The Perfect Lover

7

She really didn’t want to know. Portia had too much on her own plate; she felt no need to burden herself with knowledge of Kitty’s shortcomings. Each to their own-live and let live.

For herself, she was fired with a zeal to live-to the fullest. To a degree, a level, she hadn’t before realized was possible. The events of the previous evening should have left her scandalized. They hadn’t. Not in the least. She felt exhilarated, eager, very ready to learn more, to sip from the cup of passion once more, to taste desire again, and this time drain the chalice.

The questions consuming her were when and where?

With whom didn’t rate a thought.

She tacked through the crowds thronging the lawns; Kitty’s luncheon party was in full swing. From the alacrity with which the surrounding families had attended, she deduced the Glossups had not entertained much in recent times.

Purposely eschewing the other houseguests, she wandered, stopping to chat with those to whom she’d been introduced at the ball, meeting others. Accustomed to the role of young lady of a great country house-her brother Luc’s principal seat in Rutlandshire-she was entirely at ease chatting with those who would, were they in London, be her social inferiors. She’d always been interested in hearing of others’ lives; only via that avenue had she come to appreciate the comfort of her own, something that, like most ladies of her station, she would otherwise have taken for granted.

To give her her due, Kitty, too, did not hold aloof; she was very much in evidence, weaving among her guests. While searching for possibilities-for some inkling of an opportunity through which to pursue her fell aim-Portia noted that, along with Kitty’s mood du jour, a joie de vivre that was, she would have sworn, quite genuine. Smiling, laughing gaily, flown on excitement, Kitty might have been, perhaps not a new bride, but one of short standing thrilling to her first social success.

Watching her greet a buxom matron with transparent good humor, and exchange comments with the woman’s daughter and gangling son, Portia inwardly shook her head.

“Amazing, ain’t it?”

She whirled and met Charlie’s cynical gaze.

He nodded toward Kitty. “If you can explain that, I’ll be in your debt.”

Portia glanced again at Kitty. “It’s too hard for me.” Looping an arm through Charlie’s, she turned him about; with a quirk of his lips, he accepted her decree and fell in by her side. “Perhaps it’s like charades-she behaves as she thinks she should-no! don’t state the obvious!-I mean that she has a mental image of how she should be, and acts like that. That image may not, in every situation, be what we, or others like us, would think right. We don’t know what Kitty’s view of things might be.”

Steering Charlie on, she frowned. “Simon wondered if she was naive-I’m starting to think he may be right.”

“Surely her mother would set her straight? Isn’t that what mothers are for?”

Portia thought of her own mother, then thought of Mrs. Archer. “Yes, but… do you think Mrs. Archer…?” She left the question hanging, not quite sure how to phrase her reading of Kitty’s mother.

Charlie humphed. “Perhaps you’re right. We’re used to our own ways-to people like us and how they behave. We expect them to know what’s acceptable. Perhaps it really is something along those lines.”

He glanced around. “Now, minx, where are you taking me?”

Portia looked ahead, then stood on her toes to see past various people. “Somewhere over there is a lady who knows your mother-she was eager to speak with you.”

“What?” Charlie stared at her. “Thunder and turf, woman! I don’t want to spend my time doing the pretty with some old harridan-”

“You do, you know.” Having sighted their goal, Portia towed him on. “Just think-if you speak with her now, in the midst of all this crowd, it’ll be easy to exchange a few words, then move on. That’ll be quite enough to satisfy her. But if you leave it until later and she catches you, with the crowd more dispersed, you might find yourself trapped for half an hour.” She glanced at him, raised her brows. “Which would you prefer?”

Charlie narrowed his eyes at her. “Simon was right-you’re dangerous.”

She smiled, patted his arm, then delivered him up to his doom.

That good deed done, she returned to her consuming passion-identifying somewhere and somehow to legitimately, or at least without drawing any untoward attention, get Simon to herself for an hour or two. Or perhaps three? She had no real idea how long the next stage along her path to understanding would take.

Skirting a group of officers resplendent in their scarlet with an easy but distant smile, she considered the point. At her age, the accepted strictures deemed twenty minutes in private to be no great scandal, but more than half an hour to be beyond redemption; presumably half an hour was sufficient. However, from what she’d heard, Simon was an accredited expert, and experts never liked to be hurried.

Three hours would probably be wise.

She surveyed the crowd. Until she came up with a plan there was no sense seeking Simon out, no sense spending too much time in public by his side. It wasn’t as if they were courting.

She chatted to a major, then to a couple who had driven over from Blandford Forum. Leaving them, she circled the gathering, strolling along a high hedge. She was about to plunge into the throng again when, to her left, she saw Desmond with Winifred on his arm.

They were standing where an alcove in the hedge hosted a statue on a pedestal. Neither was looking at the statue, nor at the guests. Desmond held Winifred’s hand; he was looking down at her face, speaking quietly, earnestly.

Winifred’s eyes were cast down, but a slight, very gentle smile was just curving her lips.

Suddenly, Kitty was there. Like a small whirlwind she erupted from the crowd and latched on to Desmond’s arm. The look she cast Winifred as her older sister looked up in surprise was frankly triumphant. Then Kitty turned her eyes on Desmond.

Even from fifteen yards away, Portia could feel the brightness of the smile Kitty beamed on Desmond. She artfully pleaded, fully expecting to lead him away.

She’d misjudged; that much was obvious from the abrupt, curt dismissal Desmond, his face set like stone, handed her.

As surprised as Kitty, Winifred looked at him, Portia thought with new eyes.

For one instant, Kitty’s face was a study in surprise, then she laughed, set herself to cajole.

Desmond stepped between Winifred and Kitty, forcing Kitty to step back; winding Winifred’s arm in his, he spoke again-brutally short. With a brusque nod to Kitty, he walked off, taking an amazed Winifred with him.

Portia lost sight of them as they merged with the crowd; her attention returned to Kitty, to the stunned, somewhat lost expression that showed briefly on her face. Then Kitty blinked, and her smile returned. With a light laugh, she turned back to the crowd.

Curious, Portia headed in the same direction, but was distracted by a friend of Lord Netherfield’s. It was twenty minutes later before she again sighted Kitty.

In her bright yellow gown, she stood like a stamen in the center of a poppy-a circle of scarlet coats and gold braid. Her bright, breezy charm and tinkling laugh were very much in evidence, yet to Portia, standing a few yards away chatting with a group of older ladies, Kitty’s performance now contained a brittle note.

Increasingly obviously, Kitty encouraged the officers. They, as such men were wont to do, returned the favor in jocular and correspondingly audible vein.

Portia noted the glances directed Kitty’s way, the swift exchanges between local ladies.

Lady Glossup and Mrs. Buckstead were some yards distant; they’d noticed, too. They excused themselves from the couple with whom they’d been conversing; arm in arm, they bore down on Kitty.

Portia didn’t need to watch to know the outcome; three minutes later, Kitty left the officers and was swept away by her mama-in-law and friend.

Relaxing, feeling as if some disaster had been averted, Portia focused on the short, sweet-faced older woman beside her.

“I understand you’re staying here, my dear.” The old lady’s eyes twinkled up at her. “Are you Mr. James’s young lady?”

Portia quelled her surprise, smiled, and disabused the lady of that notion. A few minutes later, she wandered on; the crowd was now partaking of delicate sandwiches and pastries served by a small army of helpers. Taking a glass of cordial from a footman, she sipped, and strolled on.

Was there any chance of her and Simon slipping away?

Deciding to gauge how dispersed the crowd had become, she headed for the far side of the lawn. If guests had ambled as far as the temple…

Nearing the crowd’s edge, she looked toward the entrance to the path. It was blocked. By James.

Kitty stood before him.

Still within the crowd, Portia stopped.

One glance at James’s face was enough to gauge his state; his jaw was clenched, as were his fists, but his eyes kept flicking to the crowd. He was furious with Kitty; words were burning his tongue, but he was too well-bred to create a scene, not with half the county looking on.

Portia suddenly wondered if Kitty realized that that was why James didn’t repulse her advances outright, that his reluctance to tell her to go to the devil was not an indication of susceptibility.

Whatever the case, James needed rescuing. She drew herself up-

Lucy appeared from the opposite direction; smiling sweetly, she walked up and spoke to Kitty, then James.

Kitty’s reply was polite, but dismissive. Even a touch contemptuous. She turned back to James.

Faint color rose in Lucy’s cheeks, but she lifted her head, held her ground, and at the first break in Kitty’s words spoke again to James-asking about something.

With an impatience no true hostess would ever own to, Kitty swung around to point-

James drew breath, smiled at Lucy, and offered to show her. Offered her his arm.

Portia grinned.

Lucy accepted with a pretty smile.

The look on Kitty’s face was… stunned. Disbelieving.

Almost childlike in its disappointment.

Portia’s levity faded. She shifted in the crowd, not wanting to get trapped in any conversation. There was something very wrong with Kitty’s view of things-her perceptions, her expectations, her aspirations.

She’d thought she was moving away from Kitty, but Kitty must have swung on her heel and stormed off. She was still storming when Portia nearly ran into her; she saw her just in time and changed tack.

There was too much color in Kitty’s cheeks; her blue eyes glittered. Her soft, pouty lips grimly set, she strode on with unladylike vigor.

Looking away, Portia saw Henry leave a group of gentlemen and move to intercept his wife. Feeling like someone about to witness an accident and incapable of preventing it, compelled, she moved to the edge of the crowd.

Twenty feet away, Kitty all but walked into Henry. There were others near, but all were engrossed in their conversations; Henry grasped Kitty’s arm, firmly but not with anger, as if both to steady her and to recall her to her surroundings.

Face set, Kitty looked up at him. Her eyes flashed, she spoke-even without hearing the words, Portia knew they were vicious, cutting, intended to hurt. Henry stiffened. Slowly, he released Kitty. He bowed, speaking low, then he straightened. A moment passed; Kitty said nothing. Henry inclined his head, then stiffly moved away.

Fury-the anger of a child denied-roiled in Kitty’s face, then, as if donning a mask, she composed her features. Drawing in a breath, she swung to face her guests, called up a smile, and moved into the crush.

“Hardly an edifying spectacle.”

The drawled words came from behind her.

She looked up and back, over her shoulder. “There you are.”

Simon looked down, read her eyes. “Indeed. Where were you going?”

He must have seen her earlier, heading doggedly this way, one drawback of being rather taller than the average.

She smiled, turned, and linked her arm with his. “I wasn’t going anywhere, but now you’re here, I would like to stroll through the gardens. I’ve been talking for the past two hours.”

Others, likewise, were starting to amble, taking advantage of the extensive walks. Rather than head for the lake, as most were, she and Simon turned toward the yews and the formal gardens beyond.

They’d reached the open lawn beyond the first row of trees when he offered, “A guinea for your thoughts.”

He’d been watching her, studying her face. She flicked him a glance. “Do you think they’re worth that much?”

They paused; he held her gaze, then his attention shifted to the black curl that had come loose and now bobbed by her ear. Lifting a hand, he caught it, tucked it back behind her ear; his fingertips lightly brushed her cheek.

Their eyes met.

He’d touched her much more intimately, yet there was a quality in the simple caress that conveyed so much more.

“I want to know your thoughts that much.” His gaze didn’t waver.

Studying his eyes, she felt something inside her quiver. It was an admission of sorts, one she hadn’t expected. One she wasn’t sure she was reading correctly. Yet… letting her lips curve, she inclined her head.

Arm in arm, they walked slowly on.

“I intended to avoid Kitty and all her doings-instead, I’ve been tripping over her at every turn.” She sighed, looked ahead. “She’s betrayed Henry, hasn’t she?”

She felt him tense to shrug, knew when he stopped, reconsidered.

He nodded curtly. “That seems fairly certain.”

She would have wagered her best bonnet they were both thinking of Arturo and his nocturnal visits to the house.

They ambled on; Simon’s gaze returned to her face. “That wasn’t what you were thinking about.”

She had to smile. “No.” She’d been pondering the basics of marriage-the relationship, what it must mean in fact as distinct from any theory. She gestured. “I can’t imagine-”

She’d been going to say that she couldn’t see how Kitty and Henry could continue in their marriage, but such a statement would be unbelievably naive. Many marriages rolled along quite reasonably with nothing more than respect between the partners.

Drawing breath, she reached for her real meaning. “Kitty’s betrayed Henry’s trust-she seems to think that trust doesn’t matter. What I can’t imagine is a marriage without it. I can’t see how it could work.”

Even as she spoke, she was conscious of the irony; neither of them was married-even more, both had avoided the subject for years.

She glanced at Simon; he was looking down as they walked, but his expression was serious. He was thinking of what she’d said.

After a moment, conscious of her gaze, he looked up, first at her, then ahead, over the manicured lawn. “I think you’re right. Without trust… it can’t work. Not for us-people like us. Not with the sort of marriage you-or I-could countenance.”

If anyone had told her, even a week ago, that she would be having such a conversation about marriage with Simon Cynster, she would have laughed herself into stitches. Yet now it seemed nothing more than right. She’d wanted to learn what lay between a man and a woman specifically with respect to marriage; the scope of that study had broadened further than she’d foreseen.

Trust. Marriage really was very much about that.

It was also at the heart of what was growing between her and Simon; that wasn’t trust itself, but whatever it was had only grown-presumably could only grow-because trust, real trust, had already existed between them, nascent, untried.

“She-Kitty-will never find what she wants.” She suddenly knew that beyond doubt. “She’s searching for something, but she wants to be given it first, and then decide whether to be worthy of it-whether to pay the price. But with what she wants, she’s putting the cart before the horse.”

Simon thought about it, not just her words but the ideas behind them; he felt her glance, and nodded. He did understand, not so much Kitty but what Portia was saying; it was she who commanded his thoughts, who inhabited his dreams.

Her view of marriage was vitally important to him. And what she’d said was corrrect-trust did come first. All the rest, all that he wanted of her, all he wanted her to want of him, all of which was only now becoming clear-all that was like a tree that could grow strongly, well rooted and secure, only if solidly planted in trust.

He glanced at her, walking, thinking, by his side. He trusted her completely and absolutely, far more than he trusted any other living soul. It wasn’t just familiarity, being able to rely on her, knowing with unquestioning confidence how she would think, react, behave. Even feel.

It was knowing she’d never intentionally hurt him.

She’d prick his ego without compunction, defy him, irritate, and argue, but she’d never seek to truly harm him-she’d already proved that.

Drawing breath, he looked ahead, suddenly aware of how very precious such a trust was.

Did she trust him? She must to some extent, but exactly how far he wasn’t yet sure.

A moot point. If-when he prevailed on her to trust him far enough, would that trust survive if she later discovered that he hadn’t been completely open, completely honest with her?

Would she understand why? Enough to be lenient?

She was an open book; she was and always had been too direct, too self-confident and assured of her own station, her own abilities, and her indomitable will, to bother with deceit. It was simply not in her nature.

He knew exactly what she was seeking, what she looked to gain through her interaction with him. The one thing he didn’t know was how she would react when she realized that, in addition to giving her all she sought, he was determined and intent on giving her a great deal more.

Would she think he was trying to capture her, saddle her with responsibilities, hem her in-imprison her? And react accordingly?

Despite all he knew of her-indeed, because of all her knew of her-that was impossible to predict.

They reached a long, wisteria-covered walk leading back toward the house. Turning under the wooden arches, they strolled along in easy silence. Then Portia slowed.

“Oh, dear.”

He followed her gaze to the adjoining lawn. Kitty stood at the center of a group of officers and youthful sprigs, a glass in her hand, laughter on her lips. She was talking, gesturing, excessively gay; they couldn’t make out her words but her tone was too high-pitched, as was her laugh.

One of the officers made a comment. Everyone laughed. Kitty gestured wildly and responded; two gentlemen steadied her as she wobbled. Everyone laughed even more.

Simon halted. Portia did, too.

A flash of lavender skirts had them glancing down the lawn. Mrs. Archer came hurrying up.

They watched as, with some argument and many weak smiles, she succeeded in extricating her daughter. Arm in arm, she marched Kitty back to the main lawn, where the majority of guests had remained.

The officers and gentlemen re-formed into groups and continued to talk. Simon led Portia on.

They met and conversed with a number of other couples strolling in the opposite direction. Finally regaining the main lawn, they stepped into the still-considerable throng, and immediately heard Kitty.

“Oh, thank you! That’s exactly what I need.” She hiccupped. “I’m so very thirsty!”

To their right, the young gardener, roped in to help as a waiter, stood by the hedge bearing a salver with glasses of champagne. In his borrowed black clothes, tall and rather gangly, with his shock of black hair and dark eyes, he possessed a certain dramatic handsomeness.

Kitty certainly thought so; standing before him, she ogled him blatantly over the rim of the glass she was draining.

Portia had seen, and heard, enough; her hand on Simon’s arm, she pushed-he moved as she wished and they strolled away into the crowd.

They spent the next twenty minutes in blissfully pleasant conversation, meeting with Charlie, then later the Hammond girls, both flown with success and happiness over the youthful swains they’d met. Chattering, teasing, they’d all relaxed, imbued with good feelings, when a stir by the terrace steps had them turning, looking.

Along with all about them.

What they saw transfixed them.

At the bottom of the steps, Ambrose Calvin stood with Kitty draped upon him. She’d wound her arms about his neck; her face, uptilted to his, was filled with laughing, openly sensual delight.

No one could make out what she was saying-she was attempting to whisper, yet the words were loud, slurred, her tongue tripping.

She dragged heavily on Ambrose while he, rigid and pale, fought to put her from him.

All talking stopped. Everyone simply stared.

Absolute silence descended. All movement ceased.

Then a guffaw, quickly smothered, shattered the frozen tableau. Drusilla Calvin left the crowd; coming up behind Kitty, a much smaller woman, she reached around and grabbed her arms, aiding her brother to free himself.

The instant he did, Lady Hammond and Mrs. Buckstead swooped on the trio; all sight of Kitty was lost in the ensuing melee. There were calls for cold water and orders flung at the staff; it quickly became clear they were saying Kitty was ill and had been taken faint.

Portia met Simon’s eyes, then turned her back on the fracas and engaged the Hammond sisters, picking up their comments where they’d broken off. The girls, although momentarily distracted, were too well-bred not to follow her lead. Simon and Charlie did the same.

Everyone tried not to look at the group by the terrace, now swollen by Lord and Lady Glossup, Henry, and Lady Osbaldestone and Lord Netherfield. Lady Calvin had sailed up, too. Heads turned again as Kitty, a drooping little figure, was helped inside, supported by Lady Glossup and Mrs. Buckstead with Mrs. Archer, fluttering ineffectually, bringing up the rear.

At the base of the steps, those who hadn’t gone in exchanged glances, then turned and, easy smiles on their faces, returned to their conversations in the crowd.

There was no denying the awkwardness, no dispelling the questions raised, ones of impropriety if not outright scandal. Nevertheless…

Lady O stumped up, her lined face relaxed, no hint in her eyes or her bearing that anything untoward had occurred.

Cecily Hammond, greatly daring, asked, “Is Kitty all right?”

“Silly female’s taken ill-no doubt extended herself too far organizing today. Excitement, too, I don’t doubt. Had a dizzy spell-the heat wouldn’t have helped. No doubt she’ll recover, just needs to lie down for a spell. Young married lady, after all. She ought to have more sense.”

Lady O smiled brightly into Portia’s eyes, then her gaze passed on to both Simon and Charlie.

They all understood-that was the tale they were to spread.

The Hammond sisters didn’t need to have it explained. When Portia suggested they should part and mingle, Cecily and Annabelle were perfectly ready to flutter off like butterfiles and spread the word. Charlie went one way, Portia and Simon another. They exchanged a glance, then dutifully set themselves to do what they could to help smooth things over.

The other houseguests were doing the same; Lady Glossup took charge of the arrangements and sent the footmen into the crowd bearing ices, sorbets, and cakes.

All in all, they were moderately successful. The rest of the afternoon-the following hour or so-passed in reasonably comfortable style. That, however, was all on the surface, in the faces people showed to the world. Underneath… significant glances were exchanged between friends, although no one was so outré as to put their thoughts into words.

As soon as it was possible to do so without giving offense, people started leaving. By late afternoon, the last guests were wending their way down the drive.

Lady O clomped up to where Simon and Portia stood. She poked Simon’s leg with her cane. “You may give me your arm upstairs.” She turned her black gaze on Portia. “You can come, too.”

Simon obeyed; they turned to the house. Portia walked on Lady O’s other side, taking her other arm when they reached the main stairs. Lady O was not young; for all her ferocity, they were both deeply fond of her.

She was breathing stertorously when they reached her room; she pointed to the bed and they helped her to it. They’d barely got her settled, sitting propped high on her pillows as she’d commanded, when there came a knock on the door.

“Come!” Lady O called.

The door opened; Lord Netherfield looked in, then entered. “Good-a confabulation. Just what we need.”

Portia quelled a grin. Simon met her gaze briefly, then turned to set an armchair for his lordship close by the bed. Lord Netherfield accepted Simon’s help into the chair; like Lady O, he, too, walked with a cane.

They were cousins, Portia had been informed, although several times removed, much of an age, and very old friends.

“Right, then!” Lady O said, the instant he was settled. “What are we to do about this nonsense? Horrible mess, but there’s no sense in the whole company suffering.”

“How did Ambrose take it?” his lordship asked. “Will he prove difficult, do you think?”

Lady O snorted. “I should think he’ll be glad if nothing more is ever said. Shocked to his toes-he went white as a sheet. Couldn’t get a word out. Never seen a would-be politician so lost for words.”

“I should think,” Simon said, propping a shoulder against the bedpost, “that this would be a case of least said, soonest mended.”

Portia perched on the edge of the bed as Lord Netherfield nodded.

“Aye, you’re most likely right. Poor Calvin-no wonder he was in such a state. Last thing in the world he’d want at present, to take up an intrigue with a female like Kitty. Here he is, trying to get her father’s support for his cause, and there she is, flinging herself at his head!”

Lady O looked from one face to the other, then nodded. “We’re in agreement, then. Nothing of any great moment occurred, nothing need be said-all is perfectly normal. No doubt if we stick to that line, the others will, too. No reason Catherine should have to weather having a disaster of a house party just because her daughter-in-law’s lost her wits. Hopefully, that mother of hers will straighten her out.”

Decision made and judgment delivered, Lady O sank back on her pillows. She waved at his lordship and Simon. “You two may take yourselves off. You”-she pointed at Portia-“wait here. I want to talk to you.”

Simon and Lord Netherfield left. When the door was once more closed, Portia turned to Lady O, only to discover she had shut her eyes. “What did you want to talk to me about?”

One lid rose; one black eye glinted. “I believe I’ve already advised you against spending all your time in any man’s pocket?”

Portia blushed.

Lady O humphed and closed her eyes. “The music room should be safe enough. Go and practice your scales.”

An imperious wave accompanied the order. Portia considered, then obeyed.

Their plan to keep the house party on an even keel should have worked. Would have worked if Kitty had behaved as they’d all expected. However, instead of being sunk in mortification, quiet, careful of her manners, especially careful to toe every social line and transgress no more, she swept into the drawing room and proceeded to give a command performance in the role of “the injured party.”

She didn’t utter a single word about the afternoon’s debacle; it was the set of her face, the tilt of her chin, the extraordinary elevation of her nose that communicated her feelings. Her reaction.

Sweeping up to Lucy and Mrs. Buckstead, she placed her hand on Lucy’s arm, and inquired solicitously, “I do hope you met some entertaining gentlemen this afternoon, my dear?”

Lucy blinked, then stammered a vague answer. Mrs. Buckstead, made of sterner stuff, inquired after Kitty’s health.

Kitty waved, limpidly dismissive. “Of course, I did feel let down. However, I do think one should not let such wounding behavior on the part of others overwhelm one, don’t you?”

Even Mrs. Buckstead didn’t know how to answer that. With a smile and glittering eyes, Kitty moved on.

Her high-handed, arrogant behavior overset everyone, left them off-balance, totally unsure what to do. No one could understand what was going on. What were they witnessing? Nothing made any kind of social sense.

Dinner, far from being the agreeable, soothing if quiet affair they’d all hoped for, was subdued to the point of discomfort, all laughter in abeyance, talk suppressed. No one knew what to say.

When the ladies removed to the drawing room, Cecily and Annabelle, along with Lucy, encouraged by their mothers, retired early, claiming tiredness after the long day. Portia would have liked to leave, too, but felt compelled to remain in support of Lady O.

The conversation remained stilted. Kitty continued to play the martyr; Lady Glossup was at a loss to know how to deal with her, and Mrs. Archer, all but visibly wringing her hands, starting every time anyone directed a remark her way, was no use at all.

It soon became apparent that, far from coming to rescue them, the gentlemen had decided to leave them to their fate. And Kitty.

It was difficult to blame them; if the ladies-including Lady O, who sat openly frowning at Kitty-could not fathom what was going on, the men must be completely at sea.

Accepting the inevitable with true grace, Lady Glossup called for the tea trolley. They all remained just long enough to do justice to one cup, then rose and retired.

After seeing Lady O to her room, Portia retreated to her own chamber, high in the east wing. The window overlooked the gardens; she paced before it, frowning at the floor, oblivious of the silvered view.

She’d told Simon she believed that Kitty did not understand or value trust; she’d been speaking of trust between two people, but the performance they’d just witnessed had confirmed her view, albeit in a different context.

They all felt-they’d all reacted-as if Kitty had broken a social trust, that she’d betrayed them by refusing to follow any of the patterns they recognized. The patterns of social commerce, of civility, the underlying structure of how they related one to the other.

Their reaction had been quite profound, the gentlemen’s refusal to return to the drawing room a very definite statement.

An emotional statement-indeed, they’d all reacted emotionally, instinctively, deeply disturbed by Kitty’s breaking the social code they all held in common.

Portia stopped, stared out at the darkened gardens, but didn’t truly see them.

Trust and emotion were closely linked. One led to the other; if one was prodded, the other responded.

Frowning, she sat on the window seat; after a moment, she crossed her forearms on the sill and rested her chin upon them.

Kitty wanted love. In her heart, Portia knew that was so. Kitty was searching for that which so many other ladies looked for, but in Kitty’s case, with her unrealistic expectations, love was no doubt highly colored, a passionate, overpowering emotion that rose up and swept one away.

Unless she missed her guess, Kitty subscribed to the idea that passion came first, that highly charged physical intimacy was the path, the gateway to deep and meaningful emotional attachment. Presumably she believed that if the passion was not sufficiently intense, then the love she imagined would ultimately arise from it would not be sufficiently powerful-powerful enough to hold her interest, to satisfy her craving.

That would explain why she did not value Henry’s gentle devotion, why she seemed bent on raising an illicit and powerful lust in some other man.

Portia grimaced.

Kitty was wrong.

If only she could explain it to her…

Impossible, of course. Kitty would never take advice from an unmarried, virginal, near-apeleader-cum-bluestocking on the subject of love and how to secure it.

A soft breeze wafted through the window, stirring the heavy air. It was silent outside, dark but not black, cooler than indoors.

Portia rose, shook out her skirts, and headed for the door. She couldn’t sleep yet; the atmosphere in the house was oppressive, uncertain, not at peace. A walk in the gardens would calm her, let her thoughts settle.

The morning room doors were still open to the terrace; she walked through and out, into the welcome softness of the night. The scents of the summer garden wreathed around her as she strolled toward the lake; night stock, jasmine, and heavier perfumes mingled and teased her senses.

Moving through the shadows, she glimpsed a man-one of the gentlemen-standing on the lawns not far from the house. He was looking out into the darkness, apparently lost in thought. The path to the lake took her nearer; she recognized Ambrose, but he gave no sign of noticing her.

She was in no mood for polite conversation; she was sure Ambrose wasn’t either. Keeping to the shadows, she left him to his thoughts.

A little farther on, while crossing one of the many intersecting paths, she glanced to her right, and saw the young gypsy-cum-gardener-Dennis, she’d heard Lady Glossup call him-standing absolutely still in the shadows along the minor path.

She continued on without pause, sure Dennis hadn’t seen her. As before when she and Simon had seen him, his attention was focused on the private wing of the house. Presumably, he’d retreated deeper into the gardens because of Ambrose’s presence.

Quelling a frown, she pushed the matter from her mind; it left a lingering distaste. She didn’t want to dwell on what Dennis’s nocturnal vigil might mean.

The idea naturally brought Kitty to mind-she bundled her out of her thoughts, too. What had she been thinking about before?

Trust, emotion, and passion.

And love.

Kitty’s goal, and the stepping-stones to it that she was quite sure Kitty had scrambled. Kitty was approaching them in the wrong order, at least to her mind.

So what was the right order?

Letting her feet lead her down the last stretch of lawn to the lake, she considered. Trust and emotion were linked, true enough, but people being people, trust came first.

Once trust was there, emotion could grow-once one felt safe enough to let emotional ties, with their consequent vulnerability, develop.

As for passion-physical intimacy-that, surely, was an expression of emotion, a physical expression of an emotional connectedness; how could it be anything else?

Engrossed, she took the path to the summerhouse without thought.

Her mind led her inexorably onward in characteristically logical fashion. Walking through the deep shadows, her gaze on the ground, she frowned. By her reasoning, with which she could find no glaring fault, the compulsion to physical intimacy arose from an emotional link that, logically therefore, must already exist.

She’d reached the steps of the summerhouse. She looked up-and saw in the dimness within a tall figure uncurl his long legs and slowly come to his feet.

In order to feel the compulsion to intimacy, the emotional link must already be there.

For a long moment, she stood looking into the summerhouse, at Simon, waiting, silent and still in the dark. Then she lifted her skirts, climbed the steps, and went in.