She managed not to humph. Head high, she swept down the corridor and into the dining room.

Simon followed more slowly, Lady O on his arm. Stokes and Charlie came behind. At the door to the dining room, Stokes took his leave of them, charging Simon with telling the company he’d resume his questions on the morrow before retiring to the servants’ hall.

Charlie headed in to find his seat. Simon steered Lady O through the door.

Pausing on the threshold, ostensibly to rearrange her shawl, she chuckled evilly. “Don’t look so glum. I can’t see across the room-how will I know if she’s there or not?”

Under cover of retaking his arm, she poked him in the ribs. “And I’m a horribly heavy sleeper… no use at all in the guardian stakes, now I think on it.”

Simon managed not to gape-he’d long known she was an incorrigible matchmaker, just plain incorrigible most of the time, yet the idea that she might actually aid him, actively support his pursuit of Portia…

She allowed him to help her into her seat, then dismissed him with a wave. As he headed down the table to the empty place beside Portia, pulled out the chair, paused to look down on her dark head, presently set at an angle that from experience he could interpret quite well, then sat, he reflected that having Lady O as an ally was not a bad thing.

Especially now. Aside from all else, Lady O was pragmatic to a fault; she could be counted on to insist Portia behave sensibly. Safely.

Shaking out his napkin, he glanced briefly at Portia’s haughty face, then allowed the footman to serve him. He-they-might not be out of the woods yet, but he felt more positive than at any time since Portia had learned of his true goal.

By consensus, the tone of the house party was consciously and deliberately altered. As Portia sat sipping tea in the drawing room, she couldn’t help but note that Kitty wouldn’t have approved. The atmosphere was akin to that of a large family gathering, but without any attendant gaiety; those present were comfortable with each other and seemed to have dropped their masks, as if deeming themselves excused by the circumstances from maintaining the usual social facades.

The ladies had retired there; no one expected the gentlemen to join them. The company sat in groups about the long room, talking quietly, no laughter, no drama, just gentle conversation.

Conversation designed to soothe, to settle, to let the horror of Kitty’s murder and the very concept of the investigation now upon them slide into the background.

The Hammond sisters remained pale, but had started to cope; Lucy Buckstead was little better. Winifred, in dark navy, a color that didn’t suit her, looked pallid and wan. Mrs. Archer had not come down for dinner.

As soon as their tea had been drunk, everyone rose and retired. There seemed an unstated sentiment that they would all need their rest to face what the morrow and Stokes’s questions might bring. Only Drusilla had thought to ask Portia what Stokes was like, whether she thought him competent. Portia had answered that she rather thought he was, but there seemed so little evidence that the matter may well remain unresolved.

Drusilla had grimaced, nodded, and moved away.

On helping Lady O to her room, Portia noted the threatened trestle bed had indeed been set up by the empty hearth, on the other side of the room from the main bed. Lady O’s maid was there to help her mistress undress; Portia retreated to the window seat, only then noticing that her own clothes had been fetched from her room. Her gowns hung on a string stretched across the room’s corner; her linens and stockings were neatly laid in her chest, sitting open in the corner. Lifting her head, she saw her brushes and hairpins, her perfume flask and combs all neatly arrayed on the mantelpiece.

Sinking onto the cushioned window seat, she looked out at the darkening gardens, and put her mind to devising an excuse to go wandering that Lady O would accept.

Nothing useful had occurred to her when the maid came to ask if she desired any help getting out of her gown. She shook her head, bade the maid good night, then rose and crossed to the bed.

The candle on the nightstand had already been blown out; Lady O lay propped high on her pillows, eyes closed.

Portia leaned close and kissed her papery cheek. “Sleep well.”

Lady O chuckled. “Oh, I will. Don’t know how you’ll fare, mind you, but you’d better get along and find out.” Eyes still closed, she lifted a hand and made shooing motions toward the door. “Go on, now-off with you.”

Portia simply stared. Then decided she had to ask, “Get along where?”

One old eye cracked open; one black eye transfixed her. “Where do you think?”

When she stood staring, mind swinging wildly, Lady O snorted and closed her eye again. “I’m rather more than seven-gracious heavens, I’m more than seventy-seven! I know enough to recognize what’s going on under my nose.”

“You do?”

“Indeed. Mind you, I’m not sure that you do, and he certainly doesn’t, but that’s as may be.” She settled deeper into her pillows. “Now off you go-no sense wasting time. You’re twenty-four-and he’s what? Thirty? You’ve both wasted time enough as it is.”

Portia couldn’t think how to respond, in the end decided not responding was wisest. “Good night, then.” Turning, she headed for the door.

“Wait a minute!”

At the irritated command, Portia turned.

“Where are you going?”

She pointed to the door. “You just said-”

“Great heavens, gel-do I have to teach you everything? You should change your gown first.”

Portia looked down at her magenta twill. She seriously doubted Simon would care what she wore; knowing him, she wouldn’t be wearing it for long. Lifting her head, she opened her lips to ask why it mattered-

Lady O sighed. “Change into the day gown you intend wearing tomorrow. That way, if any one sees you coming back in the morning, they’ll simply assume you got up early and went for a walk. If they see you in the corridors tonight, they’ll assume you got ready for bed, then remembered something you needed to do, or I’ve sent you to fetch something.” She let out an exasperated snort and fell back on her pillows. “You young things-the things I could teach you… but then again”-she closed her eyes; a wicked smile curled her lips-“as I recall, learning them was half the fun.”

Portia grinned; what else could she do? Obediently, she stripped off the magenta twill and wriggled into a day gown of blue poplin. As she struggled to do up the tiny buttons closing the bodice, she thought of Simon-shortly struggling to undo them again. Still, Lady O’s suggested practice made eminent sense…

She stopped, lifted her head, struck by a wayward thought, a sudden suspicion…

When the last button slipped into place, she walked, not to the door, but back to the bed. Pausing by the bedpost, she looked at Lady O, wondered if she was sleeping…

“Still here?”

“I’m just going, but I wondered… did you know Simon would be here, attending the house party?”

Silence, then, “I knew he and James were close friends from their Eton days. Seemed likely he’d drop by.”

Portia thought of the arguments that had raged at Calverton Chase with Luc, Amelia, her mother, and herself insisting Lady O take someone with her on her journey, thought of Lady O resisting… then finally giving way, agreeing, grudgingly, to take her with her…

Eyes narrowing on the old lady feigning sleep in the bed, Portia wondered how much her and Simon’s present situation owed to the oh-so-subtle manipulations of the ton’s most dangerous harridan.

Decided she didn’t care. Lady O was right-they’d wasted enough time. Straightening, she turned to the door. “Good night. I’ll see you in the morning.”

And it would be morning. One excellent aspect of Lady O’s scheme, now she was in her morning gown, she wouldn’t need to leave Simon before dawn.

Simon was in his room, waiting, wondering if Portia would find a way to come to him-or whether she’d grasp the chance to stay away, to think, to consider, to revisit all the reasons she didn’t want to marry him, and set up barriers against him.

Halting by the window, acutely aware of the tension holding him, he sipped from the glass of brandy he’d been nursing for the past half hour, and looked out at the darkening scene.

He didn’t want her to think too hard about what he would be like as a husband. At the same time, he knew if he tried, no matter how subtly, to steer her away from that path, he’d only dig himself deeper, only confirm he was not to be trusted to let her come to her own decisions.

Hamstrung. That’s what he was. And there was not a damned thing he could do.

She would go her own road, regardless; she was too clear-sighted, too forthright, not to face the facts-his character, hers, and the inherent difficulties-head-on. The only solace he could draw from that was that if-when-she finally decided in his favor, he would know she was committed, eyes open, heart true.

He hesitated, then drained the glass. That was almost worth the torment.

The latch clicked; he turned as she entered, slim, elegant, in a fresh gown. He noted it as she neared, a gentle, confident smile on her lips. He set the glass on the windowsill, freeing his hands to slide about her waist as she came to him-straight into his arms.

He bent his head and their lips met, clung. The embers that, these days, glowed just beneath their cool surfaces ignited, glowed, sent flames licking, teasing.

Realizing the gown closed down the front, he eased his hands around between them. But the buttons were tiny, secure in their loops; he had to release her lips and look to manage them.

“Why did you change?” He could have had her out of her other gown in a minute.

“Lady O.”

He looked up; Portia smiled. “She pointed out that in a day gown, I wouldn’t appear suspicious coming back in the morning.”

His fingers stilled. “She knows you’re here?” Support was one thing; he hadn’t expected such blatant encouragement.

“She virtually pushed me out of the door and suggested we stop wasting time.”

Gaze on the buttons, he caught the laughing note in Portia’s voice, glanced up at her face-and cursed the shadows; he couldn’t see her eyes well enough to read them. “What?”

He knew there was something… something she knew, or had thought of that he hadn’t. That was confirmed when she studied his face, then smiled anew, and shook her head. “Just Lady O-she’s a shocking old lady. I think I’m going to grow up to be like her.”

He humphed derisively. The last button finally slid free.

Reaching up, she drew his lips back to hers. “Now if you’ve finished, I really think we should pay attention to her instructions.”

They didn’t waste time, yet neither did he allow her to rush. This time-for the first time-they were meeting as equals. Both knowing where they were heading, and why; both knowingly going forward, stepping into the furnace hand in hand, side by side.

It was a time to be savored. Remembered. Each touch a reverence, a moment of distilled passion.

He didn’t know what she wanted from the night, what more she was seeking from him, what more he could give. He could only give her all he was, and hope it was enough.

They didn’t move from the window, but shed clothes where they stood, piece by piece. Each earlier discovery revisited, each curve, each hollow, each indentation worshipped anew.

Until they stood naked, until their bodies met skin to skin.

Fire licked over them, hungry, greedy, growing.

Their mouths melded, feeding the conflagration, stoking the flames. Their tongues taunted, teased, tormented.

Hands feasted, fingers spreading, caressing, kneading, probing.

Their urgency grew.

He lifted her. She wrapped her arms about his neck and kissed him voraciously. Wrapped her long legs about his waist, sighed when he entered her, sheathed him lovingly as he pulled her hips down.

Impaled, she held him, speared her fingers through his hair, clenched them, drew his lips back to hers. Feasted as he savored her, filled her, withdrew, then filled her again.

She gave herself unstintingly, holding nothing back, asking for no reassurance.

And he took, claimed her body, yet wanted, yearned for, more.

Portia knew it, could sense in the locked muscles that held her, that flexed and gripped and moved her upon him, that there was a great deal more she had yet to learn, a great deal more he could give her.

If she would.

If she dared.

If she trusted enough…

Her skin was on fire, her body liquid flame, yet he was filling her only so far… not enough. She wanted to feel him deeper, harder, wanted to glory in the solid weight of him holding her down as he filled her.