The Perfect Lover

by Stephanie Laurens

  Equally, its very strength bore witness to his commitment to adjusting as much as he was able, to be her champion against his own instincts.

  She held his gaze. “I can’t promise that. I’ll never close my eyes and not see you for what you are, or myself for what I am.”

  A tense moment passed, then he said, voice sinking low, “Trust me. That’s all I ask. Just trust me.”

  She didn’t answer; it was still too soon. And his “all” encompassed a lifetime.

  When she remained mute, he reached for her, turned and drew her fully to him. Bent his head. “When you make your decision, remember this.”

  She lifted her arms, wound them about his neck, offered her lips, and her mouth—his, as he wished. In this arena, she was already that, every bit as much as his conqueror’s soul might crave.

  He took, accepted, wrapped his arms around her and sank into her mouth, then flagrantly molded her body to his, explicitly foreshadowing all that was to come.

  She didn’t draw back, held nothing back—in this sphere, between them, all the barriers had come down.

  At least, all hers.

  Even as she let him sweep her into his arms and carry her to the bed, let him strip away her gown and chemise, stockings and slippers, and lay her naked on his sheets, even as she watched him strip and, naked, join her, set his hands and his lips, his mouth and his tongue to her skin, her body, pressing pleasure and delight on her, even as he parted her thighs and she cradled him as he joined with her, as they rode through the now familiar landscape of passion, through the valley of sensual desire and on, deeper into intimacy, until their skins were slick and heated, their breaths were ragged gasps and their bodies plunged desperately toward ultimate bliss, even then she knew, with an intuition she didn’t question, that he yet held something back, kept some small part of him, some deeper need, screened from her.

  He’d asked her to trust him; in this sphere she did. But he didn’t yet fully trust her—not enough to reveal that last little part of him.

  Someday, he would.

  In the moment that, locked together, they reached the bright peak and tumbled headlong into the void, she realized she’d reached her decision, already committed herself to learning that last fact, gaining that last piece of the jigsaw that was him.

  To do it, she would have to become his in all the ways he wished, in all the ways he wanted, and, perhaps, needed.

  That was the price of knowing, of being made privy to every last corner of his soul.

  As she eased beneath him and they slumped together in the bed, she spread her hands on his back and held him to her, marveling at his weight, at the solid muscle and bone that pressed her into the mattress, yet at the same time protected her, left her feeling safe, cherished, guarded like some treasure.

  Running her hands upward, she slid them into his hair, ruffling the silky locks, then smoothing them. She glanced at his face, shadowed in the gloom. Wished he’d lit the candles again, for she loved to see him like this, sated, deeply satisfied, having found his release in her.

  There was power, a delicious power, in knowing she had brought him to this.

  Shifting her head, she brushed her lips to his temple. “I haven’t thanked you for saving me.”

  He humphed. After a moment added, “Later.”

  She smiled, lay back, knew that while they lay there together, neither fear nor the murderer could impinge on her world. That the only currency there was what lay between them.

  The emotional connection, the shared physical joy—the ephemeral bliss.

  The love.

  It had been there all the time, waiting for them to see it, understand it, and claim it.

  She glanced at him. Realized he was watching her.

  Realized she didn’t need to tell him—he knew.

  She rolled toward him, let their lips meet in a kiss that said it all. His hand was cradling her head when it ended.

  Again their gazes met, locked, then he ran his hand down, over her shoulder, down her back, gathered her against him, let his hand rest on her hip. Closed his eyes. Settled to sleep.

  An utterly simple gesture of acceptance.

  She closed her eyes and accepted, too.

  “We have a problem.” Stokes stood in the middle of the summerhouse, facing Portia, Simon, and Charlie. They’d just quit the breakfast table, this morning all but deserted, when he’d met them in the hall and requested a meeting. “Mr. Archer and Mr. Buckstead have asked to take their families and leave. I can delay them for a day or so, but not more. That, however, isn’t the real problem.”

  He paused, as if debating with himself, then said, “The truth is, we’ve no evidence, and very little likelihood of catching this murderer.” He held up a hand when Charlie would have spoken. “Yes, I know that’s going to be black for the Glossups, but it’s actually worse than that.”

  Stokes looked at Simon. Portia did, too, and realized that whatever Stokes meant, Simon understood.

  He glanced at her as Stokes went on, “Miss Ashford appears to be the murderer’s only remaining mistake. After last night, we know that, no matter she doesn’t know anything that would identify him, he’s still convinced she does. The adder—that might have been an attempt to frighten her off, but the attempt last night was intended to kill. To silence, as he’s silenced Dennis.”

  Simon looked at Stokes. “You’re saying he won’t stop. That he’ll feel compelled to keep on, to dog Portia beyond the boundaries of Glossup Hall, through her life, wherever she goes, until he can make sure she’s no longer a threat to him?”

  Curtly, Stokes nodded. “Whoever he is, he clearly feels he has too much to lose to risk letting her go. He must fear she’ll remember at some point, and that what she’ll remember will point too definitely to him.”

  Portia grimaced. “I’ve racked my brains, but I really don’t know whatever it is. I just don’t.”

  “That I accept,” Stokes said. “It doesn’t matter. He believes you do, and that’s all that counts.”

  Charlie, unusually grim, said, “It’s actually very hard to protect someone who’s going about in society. Plenty of ways accidents can happen.”

  All three men looked at her. Portia expected to feel fear; somewhat to her relief, all she felt was irritation. “I am not going to be”—she waved—” ‘cribb’d, cabin’d, and confin’d’ for the rest of my days.”

  Stokes grimaced. “Yes, well—that’s the problem.”

  Simon looked at Stokes. “You didn’t bring us here to tell us that. You’ve thought of some plan to put paid to this villain. What?”

  Stokes nodded. “Yes, I’ve thought of a plan, but it’s not going to be something you”—his gaze swept the three of them—“any of you, are going to like.”

  A momentary pause ensued.

  “Will it work?” Simon asked.

  Stokes didn’t hesitate. “I wouldn’t bother suggesting such a thing if I didn’t think it had a real chance of succeeding.”

  Charlie leaned forward, his forearms on his thighs. “Just what are we aiming for here—the murderer unmasked?”

  “Yes.”

  “So not only will Portia be safe, but the Glossups, and whoever of Winfield and Calvin it isn’t, will be free of suspicion?”

  Stokes nodded. “All will be revealed, the murderer apprehended, and justice done. Better yet, justice seen and publicly acknowledged as being done.”

  “What’s this plan of yours?” Portia asked.

  Stokes hesitated, then said, “It revolves around the fact that you, Miss Ashford, are the only means we have of drawing the murderer into the open.”

  Deliberately, Stokes looked at Simon.

  For a long minute, Simon held his gaze, his face unreadable, then he leaned back in his chair, waved one long-fingered hand. “Tell us your plan.”

  None of them liked it.

  All three
agreed to it.

  They could think of nothing better, and clearly they had to do something. They felt compelled to at least try, to do their best and make it work, horrible though the entire performance was certain to be.

  Portia wasn’t sure who looked forward to it least—she, Simon, or Charlie. The charade required them to trample on virtues they all held dear, that were fundamental to who they were.

  She glanced at Charlie, pacing the lawn beside her. “I warn you—I know nothing about flirting.”

  “Just pretend I’m Simon—behave as you would with him.”

  “We used to snipe constantly. Now we simply don’t.”

  “I remember . . . what made you stop?” He seemed genuinely puzzled.

  “I don’t know.” She considered, added, “I don’t think he does either.”

  Charlie looked at her; when she merely looked back, he frowned. “We’re going to have to think of something . . . we don’t have time to coach you. You don’t think you could, well, copy Kitty? Poetic justice and all that—using her wiles to trap her killer.”

  The notion definitely held appeal. “I could try—like charades. I could pretend to be her.”

  “Yes. Like that.”

  She looked at Charlie, and smiled. Delightedly. As if he were a sought-after edition of some esoteric text she’d been searching for for years and had at last found—something she had every expectation of thoroughly enjoying.

  The sudden wariness that flared in his eyes had her laughing.

  “Oh, stop! You know it’s all a sham.” Her smile even more real, she linked her arm in his and leaned close, then cast a glance back, over her shoulder—to Simon, lounging on the terrace, frowning if not scowling at them.

  Her smile started to slip; she quickly reinforced it and, determinedly brazen, returned her attention to Charlie. Unintentionally, she’d done just the right thing—played the right Kitty move. She could imagine how it had looked to the others seated or strolling, taking the early-afternoon air on the terrace.

  Charlie drew breath, patted her hand. “Right, then—did I tell you about Lord Carnegie and his greys?”

  He did his part, told her ridiculous tale after tale, making it easier for her to laugh, giggle, and lean heavily on his arm, to paint herself as, if not quite of Kitty’s ilk, certainly as a flirt determined to make Simon jealous.

  Creating a rift between them.

  Stokes had done his part, too, exercised his authority as far as he was able and gained them two days—today and tomorrow—in which to lure the murderer forth. Told they could depart on the day after tomorrow, the house party had started to relax; the matter of the falling urn had been, with Lord Netherfield’s and Lord Glossup’s connivance, passed off as an accident.

  Their lordships, however, were not privy to their desperate plan; other than the three of them and Stokes, no one was. As Stokes had rightly said, the fewer who knew, the more realistic it would seem. “It” being their attempt to lead the murderer to believe that, by tomorrow evening, Simon would have stopped watching over Portia.

  “The murderer will prefer to deal with you now, here, if he can,” Stokes had said. “What we have to do is create an opportunity that will seem believeable, and too good to pass up.”

  They’d agreed, and so here she was, flirting—attempting to flirt—with Charlie.

  “Come on.” Still smiling, she tugged him toward the path to the temple. “I’m sure Kitty would have inveigled you away if she could.”

  “Probably.” Charlie allowed himself to be persuaded.

  As they neared the path’s entrance, Portia glanced back at the tall figure on the terrace. Turning back to Charlie, she met a surprisingly sharp glance.

  “Just as well they’re all at a distance—you drop your mask the instant you look at him. You’re going to have to do better if we’re to have any hope of convincing this blighter you and Simon have fallen out.”

  She went to freeze him with a glance, caught his eye, and dissolved into spurious giggles, hanging heavily on his arm. “You are so droll!”

  Charlie sniffed. “Yes, well, no need to overdo things either. We’re supposed to be believable.”

  Portia grinned, fleetingly genuine; head rising, she swept down the path, walking close—as close as she would with Simon, her arm locked with Charlie’s.

  Once they were out of sight of the terrace, he grasped the moments to instruct her in how to openly encourage gentlemen such as he.

  “A good trick is to hang on our every word—keep your eyes wide. As if every word we say ranks with . . .” He gestured.

  “Ovid?”

  He blinked. “I was thinking along the lines of Byron or Shelley, but if you’ve a penchant for Ovid . . .” He frowned. “Does Simon know what strange tastes you have?”

  She laughed, playfully tapped his arm as if they were teasing. But her eyes flashed. They’d reached the temple; grabbing his hand, she towed him up the steps. “Come and look at the view.”

  They crossed the marble floor to the far side, and stood looking out over the distant valley.

  Charlie stood close, just behind her shoulder. After a moment, he bent his head and murmured, “You know, I’ve never been able to understand it—God knows, you’re quite attractive enough, but . . . now for pity’s sake don’t rip up at me—the notion of taking liberties with you scares me witless.”

  She did laugh then, genuinely amused. Glancing back, she met Charlie’s mock-chagrined gaze. “Never mind. Doubtless it’s Ovid’s fault.”

  They heard footsteps on the path. Turned, stepped apart—appearing as subtly guilty as they wished.

  Simon led Lucy Buckstead up the steps.

  Portia felt herself react—as if her very senses were reaching out to him, focusing on him, locking exclusively on him now he was near. Charlie had been much nearer, yet had affected her not at all; just by appearing in her vicinity, Simon made her pulse thrum.

  Remembering Charlie’s earlier comment, she summoned up her most disinterested mask and fixed it firmly in place.

  Lucy saw it; her smile faltered. “Oh! We didn’t mean to interrupt.”

  “Indeed,” Simon drawled. “Although the discussion seemed quite fascinating. What was the subject?”

  His tone was coldly censorious.

  Portia looked at him with chilly disdain. “Ovid.”

  His lip curled. “I might have known.”

  She’d fed him the opportunity, knowing what he would do; she knew it was all a charade, yet that sneer still hurt. It was much easier than she’d expected to give him her shoulder, to reach for Charlie’s arm. “We’ve had our fill of the view. We’ll leave you to enjoy it.”

  Poor Lucy was obviously uncomfortable; Charlie had maintained an easy, socially confident if watchful mien, but as they headed back to the lawn, still walking close, he blew out a long breath. Looked ahead. “I don’t know if I can do this.”

  She squeezed his arm. “We have to—the alternative is worse.”

  They returned to the lawn, to the terrace, to the rest of the company. Worked at, kept up, further developed their charade through the rest of the day.

  After taking that first step, Portia girded her loins and forced herself to treat Simon, not just as she used to, but with even greater dismissiveness, even deeper disdain. It wasn’t easy; she couldn’t meet his eyes, kept her gaze locked on his lips, thin, hard, set in something very close to contempt.

  His attitude, his coldness, his overt disapproval, helped on the one hand, and hurt, scored deeply, on the other.

  Even knowing it was all pretense, the illusory world was the one they now inhabited. And in it, their behavior threatened not just her, not just him, but all that lay between them.

  She reacted to that threat, perceived if not real; her heart still contracted until it ached. By the time night fell, and the household had retired, her composure, the inner shield b
etween herself and the rest of the world, felt bruised and dented.

  But all members of the company had seen and, if their expressions and hints of disapproval were any guide, had believed.

  That, she assured herself, as she tossed and turned on the trestle before the hearth in Lady O’s room, was what mattered.

  Even Lady O had bent a cold eye on her, but, as if she knew too much to be so easily led, had made no direct comment. Just watched, eagle-eyed.

  Now, across the room, she was quietly snoring.

  The clocks in the house started to chime—twelve o’clock. Midnight. All others in the house were doubtless snug in their beds, sleeping soundly . . . settling on her back, she closed her eyes, and willed herself to do the same.

  Couldn’t. Could not still the turmoil inside her.

  It was irrational, emotional, but it felt so very real.

  She dragged in a breath, felt it catch, sensed the tightness about her chest that hadn’t eased since that moment in the temple.

  Stifling a curse, she tossed back the covers and rose. She’d left out her gown for the morning; she wriggled into it, laced it up well enough to pass muster, slipped on her shoes, stuffed her stockings in her pocket, cast one last glance at Lady O in the big bed, then stole to the door, eased it open, and slipped out.

  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.”