Taking that as a sign, he sent his hands stroking over her back, smoothing her gown, then set his fingers to the buttons down her back.

She made a sound of protest; bracing her hands on his chest she pushed up, wriggled until she was straddling his waist, then looked down into his face.

He had no idea what she could see, but he lay still, his hands passive at her sides, watched her study him, waited for her lead.

Portia looked down at him, at his face, lit by the strengthening moonlight pouring through the window. She could read his acquiescence, his willingness to, at least tonight, at least here, be whatever she wanted. Behave in whatever way she decreed.

She wanted-needed-more.

“You suggested a trial. Did you mean it?”

With her above him, he couldn’t see her eyes well enough to read them. He searched her face, hesitated, then said, “I meant we should behave as if we were married so you can see-convince yourself-that it’s possible. That being married to me won’t be the disaster you fear.”

“So you won’t dictate, decree?” She gestured with one hand. “Simply take charge, take control?”

“I’ll try not to.” His jaw firmed. “I’m willing to bend as much as I’m able, to accommodate you within reason, but I can’t-”

When he didn’t go on, she supplied, “Change your stripes?”

She felt him exhale.

“I can’t be someone I’m not, any more than you can accept being forced to be someone you’re not.” He held her eyes with his. “All we can do is try, and make of it what we can.”

The sincerity in his tone slid beneath her guard and touched her. It was enough for now-assurance enough, invitation enough to test him and see.

“Very well. Let’s try it, and see how far we get.”

His hands, large, powerful, strong, remained passive at her sides, not pushing, not pressing… waiting.

She smiled, bent and set her lips to his. Taunted, then, as she felt his hands tense, draw back. Froze him with a glance.

And set her fingers to his cravat. Drew the diamond pin free and slid it into his waistcoat’s edge, then settled to untie the knot, eventually dragging the long strip free. She paused with it dangling from her hand, the possibilities winging through her mind, then she smiled.

Took the long strip between both hands, flipped it to form a blindfold.

Caught his eyes over it. “Your turn.”

The look on his face was priceless, yet he couldn’t refuse to ease up from the bed, propped on his elbows, head bent forward while she secured the white band in place.

“I hope you know what you’re doing,” he muttered.

“I believe I’ll manage.”

With him blind, she could forget all need for guarding her expression, could focus completely on him, on securing what she wished from him.

Fingers on his shoulders, she pressed him back; he lay down again, stretched beneath her across the bed. The headboard and its pile of pillows lay to her right; from behind her left shoulder, the moon shone in, casting faint but sufficient light over him.

She set about creating the scene she had in mind, the stage on which tonight she would test him.

12

The idea was too intriguing to deny. Pushing the halves of his waistcoat wide, she eased it off his shoulders, then tugged him up enough to yank it away; she sent it flying to the floor.

He eased back to the bed; she pounced on the line of buttons closing his shirt. Fingers busy, she watched his face; blindfolded, he couldn’t see her watching, so was less vigilant in guarding his expression. From what she could see, he’d guessed at least some of her intention, and wasn’t entirely sure how he felt.

Her smile turned determined as she freed the last button, yanked the tails from his waistband, then wrenched his shirt open. He’d have to grin and bear it.

“Think of England,” she said. And spread her hands over him.

Greedily, fingers splayed, she filled her senses with the sculpted beauty of his chest, enthralled by the tactile bounty of firm, smooth skin overlayed by raspy, crinkly hair, feasted on the resilient muscles beneath, worshipped the width and inherent strength, gloried in its promise.

He shifted. “I’ll survive.”

Her smile turned wicked. She wrestled the shirt free and flung it away, then leaned low and touched the tip of her tongue to his collarbone. Surreptitiously, he sucked in a breath; the muscles of his abdomen tensed as he held it. Intent, she settled on his bare chest-settled to tease, to taunt, to torture.

To lick, lave, and rasp the tight buds of his nipples. With her teeth nip, here, there, then suck.

Until he shifted, until his hands, until then passive on her hips, started to tighten, until the muscles in his upper arms tensed.

With one last, long lick, she sat up.

Rose up on her knees, shifted back, pulling her skirts from under her, then sat straddling his hard thighs.

Leaning forward, she placed her hands again on his chest, then slowly, gradually, slid them down.

Over the corrugated muscles of his stomach. Down to his waist.

Beneath her palms, muscles shifted. Locked.

Satisfied, she sat back, waited. Watched as his anticipation eased. He drew in a breath.

She reached for his waistband.