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.

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.