"Naturally," Mrs. Buckstead joined in, smiling benignly down the table at her daughter and the Hammond girls, "the younger ones need to get out in the fresh air."

Kitty glared at her. "Winifred-"

"And, of course, once one's married, gadding about on morning adventures does lose its appeal." Unperturbed, Mrs. Buckstead helped herself to more iced asparagus.

For one instant, Kitty was dumbfounded, then her gaze swung down the table. To Portia. Unaware, Portia continued eating, her gaze lowered, a faint but definite smile-a gentle, abstracted, in many ways revealing smile-curving her lips.

Eyes narrowing, Kitty opened her mouth- Simon reached out, picked up his glass. Kitty glanced at him-he caught her gaze. Held it as he sipped, then slowly lowered his glass to rest it on the table.

Let Kitty read in his eyes what he would do if she dared vent her jealousy on Portia-if she made the slightest allusion to the morning adventures she suspected he and Portia had enjoyed.

For an instant, Kitty teetered on the brink, then sanity seemed to reassert itself; she drew breath and looked down at her plate.

Elsewhere about the table, Mr. Archer, to all appearances oblivious of his younger daughter's shortcomings, continued a discussion with Mr. Buckstead; Lord Glossup was talking to Ambrose, while Lady O chatted to Lady Glossup with superb disregard for all else about her.

Gradually, with Kitty sunk in silence, other conversations commenced, Lady Calvin claiming James's and Charlie's attention, Desmond and Winifred trying to draw out Drusilla.

Simon exchanged light comments with Annabelle Hammond, on his other side; inwardly, his mind raced. Kitty's discretion was nonexistent; who knew when, provoked, she would blurt something out? If she did . . .

The meal drew to a close; he bided his time. The instant Portia set down her fork, he reached out and stroked a finger over her wrist.

She glanced at him, raised a brow.

"Let's go for a walk."

Her brows rose higher; he could see the thoughts-the speculation-whirling through her mind. Lips twisting, he clarified, "I want to talk to you."

On the subject that, courtesy of Kitty, could no longer safely be left unbroached.

She studied his eyes, saw he was serious; curious, she inclined her head. Lifting her napkin to her lips, she murmured, "Slipping away from the others might not be that easy."

In that, she was correct; although the table broke up and in the main the guests scattered to spend the afternoon in various ways, Annabelle, Cecily, and Lucy clung to Portia, clearly expecting to follow her lead. Excusing himself from a billiard match with James and Charlie, Simon followed the four females out to the terrace, wondering how to lose three.

He paused in the doorway from the morning room, considering and discarding various options, then he heard stumping behind him. He turned as Lady O came up; she grasped his arm as he instinctively offered it.

She looked out at the four young ladies standing in a group by the balustrade. Shook her head. "You'll never manage it."

Before he could think of any suitable rejoinder, she shook his arm. "Come on-I want to go and sit in the shrubbery courtyard." A distinctly evil grin curved her lips. "Seems like a place where one hears all sorts of things."

Assuming she had some scheme in mind, Simon led her out. They crossed the terrace, and he helped her down the steps. When they reached the lawn, she abruptly stopped.

And turned back. Waved to the young ladies. "Portia-fetch my parasol, if you would, my dear."

Portia had been watching them. "Yes. Of course."

Excusing herself to the other girls, she went indoors.

Lady O turned and stumped on.

He was settling her in the shrubbery courtyard, on a wrought-iron garden seat set beneath the spreading branches of a magnolia, when Portia joined them.

She looked at the tree. "You won't need this after all."

"Never mind. It's served its purpose." Lady O took the parasol, then settled her many layers and leaned back, closing her eyes. "You may go, the pair of you."

Simon looked at Portia; she opened her eyes wide, shrugged.

They turned.

"Incidentally," Lady O said, "there's another exit from this place." They turned back. Barely opening her eyes, she pointed with her cane. "That path. From memory, it leads through the back of the rose garden to the lake."

She closed her eyes again.

Simon looked at Portia.

Smiling, she returned to the seat, bent and kissed Lady O's cheek. "Thank you. We'll come back-"

"I'm perfectly able to get myself back to the house if I wish." Cracking open both lids, she fixed them with her best basilisk stare. "You two take yourselves off-no need in the world to hurry back."

When they didn't immediately move, she lifted both cane and parasol and shooed them. "Go! Go!"

Smothering grins, they went.

"She's incorrigible."

Gazes touching, they ducked through the archway into the rose garden.

"I don't think she's ever been anything else."

He reached for Portia's hand, twined his fingers with hers. They walked on, swiftly leaving the rose garden for the less structured gardens above the lake.

Ten minutes later, they paused where the path they'd followed crested the rise above the lake. He looked out over the water; not another soul was in sight. "Come on." He led Portia down the narrow path and onto the wider path circling the lake.

She fell into step beside him. He kept hold of her hand; he was reasonably sure none of the others was likely to wander this way, not in the next hour.

When he led her past the front of the summerhouse, she glanced at him. He could sense her thoughts, but instead of asking where they were going, she went straight to the heart of things. "What did you want to talk about?"

Now the moment was upon him-them-although he knew what he needed to say, he wasn't sure how to proceed. Thanks to Kitty, he hadn't had time to plan what was, in truth, a most crucial engagement in his campaign to win Portia to wife. "I ran into Kitty after I left you this morning." He glanced at her, met her widening eyes. "She's guessed, more or less correctly."

She grimaced, then turned thoughtful. Frowned. "So she may cause problems."

"That depends. She's so caught up in her own games, she'll only lash out and mention us if provoked."

"Perhaps I should speak with her."

He stopped. "No! That's not what-"

She halted, looked at him questioningly.

He glanced about the lake path, heard a high-pitched girlish voice float down from the gardens above. They'd reached the pinetum; a path led on, winding beneath the specimen trees. Tightening his hold on Portia's hand, he drew her on.

Stopped only when they were surrounded by tall trees, cloaked in dappled shade-totally private.

He released her, turned, faced her.

She watched, waited, mildly curious . . .

Ignoring the constriction about his lungs, he drew breath, met her midnight blue eyes.

"I want to marry you."

She blinked, then stared. "What did you say?"

Her voice was oddly weak.

He set his jaw. "You heard me." When she continued to stare, dumbfounded, he repeated, "I want to marry you."

Her eyes only grew rounder. "When did you decide this? And why, for heaven's sake?"

He hesitated, trying to see ahead. "Kitty. She almost said something over the luncheon table. At some point, she will-she won't be able to resist. I was already thinking of marriage and didn't want you imagining, if I waited to speak until after she caused a ruckus, that I was offering because of that."

With any other lady, letting Kitty create a scandal and then offering ostensibly because of it might have been a reasonable way forward, but not with Portia. She'd never accept an offer made out of social necessity.

"You were already thinking of marriage? To me?" The stunned look in her eyes hadn't faded. "Why?"

He frowned at her. "I would have thought that was obvious."

"Not to me. What, precisely, are you talking about?"

"I'm sure you haven't forgotten you spent last night in my bed."

"You're perfectly right-I haven't. I also haven't forgotten that I specifically explained that my interest in such proceedings was academic."

He held her gaze. "That was then. This is now. Things have changed." An instant passed. Eyes locked on hers, he asked, "Can you deny it?"

Portia couldn't, but his sudden talk of marriage-as if the subject had always been there, an unstated element between them-left her feeling like a deer suddenly facing a hunter. Paralyzed, unsure which way to turn, shocked, astonished, her wits literally reeling.

When she didn't immediately reply, he went on, "Aside from all else, your involvement in last night's proceedings was anything but academic."

She blushed, lifted her head. Why on earth was he taking this tack? She tried to harry her whirling wits into order. "Regardless, that's no reason to imagine we should wed."

It was his turn to stare. "What?"

He uttered the word with such force, she jumped. He took a prowling, menacing step closer.

"You came to my bed-gave yourself to me-and you didn't expect we would wed?"

Their faces were no more than six inches apart; he really was stunned. Eyes wide, she held his gaze. "No. I didn't." She hadn't got that far in her deliberations.

He didn't immediately answer, but something changed behind his mask. Then his eyes grew darker, his features harder; a muscle flexed along his jaw.

"You didn't . . . just what sort of man do you think I am?"

His voice was a low growl-a very angry growl. He shifted fractionally nearer; she nearly took a step back, only just stopped herself. Spine rigid, she held his gaze, struggled to understand why he was suddenly so furious . . . wondered if he was pretending . . . felt her own temper rise.

"You're a rake." She said the word clearly, distinctly. "You seduce ladies-it's the primary characteristic in the occupational description. If you'd married every lady you'd seduced, you'd have to go and live in Arabia because you'd have a harem." Her voice had gained strength; her belligerence rose to meet his. "As you're still living here, in this sceptered isle, I feel confident in concluding you don't marry every lady you seduce."

He smiled, a feral gesture. "You're right, I don't. But you need to revise your occupational description because, like most rakes, I never seduce unmarried, virginal, gently bred ladies." He stepped closer; this time she backed. "Like you."

She fought to keep her eyes on his, aware her breathing had accelerated. "But you did seduce me."

He nodded, and closed the gap between them again. "I did, indeed, seduce you-because I intend to marry you."

Her jaw dropped; she nearly gasped. Then she dug in her heels, tipped her chin high and locked her eyes, narrowing to shards, on his. "You seduced me because you intended to marry me?"

He blinked. Halted.

She saw red. "What aren't you telling me?" She jabbed a finger into his chest; he eased fractionally back. "You intended to marry me? Since when?" She flung her arms wide. "When did you decide?"

Even she could hear the almost hysterical, certainly horrified note welling in her voice. She'd evaluated the threat, accepted the risk in going to his bed, but she hadn't seen, hadn't known the real threat, the real risk.

Because he'd hidden it from her.

"You-!" She went to box his ear but he caught her fist. "You deceived me!"

"I didn't! You deceived yourself."

"Hah! Anyway"-she twisted her hand; he let her go-"you didn't seduce me-I seduced myself! I was willing. That's different."

"Maybe, but it doesn't change the fact. We were intimate, whatever led to it."

"Rubbish! I'm not going to marry you because of it. I'm twenty-four. The fact I was a gently bred virgin doesn't matter."

He caught her gaze. "It did-it does."

That he considered the fact gave him some claim over her didn't need to be stated; it hovered, very real, a tangible truth between them.

She set her chin. "I always knew you were a throwback to medieval times. Regardless, I won't marry you because of it."

"I don't care why you marry me, just as long as you do."

"Why?" She'd asked before; he still hadn't answered. "And when did you decide you wanted to marry me? Tell me the truth, all of the truth, now."

His eyes hadn't left hers; he drew in a deep breath, then exhaled. Other than that, not a single line in his face or muscle in his body eased. "I decided after the picnic in the ruins. I'd thought of it after we first kissed on the terrace."

She wished he wasn't standing so close she couldn't fold her arms defensively before her. "You must have kissed millions of women."

His lips twisted. "Thousands."