The Perfect Lover

8

The crucial question, of course, was what emotion was it that was growing between her and Simon. Was it lust, desire, or something deeper?

Whatever it was, she could feel it rising like heat between them as she walked across the bare boards-straight into his arms.

They closed around her; she lifted her face and their lips met.

In a kiss that acknowledged the power shimmering through them, yet held it at bay.

She drew back, looked into his face. “How did you know I’d come out here?”

“I didn’t.” His lips twisted, perhaps wrily-she couldn’t tell in the shadows. “James and Charlie decamped to the tavern in Ashmore. I wasn’t in the mood for ale and darts-I cried off, and came here.”

Simon drew her closer until her thighs met his. There was no resistance in her, yet she was watching, thinking…

He bent his head and took her lips, toyed with them until she threw aside her distance and answered him, kissed him back, taunted him. Then surrendered her mouth when he responded, wrapped her arms about his neck, and clung as he devoured.

And they were there, once again, at the center of a rising storm. Desire and pure passion licked about them, sending heat across their skins, feeding a yearning in their souls.

They broke from the kiss only to gauge the other’s commitment, eyes meeting briefly from under heavy lids. Neither could truly see in the darkness, yet the touch of a gaze was enough. To reassure, to have her pressing closer, to have his arms tightening before he angled his head and their lips met again.

Together, they stepped into the furnace. Knowingly. He didn’t need to urge her; her hand metaphorically in his, she stepped over the threshold at his side. They both welcomed the fire, the flames that caressed, that flared and grew.

Until they were both heated, burning, hungry for more.

He stepped back, taking her with him. The edge of the sofa met the back of his legs; he sat, sweeping her onto his lap, their lips parting for only a second before coming together again.

Her hand touched his cheek, caressed, cradled as she pressed a blatant invitation upon him. Where others might be reticent, she was bold, direct. Definite.

Sure. She sighed with satisfaction when he slid her loosened gown from her shoulders and laid her breasts bare, urged him on when he bent his head, set lips and hands to the swollen mounds, and feasted.

Her skin was unbelievably fine, so white it almost glowed, so delicate his fingertips tingled as they traced. Tightly puckered, her nipples beckoned; he took one in his mouth and suckled deeply, deeply, until she cried out, her fingers clenching tight on his skull.

Her breathing was rapid, fractured, when he lifted his head. Their lips met, brushed. From under heavy lids, their gazes met in a fleeting touch; their breaths mingled; heat lapped and wrapped about them.

“More.” Her whisper was like a waft of flame against his lips, through his mind.

His body was already tight, muscles rigid with desire, locked by his will against the all but overpowering need to seize, to take. To claim.

But not yet.

He didn’t bother asking if she was sure. Setting his lips to hers, he drew her back into his arms, sank back into the sofa, drawing her with him, across his lap. Her knees were curled alongside his thigh; lying back, holding her to their kiss, he sent one hand stroking down her back, over the swell of her hip, tracing down the long line of her legs.

Drew her down into the heated darkness, step by small step drawing her deeper into the realm where passion and primitive wants held sway. Where the need to be touched grew and swelled to a compulsion, where the compulsion to be intimately known became an overriding need.

When he drew her skirts up and slipped his hand beneath, the only murmur she made was one of encouragement. He fought the urge to send her wits spinning, to befuddle her until he had captured her; with her, he was following a different script, one designed to capture more than just her body. He wanted her mind and her soul as well.

So he kept their kiss light, enough for her to be aware, to know, not just what he was doing, but every touch, every caress, every intimate liberty. And to know he knew it, too.

She was wearing silk stockings. His fingertips traced her calf, then trailed upward; he cupped the back of her knee, then slowly stroked higher, finding her garter, circling it with his fingers.

He felt the shudder that went through her when he reached higher and touched her bare skin. Like her breasts, fine, delicate, warm with desire. He traced, and knew she was with him, that her awareness was focused on the shifting connection between his hand and her thigh.

The edge of her chemise trapped his fingers; he flicked them free, slid his hand beneath the fine silk, cruising over the bare skin of her hip, over her bare bottom, over skin that heated and dewed at his touch.

She shuddered and clung to the kiss, for one moment shaken; he soothed with his lips, with his tongue, with his hand slowly, possessively, stroking, then, when she eased, more explicitly exploring.

She shivered, but stayed with him-followed and felt as he wished. Experienced the thrills, both his and her own, as they took the next step into intimacy.

When they’d both had their fill, he traced forward, over her hip, splayed his fingers over her bare stomach. Felt again the shudder of pure awareness that racked her, sensed her sudden tensing.

Felt forced to breathe against her swollen lips, “You’re sure?”

She dragged in a breath, her breasts swelling against his chest. “Touch me-touch me there.”

He didn’t wait for further direction, needed no detailed instruction. Taking her lips again, taking her mouth, he waited only until he sensed her awareness join with his again before sliding his hand lower, tracing the sweet curve of her stomach down to the profusion of soft curls between her thighs.

Stroking slowly, deliberately, through them, he touched her, set his fingers to her softest flesh and traced, explored, learned. And still she was with him, sharing every sensual moment, every single tactile impression… never before had he been so aware of a woman beneath his hands.

The knowledge of what that would translate to once he had her beneath him, body to body, skin to naked skin, sent a shaft of pure heat to his groin. He was aching, had been since she’d walked so confidently into his arms; pure torment was only a heartbeat away.

Yet the moment held the power to command him-for once helped in holding the raging need at bay. This-she-was too important, this conquest above all others meant life and death to him.

Fingertips throbbing, acutely sensitive, he eased her thighs wider, parted her soft folds, traced, teased, tantalized, until she moved against his hand, deliberately, wantonly-with her usual decision demanding more.

Her fingers were lost in his hair, blindly clinging; he opened her and eased one finger into her scalding sheath. Her slickness burned him, seared through him, tempted beyond belief. He could barely breathe-couldn’t think beyond the all but blinding surge of passion, the welling need to bury himself in the sweet feminine flesh his fingers so artfully teased.

Grimly, he held on, held the primitive urge back, ruthlessly contained. It didn’t fade but simply hardened, solidified into a brutally painful reality that would not leave him.

It was enough to let him go on, to continue along the path he’d mapped unmindful of the price he would later pay.

Caught in the coils of passion, deeper than she’d imagined might be, Portia was only dimly aware of that fractional hiatus-the momentary shifting of his attention-before it returned, in full force, to her. To where he was touching her, caressing her, repetitively teasing in some way she didn’t understand.

Her body seemed to know, to recognize some pattern that was beyond her conscious mind. She had to let it lead her, had to follow mentally behind, learning, seeing, realizing.

Feeling. She’d never imagined that physical sensation could be this acute, this consuming. His lips never left hers, his arm around her supported her, the hard wall of his chest was close, reassuring in the face of the whirlpool of sensations swirling through her, buffeting her mind, dragging at her senses.

The fact that his hand lay between her thighs, that he’d eased them apart and was stroking her there, her flesh slick and wet, swollen and hot, should have overwhelmed her, but did not. She could sense the heat, the furnace her own body had become, the deeper heat that flared within when he probed, then opened her and penetrated more deeply.

Her breath caught, her nerves, until then sensitized and alive, started to curl. Tight. Then tighter. Her muscles started to tense, but in some new and novel way.

Lungs locked, she gasped through their kiss, clung to him as between her thighs, deep inside her, sensation built.

He was stoking it deliberately; she knew that much. Knew this was what she’d asked for, what she needed to know, wanted to know.

She let go, let slide the last vestiges of inhibition, and let the tide welling inside sweep her up. Sweep her on.

Into a landscape of sensation. Up to some pinnacle of cataclysmic feeling.

Her senses expanded until they filled her mind; her body felt aflame. He reached deeper within her; a rush of rapture flowed down her veins, under her skin, tightening her nerves, driving her senses…

Until they fractured. Shattered.

Sharp, almost biting delight gripped her, held her in a vise, poured radiant pleasure through her.

The wave swept on, past, through her, leaving in its wake a sense of earthly bliss. A sense of floating in tactile glory, lapped by waves of delight.

Gradually, the waves subsided; sensation diminished, the feelings ebbed. His hand left her.

To her surprise, she felt empty. Incomplete.

Unfulfilled.

As her wits returned fully, she made the connection. Realized this was a two-act play and he’d stopped at the intermission.

And had no intention of going any further.

She knew without asking; his decision was there, solid and real in his heavily locked muscles, in the brutual tension riding him.

In confirmation, like a curtain falling, he flipped down her skirts and locked his hand over her hip.

She had absolute confidence in his self-mastery. Drawing back from the kiss, she boldly reached between them, traced the hard line of his erection, the solid weight she could feel riding against her thigh.

Closed her hand as well as she could; felt him shift, heard the hiss of his indrawn breath.

Leaned close and whispered against his lips. “You want me.”

The sound he made was guttural, a strangled laugh. “You can hardly doubt it.”

She couldn’t, not with the evidence burning her palm, yet the degree of that want, the sheer power of his desire was a surprise-a shock.

Even more a temptation.

Yet the realization-the physical fact, an ephemeral knowledge brought to life, translated to flesh and blood-sent a shiver of pure caution, an elemental sensing of danger coursing through her.

He drew in a tight breath; eyes closed, he pressed his hand between them, closed it over hers. Tightened her grip on him.

Then, slowly, drew her hand away.

He breathed out; she couldn’t truly see his face in the darkness, but would have sworn the harsh planes had grown even more hard-edged.

Against his lips, she breathed, “Why?”

She didn’t need to be more specific. He would know even better than she that he could have taken her if he’d wished.

His gaze touched her face, traveled it, then he lifted his hand and traced a finger across her lips. She scented, and tasted, her essence. Then he leaned close and kissed her, kissed it from her lips.

“Are you ready for that?”

His words drifted through her mind, not really a question.

She drew back, looked into his eyes, dark, shadowed, unreadable. Could still feel his desire, the powerful need that was riding him. Answered truthfully. “No. But-”

He kissed her; stopped her words. She hesitated for an instant, the understanding that he did not wish her to utter them, didn’t wish to hear what she would have said-what he’d known she’d been about to say-sweeping through her. Then she returned the kiss. Gratefully.

Sensed the heat slowly dying between them. Let it fade. Ebb. Until…

Their lips parted, yet they remained close. Their gazes touched. Lifting one hand, she traced his chiseled cheek. Put their thoughts into words. “Next time.”

He drew breath, chest swelling. Then he gripped her waist and eased her back. “If you wish it.”

If you wish it.

The hardest words he’d ever had to say, yet he’d had to say them.

His hand locked about hers, they walked back to the house; a short discussion over whether or not he needed to escort her back to her room-a discussion he’d won-had helped get them back onto something resembling their normal footing.

Not that that was the same as it had been a week ago.

All well and good, but the desire now riding him had spurs a foot long. Never before had the need for a woman, let alone a particular woman, been so consuming; never before had he had to mask, to mute his natural inclinations to this extent.

Having to let her go tonight, to let her escape him, wasn’t a script of which his inclinations, his warrior instincts, approved. Having to battle them, having to keep a cool head while his body went up in flames, did not please his temper at all.

A fact of which she was well aware; she’d been shooting quick glances at him ever since they’d left the summerhouse. His face, set and hard, bore witness to his feelings-feelings she knew him well enough to guess.

She knew, but he seriously doubted she understood. For all her talk of learning about sex and trust and marriage, he very much doubted that it had occurred to her yet just where they were-what the next stage encompassed, what destiny she was flirting with.

It would. Which was why he had to play a long game. To get what he wanted, to secure all he wanted, he needed her absolute, unqualified trust.

And the only way to get that was to earn it.

No shortcuts, no sleight of hand.

No pressure. Of any kind.

He felt like growling.

If you wish it.

When she stopped and thought about what that “it” encompassed, he was going to have problems enough. Their past wasn’t going to make her smile fondly and forge ahead without long and earnest consideration; her temper, and his, weren’t going to make her decision to embark on the final stage any easier.

As for her intelligence, her willfulness, and even worse, her independence… stacked against the panaply of his most fundamental characteristics, with which she was extremely familiar, convincing her to risk giving herself to him was going to be an uphill battle. He needed every advantage he could gain.

He trudged on through the balmy night. She kept pace with him easily, her stride long and free.

One consolation-she’d never been a chatterer. She spoke when she wished to; with him, she never seemed to feel the need, as so many other females did, to fill the silences. They lay between them, not awkward but comfortable, like well-worn shoes.

Familiarity, and her mind; two aspects from which, if he was cunning, he could wrest some advantage. She was, always had been, far more inclined to logical thinking than any other woman he’d known. He had some chance, therefore, of guessing her thoughts, predicting her tack, and by judicious prodding, herding her in the direction he wished.

Just as long as she didn’t guess his ulterior motive.

If she did…

What pernicious fate had decreed he should set his sights on taking to wife the one woman he knew beyond all doubt he would never be able safely to manipulate?

Stifling a sigh, he looked up. Just as Portia stiffened.

He looked ahead, his hand tightening about hers, and saw the young gardener, once again watching the private wing of the house.

Portia tugged; he nodded, and they moved on, slipping through the shadows to the garden hall.

The house lay in darkness; no one else was about. They passed the candle left burning at the bottom of the stairs and he saw she was frowning.

“What?”

She blinked, then said, “Dennis-the gardener-was there when I came out.”

He grimaced, and waved her up the stairs. When they stepped into the gallery, he murmured, “His fixation’s unhealthy. I’ll mention it to James.”

Portia nodded. It was on the tip of her tongue to mention she’d seen Ambrose, too, but he hadn’t been there when they’d returned. No reason for Simon to mention him, too.

They’d reached her room; she tugged and Simon stopped. She indicated the door with her head.

Simon glanced at it, then shifted his hold, twined his fingers with hers and lifted her hand to his lips. “Sleep well.”

She met his hooded gaze, then stepped close, stretched up, and touched her lips to his. “And you.”

Sliding her hand from his, she opened the door and slipped through, closing it softly behind her.

A full minute passed before she heard him walk away.

Realizing just how real, how physical, Simon’s desire for her was had definitely been something of a shock. A bigger, more eye-opening shock than all else she’d learned thus far.

It was also a temptation, a bigger temptation than all else put together, to go forward and learn what lay beyond, what, for them, was the emotion compelling them to intimacy. The emotion that, with every look, every shared moment, seemed to grow stronger, more definite.

More real.

That was somewhat shocking, too.

Portia halted on the terrace and looked about. After breakfasting with Lady O, she’d left her to dress and grasped the moment to herself-to stroll and think.

After what had transpired last night in the summerhouse, thinking ranked high on her list of things to do.

Traces of dew still remained on the grass, but wouldn’t last long. The sun was already beaming down; it was going to be another warm day. The house party was decamping, taking a long drive through Cranborne Chase, then lunching at an inn before returning. Everyone was hoping a day away from the Hall would lift the atmosphere and bury the memories of yesterday.

The shrubbery was one area she’d yet to explore; stepping down from the terrace, she headed for the archway cut into the first hedge. Like all the regions of the Glossup Hall gardens, the shrubbery was extensive, yet she’d wandered only a little way when she heard voices.

She slowed.

“Don’t you find the question of its paternity quite tantalizing?”

Paternity? Shock rooted Portia to the spot. It was Kitty who’d spoken.

“I really don’t feel it’s incumbent on me to guess. No doubt you’ll reveal all when you’re ready.”

Winifred. The sisters were on the other side of the hedge from Portia. The green-walled path in which she stood turned farther along; presumably there was a courtyard of some sort, with a fountain or pool.

“Oh, I think you’ll be interested in this. It touches so close, you see.”

Kitty’s tone was that of a vindictive child hugging a particularly obnoxious secret to her bosom, biding her time, keen to make most misery; it was plain who she wished Winifred to imagine was the father of her child.

There was a rustle and swish of skirts, then Winifred spoke again. “You know, my dear, there are times when I look at you and can only wonder if Mama played Papa for a fool.”

The contempt in the words was all the more powerful because they were uttered in Winifred’s soft voice. Worse, there was something else there, edging the contempt, that was even less pleasant.

“And now,” Winifred said, “if you’ll excuse me, I must get ready for the drive. Desmond’s taking me up in his curricle.”

Portia turned and walked quickly out of the shrubbery. She swung into the rose garden; sniffing the large blooms, she waited, one eye on the lawn, until she saw Winifred walk past and go into the house. When Kitty did not immediately appear, Portia started for the house herself.

Glancing back across the lawn at the shrubbery, she caught a glimpse of Dennis, weeding a bed at the foot of a hedge, one of the hedges that must enclose the shrubbery courtyard. He glanced her way; there were dark circles under his eyes.

Small wonder. Portia climbed to the terrace and entered the house.

She’d promised to return and help Lady O downstairs; when she reached her room, Lady O was ready, sitting waiting in the armchair by the hearth. One look at Portia’s face and she waved the maid away. The instant the door shut, she demanded, “Right, then! Let’s have your report.”

She blinked. “Report?”

“Precisely-tell me what you’ve learned.” Lady O waved with her cane. “And for goodness sake, sit down. You’re almost as bad as a Cynster, towering over me.”

Her lips not entirely straight, she sat, her mind whirling.

“Now, then!” Lady O leaned on her cane and fastened her black eyes, gimlet-fashion, on her. “Tell me all.”

She looked into those eyes; she couldn’t think of words in which to tell even half of it. “I’ve learned that things are… not as obvious as I’d supposed.”

Lady O’s brows rose. “Indeed. What things?”

“All sorts of things.” She’d learned long ago not to let the old harridan unnerve her. “But never mind that. There’s something else-something I’ve just learned that I think you should know.”

“Oh?” Lady O was fly enough to know a distraction when she heard one, but curiosity, as Portia knew, was her besetting sin. “What?”

“I was just strolling in the shrubbery…”

She recounted as accurately as she could the exchange she’d overheard. When she finished, she studied Lady O’s face. Quite how she managed it, Portia didn’t know, but the old lady succeeded in conveying supreme disgust while her expression remained otherwise inscrutable.

“Do you think Kitty’s really pregnant? Or was she making it up to hurt Winifred?”

Lady O snorted. “Is she stupid enough, immature enough, for that?”

Portia didn’t answer. She watched Lady O closely, glimpsed the possibilities being weighed behind her black eyes. “I’ve thought back-she hasn’t been down to breakfast since we’ve been here. I didn’t think anything of it before, but given her liking for male company and the fact the gentlemen gather in the breakfast parlor every morning, perhaps that, too, is a sign?”

Lady O humphed. “How did Kitty sound?”

“Kitty?” Portia replayed the exchange in her mind. “The second time she spoke, she was like a nasty child. But now you ask, the first time, she sounded a touch hysterical.”

Lady O grimaced. “That doesn’t sound promising.” Thumping her cane on the floor, she heaved herself out of the chair.

Portia rose and went to take her arm. “So what do you think?”

“If I had to guess, I’d say the foolish gel really is increasing, but regardless of the truth of who the father is, she’s unfortunately witless enough to use the question in her mad games.” Lady O halted while Portia opened the door. Gripping Portia’s arm again, she met her gaze. “Mark my words, that gel will come to a bad end.”

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-”

“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.”