The Perfect Lover

16

None of them liked it.

All three agreed to it.

They could think of nothing better, and clearly they had to do something. They felt compelled to at least try, to do their best and make it work, horrible though the entire performance was certain to be.

Portia wasn’t sure who looked forward to it least-she, Simon, or Charlie. The charade required them to trample on virtues they all held dear, that were fundamental to who they were.

She glanced at Charlie, pacing the lawn beside her. “I warn you-I know nothing about flirting.”

“Just pretend I’m Simon-behave as you would with him.”

“We used to snipe constantly. Now we simply don’t.”

“I remember… what made you stop?” He seemed genuinely puzzled.

“I don’t know.” She considered, added, “I don’t think he does either.”

Charlie looked at her; when she merely looked back, he frowned. “We’re going to have to think of something… we don’t have time to coach you. You don’t think you could, well, copy Kitty? Poetic justice and all that-using her wiles to trap her killer.”

The notion definitely held appeal. “I could try-like charades. I could pretend to be her.”

“Yes. Like that.”

She looked at Charlie, and smiled. Delightedly. As if he were a sought-after edition of some esoteric text she’d been searching for for years and had at last found-something she had every expectation of thoroughly enjoying.

The sudden wariness that flared in his eyes had her laughing.

“Oh, stop! You know it’s all a sham.” Her smile even more real, she linked her arm in his and leaned close, then cast a glance back, over her shoulder-to Simon, lounging on the terrace, frowning if not scowling at them.

Her smile started to slip; she quickly reinforced it and, determinedly brazen, returned her attention to Charlie. Unintentionally, she’d done just the right thing-played the right Kitty move. She could imagine how it had looked to the others seated or strolling, taking the early-afternoon air on the terrace.

Charlie drew breath, patted her hand. “Right, then-did I tell you about Lord Carnegie and his greys?”

He did his part, told her ridiculous tale after tale, making it easier for her to laugh, giggle, and lean heavily on his arm, to paint herself as, if not quite of Kitty’s ilk, certainly as a flirt determined to make Simon jealous.

Creating a rift between them.

Stokes had done his part, too, exercised his authority as far as he was able and gained them two days-today and tomorrow-in which to lure the murderer forth. Told they could depart on the day after tomorrow, the house party had started to relax; the matter of the falling urn had been, with Lord Netherfield’s and Lord Glossup’s connivance, passed off as an accident.

Their lordships, however, were not privy to their desperate plan; other than the three of them and Stokes, no one was. As Stokes had rightly said, the fewer who knew, the more realistic it would seem. “It” being their attempt to lead the murderer to believe that, by tomorrow evening, Simon would have stopped watching over Portia.

“The murderer will prefer to deal with you now, here, if he can,” Stokes had said. “What we have to do is create an opportunity that will seem believeable, and too good to pass up.”

They’d agreed, and so here she was, flirting-attempting to flirt-with Charlie.

“Come on.” Still smiling, she tugged him toward the path to the temple. “I’m sure Kitty would have inveigled you away if she could.”

“Probably.” Charlie allowed himself to be persuaded.

As they neared the path’s entrance, Portia glanced back at the tall figure on the terrace. Turning back to Charlie, she met a surprisingly sharp glance.

“Just as well they’re all at a distance-you drop your mask the instant you look at him. You’re going to have to do better if we’re to have any hope of convincing this blighter you and Simon have fallen out.”

She went to freeze him with a glance, caught his eye, and dissolved into spurious giggles, hanging heavily on his arm. “You are so droll!”

Charlie sniffed. “Yes, well, no need to overdo things either. We’re supposed to be believable.”

Portia grinned, fleetingly genuine; head rising, she swept down the path, walking close-as close as she would with Simon, her arm locked with Charlie’s.

Once they were out of sight of the terrace, he grasped the moments to instruct her in how to openly encourage gentlemen such as he.

“A good trick is to hang on our every word-keep your eyes wide. As if every word we say ranks with…” He gestured.

“Ovid?”

He blinked. “I was thinking along the lines of Byron or Shelley, but if you’ve a penchant for Ovid…” He frowned. “Does Simon know what strange tastes you have?”

She laughed, playfully tapped his arm as if they were teasing. But her eyes flashed. They’d reached the temple; grabbing his hand, she towed him up the steps. “Come and look at the view.”

They crossed the marble floor to the far side, and stood looking out over the distant valley.

Charlie stood close, just behind her shoulder. After a moment, he bent his head and murmured, “You know, I’ve never been able to understand it-God knows, you’re quite attractive enough, but… now for pity’s sake don’t rip up at me-the notion of taking liberties with you scares me witless.”

She did laugh then, genuinely amused. Glancing back, she met Charlie’s mock-chagrined gaze. “Never mind. Doubtless it’s Ovid’s fault.”

They heard footsteps on the path. Turned, stepped apart-appearing as subtly guilty as they wished.

Simon led Lucy Buckstead up the steps.

Portia felt herself react-as if her very senses were reaching out to him, focusing on him, locking exclusively on him now he was near. Charlie had been much nearer, yet had affected her not at all; just by appearing in her vicinity, Simon made her pulse thrum.

Remembering Charlie’s earlier comment, she summoned up her most disinterested mask and fixed it firmly in place.

Lucy saw it; her smile faltered. “Oh! We didn’t mean to interrupt.”

“Indeed,” Simon drawled. “Although the discussion seemed quite fascinating. What was the subject?”

His tone was coldly censorious.

Portia looked at him with chilly disdain. “Ovid.”

His lip curled. “I might have known.”

She’d fed him the opportunity, knowing what he would do; she knew it was all a charade, yet that sneer still hurt. It was much easier than she’d expected to give him her shoulder, to reach for Charlie’s arm. “We’ve had our fill of the view. We’ll leave you to enjoy it.”

Poor Lucy was obviously uncomfortable; Charlie had maintained an easy, socially confident if watchful mien, but as they headed back to the lawn, still walking close, he blew out a long breath. Looked ahead. “I don’t know if I can do this.”

She squeezed his arm. “We have to-the alternative is worse.”

They returned to the lawn, to the terrace, to the rest of the company. Worked at, kept up, further developed their charade through the rest of the day.

After taking that first step, Portia girded her loins and forced herself to treat Simon, not just as she used to, but with even greater dismissiveness, even deeper disdain. It wasn’t easy; she couldn’t meet his eyes, kept her gaze locked on his lips, thin, hard, set in something very close to contempt.

His attitude, his coldness, his overt disapproval, helped on the one hand, and hurt, scored deeply, on the other.

Even knowing it was all pretense, the illusory world was the one they now inhabited. And in it, their behavior threatened not just her, not just him, but all that lay between them.

She reacted to that threat, perceived if not real; her heart still contracted until it ached. By the time night fell, and the household had retired, her composure, the inner shield between herself and the rest of the world, felt bruised and dented.

But all members of the company had seen and, if their expressions and hints of disapproval were any guide, had believed.

That, she assured herself, as she tossed and turned on the trestle before the hearth in Lady O’s room, was what mattered.

Even Lady O had bent a cold eye on her, but, as if she knew too much to be so easily led, had made no direct comment. Just watched, eagle-eyed.

Now, across the room, she was quietly snoring.

The clocks in the house started to chime-twelve o’clock. Midnight. All others in the house were doubtless snug in their beds, sleeping soundly… settling on her back, she closed her eyes, and willed herself to do the same.

Couldn’t. Could not still the turmoil inside her.

It was irrational, emotional, but it felt so very real.

She dragged in a breath, felt it catch, sensed the tightness about her chest that hadn’t eased since that moment in the temple.

Stifling a curse, she tossed back the covers and rose. She’d left out her gown for the morning; she wriggled into it, laced it up well enough to pass muster, slipped on her shoes, stuffed her stockings in her pocket, cast one last glance at Lady O in the big bed, then stole to the door, eased it open, and slipped out.

Standing by the window, coatless, waistcoatless, a glass of brandy in his hand, Simon looked down into the garden, and tried not to think. Tried to still his mind. Tried to ignore the growling predator within, and all its fears. They were groundless, he knew, yet…

The door opened; he looked across-turned as Portia whisked in and quietly shut it.

Then she straightened, saw him; through the shadows, she studied him, then she crossed the room. Halted a yard away, trying to read his face.

“I didn’t expect you to still be up.”

He looked into her face, sensed more than saw her sudden uncertainty. “I wasn’t expecting you-I didn’t think you’d come.”

He hesitated only an instant more, then set the glass on the sill and reached for her-as she walked into his arms.

They closed around her; her arms went around his neck and locked as their lips met, then their mouths melded, their aching bodies pressing close. For one long minute, they both clung to the kiss-salvation in a world suddenly dangerous.

She sighed when it ended and he lifted his head; she laid hers on his shoulder. “It’s awful-dreadful. How could Kitty have done it? Even acting…” She shuddered, lifted her head and looked into his eyes. “It makes me feel literally ill.”

His laugh, harsh, abrupt, shook. “The script’s not doing anything for my stomach, either.”

The feel of her, long, slender, vibrantly warm and alive between his hands, the mounds of her breasts firm against his chest, her hips flush to his thighs, her stomach cradling his erection-her simple physical closeness soothed him as nothing else could. The promise that she was his was so inherent in her stance, the predator in him lay down and purred.

He stroked her back, felt her instant response. Smiled. “We’d better go to bed.”

“Hmm…” She smiled back, stretched up and touched her lips to his. “We’d better-it’s the only way either of us is going to get any sleep.”

He laughed, and it felt so good; the shackles of the day melted away, left him free to breathe, to live, to love again.

Free to love her.

He let her take his hand and lead him to the bed, let her script their play as she wished. Gave her all she wanted, and more, even though he had no notion if she’d yet realized.

If she’d guessed or seen or deduced that he loved her.

It didn’t, anymore, seem to matter if she had; what he felt was simply there, too real, too strong, too much a part of him to deny.

As for her… she wouldn’t be here, tonight, sharing herself and the moment with him as she was, if she didn’t, in her heart, feel the same. Again, he had no idea if she’d realized her state, let alone if she would readily, easily, acknowledge it.

He was prepared to be patient.

Lying on his back, sprawled naked on the bed, he watched as she rode him, as she used her body to caress him, and flagrantly, blatantly enjoyed every second. He filled his hands, drew her down and feasted, then eased back to watch as she climaxed, perfectly sure he’d never seen any sight so wondrous in his life.

The only thing that felt better was what followed, when she slumped, replete, and he rolled her beneath him, and sheathed himself fully in her warmth. In the slick, scalding haven of her body, and felt her hold him, then stir and rise to him as he filled her, deeper, more powerfully, with every stroke.

And then they were there, where they’d wanted to be, the pinnacle they’d set out to reach.

Bliss filled them, ecstasy overwhelmed them, taking their wits, leaving nothing behind but the fused beat of their lovers’ hearts.

The warmth closed around them, drawing them down.

They slumped together, limbs tangled, and slept.

Parting was hard. They both felt it. Both struggled to slip from the bonds that now linked them, more deeply than either had ever expected, more precious than either had ever imagined such things might be.

When just after dawn, Portia slipped from his room-alone after a hissed argument that she’d won-Simon remained sitting up in bed, consciously dwelling on the past hours, on all they’d meant, to him and to her.

The clock on the mantelpiece ticked on; when it struck seven, he sighed. Deliberately, reluctantly, set aside what was-tucked it all away in his mind, safe, real, not to be affected, besmirched, by anything they were forced to say or do today. By any act they were forced to play.

Throwing back the covers, he rose and dressed.

Charlie was already in the breakfast parlor when Simon entered. So were James, Henry, and their father. Simon exchanged the usual morning greetings, let his gaze touch Charlie’s as he took the seat opposite James.

Lucy Buckstead arrived, then Portia breezed in. Bright, cheery, her smiles were directed predominantly at Charlie.

Simon she ignored.

She took the seat beside Charlie, and instantly engaged him in a laughing conversation centering on shared acquaintances in town.

Simon sat back, watched, his expression hard, unforgiving.

James glanced at him, then followed his gaze to Charlie and Portia. After a moment, he cleared his throat and asked Simon about his horses.

The day was theirs, but it would definitely be the last-they had to make the most of it. Throughout the morning, their barbs became progressively more pointed, the brittleness between them escalating step by deliberate step.

James tried to intervene, to draw Charlie off; they all understood, appreciated the gesture-couldn’t afford to humor it.

Realizing the difficulty both Simon and Charlie faced in rejecting James’s help, Portia put her nose in the air and haughtily snubbed him-inwardly apologizing, praying their ruse worked and she’d be able, later, to explain.

She might as well have slapped him. His face like stone, James inclined his head and left them.

Their eyes met, briefly, then they drew in a collective breath, and carried on.

It was increasingly hurtful. By the time she went in to luncheon, Portia felt physically unwell. A headache threatened, but she refused to let the others down.

Stokes was playing least-in-sight; in all ways, the day was perfect for their purpose. With a death in the house, no one was expecting to be entertained, or even to ride or play cards. The entire company was a captive audience for their little drama; if they played it well, there was no reason their plan wouldn’t work.

Again, she sat beside Charlie; blithely gay, she openly courted his attention, repaying him with her best smile.

From across the table, Simon, unusually silent, watched with a burgeoning, brooding, increasingly malevolent air.

More than anything else, that air of suppressed reaction, of reined unhappy passion, infused the atmosphere and sank into everyone. Once, when Portia laughed at a quip of Charlie’s, Lady O opened her mouth-then shut it. Looked down at her plate and poked at her peas. Shot a sharp black glance up the table, but in the end said nothing.

Letting out the breath she’d held, Portia met Charlie’s eye, gave an infinitesimal nod, and they continued.

When they rose from the table, Portia’s temples were throbbing. Lord Netherfield stumped up, fixed Charlie with a straight glance, and asked to have a private word.

Charlie looked at her, panic in his eyes. They hadn’t expected direct interference, had no contingency plan.

She forced her smile to grow even brighter. “Oh, dear-Mr. Hastings was going to accompany me for a walk in the gardens.” She clung to Charlie’s arm, inwardly hating her role.

Lord Netherfield glanced at her; his gaze was condemnatory. “I daresay you could find someone else to guide you-one of the other young ladies, perhaps?”

Charlie tightened his hold on her arm.

Her smile felt sickly as she replied, “Well, they are rather young, if you take my meaning?”

Lord Netherfield blinked. Before he could respond, Lady O stumped up and poked him in the ribs. “Leave them be.” Her tone was curt, and uncharactertistically low. “Use the brains you were born with, Granny. They’re up to something.” Her black eyes narrowed, but there was a hint of approval in the darkness. “They’re playing a very close hand, but if that’s what’s needed, then the least we can do is stand aside and let them try.”

“Oh.” Lord Netherfield’s expression underwent a series of changes-as if, as his brain digested Lady O’s news, he had to shuffle to find the most appropriate face. He blinked. “I see.”

“Indeed.” Lady O rapped his arm. “You may give me your arm and lead me onto the terrace. The lame leading the lame, perhaps, but let’s leave the field to these youngsters”-something of her usual evil gleam shone through-“and watch to see what they make of it.”

Both Portia and Charlie stood back; relief flooding them, they let their elders precede them onto the terrace, then followed, aware Simon had seen the exchange from the other side of the room. Even from that distance, something of his tension reached them; exchanging glances, they went down the terrace steps and out onto the lawn.

They ambled, but it quickly became apparent Charlie was seriously flagging. When he countered one of her teasing sallies completely at random, Portia looped her arm in his and pressed even more brazenly near, conscious that, despite the physical closeness, there was nothing at all between them, except, perhaps, a burgeoning friendship and the trust of a shared endeavor. Luckily, that was enough to allow them to behave sufficiently intimately to carry off their charade. Providing neither of them stumbled.

Leaning close, she murmured, “Let’s go down by the lake-if there’s no one about, we can duck into the pinetum and rest for a while. After all our hard work, if we fall at the last hurdle and give ourselves away, we’ll never forgive ourselves.”

Charlie straightened. “Good idea.” He redirected their footsteps toward the lake path. Surreptitiously wriggled his shoulders. “Simon’s watching-I can feel it.”

She glanced at him; she wouldn’t have marked him as a particularly sensitive soul. “I’m assuming he’ll follow.”

“I think we can count on it.”

Charlie’s grim pronouncement had her studying his face. Realizing… “You’re not enjoying this any more than we are.”

The look he shot her, safe enough with all the others far behind, was ascerbic. “I think I can confidently state that I’m enjoying this considerably less than you both, and that’s despite knowing both of you hate it.”

She frowned as they followed the narrowing lawn path on toward the lake. “Can’t you just think of me in the same vein as one of the married matrons I assume you occasionally consort with?”

“That’s just the problem. I do think of you like that, only you’re his wife. Makes a rather big difference, you know. I don’t relish the prospect of being rent limb from limb-I avoid jealous husbands on principle.”

“But he’s not my husband.”

“Oh, ain’t he, though?” Charlie’s brows rose high. “You couldn’t prove it by his behavior-or yours, come to that. And I think I can lay claim to some expertise in that sphere.”

He looked down as they walked on, didn’t see her smile.

“In fact, I think,” he continued, grimacing as he lifted his head, “that that’s the reason our plan just might work.”

Given the distance from the house, and the clear area around them, it seemed safe to talk freely. “Do you think it truly is working?”

He grinned at her, lifted a hand and flicked back a lock of black hair that the wind had sent sneaking across her cheek; they still had to keep up appearances. “Henry looked as sick as a horse-all because of us. After this morning, James has retreated, but he’s watching us, too. Desmond… he’s a quiet one, but now Winifred’s drawn back, he has plenty of time on his hands, and he’s definitely been frowning our way.”

“Frowning? Not just watching?”

“Frowning,” Charlie averred. “But in what sense I couldn’t say-I don’t know him well enough.”

“What about Ambrose?”

Charlie grimaced. “Oh, he’s noticed, but I can’t say I’ve seen him paying much attention. He’s the only one of us who’s got anything from the last days; he’s been using the time to bend Mr. Buckstead to his cause. Mr. Archer, too, although the poor man isn’t really taking much in.”

They’d reached the lake path; they started to amble around it. When the path leading into the pinetum lay just ahead, Portia tugged Charlie’s arm. “Look back-can you see anyone?”

Charlie twisted around and scanned the lawn paths rising toward the house. “No one-not even Simon.”

“Good-come on.” Portia caught up her skirts and whisked onto the smaller path; Charlie followed close behind. “He’ll find us.”

He did, but not before weathering a moment of sheer panic. He’d assumed they’d go to the summerhouse; when he reached it and found it empty…

Tramping through the pinetum, Simon caught a glimpse of Portia’s blue gown through the trees ahead. The vise locked about his chest finally loosened; drawing a freer breath, he trudged on, the thick carpet of dried pine needles crunching with every step.

What he’d felt in that moment when he’d stood and stared around at the empty chairs and sofa in the summerhouse… clenching his jaw, he pushed the memory away. He’d never before been conscious of jealousy, but the corrosive emotion that had seared him-it couldn’t be termed anything else.

No, he wasn’t going to be an easy husband to live with; he had to admit Portia was right to consider very carefully before accepting him. He had a sneaking suspicion that when it came to the more emotional aspects of their potential, soon-to-be union, she saw him more clearly than he saw himself.

They’d stopped in a small clearing; Charlie was leaning against the bole of one tall tree, Portia was leaning against another, opposite, her spine supported by the bole, her head back, eyes closed.

He marched into the clearing, halted, and fixed both with a very straight glance. “What the devil are you doing?”

He kept his voice low, even.

Portia opened one eye, looked at him. “Resting.”

She closed her eye again, straightened her head against the tree. “Charlie was getting worn out and slipshod. So was I. We needed a respite from the fray.”

He frowned. “Why here?”

She sighed, turned her head, opened both eyes. Ran her gaze down to his feet. “The pine needles. We heard you coming from a long way off. No one can sneak up on us here.”

Charlie straightened away from his tree. “Now that you’re awake, can you please sit down?” With an exaggerated bow, he waved her to the low bank edging the clearing. When she stared at him, he pointedly added, “So we can?”

Simon glanced at Portia, saw the look on her face, smiled for the first time since she’d left him that morning. He reached for her hand, tugged, and towed her to the bank. “She’s not accustomed to having her sensibilities treated with such care. In fact,” he met her gaze as he swung her about. “I’m not sure she approves.”

Her eyes flashed, the Portia of old appearing briefly. Tipping her nose in the air, she humphed, but consented to sit.

They did, too, one on either side of her, lounging on the grassy bank.

The minutes ticked by and they sat in relaxed silence, looking out through the trees, letting the peace enfold them. Drinking it in, like a potion to give them strength through what they knew was yet to come.

The westering sun was slanting through the trees when Simon at last stirred. The other two looked at him.

He read the lack of enthusiasm in their faces, also their resolve. Grimaced. “We’d better rehearse our last act.”

The curtain went up in the drawing room before dinner. Portia arrived late, after everyone else. She swept in, magnificent in her deep green silk gown; pausing on the threshold, head high, she scanned the company.

Her gaze stopped on Simon; the look she bent on him was cold, chilly, with an underlying fury. Something close to dismissive contempt. Then she shifted her gaze to Charlie-all her ice melted as she smiled.

Ignoring Simon and all the others, she crossed to Charlie’s side.

He returned her smile, but his gaze flicked to Simon. Whether it was the way he shifted as she joined him, offering his arm-which she was clearly intending to take-but stepping a little aside, as if to step away from the company, to withdraw to a more seemly privacy, whether it was the slight awkwardness he managed to infuse into his actions, his reception conveyed the impression he was suddenly having second thoughts as to his role in her transparent scheme.

Her scheme to strike at Simon-whether to make him jealous, or to punish him for some transgression or omission, no one could guess.

Whatever the cause, everyone by now recognized her intention.

She laughed, cajoled, held Charlie captive, mesmerized him with her eyes. Flirted to the top of her bent. Simon and Charlie had spent an hour lecturing her, teaching her how; bowing to their expertise, she followed their instructions to the letter.

It felt so wrong, yet… they had both been earnest in insisting she carry the charade through.

As she gaily chattered, freely dispensing her smiles on Desmond, who wandered up, and Ambrose, who joined them later, she nevertheless kept her sights set firmly on Charlie, her hand on his sleeve.

Simon stood across the room with Lucy, Drusilla, and James, yet his eyes rarely left them. His gaze could only be described as black.

He had a temper, something everyone instinctively recognized on meeting him; he didn’t have to show it for all to know. Now he was deliberately giving it rein, it was like a living force, growing, swelling, ballooning as he watched them.

Winifred came up. “Tell me, Miss Ashford, will you be returning to your brother’s house tomorrow?”

It was undoubtedly the most pointed comment on her unseemly behavior Winifred could bring herself to make. Portia inwardly apologized as she let her smile brighten. “Actually…”-she cast a glance at Charlie, fractionally raised one brow, then looked back at Winifred-“I might go up to London for a few days. Look in on the town house for my brother, tend to a few matters. Of course,” she went on, her transparent expectations giving her words the lie, “there’s so little real entertainment to be found in town in July, I daresay I’ll be quite moped.”

She glanced again at Charlie. “You’ll be heading back to town, won’t you?”

Her implication was blatant. Winifred was so shocked she gasped, then looked thoroughly unhappy. Desmond raised a brow, subtly disapproving. Ambrose looked coldly bored.

“Ma’am-dinner is served.”

Portia had never in her life been so thankful to hear those words. Quite what the others would have said if the moment had lengthened, how Charlie might have replied, what riposte she might have been forced to make… thank heaven for butlers.

Desmond offered Winifred his arm; she glanced at it, then met his eyes, then, as if making a decision, laid her hand on his sleeve and let him steer her to the dining room. Portia followed on Charlie’s arm. He pinched her fingers when, her gaze fixing on Winifred and Desmond-her mind praying the murderer would not prove to be he-she failed to play her part.

She turned her lapse to advantage; as they passed into the dining room, she slanted him a playfully knowing glance. “You’re altogether too demanding.”

The smile that went with the words clearly invited him to demand as much as he wished; taking their seats about the dinner table, many of the company noticed.

The Hammond sisters had regained something of their youthful exuberance; with the prospect of escape nearing, and the incident with the urn reduced to mere accident, they were sufficiently restored to laugh and chatter gaily with Oswald and Swanston-thoroughly innocent play that cast Portia’s endeavor in an even stronger, more contrasting light.

She was grateful to Lady Glossup, who had clearly attempted to separate the warring parties, thereby reducing the opportunity for further conflict. Portia was seated close to one end of the table, Simon in the middle on the opposite side, and Charlie at the far end, on the same side as she so they couldn’t even exchange glances.

With perfect equanimity, ignoring Simon’s unrelievedly dark looks, she set herself to entertain her neighbors, Mr. Archer and Mr. Buckstead, the two of the company least aware of the drama being enacted under their noses.

When the ladies rose, she joined them, her expression easy and content. But as she drew level with Simon on the other side of the table, on his feet as were all the gentlemen as the ladies filed out, she deliberately, coldly, challengingly, met his gaze. Held it. Equally deliberately, as she came to Charlie, she raised a hand and ran her fingers along the back of his shoulders, briefly ruffling the hair at his nape, before smiling into Simon’s furious eyes. Letting her hand fall, she turned and, head high, glided out of the dining room.

Most had caught the moment.

Lady O’s black eyes narrowed to shards, but she said nothing. Just watched.

The other matrons were more openly censorious, but in the circumstances, could do little to interfere. Flirting, even of the type she was indulging in, had never been a crime within the ton; it was only the memory of Kitty that now made it seem so dangerous in their eyes.

Nevertheless, she gave them no other opening to reproach her actively; she behaved as she normally would, with perfect grace, while they waited for the gentlemen to join them. Tonight, the last night of the house party, it would be viewed as odd if any gentleman excused himself, for whatever reason. They would all come, and relatively soon; they would all be present to witness the penultimate scene.

As the minutes ticked by, Portia felt her nerves tighten. She tried not to think of what was to come, yet, notch by notch, a vise closed about her lungs.

Finally, the doors opened and the gentlemen walked in. Lord Glossup led the way, Henry beside him. Simon followed, strolling beside James; his eyes searched the company and found her.

As they’d arranged, Charlie ambled in a few feet behind Simon.

Portia fixed her gaze on Charlie, let her face light with anticipation and more. Smiling delightedly, she left her position beside the chaise and crossed the room toward him.

Simon stepped sideways, blocking her path. His fingers closed about her elbow; he swung her to him. “If you could spare me a few minutes of your time.”

No question, no request.

Portia reacted, let her face set. She tried to twist her elbow free-winced when his grasp tightened and his fingers bit. Head rising, she met his gaze squarely-as belligerent, as challenging as she needed to be. “I think not.”

She felt it then-felt his anger rise like a wave and crash down on her.

“Indeed?” His tone was controlled; his fury swirled around them. “I believe you’ll find you’re mistaken.”

Even knowing the script they’d agreed to, knowing what he would do next, she still felt shocked when he bodily swung her to the windows and, her arm locked in an unforgiving grip, walked to the terrace doors.

Taking her with him.

She had to go-it was that or be openly dragged. Or lose her footing and fall. She’d never been physically compelled in her life; the sensation-her helplessness-was enough to send her temper into orbit. She could feel her cheeks flame.

He opened the doors and propelled her outside, marched her ruthlessly along until they were beyond the drawing room windows.

Not, quite, out of earshot.

They’d agreed that once they’d set the stage, they couldn’t afford not to play out the scene, not perform according to the script.

She finally succeeded in dragging in a breath. “How dare you?” Out of sight of the others, she halted, struggled.

He released her, but she sensed the momentary hesitation-the fractional pause while he forced his fingers to let her go.

She faced him, glared, searched his eyes-saw he was as close to truly losing his temper as she was to losing hers.

“Don’t you dare upbraid me.” She took a step back-remembered their rehearsed script. Lifted her chin. “I’m not yours to dictate to-I don’t belong to you.”

She hadn’t thought his expression could get harder, but it did.

He stepped toward her, closing the distance. His eyes were shards of blue flint, his gaze sharp enough to slice. “And what of me?” The suppressed fury in his voice vibrated through her. “Am I some toy you enjoy and then blithely toss away? Some lapdog you tease with your favors, then kick aside when you grow bored?”

Staring into his eyes, she abruptly wavered her resolve. Her heart wrenched as she realized he was voicing real fears-that the pretense, for him, echoed a reality he was supremely vulnerable to…

The urge-the need-to reassure him nearly flattened her. She had to call on every ounce of her will to hold his gaze, lift her head until her spine ached, and lash back at him. “It’s not my fault you misread things-that your never-faltering masculine ego couldn’t believe I wasn’t fascinated to blindness with you.” Her voice rose, contemptuous and defiant. “I never promised you anything.”

“Hah!” His laugh was harsh and hollow. “You and your promises.”

Simon looked at her, deliberately let his gaze travel down, then insolently back up to her face. His lip curled. “You’re nothing but a high-bred cocktease.”

Her eyes blazed. She slapped him.

Even though he’d intended to goad her into it, it still shocked. Stung.

“You’re nothing but an insensitive clod.” Her voice wavered with genuine passion; her breasts swelled as she drew breath. “Why I bothered with you… I can’t believe I wasted my time! I never want to see you or speak to-”

“If we never exchange another word in this lifetime, it will still be too soon for me.”

She held his gaze. Between them, around them, temper-both his and hers-swirled, touching but not investing, coloring but not truly driving. They were still acting, but…

Dragging in a shaky breath, she drew herself up and looked down her nose at him. “I have nothing more to say to you. I don’t wish to set eyes on you again-not ever!”

He felt his jaw clench. “That’s one thing I’ll be happy to promise.” He ground out the words, capped them with, “If you’ll do the same?”

“That will be a pleasure. Good-bye!”

She spun on her heel and stormed off down the terrace. The tempo of her steps echoed, a clear indication of her state.

He hauled in a breath, held it-desperately fought the urge to follow her. Knew the moon cast his shadow back along the terrace, that anyone watching from the drawing room would know she’d gone off alone-that he wasn’t following her.

She reached the lawns and headed straight for the lake path.

Swinging around, he strode back up the terrace, past the drawing room doors, ajar as he’d left them; without a glance to left or right, he headed for the stables.

Prayed he’d have time to circle around and join her before the murderer did.