The Perfect Lover

  She could hardly nod; she inclined her head a fraction, then steered Lady O to the stairs.

  Cranborne Chase, with its towering oaks and beeches, provided a welcome respite both from the weather and the constraint that had gripped the party.

  “If circumstances had been otherwise, I’m sure Lady Calvin would leave.” On Simon’s arm, Portia strolled beneath an avenue of beeches.

  “She can’t. Ambrose is here on business, so to speak. He’s been busy sounding out Lord Glossup and Mr. Buckstead as well as Mr. Archer—”

  “And Lady Calvin will always do right by her son. That’s what I mean.”

  They were far enough from the rest of the party, all ambling in the cooler air beneath the thickly leaved trees, to speak frankly. As a group, dispersed in a handful of carriages, they’d spent the late morning driving slowly down the winding lanes threading through the ancient forest, before turning aside into a tiny hamlet that boasted an excellent inn for a prearranged meal. The inn was just down the lane up which they’d wandered, directed by the innkeeper to a small dell from which numerous walks radiated, a gentle landscape for a postprandial stroll.

  Lord Netherfield and Lady O had declined the delights of the forest and remained at the inn; all the others were stretching their legs prior to piling into the carriages once more.

  Halting, Portia swung about and looked back down the slope. They had chosen to walk up the steepest path; none of the others had followed. Everyone was still in view, spread out here and there below.

  Locating Kitty, flanked by Lady Glossup and Mrs. Archer, she grimaced. “I don’t think what they’re trying to do with Kitty will serve.”

  Simon glanced down at the trio. “Sequestering her?”

  “There’s not much she can do about it here, but I’ll wager she’ll be even worse when we get back to the Hall.”

  Simon humphed. After a moment, he asked, “What’s the matter?”

  She glanced up, realized he’d been watching her face. She’d been watching Kitty, studying her sulky expression, her disaffected state. Trying to reconcile that with how she herself would feel if she’d learned she was carrying a child. She smiled briefly, shook her head, turned away from Kitty. “Nothing. Just woolgathering.”

  His eyes remained on her face; before he could press, she gripped his arm. “Come on—let’s go up to that rise.”

  He acquiesced and they did, discovering an abbreviated view into a deeper, less accessible dell, where a family of deer grazed undisturbed.

  A call summoned them back to the others and thence back to the inn. A slight altercation ensued over who would sit where for the return journey; everyone ignored Kitty’s demands to go in James’s curricle. Lucy and Annabelle squeezed onto the seat beside James and they left, following Desmond, who had Winifred beside him; Simon, with Portia alongside and Charlie hanging on behind, followed, leaving the rest to the heavier coaches.

  The curricles reached the Hall well in advance of the rest of the party. They drove straight to the stables. The gentlemen handed the ladies down; Winifred, rather pale, excused herself and walked quickly toward the house. The gentlemen became engrossed in a discussion of horseflesh. Portia would have joined them, but Lucy and Annabelle were clearly looking to her for a lead.

  Inwardly sighing, resigning herself to a quiet hour indoors, she led them back to the house.

  They were waiting in the morning room when the coaches finally lumbered up. Lucy and Annabelle, both dutifully embroidering, raised their heads and looked toward the front hall.

  Portia could hear the raised voices even before people entered the hall. Suppressing a grimace, she rose.

  The two girls glanced at her. Kitty’s voice reached them, shrill and sharp; their eyes widened.

  “Stay here,” Portia told them. “There’s no need for you to go out. I’ll tell your mamas you’re here.”

  They both bent grateful looks on her; with a reassuring smile, she headed for the door. In the hall, she paid no attention to anyone else, but mentioned their daughters’ whereabouts to Mrs. Buckstead and Lady Hammond, then went straight to Lady O’s side.

  Lady O nodded in curt thanks and gripped her arm; the strength of her clawlike grip was a good indication of her temper, of how aggravated that was. Lord Netherfield, until then holding by Lady O’s side, nodded his approval, cast one censorious look at his granddaughter-in-law and headed for the library.

  Portia helped Lady O up the stairs and to her room. Once the door was closed, she braced herself for a diatribe; Lady O was nothing if not outspoken.

  But this time, Lady O seemed too tired; Portia, concerned, helped her quickly onto her bed.

  As she straightened, Lady O caught her eye. Answered the question in her mind. “Yes, it was bad. Worse than I’d anticipated.”

  Portia looked into her old eyes. “What did she say?”

  Lady O humphed. “That’s just it—it wasn’t so much what she did say, as what she didn’t.”

  After a long moment of staring across the room, Lady O closed her eyes and sighed. “Leave me, child, I’m tired.”

  Portia turned to the door.

  Lady O continued, “And there’s something very wrong going on.”

  Portia headed downstairs via the less-frequented stairs in the west wing. She didn’t want to meet any of the others; she needed some time on her own.

  A cloud had descended on Glossup Hall, both literally and figuratively. A storm was blowing up; the sun had disappeared behind leaden clouds, and the air had grown oppressive.

  The atmosphere in the house was even heavier. Brooding, tending toward dark. She was hardly a sensitive soul, yet she felt it. The effect on the Hammond girls, even on Lady Hammond, even on Mrs. Buckstead, was apparent.

  Two more days—people would remain until then, as originally planned; leaving earlier would smack of an insult to Lady Glossup, one she had done nothing to deserve. Yet none of the guests would linger. She and Lady O had planned to return to London.

  She wondered where Simon intended to go.

  Reaching the ground floor, she heard the clink of billiard balls. She glanced down the west wing corridor; through the open door of the billiard room she could hear the low murmur of masculine voices, Simon’s among them.

  She went on, through the garden hall and out onto the lawns.

  Looking up, she considered the clouds. Despite the closeness, there was no sign of any storm activity yet—no lightning, no thunder, no scent of rain. Just the heavy stillness.

  Grimacing, she headed for the shrubbery. Surely the safest place in which to avoid overhearing any further revelations. Lightning, after all, did not strike twice in the same place.

  Passing under the green archway, she strolled into the hedged walk; she’d reached the same spot as in her earlier foray when the old saw that theory frequently did not predict practice was proven.

  “You witless child! Of course the babe’s Henry’s. You cannot be so foolish as to suggest anything else.”

  Mrs. Archer, one step away from hysteria.

  “It’s not me who’s foolish.” Kitty’s voice lashed. “And I won’t have it, I tell you! But you needn’t worry. I know who the father is. It’s simply a matter of persuading him to see things my way, then all will be well.”

  Silence greeted that, then Mrs. Archer—Portia could almost hear her dragging in a deep breath—asked, her voice quavering, “Your way. Things always have to be your way. But what way is that?”

  Portia wanted to turn and leave, but she understood precisely what Mrs. Archer was asking, what she feared. The matter lay too close to Portia’s heart not to know . . .

  “I told you before.” Kitty’s voice strengthened. “I want excitement. I want thrills! I won’t simply sit by and have a baby—swell up and grow ugly—”

  “You’re a fool!” Mrs. Archer sounded distraught. “You married Henry—you wanted to—”
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  “Only because you told me I would be a lady and have everything I want—”

  “But not this! Not like this. You can’t—”

  “I can!”

  Portia swung on her heel and stalked away, her footfalls muffled by the thick grass. Her emotions were roiling, she couldn’t think—didn’t want to think about what Kitty intended. She walked fast, furiously, her skirts swishing, her gaze locked on the lawn before her.

  She walked into Simon.

  He caught her, steadied her, looked into her face, looked over her head toward the shrubbery. “What happened?”

  One glance at his face, at the rocklike planes, the feel of the tensing muscles under his sleeve, had her gulping in a breath, quickly shaking her head. “I need to get out of here. At least for an hour or two.”

  He studied her face. “We can walk to the lookout.”

  “Yes.” She hauled in another breath. “Let’s.”

  They walked side by side across the gardens, then on via the path through the woods. She didn’t take Simon’s arm, he didn’t offer it, yet despite the lack of touch, she was very much aware he was with her. Beside her, not crowding her. Given the turmoil her temper was in, she appreciated the fact and was grateful.

  He, of course, was the last person she’d actually wanted to meet, given the subject she wanted—needed—to think about. To dissect, examine, ultimately to understand. Given the nature of that subject, given he was so intimately involved, literally as well as figuratively, she’d expected to feel some degree of . . . not shyness, but uncertainty when alone with him. When close to him.

  Instead, all she’d felt, still felt, was safe, both now and throughout the day. Not necessarily completely comfortable, but assuredly not trepidatious. She was absolutely certain he would always behave predictably, that he, all he was, would never change; he would never be, could never be, the source of any threat to her.

  Not physically. Emotionally might be a different tale.

  Mentally grimacing, she kept her eyes down and walked steadily on. Aware of him prowling beside her.

  Aware she drew comfort from his presence.

  It was Kitty and her doings that had once again distracted her, this time disturbing her in a more profound way. In response, it was doubtless only natural to draw close to those she understood and trusted. Like Lady O.

  Like Simon.

  They emerged onto the side of the ridge, a stretch of path where the wood fell back and the winds blew up from the distant sea. A breath of freshness reached them, the first stirrings of the storm still far away. The waft of cooler air lifted the curls from her nape, sent others dancing about her face.

  She halted, tucking the wayward strands back, lifting her face to the faint breeze.

  Simon stopped by her shoulder, raised his head, looked out over the fields to the black clouds roiling on the distant horizon. Then he let his gaze swing back to Portia’s face.

  He hadn’t been surprised to find her in the gardens. Any other lady would have been resting, recuperating from the exertions of the day. Not Portia.

  His lips twitched at a mental image of her listless and die-away, lethargic on her bed. She was the most energetic woman he knew, full of restless, seemingly boundless energy, one facet of her that had always attracted him in a flagrantly physical way.

  He’d never known her to pretend to a delicacy with which she wasn’t afflicted. Her unflagging zest had always been enough to keep up with him.

  Quite possibly in any sphere.

  He let his gaze sweep down, over her supple, slender figure, down over the length of her long, long legs. Poised as she was, she vibrated with vitality, with vigorous life.

  Definitely a point in her favor.

  Currently, however, she was as distracted as he’d ever seen her.

  “What’s the matter?”

  She glanced at him, searched his face briefly, confirming what she’d heard in his tone—that he wasn’t about to be fobbed off with anything short of the truth.

  Her lips twisted; she looked back at the view. “Kitty’s pregnant. This morning, I overheard her telling Winifred—trying to get Winifred to think the baby was Desmond’s.”

  He made no effort to mask his distaste. “How very unappealing.”

  “The baby isn’t Henry’s.”

  “So I would suppose.”

  She glanced at him, frowned. “Why?”

  He met her gaze. Grimaced. “I gather she and Henry have been estranged for some time.” He hesitated, then continued, “I suspect what we overheard the other night between Henry and James was discussion of a possible divorce.”

  “Divorce?”

  Portia stared at him. He didn’t need to spell out the implications for her; a divorce would mean scandal, and in this case total ostracism for Kitty.

  She looked away. “I wonder if Kitty knows?” She paused, then went on, “Just now, I heard Mrs. Archer and Kitty discussing the matter. What Kitty intends to do.”

  It wasn’t his child, yet his gut chilled. “What was she proposing?”

  “She doesn’t want the child. She doesn’t want to grow fat and . . . I think she simply doesn’t want anything to get in the way of what she calls excitement—something she considers her due.”

  He was out of his depth. With a slew of sisters, older and younger, he’d thought he had at least a passing acquaintance with the female psyche, yet Kitty was beyond his comprehension. Portia turned and headed on; he followed, ambling beside her.

  Knowing full well that whatever had been bothering her was still exercising her mind. He let her wrestle with it as they trailed along the crest, and through the next section of the wood. When they emerged onto the final open stretch along the ridge above Ashmore village, and the vertical crease between her brows was still there, he stopped. Waited until she realized and turned to look at him questioningly.

  “What is it?”

  Her eyes remained steady on his, then her lips twisted, and she looked away. He waited, silent; after a moment, she glanced at him. “You have to promise not to laugh.”

  He opened his eyes wide.

  She frowned, looked away, started strolling, paused until he joined her, then walked on but slowly, brows drawn down. “I’ve been wondering . . . later . . . after, if . . . well, would I—could I—turn out like Kitty?”

  “Like Kitty?” For one instant, he couldn’t imagine what she meant.

  She glanced at his face, frowned harder. “Like Kitty, with her addiction to excitement.”

  He stopped. She did, too.

  He couldn’t help it. He laughed.

  Not even her thinning lips, not even the fury flaring in her eyes could stop him.

  “You promised!” She swatted him.

  That only made stopping all the harder.

  “You—!” She biffed him again.

  He caught her hands, held them down, locked in his. “No—stop.” He dragged in a breath, his gaze on her face. The real worry and confusion in her eyes—clear now she’d lost her temper—hauled him back to sobriety with a thump. She couldn’t believe . . . ?

  He captured her gaze, held it. “There is no possibility in this world that you could ever be like Kitty. That you would ever convert to something like her.” She didn’t look convinced. “Believe me—none. No prospect at all.”

  Narrow-eyed, from behind the black screen of her lashes, she studied his face. “How do you know?”

  Because he knew her.

  “You are not Kitty.” He heard the words, dragged in a breath and invested the next phrases with absolute conviction. “You could never—would never—behave like her.”

  She held his gaze, her expression still unsure.

  He suddenly realized just what they were talking about—all they were talking about. His lungs contracted, his throat tightened as he realized she—they—stood teetering on a precipice.
He’d known, expected, would have been shocked if she hadn’t had reservations, if she hadn’t thought long and hard before giving herself to him.

  Knowing her so well, her curiosity, her willful need to know, he’d been confident of her ultimate decision. Never in his wildest dreams had he imagined Kitty would throw up a hurdle, let alone a hurdle like this.

  He searched Portia’s eyes as she searched his. Hers were so dark, the color of midnight, only strong emotions were easy to define. Now, they were simply less sharp, clouded by uncertainty—an uncertainty that was self-directed, not, as he’d anticipated, directed at him.

  She blinked; he sensed her retreating. Instinctively reacted.

  “Trust me.” He gripped her hands tighter, captured her gaze anew, then he altered his grip and lifted her hands, first one, then the other, to his lips. “Just trust me.”

  Her eyes had widened. After a moment, she asked, “How can you be so sure?”

  “Because it . . .” Lost in her eyes, aware he had to speak the absolute truth, he couldn’t for the life of him think of words to describe all that they meant by that, the reality of what they were discussing. “This—all that’s between us, all that could be—not even that would ever be strong enough to change you. To make you into a different person.”

  She frowned, but in thought, not rejection. He let her draw her hands from his; she turned and faced the fields, looking, perhaps, but not seeing.

  After a moment, she swung around and walked on toward the lookout. He stirred, and followed on her heels. They reached the lookout and went inside. She stared out at the Solent. Two feet away, he shoved his hands in his pockets and waited.

  He didn’t dare touch her, didn’t dare press her in any way.

  She glanced at his face, then slowly ran her gaze down his frame, as if she could sense the tension investing every muscle. Returning her gaze to his eyes, she raised a brow. “I thought . . . expected you to be more persuasive.”

  Jaw locked, he shook his head. “The decision’s yours. You have to make it.”

  She was going to ask why—he saw it in her eyes—but then she hesitated, looked away.