The Perfect Lover

by Stephanie Laurens

  Coming up on his elbow, he leaned over her.

  She turned her head, looked at him, and smiled.

  Even in the moonlight, the gesture was glorious.

  Raising one hand, Portia touched his cheek, then, still smiling, settled back on her side, feeling him hard, strong, and hot behind her.

  He lay passive, yet . . .

  Her smile deepened. Reaching back, she wrapped her fingers around his length. Caressed as she remembered. “You called me a cocktease—did you mean it?”

  He grunted. “I wasn’t even sure you’d know what it meant.”

  She grinned as, slowly, she ran her thumb over the blunt head of his erection. “Admittedly it’s not something one comes across much in Ovid, but I do know my modern derivations.”

  “Derivations?”

  The reply was meaningless; he wasn’t thinking about words.

  She closed her hand more firmly. “You haven’t answered my question.”

  He sucked in a breath; there was a pause before he said, “Not in general, but in specific.”

  She thought about that for a moment, fondled not quite absentmindedly as she did. “You mean I tease you?”

  It was her turn to catch her breath as he nudged her upper thigh higher, and his artful fingers slid into the softness between her legs.

  His fingers played. “You tease my cock simply by existing.”

  Her smile threatened to split her face. “How?”

  The word was breathless; she angled her hips farther, felt him shift behind her.

  “I see you, and all I can think about is sinking it into you.” He fitted the object under discussion to her. “Like this.”

  Her eyes fell closed as he slowly, oh-so-slowly slid home. Withdrew, then gave her time to savor every inch of his return.

  Her lungs locked; her whole body came alive. Determined, she managed enough breath to say, “I think I rather like being a cocktease—at least in the specific.”

  He leaned over her, around her, set his lips to the curve of her ear, pushed his hand beneath her arm, and closed it about her breast—and gave her to understand that, far from disapproving, he liked it, too.

  Later, much later, they lay slumped in the bed; he’d settled her, sprawled comfortably over him, her head pillowed on his chest. Idly, Simon played with her hair, sifting the long strands.

  Eventually, drew a deep breath.

  “I love you. You know that, don’t you?”

  Her reply was only a moment in coming. “Yes.” Raising her head, she smiled at him, then crossed her arms, rested her chin on her wrists, and studied his face.

  Her eyes were dark and brilliant; he looked into them, waited.

  Her smile, that of a woman smugly well satisfied, eased. “I love you, too.” A frown invaded her expression. “I still don’t understand it.”

  He hesitated, then offered, “I don’t think love is something one necessarily understands.” God knew he didn’t.

  She frowned openly. “Perhaps. But I still can’t stop thinking. . . .”

  He stroked his hands lovingly down the long planes of her back. “Has anyone ever told you you think too much?”

  “Yes. You.”

  “So stop thinking.” He reached farther, suggestively caressed.

  She met his eyes, arched a brow. “Make me.”

  He held her gaze, confirmed the words were the invitation he’d thought, then smiled—wolfishly. “My pleasure.”

  He rolled, taking her with him, trapped her beneath him, and obliged.

  Her next coherent thought did not surface until well past dawn.

  She might not have been thinking, but he certainly had been. He’d been plotting, planning, but just what she didn’t know.

  By the time she reached the breakfast table, he’d convinced Lady O that it was imperative he drive her, Portia, somewhere. She arrived too late to hear where.

  “You’ll know when we get there,” was all he would say. Jaw setting in a way she knew well, he gave his attention to a plateful of ham.

  She turned to Lady O.

  Who waved aside her question before she could ask it.

  “Take my word for it—best you let him drive you up to town. You won’t like rocking along slowly with me in the coach—not if you’ve a better option.” She grinned; the old evil light was back in her eyes. “If I were you, I wouldn’t hesitate.”

  Which left Portia little option but to go along for the ride.

  Helping herself to tea and toast, she looked around the table. The transformation was marked; a lighter atmosphere had taken hold once again. There were still lingering shadows in most people’s eyes, but the relief was immense, and showed in their smiles.

  Lady Calvin, of course, had not come down, but neither had the other older ladies, except for Lady O and Lady Hammond.

  “She’s taking it hard, poor thing,” Lady Hammond confided. “It was always her dream to see Ambrose in Parliament, and now . . . to have to face this, and with all it’s revealed of Drusilla as well, she’s quite overset. Catherine’s asked her to stay on for a day or so, at least until she’s well enough to travel.”

  Drusilla, unsurprisingly, had not joined the company.

  Later, everyone gathered in the front hall for farewells. The coaches were at the door; the Hammonds left first, then the Bucksteads.

  Portia noted that, despite his earlier stance, James stood a little apart with Lucy, then walked her to the carriage and handed her up. A plan to invite Lucy to another house party sometime, and James as well, sprang into her wind, fully formed.

  To which house was the only point in question.

  Then Lady O completed her good-byes and, on Lord Netherfield’s arm, led the way onto the front steps. She and Simon followed in time to hear Lady O tell his lordship, “Quite a lively break, but next time, Granny, leave out the murders. They’re a bit much for my aging constitution to take.”

  Lord Netherfield snorted. “Yours and mine both, m’dear. But at least these youngsters acquitted themselves well.” He bent a beaming smile on Simon and Portia, and Charlie and James who’d followed them out. “Seems there’s hope yet for the younger generation.”

  Lady O’s snort was infinitely dismissive. “Bite your tongue—don’t want to swell their heads.”

  Struggling to hide his smile, Charlie bravely came forward and offered to assist Lady O into the carriage. She accepted with aplomb; once settled, she looked out at Simon and Portia. “I’ll see you two in London.” She met their eyes. “Don’t disappoint me.”

  It sounded like a warning to behave; they both read it for what it was—an exhortation of quite a different character.

  Lord Netherfield smiled and waved; they did, too, waiting only until the carriage lumbered off before walking to Simon’s curricle, waiting, horses prancing, across the forecourt.

  James and Charlie followed them. While Simon ran a careful eye over his bays, James took her hands. “I won’t embarrass you by thanking you again, but I hope we’ll meet in London later in the year.” He hesitated, then glanced at Simon. “You know, Kitty had driven all thoughts of marriage firmly out of my head. Now . . .” He raised one brow, teasing yet quizzical, “Perhaps there really is hope, and I should revisit the notion.”

  Portia smiled. “Indeed, I think you should.” She stretched up and kissed his lean cheek. Then turned to Charlie, raised her brows.

  Smiling, too, he met her gaze—then blinked. Glanced at James. “Oh, no—not me. Devotedly fancy-free, that’s me—far too shallow for any discerning lady.”

  “Nonsense.” She kissed his cheek, too. “One of these days some highly discerning lady is going to see straight through your facade. And what then?”

  “I’ll emigrate.”

  They all laughed.

  James helped her into the curricle. “And what of you?” he asked Simon as he came up.

>   Simon looked at her, a long, considering glance, then gave James his hand. “Ask for my opinion in three months.”

  James laughed, shook his hand. “I suspect I’ll know your opinion somewhat earlier than that.”

  Simon shook Charlie’s hand, then climbed up beside her. He flicked the reins the instant they were settled; with smiles and waves, they were off.

  She sat back, and wondered. Her box and bandbox were strapped behind and Wilks had been dispatched with Lady O. There was, of course, nothing the least noteworthy in Simon driving her up to town, nothing the least scandalous in driving in an open carriage alone. They were following Lady O, in whose care she was. All perfectly aboveboard.

  Except that he and she were not heading directly to London, but by way of somewhere else. Where she couldn’t imagine, let alone why.

  Even though she’d expected not to head for town, she was nevertheless surprised when, on reaching the main gate and the lane, Simon turned his horses west, away from Ashmore.

  “The west country?” She racked her brains. “Gabriel and Alathea? Or Lucifer and Phyllida?”

  Simon grinned, shook his head. “You don’t know the place—you’ve never been there. I haven’t been there in years.”

  “Will we reach there tonight?”

  “In a few hours.”

  She sat back and watched the hedgerows slide by. Realized the feeling enfolding her was contentment. Even though she didn’t have a clue where he was taking her.

  A smile threatened; she suppressed it. Knew if he saw it he’d ask for an explanation; although she could make a good attempt, now was neither the time nor place.

  The simple truth was, with no other man could she imagine being in such a situation and simply accepting it with such inner serenity.

  She let her gaze drift to his face, watched for a while, then looked forward before he felt her gaze. She trusted him. Absolutely. Not just physically, although between them, in that arena, the truth was now clear—she was his, but he was also hers, and, it seemed, always had been—she also trusted him in all other spheres.

  She trusted his strength—that he would never use it against her, but that it would be there, always, whenever she needed its protection. She trusted his loyalty, his will—most importantly, she trusted his heart.

  Knew, in her own, that in the vulnerability he’d embraced, faced, and let her see, accepted that she had to see, lay a guarantee to last a lifetime.

  Love. The wellspring of trust, the ultimate cornerstone for marriage.

  Trust, strength, security—and love.

  She, and he, had it all.

  All they needed to go on with.

  Wherever he was taking her.

  Settling back, she faced forward, willing to follow the road before them wherever it led.

  It led to the town of Queen Charlton in Somerset, and ultimately to a house called Risby Grange. Simon stopped in the village and took a large room at the inn. Portia made sure she kept her gloves on all the time, but detected no hint that the innwife suspected they were not man and wife.

  Perhaps Charlie was right, and the underlying truth showed, regardless of the existence of formalities.

  Leaving their bags at the inn, they followed a winding lane, and in midafternoon drove in through the arched gatehouse of Risby Grange.

  Simon halted the horses just inside the gatehouse. Before them, sprawled across the crest of the gently rising lawns, the house lay basking in the sunshine, its pale grey stone half-covered with creeper, mullioned windows winking below crenellated battlements.

  The house was old, solid, well-kept, but appeared to be deserted.

  “Who lives here?” she asked.

  “At present, no one other than a caretaker.” Simon set the bays trotting up the drive. “I doubt he’ll be around. I’ve got a key.”

  She looked at him, waiting, but he said no more. Reaching the court before the shallow steps leading up to the front door, he turned the horses onto the adjacent lawn. They both jumped down; after tying the reins to a tree and checking the curricle’s brake, he took her hand and they crossed the graveled court, climbed the steps.

  He rang the bell; they could hear it jangling deep in the house. They waited, but no one came to let them in.

  “The caretaker’s also the gamekeeper—he’s probably out.” Drawing a large key from his pocket, Simon slid it into the lock, turned, then pushed the door wide.

  He went in first, looking around; she followed on his heels.

  Immediately forgot all her questions over why they were there as curiosity took flight. From the wood-paneled hall with its stained-glass windows, she went from room to room, not waiting for him but leading the way.

  From outside, the house had appeared sprawling; inside, it was even more so. Rooms opened from flagged corridors, more corridors sprang from halls, leading hither and yon. Yet every room was gracious, warm, filled with excellent furniture lovingly cared for, with rich fabrics and pretty things, with antiques, and some pieces she recognized as more than that. They were heirlooms.

  A fine patina of dust lay over everything, but the house did not exude the musty chill of a place long deserted. Instead, it felt like it was waiting—as if one owner had recently departed, but another was expected at any time. It was a house built for laughter, for warmth and happiness, for a large family to fill its sprawling vastness. That atmosphere pervaded, so definite it was tangible; this was a house that had seen generations grow, that lived and breathed and remained confident of its future, indeed, was eagerly awaiting it.

  She knew the Cynster motto, To have and to hold, well enough, recognized it and their coat of arms in various forms—on cushions, on a carved panel, in a pane of stained glass.

  Eventually, in the big room on the first floor at the top of the main stairs, standing before the magnificent bay window that overlooked the forecourt, she turned to Simon; he stood leaning against the doorframe, watching her. “Whose house is this?”

  He studied her, replied, “Mine.”

  She raised her brows, waited.

  He grinned. “It was Great-aunt Clara’s. All the others were already married and had their own homes, so she willed this place to me.”

  She tilted her head, studied him in return. “Why did we come here?”

  Simon pushed away from the doorjamb, walked toward her. “I was on my way here all along—I stopped at the house party on the way.”

  Halting beside her, he took her hand, drew her around to face the long view over the lawns to the gatehouse. “I told you—I hadn’t been here for years. My memories of it . . . I didn’t know how accurate they were. I wanted to confirm it was as I remembered—a house that calls for a wife and family.”

  He glanced at her as she glanced at him. “I was right. It does. It’s a house that’s supposed to be a home.”

  She held his gaze. “Indeed. And what were you planning to do once you’d confirmed your recollection?”

  His lips lifted. “Why, find myself a wife”—he raised her hand to his lips, kept his eyes on hers—“and start a family.”

  She blinked. “Oh.” Blinked again, looked out over the lawns.

  He closed his hand about hers. “What is it?”

  A moment passed, then she said, “You remember when you found me at the lookout, and I vowed I would consider every eligible gentleman . . . the reason I’d decided to do so was that I’d realized I wanted to have children of my own—a family of my own. To do that, I needed a husband.”

  Her lips twisted; she looked at him. “Of course, by that I meant a suitable gentleman who would fall in with my wishes and allow me to rule our joint lives.”

  “No doubt.” His tone was acerbic. When she said nothing more but continued to watch him, as if studying him, assessing him anew, he softly asked, “Is that why you’re marrying me?”

  She hadn’t said she would, yet both knew it,
a given—an understanding already acknowledged, albeit not in words. Her dark eyes sparked, registering his tack, then they softened. Her lips curved.

  “Lady O is really quite amazing.”

  He’d lost the thread. “How so?”

  “She informed me that wanting children, while a perfectly acceptable reason to bring one to consider marriage, was not of itself a sufficiently good reason to marry. However, she assured me that if I kept looking—considering gentlemen to marry—the right reason would eventually present itself.”

  He twined his fingers with hers. “And has it?”

  She met his eyes, her smile serene. “Yes. I love you, and you love me. Lady O is, as always, right—no other reason will do.”

  He drew her into his arms, felt their bodies react the instant they touched, not just sexually but with a deeper, more comforting familiarity. He gloried in the feeling, gloried in her as she draped her arms over his shoulders, as between his hands, he felt her supple strength, in her dark eyes saw an intellect every bit the equal of his. “It won’t be easy.”

  “Assuredly not—I refuse to promise to be a comfortable wife.”

  His lips twitched. “You’re quite comfortable enough—‘obedient’ is the word you want, or ‘acquiescent’—you’ve never been either.”

  “Nonsense—I am when it suits me.”

  “Therein lies the rub.”

  “I’m not going to change.”

  He looked into her eyes. “I don’t want you to. If you can accept that I’m similiarly unlikely to change, we can go on from there.”

  Portia smiled. Theirs would not be the marriage she’d wanted; it would be the marriage she needed. “Despite all prior experience, we’ve managed remarkably well so far. If we try, do you think we could make this last a lifetime?”

  “With both of us trying, it’ll last.” He paused, then added, “We have the right reasons, after all.”

  “Indubitably.” She drew his lips to hers. “I’m starting to believe that love can indeed conqueror all.”

  He paused, their lips separated by a breath. “Even us?”