Beneath her lashes, her dark eyes glinted, the deep sapphire so intense it was almost black.
As she watched him watching her. Visually savoring her as he brought her slowly, steadily, inexorably to climax.
Her nipples, rosy and tight, beckoned, the most succulent fruit.
As step by step passion claimed her, as her body undulated to the rhythm he set, as the blush of desire intensified and her lids fell, he bent his head and took one nipple into his mouth.
Tasted her, teased, waited, feeling her urgency well, feeling the tide rushing through her veins.
Then he suckled fiercely, heard her cry, felt her hands clench tight on his skull as release claimed her.
He held her and feasted as the contractions faded, as all tension flowed from her. Withdrawing his hand from between her thighs, he swept her up; kneeling on the bed, he laid her down.
Her eyes opened, and she watched him. Displayed naked and delectable on the red silk coverlet, she followed his every move as, languidly, unhurriedly, he undressed.
There was no reason to rush, as he’d said; he intended tonight’s performance to be a play of multiple acts—she would need at least a few minutes to recover, the longer the better. The better for the next time; the better for him.
He was a past master at thinking of other things, of ignoring the driving beat in his blood, yet it was only that experience, the knowing what was possible if he stuck to the script, and his iron will, that kept him from falling on her and ravishing her.
Her skin was incredibly fine; although the flush of desire was fading, it was so pale and translucent it took the golden glow from the candlelight, sheened with a sensual gilding. Her raven black hair, thick, falling in large wavy locks, lay spread beneath her shoulders, a frame for her face.
The face of a very English madonna, softened even more by passion’s stamp and lit by a sensual glow.
And slowly dawning expectation.
Fascinated anticipation.
He moved about the bed, divesting himself of coat, waistcoat, shirt—all in the usual manner of a gentleman preparing for bed with the intention of sleeping rather than indulging himself to the hilt with a delectable houri he’d already rendered boneless.
She followed his every move.
They said not a word, but the tension rising between them, around them, intensifying about the bed, was a palpable thing.
It kept his heart racing, pulse thudding; when he finally stripped off his trousers, it was with intense relief.
Laying them neatly aside, he straightened, then came to the side of the bed.
From under the black screen of her lashes, she lay back and watched, blatantly let her gaze run down from his face, over his chest, down over his ridged stomach to feast lovingly on his erection.
Hers.
He could almost hear the word in her mind, saw her fingers curl.
Crawling onto the bed, he sat back on his ankles, just out of her reach.
Lifted one hand, beckoned. “Come here.”
At his tone, harsh, gravelly, very much a command, her gaze flicked up to his face. Then she shifted, came up on her elbow. He was reaching for her arm to help her to her knees when instead she bent toward him.
Her hair swept his groin; before he could react, he felt her breath caress his aching flesh, then she licked. Long. Lingeringly.
And he was lost.
Forgot his script entirely as she shifted and settled to her task, leaning on his thighs, one hand caressing, gliding up and down, fondling as her tongue licked, laved, winding him tighter, then she drew back, considered all she could see, then bent her head and took him into her mouth.
His fingers speared through her thick hair, spasmed on her skull when she sucked. He had to cling for dear life to his control as she tormented him, had to fight to summon enough will to, the moment she paused to draw breath, grab her shoulders and lift her up. Away.
She met his gaze. “I haven’t finished yet.”
“Enough,” he ground out. “Later.”
“You said that last time.”
“For good reason.”
“You promised.”
“That you could look. Not taste.”
She narrowed her eyes as she complied with his wishes and, now on her knees, straddled his lap. Their faces again close, she frowned into his eyes. “Methinks you protest too much. You like it. A lot.”
He clamped his hands about her hips. “I like it too damned much.”
She opened her lips; he stopped her words in the most effective way he knew.
He slid into her, slowly, working his way steadily into her soft sheath, drawing her down, down, until she lost the last of her breath on a gasp, closed her hands about his face, framing it, holding it so she could kiss him.
As evocatively as any houri ever birthed.
He didn’t need any encouraging; he moved beneath her, into her, moving her on him to the same rhythm. She caught it, grabbed it, danced with him. On him. Clamping tight about him, then easing as he lifted her. He didn’t lift her far; she liked him deep, it seemed, and he was quite content to humor her, at least in that regard.
There was, to his mind, nothing more sensually satisfying than being sheathed to the hilt in hot, slick, voluptuous feminine flesh.
Especially hers.
With her, the satisfaction went much deeper than mere sex. Far deeper than sensual gratification. It went to the heart of him; like some heavenly elixir, it soothed, fed, eased, then became an addiction and incited.
He changed tempo, let the urgency build; she wrapped her arms about his shoulders and clung tight. To him, to their kiss.
To the building, growing, swelling need that rose through them, more primitive than lust, more powerful than passion.
Like a tide rushing in, it filled them; they rode it, faster, higher, deeper, harder.
Until she shattered. Her body tightened unforgivingly around him, then her tension imploded. She cried out, the sound smothered between them. He held her down, brutually forceful, keeping her immobile while her contractions rippled through her, about him, and faded.
All strength went from her, and she slumped against him.
Only then did he dare draw back from the kiss, draw breath, think. Of his next move.
Portia finally managed to drag in a shuddering breath. Realized he’d stopped, that he was still iron-hard, rigid inside her. His hands ran soothingly down her back, but his body was tense, locked—waiting.
Lifting her head, she looked into his eyes. Saw the beast prowling behind the bright blue.
“What now?”
He took a moment to answer; when he did, his voice was a bass growl. “Next act.”
He lifted her from him, gently pushed her toward the pillows piled at the bed’s head.
On her knees, she slumped that way.
Landed on her stomach. Waited for him to turn her over. When he didn’t, she came up on one elbow and looked back at him.
He was still sitting on his haunches, flagrantly erect; as she watched, his gaze rose from her bottom.
“What?” She glanced back, around.
He hesitated, then shook his head. “Nothing.” He reached for her legs. “Lie back.”
He flipped her over, spread her thighs wide, came over her and wedged his hips between, and entered her. With one powerful thrust that had her arching wildly, that nearly made her forget.
But not quite.
He withdrew and thrust again, seating himself fully, then, obedient to her tugging, let his body down atop hers.
She caught his eye. “What aren’t you telling me?”
“Nothing you need to know.” He pressed a hand beneath her hip, tilted her up to meet his next thrust.
“I won’t pay attention until you tell me.”
He laughed. “Don’t tempt me.”
She tried to g
lare, but his next thrust, deeper, harder, wiped the impulse from her mind.
He shifted, rising slightly over her, moving more deeply than ever into her. “If you learn everything at once, there’ll be nothing left to teach you. I wouldn’t want you to grow bored.”
“I don’t think . . .” There’s any likelihood of that, not ever. Not in this lifetime. She left the words unsaid, closed her eyes. Tried to hold back the tide of urgent need that rose so powerfully, stoked by every deep penetration, by every rocking thrust of his body into hers.
Couldn’t. Let it sweep through her, catch her, buoy her, carry her.
On.
Into the sea in which they’d bathed often enough for her to relish the moments, to value them, savor them, appreciate all they were.
Intimate. Those precious moments were assuredly that, but also a great deal more, far more than the merely physical.
She felt it in her bones, wondered, in the distant part of her mind that still functioned, if he felt it, too.
Felt the power of what was growing between them. Felt how it linked them as their bodies relentlessly fused. Harder, faster, reaching for the pinnacle of ultimate bliss. Sure that they would reach it.
As inevitably they did, cresting, rising high on a wave of ecstasy, before tumbling, locked together, into a sea of pleasured satiation.
It had been easy. So very easy she wasn’t sure she could trust her intuition. Surely nothing so important could be this straightforward.
Was it really love? How could she tell?
It was certainly more than lust that bound them; inexperienced though she was, she was sure about that.
Quitting the breakfast table the next morning, praying no one had noticed her amazing appetite, Portia headed for the morning room and the terrace beyond. She needed to think, to reevaluate, to reassess where they now were, and where, together, it was possible they might go. She’d always thought best while walking, rambling, preferably outdoors.
But she couldn’t think at all with him prowling beside her.
Halting on the terrace, she faced him. “I want to think—I’m going for a walk.”
Hands in his pockets, he looked down at her. Inclined his head. “All right.”
“Alone.”
The change in his face was not due to her imagination; the planes really did harden, his jaw firmed, his eyes sharpened, narrowed.
“You can’t go wandering anywhere alone. Someone tried to murder you, remember?”
“That was days ago—they must have realized by now that I don’t know anything to the point.” She spread her hands. “I’m harmless.”
“You’re witless.” He scowled. “If he thinks you’ll remember whatever it is he imagines you know but have forgotten, he won’t stop—you heard Stokes. Until the murderer’s caught, you go nowhere without protection.”
She narrowed her eyes. “If you think I’m going to—”
“I don’t think—I know.”
Looking into his eyes, she felt her temper rise, like a volcano filling her, seething, building, preparing to erupt . . .
Her earlier thought echoed in her mind. Easy? Had she really thought it would be, with him?
She glared; others would cringe and slink away—he, his resolve, didn’t so much as flicker. Suppressing a growl—she really didn’t want to return to their previous sniping ways—she shackled her temper, then, seeing no other way forward, nodded curtly.
“Very well. You can follow.” She sensed his surprise, realized he’d tensed for a battle royal. Defiantly held his gaze. “At a distance.”
He blinked; some of his tension drained. “Why at a distance?”
She didn’t want to admit it, but he wouldn’t oblige if she didn’t. “I can’t think—not clearly, not so I trust what I’m thinking—if you’re on my heels. Or anywhere close.” She didn’t wait to see his reaction—her imagination was quite bad enough; turning, she headed for the steps. “Stay back at least twenty yards.”
She thought she heard a laugh, abruptly smothered, didn’t look back. Head up, she set off, striding across the main lawn in the direction of the lake.
Halfway across, she glanced back. Saw him leisurely descending the steps. Didn’t look to see if his lips were curved or straight. Facing forward, she walked on.
And turned her mind determinedly to her topic.
Him. And her. Together.
An almost unbelievable development. She recalled her original aim, the one that had landed her in his arms. She’d wanted to learn about the attraction that flared between a man and a woman, the attraction that led a woman to consider marriage.
She’d learned the answer. Quite possibly too well.
Frowning, she looked down. Hands clasped behind her back, she ambled on.
Was she truly considering marrying Simon, latent, ofttimes not-so-latent tyrant?
Yes.
Why?
Not because she enjoyed sharing his bed. While that aspect was all very nice, it wasn’t of itself compelling enough. Out of ignorance, she’d assumed the physical aspects weighed heavily in the scale; now, while she would admit they had some weight, indeed, were pleasantly addictive, at least with a gentleman like him, she couldn’t imagine—even now, even with him—that that alone had tipped the scales.
It was that elusive something that had grown between them that had added definitive weight and influenced her so strongly.
She might as well call it by its real name; love was what it had to be—there was no longer any point doubting that. It was there, between them, almost tangible, never truly absent.
Was it really new to them? Was there something different he was offering that he hadn’t before? Or had age and perhaps circumstances shifted their perspectives, opened their eyes, made them appreciate things about each other they hadn’t until now?
The latter seemed most likely. Looking back, she could admit that the potential might, indeed, always have been there but masked and hidden by the natural clash of their personalities.
Their personalities hadn’t changed, yet she and apparently he . . . perhaps they’d both reached an age when they could accept each other as they were, willing to adjust and cope in pursuit of a greater prize.
The lawn narrowed into the path leading toward the lake. She looked up as she turned the corner—
Nearly tripped, stumbled—grabbed up her skirts and leapt over some obstacle. Regaining her balance, she looked back.
Saw . . .
Was suddenly conscious of the soft breeze lifting tendrils of her hair, conscious of the thud of her heart, the rush of blood through her veins.
Of the icy chill washing over her skin.
“Simon?”
Too weak. He was close, but momentarily out of sight.
“Simon!”
She heard the immediate pounding as he rushed to her. Put out her hands to stop him as he, as she had, tripped, then stumbled.
He caught his balance, glanced down, swore, and grabbed her, held her tight.
Swore again, and wrapped his arms around her, holding her close, swinging her away, shielding her from the sight.
Of the young gypsy gardener, Dennis, lying sprawled on his back, strangled . . . like Kitty.
Like Kitty, quite dead.
No.” Stokes answered the question put to him by Lord Netherfield; they—Stokes, Simon, Portia, Charlie, Lady O, and his lordship—were gathered in the library, taking stock. “So early in the morning, no one had any real alibi. Everyone was in their rooms, alone.”
“That early, heh?”
“Apparently Dennis often started soon after first light. Today, the head gardener passed him and spoke with him—the exact time’s uncertain, but it was long before the household was up and about. One thing, however, we can say.” Stokes stood in the middle of the room and faced them, gathered on the chaise and armchairs before the main he
arth. “Whoever killed Dennis was a man in his prime. The lad put up quite a struggle—that much was clear.”
Perched on the arm of the chair in which Portia sat, Simon glanced at her face. She was still white with shock, and far too quiet, even though half a day had passed since her gruesome discovery. Second gruesome discovery. Lips thinning, he looked back at Stokes; remembering the gouges in the grass, the twisted body, he nodded. “Kitty could have been murdered by anyone; Dennis is another matter.”
“Aye. We can forget all thought of any woman being the murderer.”
Lady O blinked. “I didn’t know we were considering the ladies.”
“We were considering everyone. We can’t afford to guess.”
“Humph! I suppose not.” She fluffed her shawl. Her customary air of invincible certainty was wavering; the second murder had shocked everyone, not just anew, but to a deeper level. The murderer was unquestionably still there, among them; some had, perhaps, started to push the matter aside in their minds, but Dennis’s death had forced all to realize the horror couldn’t be so easily buried.
Lounging against the mantelpiece, Charlie asked, “What did the blackguard use to strangle the poor blighter?”
“Another curtain cord. This time from the morning room.”
Charlie grimaced. “So it could have been anyone.”
Stokes nodded. “However, if we assume the same person’s responsible for both murders, we can reduce the list of suspects considerably.”
“Only men,” Lady O said.
Stokes inclined his head. “And only those strong enough to be sure of subduing Dennis—I think the being sure is important. Our murderer couldn’t risk trying but not succeeding, and he had to get the deed done quickly—he would have known there’d be others about.”
He hesitated, then went on, “I’m inclined to say the murderer must be Henry Glossup, James Glossup, Desmond Winfield, or Ambrose Calvin.” He paused; when no one argued, he continued, “All have strong motives for killing Mrs. Glossup, all could physically have done the deeds, all had the opportunity, and none has an alibi.”
Simon heard Portia sigh; he glanced down in time to see her shiver, then she looked up. “His shoes. The grass must have been wet that early. Perhaps if we check . . .”