Her eyes had widened. After a moment, she asked, “How can you be so sure?”
“Because it . . .” Lost in her eyes, aware he had to speak the absolute truth, he couldn’t for the life of him think of words to describe all that they meant by that, the reality of what they were discussing. “
This
—all that’s between us, all that could be—not even that would ever be strong enough to change
you
. To make you into a different person.”
She frowned, but in thought, not rejection. He let her draw her hands from his; she turned and faced the fields, looking, perhaps, but not seeing.
After a moment, she swung around and walked on toward the lookout. He stirred, and followed on her heels. They reached the lookout and went inside. She stared out at the Solent. Two feet away, he shoved his hands in his pockets and waited.
He didn’t dare touch her, didn’t dare press her in any way.
She glanced at his face, then slowly ran her gaze down his frame, as if she could sense the tension investing every muscle. Returning her gaze to his eyes, she raised a brow. “I thought . . . expected you to be more persuasive.”
Jaw locked, he shook his head. “The decision’s yours.
You
have to make it.”
She was going to ask why—he saw it in her eyes—but then she hesitated, looked away.
A minute later, she turned from the view. He followed her out, ducking under the wooden archway; they headed back to the Hall.
They walked in silence, their usual easy, oddly connected silence. They were aware of each other, yet were content pursuing their own thoughts, knowing the other would not take umbrage, wouldn’t expect attention.
His thoughts were all of her, of them. Of what was between them, that suddenly broadening, deepening connection. It was developing in ways he hadn’t expected, yet now he saw them, far from reining back—something his rakish self was certain he should do—other instincts, deeper instincts, insisted he should press on, grab, seize, lay claim. That he should be pleased with the strength he sensed, with the emotional depth, with the strands that were being woven from elements unrelated to the physical, linking them in ways he doubted either had foreseen.
He’d recognized from the first that getting her to trust him enough to accept him as her husband would be a difficult task. Doing so against the backdrop of the disintegration of Henry and Kitty’s marriage was creating unexpected scenarios, forcing him to consider things, to evaluate aspects, feelings, expectations he otherwise would have taken for granted.
Like the fact he trusted Portia completely, unequivocally—and why. Why the thought of her turning into another Kitty was so ludicrous, why he’d laughed.
She couldn’t become another Kitty, and still be Portia.
Her strength of character—that backbone of steel he’d long known in his sisters and recognized long ago, even more intensely, in her—simply wouldn’t permit it. In that, he knew her perhaps better than she knew herself.
He had unwavering confidence in her steel.
Never before had he considered that attribute at all necessary in a wife.
Now he realized how precious it was.
Recognized in it a guarantee sufficient to reassure that deeply buried part of him that, even now, even despite his decision and his own rigid will, shied from the mere thought of accepting the vulnerability of the Cynsters’ Achilles’ heel, from the emotional commitment that, for them, was an inherent part of marriage.
They’d reached the gardens and the wisteria-covered walk. The house loomed ahead.
Putting a hand on her sleeve, he slowed; she halted and turned to him. Sliding his fingers down to her hand, he interdigitated his fingers with hers, looked into her dark eyes.
“One thing I will promise.” He raised her hand, placed a kiss in her palm, holding her gaze all the while. “I will never hurt you. Not in any way.”
She didn’t blink, didn’t move; for a long moment, gazes locked, they simply stood. Then she drew breath, inclined her head.
Placing her hand on his arm, he turned to the house.
It was indeed her decision; she was relieved he saw and accepted that.
On the other hand, she wasn’t at all certain how to interpret such uncharacteristic magnanimity on his part. Uncharacterisitic it certainly was; he wanted her, desired her—knowing him for the despot he truly was beneath the elegant glamor, Portia required some explanation for his restraint, his patience.
Later that evening, she stood before her window and considered what it might be. And how it might impinge on her decision.
During the half hour in the drawing room, Simon had found a moment to murmur, low enough so only she could hear, the precise location of the bedchamber he’d been given, just in case she needed to know. If she’d thought he was pressuring her she would have glared, but one look into his eyes had confirmed that he was, indeed, battling his own instincts not to do so, and to that point was still holding the line.
She’d inclined her head, then others had joined them, and their privacy was gone. Nevertheless, she remained highly conscious that he was waiting for some sign of her decision.
Throughout dinner, from across the table she’d watched him—covertly, yet if the other guests hadn’t been so intent on managing the conversation, keeping it strictly within bounds, someone would have noticed.
Kitty had for once been useful; not, of course, intentionally. She’d reverted to her earlier role, but with greater dramatic flair; tonight, she was a lady grievously misjudged, determinedly, heroically, keeping her chin high despite the slings and arrows of those who should know better.
The ladies had repaired to the drawing room, leaving the gentlemen about the table. No one had had any wish for a lengthy evening; the atmosphere remained close, the emotions swirling between Kitty and various others fraught and tense. The tea trolley arrived early; after one cup, all the ladies had retired.
Which brought Portia to where she was now, staring out at the darkness considering her decision, the one she and only she could make.
For all that, her decision hinged on Simon.
Despite their previous history, indeed in part because of it, she hadn’t been surprised when he’d stepped in and consented to act as her guide in her exploration of the physical interactions between a man and a woman. He hadn’t approved, not at first, but he’d quickly capitulated once he’d seen she was set on her course; he’d known very well that if he’d refused, she would have gone ahead with some other man. From his insistently protective point of view, her going forward with him was, regardless of all else, better than her going forward with another.
None of which mitigated the facts that he was a Cynster, and she was an Ashford; they were both of the haut ton. If she’d been younger, a more innocent and gentle sort of lady, or one he didn’t know well, she would have wagered her pearls any unintentional intimacy would have resulted in a “now I’ve seduced you, I’ll have to marry you” decree.
Luckily, that wasn’t the case between them. He did know her—very well. He wouldn’t have aided her in her quest for knowledge if he’d believed that in so doing he was committing any dishonorable act; she felt ridiculously pleased that he’d accepted she had as much right to sexual exploration as he.
That right, she assumed, was enough to absolve him of any moral responsibility, any requirement to indulge in high-handed interference and paternalistic disapproval. He’d acted always at her behest, and subject to her active consent.
He wasn’t seducing her in the customary sense; he was merely agreeable—available—should she wish to be seduced.
Presumably his steadfast reticence, his determination not to pressure her, was some reflection of that, some convoluted male dictate of what was honorable in such circumstances. Perhaps that was the way a willing seduction was played out.
All that had occurred between them thus far was as she’d wished, as she’d wanted. The decision facing her was whether she wanted more—whether she truly wanted to take the final step, draw aside the last veil, and learn all.
The scholar within her wanted to rush ahead; her more pragmatic side insisted she weigh the pros and cons.
To her mind—even to most other minds—her age and status as an almost-confirmed apeleader freed her from missish considerations of virginity. If she didn’t, at some point, stick her toe in the water and learn what she deemed necessary, then she might well never marry, so what would be the point? For her, virginity was an outdated concept.
The risk of pregnancy was real, but acceptable, one she didn’t, in truth, mind running. Unlike Kitty, she wanted children of her own; given she had a strong and supportive family, given she cared little for the social world, there were ways such a circumstance could be managed. Provided she never admitted who the father was; her sense of self-preservation was far too strong to make such a mistake.
Otherwise, Simon’s certainty had slain her worry that, if the emotion growing between them proved to be lust, she might become addicted to the physical excitement as Kitty seemed to be; his sincerity and conviction had been too strong to doubt, and his reputation guaranteed he’d had ample opportunity to form an expert opinion on such a question.
All in all, no insurmountable cons presented themselves, not from personal considerations.
As for the pros, she knew what she wanted, what she wished. She wanted to learn
everything
about marriage before she committed herself to the institution; she needed to understand the physical aspects of what she might be getting herself into. The mess Kitty had made of her marriage only underscored the necessity of gaining a proper understanding before approaching the altar; if after all she’d seen this week she allowed herself to make ill-considered choices, she’d never forgive herself.
Understanding marriage in all its aspects had been her initial goal . . . but now there was more. She also wanted to know what the emotional link that had developed between her and Simon truly was—the emotion that made it not just possible, but so very easy to imagine herself going to his bed.
Given Kitty’s behavior, learning that, too, seemed wise.
As matters stood, the only risk she could see in going to Simon’s bed was an emotional one. And that was hypothetical, something she could only guess at, given she did not yet know what the emotion that impelled her to intimacy with him was.
That emotion and its effect were quite real. Likewise, the risk, one to which she couldn’t, with her extensive knowledge of him, close her eyes, nor yet pretend she couldn’t see.
What if the emotion growing between them proved to be love?
She had no idea if it might be; along with men and marriage, love had not featured on her list of subjects to be studied.
She hadn’t come looking for it; that wasn’t why she’d availed herself of his offer to teach her what she wanted to know. Yet she wasn’t fool enough, arrogant enough not to wonder, not to acknowledge that, strange though it seemed, the prospect, the possibility, might now be staring her in the face.
Once they’d indulged—once, twice, however many times it took for her to learn all she wished and to identify that emotion—if it wasn’t love, then they would part, her experiment concluded, her discovery made. That outcome seemed certain and straightforward. The danger did not lie there.
The threat lay on the other side of the coin. If what lay between them proved to be love, what then?
She knew the answer; if it was love, either her for him or him for her, or both,
and he recognized it
, he would insist on marriage, and she would not easily be able to deny him.
He was a Cynster, after all. Yet if he prevailed, where would that leave her?
Married to a Cynster. Possibly bound by love
and
married to a Cynster—if anything, that was potentially worse. If love ruled them both, then the situation
might
be manageable—she really had no idea—but if love affected one but not the other, the outlook was inherently bleak.
Therein lay the risk.
The question facing her, now, tonight, was would she chance it? In essence, was she game?
She blew out a breath, focused on the silhouettes of the trees outside.
If she didn’t pursue the question now—didn’t accept his offer to be seduced—they would go their separate ways within days. She would return to Rutlandshire, curiosity aflame; who else would she find to satisfy her need to know? Who else could she trust?
The chances of their meeting again this summer, let alone in suitable surrounds, were slight, and she had no guarantee that he would remain agreeable to teaching her all she wished next month, let alone in three.
Could she bear to retreat, to turn aside, draw back and not know? Could she live without discovering what, for them, physical intimacy truly represented? What it was that drove them to it? Never learn if it was love, whether both of them were affected by it, and what such an outome would mean?
Her lips twisted, wryly self-deprecating. There was no question there. Reckless, often arrogantly heedless, willful to a fault, she didn’t have the temperament to turn back. Regardless of the risk.
Yet as matters stood, going to Simon tonight might well be her safest, most sensible option. Others might label her reckless and wild, but that argument made perfect sense to her.
There was no sense wasting time.
In order to reach Simon’s room, she had to circle the gallery around the top of the main stairs. Luckily, with all the ladies already in their rooms, there was no one around to see her as she glided from shadow to shadow, past the stairhead and into the corridor leading to the west wing.
At the junction of the west wing and the main house, she had to cross the foyer at the head of the west wing stairs. She’d just entered the open area when she heard heavy footsteps plodding up the stairs.
Quick as a flash, she whisked around, back into the shadows of the corridor she’d just left. The steps came steadily on, two sets, then she heard Ambrose’s voice; Desmond replied. She sent up a quick prayer that their rooms were in the west wing and not in the main wing where she presently stood.