Standing by the window, coatless, waistcoatless, a glass of brandy in his hand, Simon looked down into the garden, and tried not to think. Tried to still his mind. Tried to ignore the growling predator within, and all its fears. They were groundless, he knew, yet . . .
The door opened; he looked across—turned as Portia whisked in and quietly shut it.
Then she straightened, saw him; through the shadows, she studied him, then she crossed the room. Halted a yard away, trying to read his face.
“I didn’t expect you to still be up.”
He looked into her face, sensed more than saw her sudden uncertainty. “I wasn’t expecting you—I didn’t think you’d come.”
He hesitated only an instant more, then set the glass on the sill and reached for her—as she walked into his arms.
They closed around her; her arms went around his neck and locked as their lips met, then their mouths melded, their aching bodies pressing close. For one long minute, they both clung to the kiss—salvation in a world suddenly dangerous.
She sighed when it ended and he lifted his head; she laid hers on his shoulder. “It’s
awful
—dreadful. How could Kitty have done it? Even acting . . .” She shuddered, lifted her head and looked into his eyes. “It makes me feel literally ill.”
His laugh, harsh, abrupt, shook. “The script’s not doing anything for my stomach, either.”
The feel of her, long, slender, vibrantly warm and alive between his hands, the mounds of her breasts firm against his chest, her hips flush to his thighs, her stomach cradling his erection—her simple physical closeness soothed him as nothing else could. The promise that she was his was so inherent in her stance, the predator in him lay down and purred.
He stroked her back, felt her instant response. Smiled. “We’d better go to bed.”
“Hmm . . .” She smiled back, stretched up and touched her lips to his. “We’d better—it’s the only way either of us is going to get any sleep.”
He laughed, and it felt so good; the shackles of the day melted away, left him free to breathe, to live, to love again.
Free to love her.
He let her take his hand and lead him to the bed, let her script their play as she wished. Gave her all she wanted, and more, even though he had no notion if she’d yet realized.
If she’d guessed or seen or deduced that he loved her.
It didn’t, anymore, seem to matter if she had; what he felt was simply there, too real, too strong, too much a part of him to deny.
As for her . . . she wouldn’t be here, tonight, sharing herself and the moment with him as she was, if she didn’t, in her heart, feel the same. Again, he had no idea if she’d realized her state, let alone if she would readily, easily, acknowledge it.
He was prepared to be patient.
Lying on his back, sprawled naked on the bed, he watched as she rode him, as she used her body to caress him, and flagrantly, blatantly enjoyed every second. He filled his hands, drew her down and feasted, then eased back to watch as she climaxed, perfectly sure he’d never seen any sight so wondrous in his life.
The only thing that felt better was what followed, when she slumped, replete, and he rolled her beneath him, and sheathed himself fully in her warmth. In the slick, scalding haven of her body, and felt her hold him, then stir and rise to him as he filled her, deeper, more powerfully, with every stroke.
And then they were there, where they’d wanted to be, the pinnacle they’d set out to reach.
Bliss filled them, ecstasy overwhelmed them, taking their wits, leaving nothing behind but the fused beat of their lovers’ hearts.
The warmth closed around them, drawing them down.
They slumped together, limbs tangled, and slept.
Parting was hard. They both felt it. Both struggled to slip from the bonds that now linked them, more deeply than either had ever expected, more precious than either had ever imagined such things might be.
When just after dawn, Portia slipped from his room—alone after a hissed argument that she’d won—Simon remained sitting up in bed, consciously dwelling on the past hours, on all they’d meant, to him and to her.
The clock on the mantelpiece ticked on; when it struck seven, he sighed. Deliberately, reluctantly, set aside what was—tucked it all away in his mind, safe, real, not to be affected, besmirched, by anything they were forced to say or do today. By any act they were forced to play.
Throwing back the covers, he rose and dressed.
Charlie was already in the breakfast parlor when Simon entered. So were James, Henry, and their father. Simon exchanged the usual morning greetings, let his gaze touch Charlie’s as he took the seat opposite James.
Lucy Buckstead arrived, then Portia breezed in. Bright, cheery, her smiles were directed predominantly at Charlie.
Simon she ignored.
She took the seat beside Charlie, and instantly engaged him in a laughing conversation centering on shared acquaintances in town.
Simon sat back, watched, his expression hard, unforgiving.
James glanced at him, then followed his gaze to Charlie and Portia. After a moment, he cleared his throat and asked Simon about his horses.
The day was theirs, but it would definitely be the last—they had to make the most of it. Throughout the morning, their barbs became progressively more pointed, the brittleness between them escalating step by deliberate step.
James tried to intervene, to draw Charlie off; they all understood, appreciated the gesture—couldn’t afford to humor it.
Realizing the difficulty both Simon and Charlie faced in rejecting James’s help, Portia put her nose in the air and haughtily snubbed him—inwardly apologizing, praying their ruse worked and she’d be able, later, to explain.
She might as well have slapped him. His face like stone, James inclined his head and left them.
Their eyes met, briefly, then they drew in a collective breath, and carried on.
It was increasingly hurtful. By the time she went in to luncheon, Portia felt physically unwell. A headache threatened, but she refused to let the others down.
Stokes was playing least-in-sight; in all ways, the day was perfect for their purpose. With a death in the house, no one was expecting to be entertained, or even to ride or play cards. The entire company was a captive audience for their little drama; if they played it well, there was no reason their plan wouldn’t work.
Again, she sat beside Charlie; blithely gay, she openly courted his attention, repaying him with her best smile.
From across the table, Simon, unusually silent, watched with a burgeoning, brooding, increasingly malevolent air.
More than anything else, that air of suppressed reaction, of reined unhappy passion, infused the atmosphere and sank into everyone. Once, when Portia laughed at a quip of Charlie’s, Lady O opened her mouth—then shut it. Looked down at her plate and poked at her peas. Shot a sharp black glance up the table, but in the end said nothing.
Letting out the breath she’d held, Portia met Charlie’s eye, gave an infinitesimal nod, and they continued.
When they rose from the table, Portia’s temples were throbbing. Lord Netherfield stumped up, fixed Charlie with a straight glance, and asked to have a private word.
Charlie looked at her, panic in his eyes. They hadn’t expected direct interference, had no contingency plan.
She forced her smile to grow even brighter. “Oh, dear—Mr. Hastings was going to accompany me for a walk in the gardens.” She clung to Charlie’s arm, inwardly hating her role.
Lord Netherfield glanced at her; his gaze was condemnatory. “I daresay you could find someone else to guide you—one of the other young ladies, perhaps?”
Charlie tightened his hold on her arm.
Her smile felt sickly as she replied, “Well, they are rather
young
, if you take my meaning?”
Lord Netherfield blinked. Before he could respond, Lady O stumped up and poked him in the ribs. “Leave them be.” Her tone was curt, and uncharactertistically low. “Use the brains you were born with, Granny. They’re up to something.” Her black eyes narrowed, but there was a hint of approval in the darkness. “They’re playing a very close hand, but if that’s what’s needed, then the least we can do is stand aside and let them try.”
“Oh.” Lord Netherfield’s expression underwent a series of changes—as if, as his brain digested Lady O’s news, he had to shuffle to find the most appropriate face. He blinked. “I see.”
“Indeed.” Lady O rapped his arm. “You may give me your arm and lead me onto the terrace. The lame leading the lame, perhaps, but let’s leave the field to these youngsters”—something of her usual evil gleam shone through—“and watch to see what they make of it.”
Both Portia and Charlie stood back; relief flooding them, they let their elders precede them onto the terrace, then followed, aware Simon had seen the exchange from the other side of the room. Even from that distance, something of his tension reached them; exchanging glances, they went down the terrace steps and out onto the lawn.
They ambled, but it quickly became apparent Charlie was seriously flagging. When he countered one of her teasing sallies completely at random, Portia looped her arm in his and pressed even more brazenly near, conscious that, despite the physical closeness, there was nothing at all between them, except, perhaps, a burgeoning friendship and the trust of a shared endeavor. Luckily, that was enough to allow them to behave sufficiently intimately to carry off their charade. Providing neither of them stumbled.
Leaning close, she murmured, “Let’s go down by the lake—if there’s no one about, we can duck into the pinetum and rest for a while. After all our hard work, if we fall at the last hurdle and give ourselves away, we’ll never forgive ourselves.”
Charlie straightened. “Good idea.” He redirected their footsteps toward the lake path. Surreptitiously wriggled his shoulders. “Simon’s watching—I can feel it.”
She glanced at him; she wouldn’t have marked him as a particularly sensitive soul. “I’m assuming he’ll follow.”
“I think we can count on it.”
Charlie’s grim pronouncement had her studying his face. Realizing . . . “You’re not enjoying this any more than we are.”
The look he shot her, safe enough with all the others far behind, was ascerbic. “I think I can confidently state that I’m enjoying this considerably
less
than you both, and that’s despite knowing both of you hate it.”
She frowned as they followed the narrowing lawn path on toward the lake. “Can’t you just think of me in the same vein as one of the married matrons I assume you occasionally consort with?”
“That’s just the problem. I
do
think of you like that, only you’re
his
wife. Makes a rather big difference, you know. I don’t relish the prospect of being rent limb from limb—I avoid jealous husbands on principle.”
“But he’s not my husband.”
“Oh, ain’t he, though?” Charlie’s brows rose high. “You couldn’t prove it by his behavior—or yours, come to that. And I think I can lay claim to some expertise in that sphere.”
He looked down as they walked on, didn’t see her smile.
“In fact, I think,” he continued, grimacing as he lifted his head, “that that’s the reason our plan just might work.”
Given the distance from the house, and the clear area around them, it seemed safe to talk freely. “Do you think it truly is working?”
He grinned at her, lifted a hand and flicked back a lock of black hair that the wind had sent sneaking across her cheek; they still had to keep up appearances. “Henry looked as sick as a horse—all because of us. After this morning, James has retreated, but he’s watching us, too. Desmond . . . he’s a quiet one, but now Winifred’s drawn back, he has plenty of time on his hands, and he’s definitely been frowning our way.”
“Frowning? Not just watching?”
“Frowning,” Charlie averred. “But in what sense I couldn’t say—I don’t know him well enough.”
“What about Ambrose?”
Charlie grimaced. “Oh, he’s noticed, but I can’t say I’ve seen him paying much attention. He’s the only one of us who’s got anything from the last days; he’s been using the time to bend Mr. Buckstead to his cause. Mr. Archer, too, although the poor man isn’t really taking much in.”
They’d reached the lake path; they started to amble around it. When the path leading into the pinetum lay just ahead, Portia tugged Charlie’s arm. “Look back—can you see anyone?”
Charlie twisted around and scanned the lawn paths rising toward the house. “No one—not even Simon.”
“Good—come on.” Portia caught up her skirts and whisked onto the smaller path; Charlie followed close behind. “He’ll find us.”
He did, but not before weathering a moment of sheer panic. He’d assumed they’d go to the summerhouse; when he reached it and found it empty . . .
Tramping through the pinetum, Simon caught a glimpse of Portia’s blue gown through the trees ahead. The vise locked about his chest finally loosened; drawing a freer breath, he trudged on, the thick carpet of dried pine needles crunching with every step.
What he’d felt in that moment when he’d stood and stared around at the empty chairs and sofa in the summerhouse . . . clenching his jaw, he pushed the memory away. He’d never before been conscious of jealousy, but the corrosive emotion that had seared him—it couldn’t be termed anything else.
No, he wasn’t going to be an easy husband to live with; he had to admit Portia was right to consider very carefully before accepting him. He had a sneaking suspicion that when it came to the more emotional aspects of their potential, soon-to-be union, she saw him more clearly than he saw himself.
They’d stopped in a small clearing; Charlie was leaning against the bole of one tall tree, Portia was leaning against another, opposite, her spine supported by the bole, her head back, eyes closed.
He marched into the clearing, halted, and fixed both with a very straight glance. “What the devil are you doing?”
He kept his voice low, even.
Portia opened one eye, looked at him. “Resting.”
She closed her eye again, straightened her head against the tree. “Charlie was getting worn out and slipshod. So was I. We needed a respite from the fray.”