Pushing away from the doorframe, taking his hands from his pockets, he set out in pursuit.
Reaching the stretch of lawn above the lake, she slowed, then she sensed his approach, glanced back, halted, and waited.
He studied her as he neared; the only signs of consciousness, of her recollection of their last moments together alone, were a slight widening of her eyes, a hint of color beneath her fine skin, and, of course, her rising head and uptilted chin.
“Good morning.” She inclined her head, as ever faintly regal, but her eyes were on his, wondering… “Did you come out for a stroll?”
He halted before her, met her gaze directly. “I came to spend time with you.”
Her eyes widened a fraction more, but she’d never been missish; with her he would stand on firmer ground if he dealt with her openly, honestly, eschewing social subtleties.
He waved toward the lake. “Shall we?”
She glanced that way, hesitated, then inclined her head in acquiescence. He fell in beside her; in silence, they walked to the edge of the lawn, then on down the slope to the path around the lake. By unspoken consent, they turned toward the summerhouse.
Portia strolled on, glancing at the trees and bushes and the still waters of the lake, struggling to appear nonchalant, not at all sure she was succeeding. This was want she wanted-a chance to learn more-yet this was not an arena in which she had any experience, and she didn’t want to founder, to put a foot wrong, to end over her head, out of her depth.
And between them, things had changed.
She now knew what it felt like to have his hands locked about her waist, to sense his strength close, closing around her. To know herself in his physical control… her reaction to that still surprised her. She never would have thought she would like it, let alone crave it more.
Over all the years, in all that lay between them, there never had been any physical connection; now that there was, it was surprisingly tempting, enthralling… and its existence had shifted their interaction to an entirely different plane.
One she’d never been on before-not with anyone-a plane on which she was still very much feeling her way.
They reached the summerhouse; Simon gestured and they left the path, crossed a short stretch of lawn and went up the steps. The area within, a room open to the breezes, was unusually spacious. Instead of a single point to the roof, there were two, supported by columns flanking the central section, in which two large cane armchairs and a matching sofa were arranged around a low table. The sofa faced the entrance and the lake with the armchairs to either side, all fitted with chintz-covered cushions. Periodicals sat in a cane holder beside the sofa. A window seat ran around the walls, beneath the open arches.
The floor was swept, the cushions plumped, all ready for the enjoyment of whoever ventured in.
She turned just inside the threshold and looked back at the oval lake. Simon’s earlier comment about the privacy of the summerhouse replayed in her mind. From this position, there was no evidence of a house anywhere near, not even a glimpse of a sculpted bed or a stretch of tended lawn. It was easy to forget, easy to believe there was no one else in the immediate world. Just them.
She glanced at Simon and found him watching her. Knew in that instant that he was waiting for her to give him some sign, some indication that she wished to learn yet more, or alternatively that she’d decided she’d learned enough. Casually at ease, blue gaze steady, he simply watched her.
Looking again at the lake, she tried to ignore the sudden leaping of her senses, the distracting conviction that her heart was beating faster and harder.
The other ladies had gathered in the morning room to talk and take their ease; the other gentlemen were either collected in groups, discussing business or politics, or out riding.
They were alone, as alone as the surroundings promised.
Opportunity knocked. Loudly. Yet…
She frowned, walked to one of the wide arches, set her hands on the sill, and looked out. Unseeing.
After a moment, Simon stirred and followed her; despite not looking, she was aware of his prowling grace. He joined her at the arch, propping his shoulder against its side. His gaze remained wholly on her.
Another minute slipped past, then he murmured, “Your call.”
Her lips twisted in a grimace; she lightly drummed her fingers on the sill, then realized and stopped. “I know.” The fact didn’t make things any easier.
“So tell me…”
She would have to. He was only just over a foot away, but at least she didn’t have to meet his eyes, nor speak loudly. She drew breath, drew herself up. Gripped the sill. “I want to learn more, but I don’t want you to get the wrong idea. To misconstrue my intentions.”
The dilemma she’d woken to that morning and come out to the gardens to think through.
He was silent for a moment; she could sense him trying to follow the tack her mind had taken.
“Why, exactly, do you wish to learn more?”
His tone was so even she could read nothing from it; if she wanted to know what he was thinking, she would have to look into his eyes, yet if she was to answer his question, she couldn’t afford to.
She kept her gaze on the lake. “I want to understand, to experience enough so I can comprehend all that exists between a man and a woman that would encourage a woman to marry. I want to know, not be forced to guess. However”-she placed ringing emphasis on the word-“my interest is academic. Totally and completely. I don’t want you to… to… get any incorrect impression.”
Her heart was beating faster, but she’d said it, got the words out. She could feel heat in her cheeks; she had never felt so uncertain in her life. Unsure, unconfident. Ignorant. She hated the feeling. She knew absolutely what she wanted, knew what, if her conscience hadn’t raised its head, she wanted from him. But she couldn’t, absolutely could not ask it of him if there was the slightest chance of his misinterpreting her interest.
She didn’t imagine him to be readily vulnerable-she knew his reputation too well-but things between them had changed, and she wasn’t sure how or why; feeling her way as she was, she couldn’t be certain-as absolutely certain as her heart and honor demanded-that he wouldn’t develop some sudden suceptibility and come to expect, in return for his teachings, more than she was prepared to give.
She was absolutely certain she couldn’t bear that.
Simon studied her profile. Her revelation-her intention, her direction, so reckless and unconventional-was so Portiaesque, it did not evoke the slightest surprise; he’d long been inured to her ways. Had she been any other unmarried lady he’d have been shocked; from her, it all made perfect sense.
It was her courage and candor in stating it, in seeking to make sure he understood-more, in seeking to make sure he did not leave himself open to any hurt-that evoked a surge of emotion. A complex mix. Appreciation, approbation… even admiration.
And a flare of something much deeper. She cared for him at least that much…
If he chose to go forward and accept the risk, however small, that he might fail to change her mind and persuade her into matrimony, he couldn’t claim he hadn’t been warned.
By the same token, informing her that he had decided that she was the lady he intended having as his wife was clearly out of the question. At least for the present. She wasn’t thinking in those terms-that was the challenge he had to overcome, deflecting her mind and her considerable convictions onto the path to the altar. However, given their previous history, given all she knew of him, if at this delicate point he mentioned he intended making her his bride she might well run for the hills.