Knowing full well that whatever had been bothering her was still exercising her mind. He let her wrestle with it as they trailed along the crest, and through the next section of the wood. When they emerged onto the final open stretch along the ridge above Ashmore village, and the vertical crease between her brows was still there, he stopped. Waited until she realized and turned to look at him questioningly.

“What is it?”

Her eyes remained steady on his, then her lips twisted, and she looked away. He waited, silent; after a moment, she glanced at him. “You have to promise not to laugh.”

He opened his eyes wide.

She frowned, looked away, started strolling, paused until he joined her, then walked on but slowly, brows drawn down. “I’ve been wondering… later… after, if… well, would I-could I-turn out like Kitty?”

“Like Kitty?” For one instant, he couldn’t imagine what she meant.

She glanced at his face, frowned harder. “Like Kitty, with her addiction to excitement.”

He stopped. She did, too.

He couldn’t help it. He laughed.

Not even her thinning lips, not even the fury flaring in her eyes could stop him.

“You promised!” She swatted him.

That only made stopping all the harder.

“You-!” She biffed him again.

He caught her hands, held them down, locked in his. “No-stop.” He dragged in a breath, his gaze on her face. The real worry and confusion in her eyes-clear now she’d lost her temper-hauled him back to sobriety with a thump. She couldn’t believe…?

He captured her gaze, held it. “There is no possibility in this world that you could ever be like Kitty. That you would ever convert to something like her.” She didn’t look convinced. “Believe me-none. No prospect at all.”

Narrow-eyed, from behind the black screen of her lashes, she studied his face. “How do you know?”

Because he knew her.

“You are not Kitty.” He heard the words, dragged in a breath and invested the next phrases with absolute conviction. “You could never-would never-behave like her.”

She held his gaze, her expression still unsure.

He suddenly realized just what they were talking about-all they were talking about. His lungs contracted, his throat tightened as he realized she-they-stood teetering on a precipice. He’d known, expected, would have been shocked if she hadn’t had reservations, if she hadn’t thought long and hard before giving herself to him.

Knowing her so well, her curiosity, her willful need to know, he’d been confident of her ultimate decision. Never in his wildest dreams had he imagined Kitty would throw up a hurdle, let alone a hurdle like this.

He searched Portia’s eyes as she searched his. Hers were so dark, the color of midnight, only strong emotions were easy to define. Now, they were simply less sharp, clouded by uncertainty-an uncertainty that was self-directed, not, as he’d anticipated, directed at him.

She blinked; he sensed her retreating. Instinctively reacted.

“Trust me.” He gripped her hands tighter, captured her gaze anew, then he altered his grip and lifted her hands, first one, then the other, to his lips. “Just trust me.”

Her eyes had widened. After a moment, she asked, “How can you be so sure?”

“Because it…” Lost in her eyes, aware he had to speak the absolute truth, he couldn’t for the life of him think of words to describe all that they meant by that, the reality of what they were discussing. “This-all that’s between us, all that could be-not even that would ever be strong enough to change you. To make you into a different person.”

She frowned, but in thought, not rejection. He let her draw her hands from his; she turned and faced the fields, looking, perhaps, but not seeing.

After a moment, she swung around and walked on toward the lookout. He stirred, and followed on her heels. They reached the lookout and went inside. She stared out at the Solent. Two feet away, he shoved his hands in his pockets and waited.

He didn’t dare touch her, didn’t dare press her in any way.

She glanced at his face, then slowly ran her gaze down his frame, as if she could sense the tension investing every muscle. Returning her gaze to his eyes, she raised a brow. “I thought… expected you to be more persuasive.”

Jaw locked, he shook his head. “The decision’s yours. You have to make it.”

She was going to ask why-he saw it in her eyes-but then she hesitated, looked away.

A minute later, she turned from the view. He followed her out, ducking under the wooden archway; they headed back to the Hall.

They walked in silence, their usual easy, oddly connected silence. They were aware of each other, yet were content pursuing their own thoughts, knowing the other would not take umbrage, wouldn’t expect attention.

His thoughts were all of her, of them. Of what was between them, that suddenly broadening, deepening connection. It was developing in ways he hadn’t expected, yet now he saw them, far from reining back-something his rakish self was certain he should do-other instincts, deeper instincts, insisted he should press on, grab, seize, lay claim. That he should be pleased with the strength he sensed, with the emotional depth, with the strands that were being woven from elements unrelated to the physical, linking them in ways he doubted either had foreseen.

He’d recognized from the first that getting her to trust him enough to accept him as her husband would be a difficult task. Doing so against the backdrop of the disintegration of Henry and Kitty’s marriage was creating unexpected scenarios, forcing him to consider things, to evaluate aspects, feelings, expectations he otherwise would have taken for granted.

Like the fact he trusted Portia completely, unequivocally-and why. Why the thought of her turning into another Kitty was so ludicrous, why he’d laughed.

She couldn’t become another Kitty, and still be Portia.

Her strength of character-that backbone of steel he’d long known in his sisters and recognized long ago, even more intensely, in her-simply wouldn’t permit it. In that, he knew her perhaps better than she knew herself.

He had unwavering confidence in her steel.

Never before had he considered that attribute at all necessary in a wife.

Now he realized how precious it was.

Recognized in it a guarantee sufficient to reassure that deeply buried part of him that, even now, even despite his decision and his own rigid will, shied from the mere thought of accepting the vulnerability of the Cynsters’ Achilles’ heel, from the emotional commitment that, for them, was an inherent part of marriage.

They’d reached the gardens and the wisteria-covered walk. The house loomed ahead.

Putting a hand on her sleeve, he slowed; she halted and turned to him. Sliding his fingers down to her hand, he interdigitated his fingers with hers, looked into her dark eyes.

“One thing I will promise.” He raised her hand, placed a kiss in her palm, holding her gaze all the while. “I will never hurt you. Not in any way.”

She didn’t blink, didn’t move; for a long moment, gazes locked, they simply stood. Then she drew breath, inclined her head.

Placing her hand on his arm, he turned to the house.

It was indeed her decision; she was relieved he saw and accepted that.

On the other hand, she wasn’t at all certain how to interpret such uncharacteristic magnanimity on his part. Uncharacterisitic it certainly was; he wanted her, desired her-knowing him for the despot he truly was beneath the elegant glamor, Portia required some explanation for his restraint, his patience.

Later that evening, she stood before her window and considered what it might be. And how it might impinge on her decision.

During the half hour in the drawing room, Simon had found a moment to murmur, low enough so only she could hear, the precise location of the bedchamber he’d been given, just in case she needed to know. If she’d thought he was pressuring her she would have glared, but one look into his eyes had confirmed that he was, indeed, battling his own instincts not to do so, and to that point was still holding the line.

She’d inclined her head, then others had joined them, and their privacy was gone. Nevertheless, she remained highly conscious that he was waiting for some sign of her decision.

Throughout dinner, from across the table she’d watched him-covertly, yet if the other guests hadn’t been so intent on managing the conversation, keeping it strictly within bounds, someone would have noticed.

Kitty had for once been useful; not, of course, intentionally. She’d reverted to her earlier role, but with greater dramatic flair; tonight, she was a lady grievously misjudged, determinedly, heroically, keeping her chin high despite the slings and arrows of those who should know better.

The ladies had repaired to the drawing room, leaving the gentlemen about the table. No one had had any wish for a lengthy evening; the atmosphere remained close, the emotions swirling between Kitty and various others fraught and tense. The tea trolley arrived early; after one cup, all the ladies had retired.

Which brought Portia to where she was now, staring out at the darkness considering her decision, the one she and only she could make.

For all that, her decision hinged on Simon.

Despite their previous history, indeed in part because of it, she hadn’t been surprised when he’d stepped in and consented to act as her guide in her exploration of the physical interactions between a man and a woman. He hadn’t approved, not at first, but he’d quickly capitulated once he’d seen she was set on her course; he’d known very well that if he’d refused, she would have gone ahead with some other man. From his insistently protective point of view, her going forward with him was, regardless of all else, better than her going forward with another.