She’d always known what Simon was; never, not even at fourteen, had she mistaken his caliber, not seen him for the tyrant he was. But never had she dreamed he would take it into his head to marry her—certainly not before she had thought of marrying him. Yet he had, and she, with her curiosity about marriage born of her wish for a husband—something, thankfully, he still didn’t know—had, quite literally, played into his hands.
And he’d let her.
Hardly surprising; that rang so very true to his nature.
Staring out at the darkening gardens, she thought again of him, of all they’d shared. All she still did not know.
All she still wished to learn.
Was it love that was growing between them? Or something he’d concocted to draw her to him?
Separate from that, was he truly capable of allowing her free rein within reason, allowing her to be as she was? Or was his offer simply a tactic to gain her agreement to their marriage?
Two questions—both were now clear in her mind.
There was only one way to learn the answers.
Try me.
She would have to put him to the test.
She sat by the window and watched the shadows lengthen, darken. Watched night descend, wrapping the gardens in silence.
Thought again of Kitty lying dead in the icehouse.
Felt the blood still coursing her own veins.
She still had her life to live, and that meant making of it what she could. She’d never lacked for courage; never in her life had she walked away from a challenge.
Never had she faced a challenge like this.
To take the situation he had wrought and shape from it the life she wanted, to claim from him—him of all men—the answers, the guarantees she needed to feel safe.
The truth was there was no going back. No pretending that what had happened between them hadn’t, or that what had grown between them, still was growing between them, didn’t exist.
Or that she could simply walk away, from it, from him—that he would let her.
No point pretending at all.
In waistcoat and shirtsleeves, Simon stood by the window in his room watching the waters of the lake turn to ink.
Feeling his mood turn equally black.
He wanted to go to Portia—now, tonight. Wanted to wrap her in his arms and know she was safe. Wanted, with a desire that was new and novel and so unlike passion he couldn’t believe its strength, to make her feel safe.
That was his governing impulse, one he couldn’t indulge.
The fact only fed his deepening disquiet.
She was in her room, alone. Thinking.
There was nothing he could do about it—nothing he could do to influence her conclusions.
He couldn’t recall being so totally uncertain of any other woman in his life; he’d certainly never been so hobbled in his ability to turn a woman to his will.
There was nothing he could do. Unless or until she came to him, he was powerless to persuade her further. To convince her to go forward with him and explore making a marriage work—something to which he was now fully committed. He’d been perfectly serious in promising to find ways to accommodate her as far as he was able.
He would do whatever it took to get her to marry him; the alternative was not something he was prepared to face.