A few seconds passed, then Portia tightened her hold on his arm briefly, inclined her head.

They'd strolled around most of the lake; the summerhouse loomed out of the darkness. He allowed her to steer him across the lawn to the steps; he made no demur when she let go of his arm, picked up her skirts, and went up. He cast a quick glance around the lake path, then followed her.

She was waiting in the dimness. In the shadows, her face was a pale oval; he had no hope of reading her eyes. Nor she his.

He halted before her. She raised a hand to his cheek, lifted her face, guided his lips to hers. Kissed him in flagrant invitation. Locking his hands about her waist, glorying in the feel of her supple, slender form anchored between his palms, he accepted and took. Without quarter.

When he finally raised his head, she sighed. Then asked, perfectly equably, "What's next?"

He'd had the last half hour to formulate the right answer. He smiled; in the darkness, she couldn't see it.

"Something a little different." He walked forward, step by slow, deliberate step backing her.

He sensed the skittery excitement that flashed through her. She tensed to glance around, to see where he was steering her, but inherent caution overcame her-she didn't take her gaze from his face.

The backs of her legs hit the arm of one of the deep chairs. She stopped. He released her, caught her hand, stepped past and around her and sat, reaching for her, pulling her down, perching her on his knees, more or less facing him.

He could feel her surprise. They were now in dense shadow; the moonlight didn't reach this far.

But she was quick to adjust; he didn't need to draw her to him. Unbidden, she leaned close, and kissed him.

Invitingly. He was deep in the exchange, caught, captured, before he realized. Not a kitten, not a coquette, but she could, it seemed, when the mood was on her, be a temptress of a different sort.

One infinitely more attractive to him.

He could feel his hunger rise; he fervently prayed she never realized how easily she could conjure it. Call it, lure it, like some beast of prey coming to her hand.

Ready to feast.

His hands, until then spread over her back, over the fine silk of her evening gown, slid forward. She sat up-he assumed to give him better access to her breasts. Instead, she broke the kiss, raised her head.

"I have a suggestion."

Wariness flooded him, not least because her voice had changed. The tone was lower, richer, as sultry as the night that wrapped about them and screened her eyes, her expression. He could read neither, had to gauge their play-her state-from other things.

Far less accurate things.

"What?"

He saw her lips lift. She set her forearms on his upper chest, leaned in and kissed him lightly. "An addendum to our last lesson."

What on earth was she about? "Explain."

She laughed softly; the sound sank into him. "I'd rather show you." She caught his gaze. "It's all perfectly reasonable-and only fair."

It was then he realized she'd undone his waistcoat; his coat had already been open. Before he could react, she shifted on his chest and set nimble fingers to his cravat.

"Portia."

"Hmm?"

Arguing would get him nowhere; he lifted his hands and helped her untie his cravat. In a gesture of triumph she sat up and drew it free, went to fling it away. A sudden vision flashed across his brain; he caught the cravat and laid it on the chair arm.

She'd already lost interest-hers had focused on the buttons closing his shirt. He shifted, letting her draw the front free of his trousers, then she had it fully open, spread the halves wide-and stopped, staring down at what she'd uncovered.

He would have given an arm to see her face clearly. As it was, he drank in her stillness, her absorption, the sense of fascination that held her as she slowly released the shirt, spread her fingers, and touched.

For a full minute, she simply traced, explored-learned. Then she glanced at his face, registered his reaction, the fact he'd stopped breathing. Her hands stopped for a moment, then touched more boldly.

"You like this." She moved her hands slowly, sensuously caressing across the wide muscles banding his chest, then down, fingers lightly touching, only to return to spear through the crinkly thatch of brown hair.

He dragged in a breath. "If it pleases you."

She laughed. "Oh, it pleases me-even more because it pleases you."

He was in pain, acute pain. The tenor of her voice, sultry, warm, and so oddly mature-so knowing of him and confident of herself-was the most potent siren's call he'd ever heard. Her weight, warm and femininely alluring, across his thighs, only added to his torment.

Portia stroked, caressed, drank in the sheer delight of touching him, and knowing that, for at least these few minutes, she had him in her thrall. His skin was warm, almost hot, the steely resilience of the muscles beneath utterly fascinating. She was enthralled, but even more, she was thrilled to learn that she, with her touch, could pleasure him as he had her.

Only fair, as she'd said-fair to them both.

At last, he drew a deep, not quite steady breath, and reached for her. He didn't push her hands away, but urged her to him. Leaving her hands spread on his chest, she eagerly leaned down and gave him her lips, her mouth, her tongue.

The kiss deepened into blatant intimacy, then extended into some arena they'd not before explored; her fingers sank into his flesh, and she pressed her burning palms to his bare skin.

She felt his hands on her back, his fingers busy with the line of buttons down her spine. He undid them all, all the way to where the gown's opening ended in the small of her back.

The night air was warm; it lay heavy all around them, barely stirring as he urged her up, to sit up and let him draw her gown down.

A shiver, not of modesty but of sheer awareness, shook her. He'd caressed her bare breasts before, but her gown had been there, largely shielding all he'd touched from his sight. But now he drew her gown down and she let him, with only the slightest hesitation freed her arms from the sleeves. The gown collapsed about her waist. She looked at his face as, almost lazily, he reached for the ribbon straps of her chemise.

He didn't ask permission, but simply tugged them free, perfectly sure he had the right.

She was very glad she could not see his expression; only the fact that they were cloaked in shadows allowed her to sit still and let him peel her chemise down.

The air was warm. Her skin felt hot, her nipples already tight and aching. She felt his gaze on her, roaming, cataloging; she thought his lips lifted, but it wasn't in a smile.

Then he raised a hand and touched her. Her lids fell, suddenly heavy; she swayed. He closed both hands about her breasts, and she shuddered.

Closed her eyes and gave herself up to feeling, her senses focused on each caress, each knowing touch, the escalating torture. Her skin seemed even more sensitive than before, her nipples so tightly ruched they hurt. An odd hurt that, every time he squeezed, transmuted to heat, to washes of feeling that flooded through her, pooling low in her body.

She cracked open her lids enough to look at his face. Did he know what he was doing to her?

One glance was enough; of course he did. Had he planned the darkness so she'd be amenable? No-she'd been the one to lead him to the summerhouse, but he'd capitalized-was capitalizing-on her plan.

The notion pleased her; one made a move and the other took it further. That seemed right. Encouraging.

As was his touch, the way he kneaded her flesh. She caught her breath and glanced down-watched his hands, dark against the whiteness of her breasts, play, possess.

The heat within her swelled, grew.

"Do you want to go on to the next stage?"

She glanced at him. She didn't know-couldn't guess-what the next stage was. Didn't care. "Yes."

Simon heard the decision in her voice, could just detect a firming of her jawline. Enough to let out a small sigh of relief.

Forcing his fingers to leave her swollen flesh, he reached for his cravat. She blinked, watched as he smoothed the yard-long strip, folding it to a narrow band. Drawing it tight between his hands, he met her eyes over it. "A suggestion of mine."

He'd gone along with her suggestion; she could hardly demur at his. She did, however, frown, yet . . . placing her hands on his chest, she leaned forward and let him tie the blindfold in place.

"Is this really necessary?"

"Not absolutely, but I think you'll prefer it."

Her silence screamed that she wasn't sure how to interpret that. Cinching the knot at the back of her head, he grinned. He released it and she tensed to sit up.

"No." He slid his palms over her naked back, felt something tighten deep within him in response. "Stay just as you are." With one hand, he drew her lips to his. "You don't need to do anything, other than feel."

Their lips met; he drew her back into the heat, into the familiar intimacy. Her hands, braced on his chest, kept their bodies apart-just as well as this point. He drew her deeper, trapped her senses-seized the moment first to absorb the fact that she was naked to the waist, sitting, waiting, on his knee, then to set the final touches to his preparations.

The darkness she'd handed him was an unexpected boon, the blindfold an added benefit; it would have assuredly taken him longer, otherwise, to find a way, a suitable setting, in which to introduce her to this, the next stage, without risking evoking an instinctive reaction, a wariness, a deep-seated reluctance to be in any man's control-an instinct with which he knew her to be very well endowed. She'd handed him herself on a platter; of course, he was going to feast.

He eased her up, sitting up himself, his hands sliding over her smooth skin, glorying on their way to cup her breasts anew. The intensity of the kiss increased, pouring heat and fire through them both. He was happy to let it happen, knowing what was to come. When her kisses turned urgent, when her breasts where heated and tight again, he broke the kiss, nudged her head back, set his lips to cruise the long line of her throat.

Her hands slid up, one locking on his shoulder, beneath his shirt. The other slid to his nape, stroking, then spearing into his hair as he bent and laved the pulse point at the base of her throat, then set his lips to it.

Head back, she caught her breath on a soft gasp.

Drawing his lips from her skin, he cupped one breast, lifting the ruched peak-bent his head and took it into his mouth.

The sound she made was a shattered cry of delight; it streaked through him and urged him on. He drew the tortured peak deep, suckled and laved, until she cried out again. He paused only to transfer his attentions to her other breast. He feasted like a conqueror with her his slave, offered up to him. As she was. Not once did she draw back-if anything, she urged him on, wordless in her entreaties, effective nonetheless. He knew every nuance, could interpret and understand every little gasp, every soft moan.

Her fingers sank into his shoulder, clutched tight on his skull. She held him to her, begged him to take. And give.

He did. He fed the conflagration mercilessly-let her sense, know, learn all she wished-but then ruthlessly, determinedly, even against her wishes reined them back, both of them, drew them back from the brink of the furnace, from the scorching flames of desire.

That time was not yet.

They were breathing raggedly when he finally slumped back, and she followed, collapsing on his chest. She murmured, then shifted, sinuously abrading her brutually sensitized breasts against the roughness of his chest. He let her, drew her lips to his, and kissed her, but softly. Let her ease back in her own way.

Finally accepting, she sighed, and sank into his arms, then reached up and pulled off the blindfold.

She looked up at him. Even in the dimness, he would have sworn her eyes glittered. She looked at his lips, licked hers, then met his eyes.

"More."

Not a question-a demand.

"No." It hurt to say it. He drew breath, felt desire's vise locked about his chest. "Be patient."

Foolish words. He knew that the instant he uttered them, saw a definite flash in her eyes-and reacted instantly, before she could.

He kissed her. Shifted her in his arms, then ravaged her mouth. Simultaneously, deliberately, slid his hands down, over the long planes of her back, down, sliding beneath the back of her gown, down over her flushed skin, over the curves, tracing, learning. Mapping what, one day soon, would be his.

She murmured deep in her throat-not a protest but pure encouragement. He ignored it, but could not draw his hands away, not yet. Not until he'd satisfied some undeniable inner craving to know that much, at least, of her. To know, absolutely, that she would be his-sometime.

Soon.

When he finally raised his head, she opened her eyes, and met his. Fearlessly, without guile or guilt.

She was lying in his arms, bare to the hips, her naked breasts pressed to his bare chest, his hands caressing her bare bottom, her skin dewed with desire.

Desire itself lay naked between them.

Both of them recognized it.

It was an effort to draw breath, but he did.

"We have to go back."

She studied his face, understood what he meant. Eventually inclined her head.

Going back took time. Letting their senses settle, righting themselves, rearranging their clothes. He didn't bother retying his cravat but left it about his neck, trusting they'd encounter no one while returning to the house.

They set off, her hand locked in his, walking through the deepening shadows. The moon had sunk low; the gardens were dark.

The house loomed ahead. Portia frowned. "The lights-I would have expected most would still be downstairs. It can't be that late."

In truth, she had no idea of the time.

Simon shrugged. "Perhaps, like us, they fled Kitty's court."

They walked on; Simon steered her in a different direction to their usual route, she assumed so they could slip into the house unseen. They were still some way from the walls when they heard the thud of footsteps, then the rustle of leaves drawing nearer.

Simon halted; perforce she did, too, in the black shadows thrown by a tree. Silent and still, they waited.

A figure emerged some yards away, cutting down the narrow paths heading away from the house. He didn't see them, but as he passed from shadow to shadow, they saw him.

Recognition was instant; as before the gypsy continued through the gardens as if he knew every inch of them.

When he was gone, and Simon urged her on, she whispered, "Who the devil is he? Is he really a gypsy?"

"Apparently he's the leader of a band of gypsies that spends most summers camped nearby. His name's Arturo."

They'd nearly reached the house when Simon stopped again. She peered ahead, and saw what he had-the young gardener standing under a tree to their right, near a corner of the mansion. He wasn't looking their way-he was watching the other face of the house, the one out of their sight. The one the gypsy, Arturo, had most likely come from.

The same wing of the house that contained the family's private rooms.