She looked at the bed. It was the only sensible place to sit and wait. Sweeping forward, she turned and sat. Bounced, approving the thickness and comfort of the mattress.

Wriggling back to lean against the pillows piled against the headboard, she crossed her arms and fixed her gaze on the door. There was, she supposed, another perspective on Simon’s absence. He obviously hadn’t expected her, hadn’t taken her deciding in his favor for granted.

Given his Cynster arrogance, given his reputation, that definitely ranked as noteworthy.

The window was open; a cool breeze had sprung up. The storm that had threatened had blown past, leaving cooler air in its wake.

She shivered, shifted. She wasn’t cold, yet…

She looked at the comforter on the bed, then lifted her gaze, and frowned at the door.

Parting from Charlie at his door, Simon opened it and walked in. Shutting the door, he glanced at the window, noted the moonlight streaming in, and decided not to bother lighting a candle.

Stifling a sigh, he shrugged out of his coat. Slipping the buttons on his waistcoat free, he walked to the chair beside the tallboy and tossed the coat across it. His waistcoat went the same way. Plucking the diamond pin from his cravat, he laid it on the tallboy, then set his fingers to the intricate folds, loosening them, untying the knot-studiously keeping his mind busy with mundane things rather than wondering for how many hours he’d toss and turn tonight.

Wondering how long it would take his obsession to make up her mind.

Wondering how much longer he could manage to play the role of nonchalant seducer. He’d never previously attempted a role so totally foreign to his nature-but he’d never before seduced Portia.

Flicking the ends of the cravat free, he drew it from his throat, went to drop it on the other chair-

A silk gown of some pale shade lay draped neatly across the chair. Apple green silk-his memory supplied the color of the gown Portia had worn that evening. The shade had made her skin appear even whiter, thrown her black hair into sharp contrast, made her dark blue eyes even more startling.

He reached down, trailed his fingertips across the folds-in truth, to convince himself he wasn’t hallucinating. His touch disturbed a pair of diaphanous silk stockings, laid over two lace-trimmed, ruched silk garters.

His mind leapt-to a vision of Portia clad in nothing more than her silk chemise.

Slowly, hardly daring to believe what his rational mind was telling him, he turned.

She was asleep in his bed, her hair a black wave breaking over the pillows.

Soft-footed, he moved closer. She lay on her side, facing him, one hand beneath her cheek. Her lips were fractionally parted. Her lashes lay, ebony crescents against her fair skin.

He could smell the scent she wore; a light, flowery fragrance it rose from her warmth, wreathed through his brain, sank sensual claws into him and tugged.

All he could sense, all he could see, left him giddy.

Triumph soared-immediately he grabbed hold and reined it in. Set his jaw, waited a moment, feeling the blood pound beneath his skin. He’d spent all evening warning himself not to expect this-that with Portia, nothing was ever straightforward and simple.

Yet here she was.

He couldn’t quite grasp it-he felt almost winded. Sucking in a breath, he blew it out softly, reminded himself he shouldn’t overinterpret, read too much into her presence. This was definitely not the moment to let his instincts loose and simply seize.

Yet it had to have taken courage to come to his bed.

She knew him-no other lady he’d bedded knew him as she did. She knew his character, his personality-knew what he’d be like as a husband. Or could make a very well-educated guess.

He’d agreed to teach her all she wanted to know; they’d never spoken of anything more. Anything more binding. Regardless, she would have recognized that in coming to him-in accepting his offer to introduce her to intimacy-she was risking, trusting him with, a great deal more than her maidenhead.

Her independence was a vital part of her, of who she was; to toss something so fundamental on the scales took precisely the kind of reckless courage with which she was so well-endowed. But she wouldn’t have taken the decision lightly, not Portia.

She wouldn’t have missed seeing the danger, even though he’d disguised it as much as he was able.

He had no idea how they-he and she-would make a marriage work; by no stretch of the imagination would it be easy. But it was what he wanted.

All he had to do now was lead her to convince herself that it was what she wanted, too.

Without revealing that marrying her had been his aim all along.

No matter that he trusted her, that was one piece of information she did not need, one vulnerability he had no intention of revealing.

He stood looking down at her as the minutes ticked by, plotting, planning, far too wise to rush in. Once he had the best approach clear in his mind, he girded his loins, stepped to the bed, and sat on the edge beside her.

She didn’t stir. He raised a hand, twined his fingers in her hair, let the silky strands slide. He studied her face, innocent in sleep, then bent and kissed her awake.

She roused slowly, warm and sweetly feminine, then she murmured something unintelligible, shifted onto her back, slid her fingers into his hair and kissed him back.

Invitingly.

He drew back, looked into her eyes, darker than night behind the screen of her lashes. Looked at her lips. “Why are you here?”

Full, sensuous, her lips slowly curved. She drew him back down. “You know perfectly well. I want you to teach me-all.”

On the last word, she kissed him, her tongue sliding between his lips to find his and stroke, caress, taunt. Passion rose, spread like wildfire beneath his skin.

His reins started to slide-he caught them. Pulled back, met her gaze.

“You’re sure? Absolutely sure?” When she raised her brows, faintly mocking, he growled, “You’re sure you won’t change your mind come morning?”

Even as the words left his lips, he realized their idiocy; this was Portia-she never changed her mind.

And, God above, he didn’t want her to.

“Never mind-forget that.” He held her gaze. “Just tell me one thing-does this mean you trust me?”

She didn’t answer immediately-she actually thought. Then she nodded. “In this, yes.”

He let out the breath he’d been holding. “Thank God for that.”

Pulling out of her arms, he stood, yanked his shirt from his breeches, then hauled it off over his head.

10

Portia stared at the muscled expanse of bare chest suddenly on display. Her mouth dried; her logical mind was fighting to pay attention to what he’d asked-why he’d asked… the rest of her mind didn’t care.