingertips and they parted—no need for words.

Reaching her room without encountering anyone, she wondered what they’d missed. What Kitty had done to send everyone to bed early, and leave Henry and James discussing the relative merits of scandals.

S
he really didn’t want to know. Portia had too much on her own plate; she felt no need to burden herself with knowledge of Kitty’s shortcomings. Each to their own—live and let live.

For herself, she was fired with a zeal to live—to the fullest. To a degree, a level, she hadn’t before realized was possible. The events of the previous evening should have left her scandalized. They hadn’t. Not in the least. She felt exhilarated, eager, very ready to learn more, to sip from the cup of passion once more, to taste desire again, and this time drain the chalice.

The questions consuming her were when and where?

With whom didn’t rate a thought.

She tacked through the crowds thronging the lawns; Kitty’s luncheon party was in full swing. From the alacrity with which the surrounding families had attended, she deduced the Glossups had not entertained much in recent times.

Purposely eschewing the other houseguests, she wandered, stopping to chat with those to whom she’d been introduced at the ball, meeting others. Accustomed to the role of young lady of a great country house—her brother Luc’s principal seat in Rutlandshire—she was entirely at ease chatting with those who would, were they in London, be her social inferiors. She’d always been interested in hearing of others’ lives; only via that avenue had she come to appreciate the comfort of her own, something that, like most ladies of her station, she would otherwise have taken for granted.

To give her her due, Kitty, too, did not hold aloof; she was very much in evidence, weaving among her guests. While searching for possibilities—for some inkling of an opportunity through which to pursue her fell aim—Portia noted that, along with Kitty’s mood du jour, a joie de vivre that was, she would have sworn, quite genuine. Smiling, laughing gaily, flown on excitement, Kitty might have been, perhaps not a new bride, but one of short standing thrilling to her first social success.

Watching her greet a buxom matron with transparent good humor, and exchange comments with the woman’s daughter and gangling son, Portia inwardly shook her head.

“Amazing, ain’t it?”

She whirled and met Charlie’s cynical gaze.

He nodded toward Kitty. “If you can explain that, I’ll be in your debt.”

Portia glanced again at Kitty. “It’s too hard for me.” Looping an arm through Charlie’s, she turned him about; with a quirk of his lips, he accepted her decree and fell in by her side. “Perhaps it’s like charades—she behaves as she thinks she should—
no!
don’t state the obvious!—I mean that she has a mental image of how she
should
be, and acts like that. That image may not, in every situation, be what we, or others like us, would think right. We don’t know what Kitty’s view of things might be.”

Steering Charlie on, she frowned. “Simon wondered if she was naive—I’m starting to think he may be right.”

“Surely her mother would set her straight? Isn’t that what mothers are for?”

Portia thought of her own mother, then thought of Mrs. Archer. “Yes, but . . . do you think Mrs. Archer . . . ?” She left the question hanging, not quite sure how to phrase her reading of Kitty’s mother.

Charlie humphed. “Perhaps you’re right. We’re used to our own ways—to people like us and how they behave. We expect them to know what’s acceptable. Perhaps it really is something along those lines.”

He glanced around. “Now, minx, where are you taking me?”

Portia looked ahead, then stood on her toes to see past various people. “Somewhere over there is a lady who knows your mother—she was eager to speak with you.”

“What?”
Charlie stared at her. “Thunder and turf, woman! I don’t want to spend my time doing the pretty with some old harridan—”

“You do, you know.” Having sighted their goal, Portia towed him on. “Just think—if you speak with her now, in the midst of all this crowd, it’ll be easy to exchange a few words, then move on. That’ll be quite enough to satisfy her. But if you leave it until later and she catches you, with the crowd more dispersed, you might find yourself trapped for half an hour.” She glanced at him, raised her brows. “Which would you prefer?”

Charlie narrowed his eyes at her. “Simon was right—you’re dangerous.”

She smiled, patted his arm, then delivered him up to his doom.

That good deed done, she returned to her consuming passion—identifying somewhere and somehow to legitimately, or at least without drawing any untoward attention, get Simon to herself for an hour or two. Or perhaps three? She had no real idea how long the next stage along her path to understanding would take.

Skirting a group of officers resplendent in their scarlet with an easy but distant smile, she considered the point. At her age, the accepted strictures deemed twenty minutes in private to be no great scandal, but more than half an hour to be beyond redemption; presumably half an hour was sufficient. However, from what she’d heard, Simon was an accredited expert, and experts never liked to be hurried.

Three hours would probably be wise.

She surveyed the crowd. Until she came up with a plan there was no sense seeking Simon out, no sense spending too much time in public by his side. It wasn’t as if they were courting.

She chatted to a major, then to a couple who had driven over from Blandford Forum. Leaving them, she circled the gathering, strolling along a high hedge. She was about to plunge into the throng again when, to her left, she saw Desmond with Winifred on his arm.

They were standing where an alcove in the hedge hosted a statue on a pedestal. Neither was looking at the statue, nor at the guests. Desmond held Winifred’s hand; he was looking down at her face, speaking quietly, earnestly.

Winifred’s eyes were cast down, but a slight, very gentle smile was just curving her lips.