None of which mitigated the facts that he was a Cynster, and she was an Ashford; they were both of the haut ton. If she’d been younger, a more innocent and gentle sort of lady, or one he didn’t know well, she would have wagered her pearls any unintentional intimacy would have resulted in a “now I’ve seduced you, I’ll have to marry you” decree.

Luckily, that wasn’t the case between them. He did know her-very well. He wouldn’t have aided her in her quest for knowledge if he’d believed that in so doing he was committing any dishonorable act; she felt ridiculously pleased that he’d accepted she had as much right to sexual exploration as he.

That right, she assumed, was enough to absolve him of any moral responsibility, any requirement to indulge in high-handed interference and paternalistic disapproval. He’d acted always at her behest, and subject to her active consent.

He wasn’t seducing her in the customary sense; he was merely agreeable-available-should she wish to be seduced.

Presumably his steadfast reticence, his determination not to pressure her, was some reflection of that, some convoluted male dictate of what was honorable in such circumstances. Perhaps that was the way a willing seduction was played out.

All that had occurred between them thus far was as she’d wished, as she’d wanted. The decision facing her was whether she wanted more-whether she truly wanted to take the final step, draw aside the last veil, and learn all.

The scholar within her wanted to rush ahead; her more pragmatic side insisted she weigh the pros and cons.

To her mind-even to most other minds-her age and status as an almost-confirmed apeleader freed her from missish considerations of virginity. If she didn’t, at some point, stick her toe in the water and learn what she deemed necessary, then she might well never marry, so what would be the point? For her, virginity was an outdated concept.

The risk of pregnancy was real, but acceptable, one she didn’t, in truth, mind running. Unlike Kitty, she wanted children of her own; given she had a strong and supportive family, given she cared little for the social world, there were ways such a circumstance could be managed. Provided she never admitted who the father was; her sense of self-preservation was far too strong to make such a mistake.

Otherwise, Simon’s certainty had slain her worry that, if the emotion growing between them proved to be lust, she might become addicted to the physical excitement as Kitty seemed to be; his sincerity and conviction had been too strong to doubt, and his reputation guaranteed he’d had ample opportunity to form an expert opinion on such a question.

All in all, no insurmountable cons presented themselves, not from personal considerations.

As for the pros, she knew what she wanted, what she wished. She wanted to learn everything about marriage before she committed herself to the institution; she needed to understand the physical aspects of what she might be getting herself into. The mess Kitty had made of her marriage only underscored the necessity of gaining a proper understanding before approaching the altar; if after all she’d seen this week she allowed herself to make ill-considered choices, she’d never forgive herself.

Understanding marriage in all its aspects had been her initial goal… but now there was more. She also wanted to know what the emotional link that had developed between her and Simon truly was-the emotion that made it not just possible, but so very easy to imagine herself going to his bed.

Given Kitty’s behavior, learning that, too, seemed wise.

As matters stood, the only risk she could see in going to Simon’s bed was an emotional one. And that was hypothetical, something she could only guess at, given she did not yet know what the emotion that impelled her to intimacy with him was.

That emotion and its effect were quite real. Likewise, the risk, one to which she couldn’t, with her extensive knowledge of him, close her eyes, nor yet pretend she couldn’t see.

What if the emotion growing between them proved to be love?

She had no idea if it might be; along with men and marriage, love had not featured on her list of subjects to be studied.

She hadn’t come looking for it; that wasn’t why she’d availed herself of his offer to teach her what she wanted to know. Yet she wasn’t fool enough, arrogant enough not to wonder, not to acknowledge that, strange though it seemed, the prospect, the possibility, might now be staring her in the face.

Once they’d indulged-once, twice, however many times it took for her to learn all she wished and to identify that emotion-if it wasn’t love, then they would part, her experiment concluded, her discovery made. That outcome seemed certain and straightforward. The danger did not lie there.

The threat lay on the other side of the coin. If what lay between them proved to be love, what then?

She knew the answer; if it was love, either her for him or him for her, or both, and he recognized it, he would insist on marriage, and she would not easily be able to deny him.

He was a Cynster, after all. Yet if he prevailed, where would that leave her?

Married to a Cynster. Possibly bound by love and married to a Cynster-if anything, that was potentially worse. If love ruled them both, then the situation might be manageable-she really had no idea-but if love affected one but not the other, the outlook was inherently bleak.

Therein lay the risk.

The question facing her, now, tonight, was would she chance it? In essence, was she game?

She blew out a breath, focused on the silhouettes of the trees outside.

If she didn’t pursue the question now-didn’t accept his offer to be seduced-they would go their separate ways within days. She would return to Rutlandshire, curiosity aflame; who else would she find to satisfy her need to know? Who else could she trust?

The chances of their meeting again this summer, let alone in suitable surrounds, were slight, and she had no guarantee that he would remain agreeable to teaching her all she wished next month, let alone in three.

Could she bear to retreat, to turn aside, draw back and not know? Could she live without discovering what, for them, physical intimacy truly represented? What it was that drove them to it? Never learn if it was love, whether both of them were affected by it, and what such an outome would mean?

Her lips twisted, wryly self-deprecating. There was no question there. Reckless, often arrogantly heedless, willful to a fault, she didn’t have the temperament to turn back. Regardless of the risk.

Yet as matters stood, going to Simon tonight might well be her safest, most sensible option. Others might label her reckless and wild, but that argument made perfect sense to her.

There was no sense wasting time.

In order to reach Simon’s room, she had to circle the gallery around the top of the main stairs. Luckily, with all the ladies already in their rooms, there was no one around to see her as she glided from shadow to shadow, past the stairhead and into the corridor leading to the west wing.

At the junction of the west wing and the main house, she had to cross the foyer at the head of the west wing stairs. She’d just entered the open area when she heard heavy footsteps plodding up the stairs.

Quick as a flash, she whisked around, back into the shadows of the corridor she’d just left. The steps came steadily on, two sets, then she heard Ambrose’s voice; Desmond replied. She sent up a quick prayer that their rooms were in the west wing and not in the main wing where she presently stood.

She listened; they reached the top of the stairs, discussing dogs, of all things. With barely a pause, they strolled on.

Down the west wing.

Hugely relieved, she hesitated, but knowing which rooms they were in would be useful. Easing from the concealing shadows, hugging the wall, she peeped around the corner.

Both Desmond and Ambrose were well down the corridor; they were nearly at the end when they parted, each entering a room, one to the left, the other to the right.

Letting out the breath she’d been holding, she straightened. Simon had said the third door from the stairs, so she wouldn’t need to risk passing Ambrose’s or Desmond’s doors.

She set out across the foyer. As she passed the stairwell, the clink of billiard balls reached her. She paused, glanced around, then went quickly to the stairhead. Straining her ears, she could just hear the murmur of voices rising from the billiard room.

Charlie’s light voice, James’s quick laugh-and Simon’s deep drawl.

For one instant, she stood there, eyes narrowing, lips thinning, then she turned on her heel and continued to his room.

Opening the door, she swept in, recalled herself enough to shut the door quietly. Given the number of rooms available, it was unlikely any of the others would be quartered immediately next door, but there was no sense taking unnecessary risks.

She surveyed the room, cloaked in shadows, irritated that Simon wasn’t there waiting to greet her. To distract her from thinking about what she was doing. Still, how long could a game of billiards take? She thought, then humphed. Presumably, he’d at least have the sense to come up and see if she’d made use of the information he’d oh-so-subtly imparted.

She moved into the room, ruthlessly quelling the nervous fluttering in her stomach. She’d made her decision; she certainly wasn’t about to change her mind. Her courage was more than up to the challenge.

The west wing rooms were not as large as those in the east wing. This wing seemed older; the ceilings were just as high, but the rooms were narrower. There was no armchair by the hearth, no window seat, no dressing table and therefore no stool, just a tallboy. Two upright chairs flanked the shoulder-high chest of drawers, but they were narrow, hardly comfortable.