He let the moment stretch. “I know.”
After a moment, he grimaced. “If it comes to that, we’ll be at stalemate. But it won’t, so there’s no sense worrying about it.”
She narrowed her eyes at him, but then grimaced, too, and turned to walk beside him once more. “You’re very sure.”
They emerged into the forecourt; he looked up at the house. “Of what should be, yes.” Of what was to come—that was another matter.
Reaching the front steps, they went up and through the front door, presently set wide.
In the hall, Portia halted. “I need to think.”
An understatment. She still felt as if she were walking in a dream, that none of what had happened had been real. She wasn’t at all sure what she’d got herself into, what she was now facing.
Where they, he and she, now were.
She drew her hand from his; he released it, but reluctantly. One glance at his face told her he’d much rather she didn’t think, that he was considering distracting her, but then he caught her eye, realized what she’d seen.
He inclined his head. “I’ll be in the billiard room.”
She nodded, turned away, opened the library door, and walked in. The long room was empty. Relieved, she shut the door behind her, leaned back against it. An instant later, she heard his footsteps heading down the hall.
Her back against the panels, she waited for her whirling wits to subside, for her emotions to settle.
Was he right? Could a marriage between them work?
There seemed little point examining the past; now she knew he’d been thinking of marriage all along, his behavior made perfect sense. Even the fact he’d not mentioned marriage until Kitty had made it unavoidable; given all he knew of her, in his shoes, she’d have done the same.
She’d never been one to cut off her nose to spite her face; their past was behind them—it was the future she now had to deal with. The future he’d set so forcefully before her.
Yet she felt as if her horses had bolted and her life was running away with her—out of her control. She’d been so focused on the emotional connection between them, she hadn’t spared much thought for the state that connection might lead them to—eventually, perhaps. He’d obviously been thinking of the state, but had he considered the emotion?
While she’d been investigating that connection step by logical step, he’d impulsively leapt far ahead to one possible conclusion—and was convinced that conclusion was right. Meant to be.
She was usually the impulsive one; he was the stoic male. Yet in this, he was convinced while she was still uncertain, searching for proof, for reassurance.
Grimacing, she pushed away from the door. Doubtless, her caution was a reflection of the fact that she had most at stake; it was she who would take the risk in giving him her hand. Giving him all rights over her—whichever rights he chose to exercise.
He said it would work; he understood her fears—said he wanted her as she was. Again, her decision hinged on trust. Did she trust him to live by that creed, day by day for the rest of their lives?
That was the question to which she would need to find the answer.
One thing, however, was clear. Their connectedness—the emotional link she’d been working to understand—born of their past, immeasurably strengthened by their recent interactions, was very real, all but tangible now between them.
It was still growing, still strengthening.
And he knew it, felt it, recognized it as she did; he was now capitalizing on it, using it. Adding his will to it—something she’d never expected—deliberately pushing it in the direction he, apparently, now wished.
Which led her to the most pertinent question. Was what she sensed between them real or, given his expertise combined with his ruthless will, was it a fabrication to beguile her into marrying him?
The way she’d reacted to his concern that morning replayed in her mind; was he ruthless enough to have fabricated that? She knew the answer: yes.
But had he?
She could sense the emotions—the passions, the desires—he kept reined, held back but insufficiently disguised. Still felt in response an instinctive skittering, an impulse to draw back, from him, from them, from their power and the inherent threat they posed to her, yet that impulse was countered by curiosity, by a potent fascination with what evoked those same desires—with what lay between them, and the promise of all that could.
He could read her thoughts and feelings well—in general, she’d never bothered to conceal either from him. That he should have guessed the single truth she’d always thought she’d kept well hidden simply confirmed that he’d been more attuned to her than she’d guessed. More aware of her than she’d been of him.
Until now, her thoughts of marriage had been abstract, although definitely not with him or any like him. Circumstances had conspired to entrap her, through her curiosity to draw her into his web; he’d now made the prospect of marriage to a tyrant very real.