"Simon?"

Her voice was far too weak. It took effort to force her lungs to work, to haul in huge breath. "Simon!"

A moment passed; she could hear the clock on the mantelpiece ticking. She felt too faint to let go of the desk, wondered if she'd have to go and look for help . . .

Footsteps pounded down the corridor, nearing.

The door burst open.

A heartbeat later, Simon was there, hands locking on her arms, eyes searching her face. He followed her gaze, looked, swore-then hauled her to him, away from the dreadful sight, interposing his body between her and the desk.

She locked her fingers in his coat and clung, shaking, buried her face in his shoulder.

"What is it?" Charlie stood in the doorway.

With his head, Simon indicated the area behind the desk. "Kitty . . ."

Simon held Portia close, aware of her trembling, of the shivers coursing her spine. Propriety be damned; he tightened his arms about her, locked her against him, against his warmth, lowered his head, brushed her temple with his jaw. "It's all right."

She gulped, clung even tighter; he felt her battle her reaction, and the shock. Eventually felt her spine stiffen even more. She lifted her head, but didn't step back. Glanced toward the desk.

At Charlie, who'd looked behind the desk and now sat slumped against the front edge, white-faced, tugging at his cravat. He swore, then looked at Simon. "She's dead, isn't she?"

Portia answered, her voice wavering. "Her eyes . . ."

Simon looked at the door. No one else had arrived. He glanced at Charlie. "Go and find Blenkinsop. Shut the door on your way out. After you've sent Blenkinsop here, you'd better find Henry."

Charlie blinked, then nodded. He got to his feet, drew in a huge breath, tugged his waistcoat down, then headed for the door.

Portia's shivering was growing worse. The instant the door shut, Simon bent and swung her into his arms. She clutched his coat, but didn't protest. He carried her to the chairs grouped before the main hearth, set her down in one.

"Wait here." Visually quartering the room, he located the tantalus, crossed to it, poured a large measure of brandy into a crystal glass. Returning to Portia, he hunkered down beside the chair. Searched her pale face. "Here. Drink this."

She tried to take the glass from him, in the end had to use both hands. He helped her guide the tumbler to her lips, steadied it so she could sip.

He sat there and helped her drink; eventually, a trace of color returned to her cheeks, a hint of her customary strength returned to her dark eyes.

Easing back, he met them. "Wait here. I'm going to look around before chaos descends."

She swallowed, but nodded.

He rose, swiftly crossed the room, stood and looked down at Kitty's crumpled form. She lay on her back, hands high, level with her shoulders-as if she'd struggled to the very last with her murderer.

For the first time, he felt real pity for her; she might have been a social disaster, but that didn't give anyone the right to end her life. There was anger, too, not far beneath his surface, but that was more complex, not solely on Kitty's account; he reined it in, mentally cataloging all he could see.

The murderer had stood behind Kitty and strangled her with-he turned and checked-a curtain cord taken from the nearest French doors. Kitty had been the smallest woman present, only a little over five feet tall; it wouldn't have been all that hard. He looked around the body, looked at her hands, but saw nothing unusual, except that her gown was not the one she'd worn to lunch. That had been a morning gown, relatively plain; this was prettier, a tea gown cut to showcase her voluptuous curves, yet still perfectly acceptable for a married lady.

He looked at the desk, but there was nothing out of place, no half-finished letter, no scratches on the blotter; the pens lay neatly in their tray, the inkstand closed.

Not that he imagined Kitty had repaired to the library to write letters.

Returning to Portia, he shook his head in answer to her questioning look. "No clues."

He took the glass she held out to him. It was still half-full. He drained it in one gulp, grateful for the warmth the brandy sent spreading through him. He'd been on edge before, thinking of the possible ramifications of his and Portia's discussion. Now this.

He dragged in a breath and looked down at her.

She looked up, met his eyes.

A moment passed, then she raised a hand, held it up.

He closed his hand about it, felt her fingers lock tight.

She looked toward the door; it burst open-Henry and Blenkinsop rushed in, Ambrose and a footman on their heels.

The following hours ranked among the most ghastly Simon could recall. Shock was far too mild a word to describe how Kitty's death struck them all. Everyone was stunned, unable to take it in. Despite all that had been going on under their noses throughout the past days, no one had dreamed it would end like this.

"I might at times have thought of strangling her," James said. "I never dreamed anyone would."

But someone had.

Of the ladies, most were distraught. Even Lady O; she forgot to lean heavily on her cane, and forgot entirely to thump it on the floor. Drusilla was the most composed, yet even she shook, paled, and sank into a chair when she heard. In death, Kitty garnered far more sympathy than she ever had in life.

Among the men, once the first shock wore off, confusion was the most prevalent emotion. That, and increasing concern over what was to come, how the situation would develop.

Simon's attention, his awareness, remained fixed on Portia. Hours later, she was still in shock, racked by occasional shivers. Her eyes were huge, her hands still clammy. He wanted to sweep her up, take her away, far away, but that simply wasn't possible.

Lord Willoughby, the local magistrate, had been sent for; he arrived and, after saying the right things and viewing the body, still sprawled behind the library desk, he repaired to Lord Glossup's study. After talking to each of the gentlemen in turn, he summoned Portia to tell him her tale.

Simon accompanied her as if by right. She didn't ask him, he didn't ask her, but since taking his hand in the library, she'd released it only when absolutely necessary. Ensconced in an armchair by a hastily lit fire in the study, with him sitting beside her on the chair's arm, she haltingly recounted the details of her gruesome discovery.

Lord Willoughby, pince-nez perched on his nose, took notes. "So you weren't in the library for more than, shall we say five minutes, before you found Mrs. Glossup?"

Portia thought, then nodded.

"And you didn't see, or hear, anyone leaving the room, either when you entered the front hall or when you entered the library-is that right?"

She nodded again.

"No one at all?"

Simon stirred, but Willoughby was only doing his job, and as gently as he could. He was an elderly, fatherly sort, but his gaze was sharp; he seemed to realize Portia's lack of response wasn't because she was hiding something.

She cleared her throat. "No one."

"I understand the terrace doors were open. Did you look out?"

"No. I didn't even go up to the doors-just walked past."

Willoughby smiled encouragingly. "And then you saw her, and called for Mr. Cynster. You didn't touch anything?"

Portia shook her head. Willoughby turned to Simon.

"I didn't see anything-I did look, but there seemed to be nothing unusual in any way, nothing out of place."

Willoughby nodded and made another note. "Well, then. I believe I needn't trouble you further." He smiled gently and rose.

Portia, her hand still in Simon's, rose, too. "What will happen now?"

Willoughby glanced at Simon, then back at her. "I'm afraid I must summon one of the gentlemen from Bow Street. I'll send my report off tonight. With luck, an officer will be here by tomorrow afternoon." He smiled again, this time reassuringly. "They are a great deal better than they used to be, my dear, and in such a case . . ." He shrugged.

"What do you mean-such a case?"

Again Willoughby glanced at Simon, then grimaced. "Unfortunately, it appears that other than Mr. Cynster here, and Mr. Hastings, none of the gentlemen can account for the time during which Mrs. Glossup was killed. Of course, there are gypsies in the neighborhood, but these days, it's best to follow proper procedures."

Portia stared at him; Simon could read her thoughts with ease. She wanted the murderer caught, whoever he was.

Simon turned to Willoughby, and with a nod, he led Portia out.

Willoughby spoke to Lord Glossup, then took his leave.

Dinner, a cold collation, was served early. Everyone retired to their rooms before the sun set.

Sitting on the window seat, arms folded on the sill, chin propped upon them, Portia watched the golden light of the sun slowly fade from the sky.

And thought of Kitty. The Kitty-the many Kittys-she'd glimpsed in recent days. She'd been beautiful, capable of vivacity, of being pleasant and charming, but she'd also been vindictive, shallow, knowingly hurtful to others. Demanding-that, perhaps, had been her greatest crime, perhaps her ultimate folly. She'd demanded that life, all life around her, center on her and her alone.

In all the time Portia had watched, she'd never seen Kitty truly think of anyone else.

A shiver racked her. One point she couldn't get out of her head. Kitty had trusted someone-she'd gone to meet someone in the library, a place to which she never would have gone for any other purpose. She'd changed her gown; the expectation that had fired her through lunch returned to Portia's mind.

Kitty had trusted unwisely. And fatally.

But there was more than one way in which to lose your life.

She paused, mentally halted, testing to see if she was yet ready to set Kitty's death aside and move on to the questions facing her. The evolving, emotionally escalating questions affecting her future, her life, and Simon's-the lives they had to live regardless of Kitty's demise.

She'd always known there were deaths that, if a lady wasn't careful, she might find herself living. How long she'd known the notion applied to her . . . she honestly couldn't remember. Perhaps, at base, deep down inside, that had been the reason she'd so determinedly eschewed men-and marriage-for so long.

Marriage, for her, was always going to be a risk, hence her search for the right husband, one who would provide all she required, and allow her to manage him, dictate their interaction, and otherwise go her own way. Her temper would never let her live within a relationship that sought to confine her; she would either break it, or it would break her.

And now here she was, facing the prospect of marriage to a man more than strong enough to bend her to his will. A man she didn't have it in her to break, but who, if she gave him her hand, could break her if he wished.

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.