He dragged in a breath and looked down at her.
She looked up, met his eyes.
A moment passed, then she raised a hand, held it up.
He closed his hand about it, felt her fingers lock tight.
She looked toward the door; it burst open—Henry and Blenkinsop rushed in, Ambrose and a footman on their heels.
The following hours ranked among the most ghastly Simon could recall. Shock was far too mild a word to describe how Kitty’s death struck them all. Everyone was stunned, unable to take it in. Despite all that had been going on under their noses throughout the past days, no one had dreamed it would end like this.
“I might at times have thought of strangling her,” James said. “I never dreamed anyone would.”
But someone had.
Of the ladies, most were distraught. Even Lady O; she forgot to lean heavily on her cane, and forgot entirely to thump it on the floor. Drusilla was the most composed, yet even she shook, paled, and sank into a chair when she heard. In death, Kitty garnered far more sympathy than she ever had in life.
Among the men, once the first shock wore off, confusion was the most prevalent emotion. That, and increasing concern over what was to come, how the situation would develop.
Simon’s attention, his awareness, remained fixed on Portia. Hours later, she was still in shock, racked by occasional shivers. Her eyes were huge, her hands still clammy. He wanted to sweep her up, take her away, far away, but that simply wasn’t possible.
Lord Willoughby, the local magistrate, had been sent for; he arrived and, after saying the right things and viewing the body, still sprawled behind the library desk, he repaired to Lord Glossup’s study. After talking to each of the gentlemen in turn, he summoned Portia to tell him her tale.
Simon accompanied her as if by right. She didn’t ask him, he didn’t ask her, but since taking his hand in the library, she’d released it only when absolutely necessary. Ensconced in an armchair by a hastily lit fire in the study, with him sitting beside her on the chair’s arm, she haltingly recounted the details of her gruesome discovery.
Lord Willoughby, pince-nez perched on his nose, took notes. “So you weren’t in the library for more than, shall we say five minutes, before you found Mrs. Glossup?”
Portia thought, then nodded.
“And you didn’t see, or hear, anyone leaving the room, either when you entered the front hall or when you entered the library—is that right?”
She nodded again.
“No one at all?”
Simon stirred, but Willoughby was only doing his job, and as gently as he could. He was an elderly, fatherly sort, but his gaze was sharp; he seemed to realize Portia’s lack of response wasn’t because she was hiding something.
She cleared her throat. “No one.”
“I understand the terrace doors were open. Did you look out?”
“No. I didn’t even go up to the doors—just walked past.”
Willoughby smiled encouragingly. “And then you saw her, and called for Mr. Cynster. You didn’t touch anything?”
Portia shook her head. Willoughby turned to Simon.
“I didn’t see anything—I did look, but there seemed to be nothing unusual in any way, nothing out of place.”
Willoughby nodded and made another note. “Well, then. I believe I needn’t trouble you further.” He smiled gently and rose.
Portia, her hand still in Simon’s, rose, too. “What will happen now?”
Willoughby glanced at Simon, then back at her. “I’m afraid I must summon one of the gentlemen from Bow Street. I’ll send my report off tonight. With luck, an officer will be here by tomorrow afternoon.” He smiled again, this time reassuringly. “They are a great deal better than they used to be, my dear, and in such a case . . .” He shrugged.
“What do you mean—such a case?”
Again Willoughby glanced at Simon, then grimaced. “Unfortunately, it appears that other than Mr. Cynster here, and Mr. Hastings, none of the gentlemen can account for the time during which Mrs. Glossup was killed. Of course, there are gypsies in the neighborhood, but these days, it’s best to follow proper procedures.”
Portia stared at him; Simon could read her thoughts with ease. She wanted the murderer caught,
whoever
he was.
Simon turned to Willoughby, and with a nod, he led Portia out.
Willoughby spoke to Lord Glossup, then took his leave.
Dinner, a cold collation, was served early. Everyone retired to their rooms before the sun set.
Sitting on the window seat, arms folded on the sill, chin propped upon them, Portia watched the golden light of the sun slowly fade from the sky.
And thought of Kitty. The Kitty—the many Kittys—she’d glimpsed in recent days. She’d been beautiful, capable of vivacity, of being pleasant and charming, but she’d also been vindictive, shallow, knowingly hurtful to others. Demanding—that, perhaps, had been her greatest crime, perhaps her ultimate folly. She’d demanded that life, all life around her, center on her and her alone.
In all the time Portia had watched, she’d never seen Kitty truly think of anyone else.
A shiver racked her. One point she couldn’t get out of her head. Kitty had trusted someone—she’d gone to meet someone in the library, a place to which she never would have gone for any other purpose. She’d changed her gown; the expectation that had fired her through lunch returned to Portia’s mind.
Kitty had trusted unwisely. And fatally.
But there was more than one way in which to lose your life.
She paused, mentally halted, testing to see if she was yet ready to set Kitty’s death aside and move on to the questions facing her. The evolving, emotionally escalating questions affecting her future, her life, and Simon’s—the lives they had to live regardless of Kitty’s demise.
She’d always known there were deaths that, if a lady wasn’t careful, she might find herself living. How long she’d known the notion applied to her . . . she honestly couldn’t remember. Perhaps, at base, deep down inside, that had been the reason she’d so determinedly eschewed men—and marriage—for so long.
Marriage, for her, was always going to be a risk, hence her search for the
right
husband, one who would provide all she required, and allow her to manage him, dictate their interaction, and otherwise go her own way. Her temper would never let her live within a relationship that sought to confine her; she would either break it, or it would break her.
And now here she was, facing the prospect of marriage to a man more than strong enough to bend her to his will. A man she didn’t have it in her to break, but who, if she gave him her hand, could break her if he wished.
She’d always known what Simon was; never, not even at fourteen, had she mistaken his caliber, not seen him for the tyrant he was. But never had she dreamed he would take it into his head to marry her—certainly not before she had thought of marrying him. Yet he had, and she, with her curiosity about marriage born of her wish for a husband—something, thankfully, he still didn’t know—had, quite literally, played into his hands.
And he’d let her.
Hardly surprising; that rang so very true to his nature.
Staring out at the darkening gardens, she thought again of him, of all they’d shared. All she still did not know.
All she still wished to learn.
Was it love that was growing between them? Or something he’d concocted to draw her to him?
Separate from that, was he truly capable of allowing her free rein within reason, allowing her to be as she was? Or was his offer simply a tactic to gain her agreement to their marriage?
Two questions—both were now clear in her mind.
There was only one way to learn the answers.
Try me.
She would have to put him to the test.
She sat by the window and watched the shadows lengthen, darken. Watched night descend, wrapping the gardens in silence.
Thought again of Kitty lying dead in the icehouse.
Felt the blood still coursing her own veins.
She still had her life to live, and that meant making of it what she could. She’d never lacked for courage; never in her life had she walked away from a challenge.
Never had she faced a challenge like this.
To take the situation he had wrought and shape from it the life she wanted, to claim from him—him of all men—the answers, the guarantees she needed to feel safe.
The truth was there was no going back. No pretending that what had happened between them hadn’t, or that what had grown between them, still was growing between them, didn’t exist.
Or that she could simply walk away, from it, from him—that he would let her.
No point pretending at all.
In waistcoat and shirtsleeves, Simon stood by the window in his room watching the waters of the lake turn to ink.
Feeling his mood turn equally black.
He wanted to go to Portia—now, tonight. Wanted to wrap her in his arms and know she was safe. Wanted, with a desire that was new and novel and so unlike passion he couldn’t believe its strength, to make her feel safe.
That was his governing impulse, one he couldn’t indulge.
The fact only fed his deepening disquiet.
She was in her room, alone. Thinking.
There was nothing he could do about it—nothing he could do to influence her conclusions.
He couldn’t recall being so totally uncertain of any other woman in his life; he’d certainly never been so hobbled in his ability to turn a woman to his will.
There was nothing he could do. Unless or until she came to him, he was powerless to persuade her further. To convince her to go forward with him and explore making a marriage work—something to which he was now fully committed. He’d been perfectly serious in promising to find ways to accommodate her as far as he was able.
He would do whatever it took to get her to marry him; the alternative was not something he was prepared to face.
Yet presently, he was helpless. He was accustomed to being in control of his life, to being able to do something about anything that mattered. But in this—something that mattered more than anything else—until she came to him and gave him the chance, there was no action he could take.
His life, his future, were in her hands.
If she gave him few chances to persuade her, then decided against him, he would lose her, no matter that he was stronger than she in all ways that mattered. He could bring all society down on her head, and yet she would not bend. She would not yield. None knew that better than he.
Why he had fixed on a woman of indomitable will he didn’t know, but it was too late to change things.
Chest swelling, he drew in a breath. He’d laughed at his brothers-in-law, hoist years ago with their own petards. He wasn’t laughing now. He was in equally dire straits.
The latch clicked; he turned as the door opened.
Portia entered, turning to close the door behind her. He heard the lock snib before she turned and surveyed him, then, head rising, crossed the room to him.
He held perfectly still. Barely breathed.
Felt every inch the predator watching his prey innocently waltzing his way.
The faint moonlight reached her as she neared; he saw her expression, her level gaze, the determination in her face.
She walked directly to him, reached a hand to his nape, and drew his lips down to hers.
Kissed him.
The fire was still there, between them; it sprang to life as she parted her lips beneath his, as he instinctively responded.
Moving slowly, giving her plenty of time to break away if she would, he slid his hands about her waist, then, when she didn’t complain, slid them further, ultimately closing his arms about her and drawing her close.
She sank against him; something in him unlocked, unfroze, melted away. He kissed her back, wanting more, and she gave it. Unhesitatingly, unstintingly.
He didn’t know what she’d decided, what tack she was now on, knew only the inexplicable relief of having her in his arms. Of having her want him.
She did; she made that abundantly clear, stretching against him, pressing close. Her tongue tangled with his, sensuously sliding, taking the kiss deeper, step by step. Wanting more, taking more, giving more. Kissing him with her usual one hundred percent focus, her customary devotion to the moment.
He knew it was deliberate—that she’d made up her mind to go this way.
Equally deliberate, he set aside his arguments, his persuasions, and simply followed.
Wound his arms about her upper thighs and lifted her against him. She responded with an ardent murmur, twined her arms about his neck and, head bent to his, feasted on his mouth. He paused, distracted, momentarily lost as he fought to appease her demands, then he ravaged her mouth, took command again, and carried her to the bed.
He tumbled them onto it, across it, instinctively rolling to trap her beneath him. She gasped, then grabbed his hair, his shoulders, clung to the kiss and wriggled, wrestled, until he rolled back and let her have her way, let her sprawl atop him, unencumbered by his weight.
Remembered he was the supplicant now, knew she wouldn’t forget. Set himself to appease her, to enthrall and entice her all over again.
Devoted his mind, and his hands, lips, mouth, and tongue, to the task. To giving himself, body and soul, to her.
Felt, in the moment the thought registered, the moment he accepted it and let it stand, a welling rightness, the rising swell of some deeper sea. It infused his touch, flowed through his fingers as he caressed her nape, eased through his body as he settled beneath her.
Openly prepared to let her have her way.
She hesitated, suspicious, but then accepted the unvoiced invitation, rising above him to better savor his mouth. Spreading her hands, she grasped the sides of his face and held him captive as she let out a satisfied sigh, released his lips, and, dark eyes glinting beneath heavy lids, ran her fingers back, into his hair.
Taking that as a sign, he sent his hands stroking over her back, smoothing her gown, then set his fingers to the buttons down her back.
She made a sound of protest; bracing her hands on his chest she pushed up, wriggled until she was straddling his waist, then looked down into his face.