Halting beside her, he looked out over the lake, then returned his gaze to her face. “You shouldn’t be out here alone.”
She met his eyes. “I’m not.”
He looked away but she caught the quick lift of his lips.
“How was it”—she waved back at the house—“in there?”
“Ghastly. Kitty’s skating on thin ice. She seems bent on attaching Winfield, despite the fact he’s running the other way. After the earlier fracas, Henry’s retreated, pretending not to notice. Mrs. Archer’s horrified but impotent; Lord and Lady Glossup are increasingly distracted. The only light relief was provided by Lord Netherfield. He told Kitty to grow up.”
Portia smothered an unladylike snort; she’d been consorting with Lady O for too long.
After a moment, Simon looked at her. “We’d better go back.”
The thought didn’t entice. “Why?” She glanced at him. “It’s too early to retire. Do you really want to go back in there and have to smile through Kitty’s performance?”
His look of haughty distaste was answer enough.
“Come on—let’s go down to the lake.” She intended to look in at the summerhouse, but didn’t feel obliged to mention it.
He hesitated, looking not at the lake, but at the summerhouse glimmering faintly at its end. He did, indeed, know her well. She set her chin and looped her arm in his. “The walk will clear your head.”
She had to tug once, but, reluctantly, he went with her, eventually settling to stroll by her side as they turned onto the path around the lake’s rim. He steered her toward the pinetum, away from the summerhouse; head high, she glided along, and said not a word.
The path circumnavigated the lake; to return to the house without retracing their steps, they would have to pass the summerhouse.
Lady O had, as usual, been right; there was a great deal she had yet to learn, to explore, and not over many days in which to do it. In other circumstances, three lessons in one day might be rushing things; in these circumstances, she could see no reason not to grasp this opportunity to pursue her aim.
And to ease her curiosity.
Simon knew what she was thinking. Her airy demeanor deceived him not at all; she was fantasizing about the next stage.
So was he.
But, unlike her, he knew a great deal more; his attitude to the subject was equivocal. It didn’t surprise him that she would seek to rush ahead—indeed, he was counting on her reckless enthusiasm to carry her far further. However . . .
He could have used a little time to come to grips with what he’d glimpsed that afternoon.
A little time to reorient himself.
And to think of some way to reinforce his control against her temptation—a temptation all the more potent because he knew she wasn’t even aware she possessed it.
He was certainly not fool enough to tell her; the last thing he needed was for her to set out deliberately to wield it.
“You know, I can’t understand what Kitty’s thinking. It’s as if she doesn’t consider others, or their feelings, at all.”
He thought of Henry, of what he had to be feeling. “Is she really that naive?”
After a moment, Portia answered, “I’m not sure it’s a question of naïveté so much as true selfishness—an inability to think of how others feel. She acts as if she’s the only one who’s truly real, as if the rest of us are”—she gestured—“figures on a carousel, twirling about her.”
He grunted. “She doesn’t seem close to even Winifred.”
Portia shook her head. “They aren’t close—indeed, I think Winifred would rather they were even more distant. Especially given Desmond.”
“Is there an understanding there, do you know?”
“There would be if Kitty would let be.”
They walked on in silence. Eventually, he murmured, “It must get very lonely at the center of her carousel.”
A few seconds passed, then Portia tightened her hold on his arm briefly, inclined her head.
They’d strolled around most of the lake; the summerhouse loomed out of the darkness. He allowed her to steer him across the lawn to the steps; he made no demur when she let go of his arm, picked up her skirts, and went up. He cast a quick glance around the lake path, then followed her.
She was waiting in the dimness. In the shadows, her face was a pale oval; he had no hope of reading her eyes. Nor she his.
He halted before her. She raised a hand to his cheek, lifted her face, guided his lips to hers. Kissed him in flagrant invitation. Locking his hands about her waist, glorying in the feel of her supple, slender form anchored between his palms, he accepted and took. Without quarter.
When he finally raised his head, she sighed. Then asked, perfectly equably, “What’s next?”
He’d had the last half hour to formulate the right answer. He smiled; in the darkness, she couldn’t see it.
“Something a little different.” He walked forward, step by slow, deliberate step backing her.
He sensed the skittery excitement that flashed through her. She tensed to glance around, to see where he was steering her, but inherent caution overcame her—she didn’t take her gaze from his face.
The backs of her legs hit the arm of one of the deep chairs. She stopped. He released her, caught her hand, stepped past and around her and sat, reaching for her, pulling her down, perching her on his knees, more or less facing him.
He could feel her surprise. They were now in dense shadow; the moonlight didn’t reach this far.
But she was quick to adjust; he didn’t need to draw her to him. Unbidden, she leaned close, and kissed him.
Invitingly. He was deep in the exchange, caught, captured, before he realized. Not a kitten, not a coquette, but she could, it seemed, when the mood was on her, be a temptress of a different sort.
One infinitely more attractive to him.
He could feel his hunger rise; he fervently prayed she never realized how easily she could conjure it. Call it, lure it, like some beast of prey coming to her hand.
Ready to feast.
His hands, until then spread over her back, over the fine silk of her evening gown, slid forward. She sat up—he assumed to give him better access to her breasts. Instead, she broke the kiss, raised her head.
“I have a suggestion.”
Wariness flooded him, not least because her voice had changed. The tone was lower, richer, as sultry as the night that wrapped about them and screened her eyes, her expression. He could read neither, had to gauge their play—her state—from other things.
Far less accurate things.
“What?”
He saw her lips lift. She set her forearms on his upper chest, leaned in and kissed him lightly. “An addendum to our last lesson.”
What on earth was she about? “Explain.”
She laughed softly; the sound sank into him. “I’d rather show you.” She caught his gaze. “It’s all perfectly reasonable—and only fair.”
It was then he realized she’d undone his waistcoat; his coat had already been open. Before he could react, she shifted on his chest and set nimble fingers to his cravat.
“Portia.”
“Hmm?”
Arguing would get him nowhere; he lifted his hands and helped her untie his cravat. In a gesture of triumph she sat up and drew it free, went to fling it away. A sudden vision flashed across his brain; he caught the cravat and laid it on the chair arm.
She’d already lost interest—hers had focused on the buttons closing his shirt. He shifted, letting her draw the front free of his trousers, then she had it fully open, spread the halves wide—and stopped, staring down at what she’d uncovered.
He would have given an arm to see her face clearly. As it was, he drank in her stillness, her absorption, the sense of fascination that held her as she slowly released the shirt, spread her fingers, and touched.
For a full minute, she simply traced, explored—learned. Then she glanced at his face, registered his reaction, the fact he’d stopped breathing. Her hands stopped for a moment, then touched more boldly.
“You like this.” She moved her hands slowly, sensuously caressing across the wide muscles banding his chest, then down, fingers lightly touching, only to return to spear through the crinkly thatch of brown hair.
He dragged in a breath. “If it pleases you.”
She laughed. “Oh, it pleases me—even more because it pleases you.”
He was in pain, acute pain. The tenor of her voice, sultry, warm, and so oddly mature—so knowing of him and confident of herself—was the most potent siren’s call he’d ever heard. Her weight, warm and femininely alluring, across his thighs, only added to his torment.
Portia stroked, caressed, drank in the sheer delight of touching him, and knowing that, for at least these few minutes, she had him in her thrall. His skin was warm, almost hot, the steely resilience of the muscles beneath utterly fascinating. She was enthralled, but even more, she was thrilled to learn that she, with her touch, could pleasure him as he had her.
Only fair, as she’d said—fair to them both.
At last, he drew a deep, not quite steady breath, and reached for her. He didn’t push her hands away, but urged her to him. Leaving her hands spread on his chest, she eagerly leaned down and gave him her lips, her mouth, her tongue.
The kiss deepened into blatant intimacy, then extended into some arena they’d not before explored; her fingers sank into his flesh, and she pressed her burning palms to his bare skin.
She felt his hands on her back, his fingers busy with the line of buttons down her spine. He undid them all, all the way to where the gown’s opening ended in the small of her back.
The night air was warm; it lay heavy all around them, barely stirring as he urged her up, to sit up and let him draw her gown down.
A shiver, not of modesty but of sheer awareness, shook her. He’d caressed her bare breasts before, but her gown had been there, largely shielding all he’d touched from his sight. But now he drew her gown down and she let him, with only the slightest hesitation freed her arms from the sleeves. The gown collapsed about her waist. She looked at his face as, almost lazily, he reached for the ribbon straps of her chemise.
He didn’t ask permission, but simply tugged them free, perfectly sure he had the right.
She was very glad she could not see his expression; only the fact that they were cloaked in shadows allowed her to sit still and let him peel her chemise down.
The air was warm. Her skin felt hot, her nipples already tight and aching. She felt his gaze on her, roaming, cataloging; she thought his lips lifted, but it wasn’t in a smile.
Then he raised a hand and touched her. Her lids fell, suddenly heavy; she swayed. He closed both hands about her breasts, and she shuddered.
Closed her eyes and gave herself up to feeling, her senses focused on each caress, each knowing touch, the escalating torture. Her skin seemed even more sensitive than before, her nipples so tightly ruched they hurt. An odd hurt that, every time he squeezed, transmuted to heat, to washes of feeling that flooded through her, pooling low in her body.
She cracked open her lids enough to look at his face. Did he know what he was doing to her?
One glance was enough; of course he did. Had he planned the darkness so she’d be amenable? No—she’d been the one to lead him to the summerhouse, but he’d capitalized—was capitalizing—on her plan.
The notion pleased her; one made a move and the other took it further. That seemed right. Encouraging.
As was his touch, the way he kneaded her flesh. She caught her breath and glanced down—watched his hands, dark against the whiteness of her breasts, play, possess.
The heat within her swelled, grew.
“Do you want to go on to the next stage?”
She glanced at him. She didn’t know—couldn’t guess—what the next stage was. Didn’t care. “Yes.”
Simon heard the decision in her voice, could just detect a firming of her jawline. Enough to let out a small sigh of relief.
Forcing his fingers to leave her swollen flesh, he reached for his cravat. She blinked, watched as he smoothed the yard-long strip, folding it to a narrow band. Drawing it tight between his hands, he met her eyes over it. “A suggestion of mine.”
He’d gone along with her suggestion; she could hardly demur at his. She did, however, frown, yet . . . placing her hands on his chest, she leaned forward and let him tie the blindfold in place.
“Is this really necessary?”
“Not absolutely, but I think you’ll prefer it.”
Her silence screamed that she wasn’t sure how to interpret that. Cinching the knot at the back of her head, he grinned. He released it and she tensed to sit up.
“No.” He slid his palms over her naked back, felt something tighten deep within him in response. “Stay just as you are.” With one hand, he drew her lips to his. “You don’t need to do anything, other than feel.”
Their lips met; he drew her back into the heat, into the familiar intimacy. Her hands, braced on his chest, kept their bodies apart—just as well as this point. He drew her deeper, trapped her senses—seized the moment first to absorb the fact that she was naked to the waist, sitting, waiting, on his knee, then to set the final touches to his preparations.
The darkness she’d handed him was an unexpected boon, the blindfold an added benefit; it would have assuredly taken him longer, otherwise, to find a way, a suitable setting, in which to introduce her to this, the next stage, without risking evoking an instinctive reaction, a wariness, a deep-seated reluctance to be in any man’s control—an instinct with which he knew her to be very well endowed. She’d handed him herself on a platter; of course, he was going to feast.
He eased her up, sitting up himself, his hands sliding over her smooth skin, glorying on their way to cup her breasts anew. The intensity of the kiss increased, pouring heat and fire through them both. He was happy to let it happen, knowing what was to come. When her kisses turned urgent, when her breasts where heated and tight again, he broke the kiss, nudged her head back, set his lips to cruise the long line of her throat.
Her hands slid up, one locking on his shoulder, beneath his shirt. The other slid to his nape, stroking, then spearing into his hair as he bent and laved the pulse point at the base of her throat, then set his lips to it.