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.

“I think we need to talk about this-get the situation clear.”

Even to him, his tone sounded too even, almost distant; she glanced briefly at him but didn’t meet his eyes.

“What,” he asked, before she could respond, “specifically do you wish to learn?”

She fixed her gaze once more on the lake. “I want to know”-the color in her cheeks deepened, her chin rose a notch-“about the physical aspects. What is it about their times with their beaux that the maids titter over on the backstairs? What do women-ladies especially-gain from such encounters that inclines them to indulge, and most especially prompts them to marriage?”

All logical, rational questions, at least from her strictly limited point of view. She was patently in earnest, committed, or she wouldn’t have broached the subject; he could sense the tension holding her, all but quivering through her.

His mind raced, trying to map the surest way forward. “To what… point do you wish to extend your knowledge?” He kept all censure from his voice; he might have been discussing the strategies of chess.

After a moment, she turned her head, met his eyes-and glared. “I don’t know.”

He blinked, suddenly saw the way-reached for it. “Very well. As you don’t-logically can’t-know what stages lie along a road you’ve never traveled, if you’re truly serious in wanting to know”-he shrugged as nonchalantly as he could-“we could, if you wish, progress stage by stage.” He met her dark gaze, held it. “And you can call a halt at whatever point you choose.”

She studied his eyes; wariness rather than suspicion filled hers. “One stage at a time?”

He nodded.

“And if I say stop…” She frowned. “What if I can’t talk?”

He hesitated, well aware of what he was committing himself to, yet he felt compelled to offer, “I’ll ask your permission before every stage, and make sure you understand, and answer.”

Her brows rose. “You’ll wait for my answer?”

“For your rational, considered, definitive answer.”

She hesitated. “Promise…?”

“Word of a Cynster.”

She knew better than to question that. Her expression remained haughty, but her lips eased, her gaze softened… she was considering his proposition…

He held his breath, knew her far too well to make the slightest move to press her-battled the compulsion-

She nodded, once, decisively. “All right.”

Facing him fully, she held out her hand.

He looked at it, glanced briefly at her face, then grasped her hand, turned and towed her deeper into the summerhouse.

“What…?”

He stopped a few feet before one of the columns. Looked back at her and raised a brow. “I assumed you’d want to progress to the next stage?”

She blinked. “Yes, but-”

“We can’t do that by the arch, in full view of anyone who might wander by the lake.”

Her lips formed an O as he drew her past him, twirling her to face him. Freeing her hand, he lifted both his to frame her face, tipping it up as he stepped closer and lowered his head.

He kissed her, waited only until the steel went from her spine and she surrendered her mouth, then he backed her, slowly, step by deliberate step, until the column was at her back. She stiffened with surprise, but when he didn’t press her against the wood, she relaxed, bit by bit, gradually let herself become engrossed in the kiss.

For long moments, he did nothing more-simply kissed her and let her kiss him back. Sank into the softness of her mouth, with lips and tongue caressed, enticed, then let her play. Let her sense and grow accustomed to the give and take, to a slower, less overwhelming rhythm.

To the simple familiar pleasure.

She was taller than the average, a fact he appreciated; he didn’t need to tip her face so far back, could stand with her comfortably. The column behind her merely delineated their space, providing something she could later lean back against… assuming she agreed to their next stage.

The thought sent heat sliding insidiously through him. He angled his head, pressed the kiss deeper, made her cling to the exchange. Releasing her face, he reached for her waist, spanned it with his hands, then slid them around, over the fine muslin, feeling the silky shift of her chemise between the gown and her skin.

She made a soft sound and pressed nearer; he met her lips, met her tongue-and eased her back, gently, until she stood against the column. She relaxed against it; her hands, previously resting passively on his shoulders, shifted, slid up, back, around. Spreading her fingers, she speared them slowly through his hair, let it fall.

Then she twined her arms about his neck and stretched up against him, meeting his lips with increasing ardor, her lithe body bowing.

Inwardly, he smiled, let his hands slide over her back, tracing the long line of the muscles framing her spine, up, then down. He kissed her deeply, sensed the heat rising beneath her skin, felt the soft mounds of her breasts, pressed to his chest, firm.

Her perfume rose and wreathed through his mind, teased his senses. He held to the kiss, letting his hands do no more than caress the firm planes of her back, over and over.

And waited.

More. Portia knew she wanted more than this. Kisses were all very well, exceedingly pleasant, heady and intoxicating, sending warmth sliding through her, bringing her senses alive. And the feel of his hands, cool and hard, and the unstated promise in their steady, deliberate stroking, sent shivers of anticipatory delight down her spine. But now expectation crawled along her nerves; her senses were avidly agog. Waiting. Ready.

For the next stage.