Would the next time she was kissed feel the same? Or had last night’s reaction been because it was the first time? Would she have felt the same if another gentleman had kissed her? If Simon were to kiss her again, would she feel anything at all?
To get right to the heart of the matter, was how she felt when a given gentleman kissed her even relevant?
The answers were hidden beneath a miasma of inexperience. Straightening her shoulders, she lifted her head—she would simply have to experiment and find out.
Decision taken, she felt much more positive. The temple appeared before her, a small marble folly with Ionic columns. It was surrounded by lush flower beds; as she started up the steps, she noticed a gardener, a youngish man with a thick thatch of black hair, weeding one of the beds. He glanced up at her; she smiled and nodded. He blinked, looking rather uncertain, but politely nodded back.
Portia stepped up to the marble floor of the temple—and immediately realized why the gardener had looked uncertain. The temple was filled with words—an altercation. If she’d been paying attention she would have heard it before she climbed the steps. The gardener would be able to hear every word. In the quiet of the garden, he could hardly help it.
“Your behavior is unconscionable! I did not bring you up to comport yourself in such a manner. I can’t conceive what you think to achieve by such appalling displays!”
The melodramatic tones belonged to Mrs. Archer. The words rose up from where Portia assumed a seat was set on the outside of the temple, overlooking the view. Within the temple, the words echoed and grew.
“I want excitement in my life!” Kitty declared in ringing tones. “You married me to Henry and told me I’d be a lady—you painted the position of his wife in glowing colors! You led me to believe I’d have everything I’d ever want—and I haven’t!”
“You can’t possibly be so naive as to imagine all in life will be precisely as you dream!”
Portia was glad someone was saying what needed to be said, but she had absolutely no wish to overhear it. Silently, she turned and went back down the steps.
As she gained the path, she heard Kitty reply in hard, harsh tones, “More fool I, I believed you. Now I’m living the reality—do you know he wants us to live here for most of the year? And he wants me to give him children?”
The last was said as if Henry had asked her to contract the plague; stunned, Portia hesitated.
“Children,” Kitty went on, scorn dripping. “I’d lose my figure. I’d bloat and swell and no one would look at me! Or if they did, they’d shudder and look the other way. I’d rather be dead!”
Something close to hysteria screamed in the words.
Portia shivered. Refocusing, she saw the gardener; their gazes met. Then she lifted her head, drew breath. The gardener returned to his bedding plants. She walked on.
Frowning.
Reemerging onto the main lawn, she saw Winifred, like her, idly ambling. Thinking it wise to ensure Winifred did not amble to the temple, she changed course and joined her.
Winifred smiled with easy welcome. Portia smiled back. Here, at least, was someone she might learn from.
After exchanging greetings, by mutual accord they turned toward the lawn walks leading to the lake.
“I hope you don’t think me unforgiveably forward,” she began, “but I couldn’t help noticing . . .” She glanced at Winifred’s face. “Am I right in assuming there’s some degree of understanding between you and Mr. Winfield?”
Winifred smiled, then looked ahead. After a moment, she said, “It would perhaps be more realistic to say we’re considering some degree of understanding.” Her lips curved; she glanced at Portia. “I know that sounds very timid, but, indeed, I suppose I am that, at least when it comes to marriage.”
Portia saw the chance and seized it with both hands. “I know just what you mean—indeed, I feel the same.” She caught Winifred’s gaze. “I’m at present considering marriage—in general at this point—and have to confess there’s much I don’t understand. I’ve left it late for entirely selfish reasons, because of my absorption with other things in life, so now I find myself somewhat at a loss, and not as informed as I ought to be. However, I imagine you’ve had much more experience . . . ?”
Winifred grimaced, but her eyes were still easy, her expression gentle. “As to that, indeed, I have had more experience, in a way, but I fear it is not the sort to assist any other lady in understanding.” She gestured. “I’m thirty, and still unwed.”
Portia frowned. “Forgive me, but you’re wellborn, well dowered by my guess, and not unattractive. I imagine you’ve had many offers.”
Winifred inclined her head. “Some, I grant you, but not many. I have not encouraged any gentleman to date.”
Portia was at a loss.
Winifred saw it and smiled wrily. “You’ve favored me with your confidence—in return I will give you mine. You do not, I take it, have a very lovely younger sister? In particular, a highly acquisitive younger sister?”
Portia blinked; an image of Penelope, spectacled and severe, rose in her mind. She shook her head. “But . . . why . . . ? Kitty has been married for some years, has she not?”
“Oh, indeed. But, unfortunately, marriage has not dampened her desire to seize whatever might come to me.”
“She”—Portia searched for the word—“poached your suitors?”
“Always. Even from the schoolroom.”
Despite the revelation, Winifred’s expression remained calm, serene—resigned, Portia realized.
“I’m not sure,” Winifred continued, meeting Portia’s eyes, “that in truth I shouldn’t be grateful. I would not wish to marry a gentleman so easily led astray.”
Portia nodded. “Indeed not.” She hesitated, then ventured, “I mentioned Mr. Winfield—he appears to have remained constant in his regard for you despite Kitty’s best efforts.”
The glance Winifred threw her was uncertain; for the first time, Portia glimpsed the lady behind the quiet mask who’d suffered consistent disappointment at her sister’s hands. “Do you think so?” Then Winifred smiled, wry again; her mask slipped back into place. “I should tell you our history. Desmond met the family in London some years ago. At first, he was greatly taken with Kitty, as most gentlemen are. Then he discovered she was married, and transferred his attentions to me.”
“Oh.” They’d reached the end of the walk. After standing for a moment, looking down toward the lake, they turned and headed back toward the house. “But,” Portia continued, “doesn’t that mean Desmond’s been pursuing you for some years?”
Winifred inclined her head. “About two.” After a moment, she somewhat diffidently added, “He told me he retreated from Kitty as soon as he’d drawn close enough to see her for what she is. Only later did he learn she was married.”
Fresh in Portia’s mind was the scene she’d witnessed below the terrace the night before. “He does seem . . . quite stiff with Kitty. I’ve seen no indication that he would welcome the opportunity to further any interest with her—quite the opposite.”
Winifred looked at her, studied her face, her eyes. “Do you think so?”
Portia met her gaze. “Yes. I do.”
The emotion—the hope—she glimpsed in Winifred’s eyes before she looked away made her feel unexpectedly good. Presumably that was what Lady O felt when she meddled to good effect; for the first time in her life, Portia could see the attraction.
They walked on. She glanced up; the sight of the two male figures coming toward them abruptly recalled her to her own situation.
Simon and James strolled up. With their usual polished charm, they greeted both her and Winifred. Surreptitiously, Portia studied Simon, but could detect no change in his demeanor, sense nothing specific in his attitude toward her—no hint of what he thought about their kiss.
“We’ve been dispatched to fetch you,” James said. “There’s a p
icnic on. It’s been decided luncheon will taste much better in the ruins of the old priory.”
“Where is this priory?” Winifred asked.
“To the north of the village, not far. It’s a pretty place.” James gestured expansively. “A perfect place to eat, drink, and relax in the bosom of the countryside.”
James’s words proved prophetic; the priory was every bit as accommodating as he’d intimated. Located on an escarpment, the ruins were extensive; while the views were not as good as those from the lookout, they were nonetheless very pleasant.
The stretch of ancient, overgrown lawn where the picnic was set out afforded a pleasant vista over valley and fields merging into a blue-grey distance. The day was warm, but the sun remained hidden by light cloud; a wafting breeze stirred the leaves and set the wildflowers nodding.
Once the food and wine were consumed, the older members of the party were content to sit back and swap tales and opinions on society and the world. Everyone else dispersed to explore the ruins.
They were as romantic as any young lady might wish, the tumbled stones well settled, not dangerous, in parts overgrown with creepers. Here and there an arch remained, framing a view; in other places walls still stood. A portion of the cloisters provided a sunny nook in which to take one’s ease.
Since seeing her walking in the gardens that morning, Simon had been unable to shift his attention from Portia. Even when she was not directly in view, he was aware of her, like the caress of silk across naked skin—her presence now affected him in precisely the same way. He watched her, helpless not to, even though he knew she was aware of it. He wanted to know—had to know—couldn’t let go of the possibilities that unlooked-for kiss on the terrace had raised.
He hadn’t intended it; he knew she hadn’t either, yet it had happened. Why such an interaction, so minor in the scheme of such things, should so grip his interest was a riddle he wasn’t sure he needed solved.
Yet he couldn’t leave it, couldn’t shake aside the insane idea that had rushed into his mind on a torrent of conviction and taken up implacable, immovable residence. The idea that had kept him awake half the night.
Regardless of his impluses, he knew better than to crowd her or to make their awareness of each other public knowledge. When, with the others, she happily rose and set out to explore, he ambled along some distance behind, with Charlie and James supposedly keeping a general eye on proceedings.
The Hammond girls went quickly ahead, hallooing and giggling. Oswald and Swanston, clinging to spurious superiority, followed, but not too fast. Desmond walked beside Winifred; they parted from the other ladies, taking a different route into the ruins. Drusilla, Lucy, and Portia strolled on, Portia swinging her hat by its ribbons.
Henry and Kitty had remained with the elders—Mrs. Archer, Lady Glossup, and Lady O had all felt the need to engage Kitty in conversation. James, therefore, was relaxed and smiling as they walked through the arch into what had once been the church’s nave.
Simon, too, smiled.
It took him fifteen minutes to lose James to Drusilla Calvin. When she paused to rest on a fallen stone, urging Lucy and Portia to go on, Simon paused, too, frowning, communicating his thoughts to James without words; James felt obliged to remain with Drusilla, entertaining her as best he could.
Charlie was a more difficult proposition, not least because he, too, had his eye on Portia—quite why, and with what aim, Simon was certain Charlie himself didn’t know. Considering his tactics, with Charlie beside him he lengthened his stride, closing the distance to Lucy and Portia, eventually joining them.
Both turned and smiled.
He addressed himself to Lucy. “So are the ruins all you’d hoped for?”
“Indeed, yes!” Face alight, eyes shining, Lucy spread her arms wide. “It’s quite wonderfully atmospheric. Why, one could easily imagine a ghost or two, even a sepulchral company of monks slowly making their way up the nave, censers swinging. Or perhaps a chant, emanating through the mists when there’s no one there.”
Portia laughed. Simon looked at her, caught her eye; distracted, she didn’t utter the response she’d been about to make.
Leaving Charlie to say, “Oh, there’s many more possibilities than that.” He flashed Lucy his most engaging smile. “What about the crypt? Now there’s a place for imaginings. The tombs are still there, guaranteed to send a shiver down your spine.”
Lucy’s eyes had grown round. “Where?” She swiveled, looking around. “Is it near?”
Her gaze returned to Charlie, eager and appreciative; as usual, he responded in his customary way.
“It’s on the other side of the church.” With a flourish, he offered his arm, totally distracted from his earlier aim by the giddy enthusiasm in Lucy’s eyes. “Come—I’ll escort you there. If you’re a lover of atmosphere, you won’t want to miss it.”
Lucy happily slipped her hand in his arm. Over her head, Charlie arched a brow at Simon and Portia. “Coming?”
Simon waved him on. “We’ll stroll on a little way. We’ll meet you in the cloisters.”
Charlie blinked, hesitated, then inclined his head. “Right-ho.” He turned back to Lucy; they started on their way. “There’s a story about a sound heard on dark and moonless nights . . .”
Simon turned back to Portia in time to see her smile, then she caught his eye; her smile faded. Head rising, she studied his face, his eyes. He studied hers, and couldn’t tell what she was thinking.
He waved, directing her on along the old paved path that wound down and around to the priory’s kitchen gardens. She turned, stepped out.
“You knew about the crypt, didn’t you?”
He followed close behind her, coming alongside as the path evened out. “Charlie and I have visited often over the years.”
Portia smothered a grin and dutifully strolled on. He had a habit of not specifically answering questions he would rather not, questions whose answers revealed more of him than he wished to have known. Yet she was more than content to spend some time alone with him; she had no real interest in the ruins, but there were other matters she wished to explore.
They walked on in silence, oddly companionable. The sun briefly broke through, warm, but not too strong; she didn’t feel obliged to put on her hat—aside from anything else, it made conversing with tall gentlemen difficult.
She could feel his gaze as they walked, feel his presence, and something more, a facet of his behavior she’d noticed years before, but which had only become clear in recent days. The constant flirting—Kitty, James, Charlie, Lucy, even the Hammond girls—had sharpened the contrast; Simon never flirted, never extended himself to engage, unless he had a purpose—unless he acted with intent.
He prowled beside her now, long strides lazy, the disguised power that invested every movement never more apparent. They were in an ancient place, alone. Whatever they said, whatever happened between them here would not need to conform to any social requirements. Only their own.
Whatever they wished, whatever they wanted.
She drew a deep breath, aware of her bodice tightening, aware that he noticed. A tingle of anticipation tickled her spine. They’d reached the kitchen gardens, originally walled, but now the walls were crumbling. The ruined kitchens lay to one side, the remains of the prior’s house beyond them. She stopped, glanced around. They were out of sight of everyone, essentially private. She turned to face Simon.
A scant foot lay between them. He’d halted and was waiting, watching—waiting to see what tack she’d take. Knowing she wouldn’t be able to resist taking—doing—something.
She lifted her chin. Fixed her eyes on his.
Couldn’t find the words.
His eyes narrowed, searched hers, then he raised a hand, slowly, placed the tip of one finger beneath the angle of her jaw, just beneath her ear, and traced forward, tipping her face up. The simple touch sent sensation skittering through her,
left her skin tingling.
She was tall, but he was a good half head taller; his fingertip beneath the point of her chin brought their faces closer.
“I assume you’re intent on learning more?”
His voice was deep, hypnotic. She kept her gaze locked with his. “Naturally.”
She could read absolutely nothing in his face, yet the sense of being considered, like prey, grew.
“What did you have in mind?”
The invitation was blatant—and exactly what she wanted.
She raised her brows, faintly haughty, knowing the challenge would not escape him—and he would not escape it. “I’d imagined the next step.”
His lips curved, just a little; now that she knew what they felt like, she found them fascinating, both visually and in the expectation of how they would feel . . .
“And just what had you imagined that to be?”
She watched the words form on his lips; they took a moment to penetrate her brain. Then she hauled her gaze up to his eyes, blinked. “I’d imagined . . . another kiss.”
Calculation flashed through his eyes, enough to tell her she might have answered differently, that there was more yet she could have learned . . . if she’d known to ask for it.
“Another kiss? So be it”—his head lowered, her lids followed—“if that’s all you really want.”
The last words drifted into her mind, pure temptation, as his lips settled on hers, warm, firm, more definite this time, more sure, more commanding. She knew how to respond now and did, parting her lips, inviting him in. His hand shifted, long fingers sliding to cup her nape, his thumb remaining beneath her chin, holding her steady as he angled his head and—as she’d demanded—took the kiss further.
Deeper, into some realm that was hotter, more exciting. More intimate.
She felt it in her bones, felt her senses unfurl like petals under a sensual sun. And went forward with eagerness and delight.