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.