The Perfect Lover

2

I never would have thought you a coward.”

The words, spoken in a soft, feminine, decidedly provocative drawl, brought Portia to a halt on the landing of the west wing stairs. She’d spent the last half hour with the pianoforte in the music room on the first floor of the west wing; now it was time to gather in the drawing room before dinner-she was on her way there.

By the west wing stairs, not much frequented by the ladies of the party as their rooms were in the east wing.

“But perhaps it’s just a ploy?”

The words clung like a caress; it was Kitty speaking.

“It’s not a ploy!” James spoke through his teeth. “I’m not playing any games-and I never will with you!”

They were out of Portia’s sight in the hall at the bottom of the stairs, but James’s aversion reached her clearly. Along with a hint of desperation.

Kitty laughed. Her disbelief-or rather her belief that no man, especially not one like James, would not desire her-echoed up the stairwell.

Without further thought, Portia calmly, and firmly, continued down the stairs.

They heard her; both turned. Both faces registered unwelcome surprise, but only James’s registered anything approaching embarrassment; Kitty’s expression was all irritation at being interrupted.

Then James recognized Portia; relief washed over his features. “Good evening, Miss Ashford. Have you lost your way?”

She hadn’t, but Kitty had James backed into an alcove. “Indeed.” She struggled to infuse some degree of helplessness into her expression. “I thought I was certain, yet…” She waved vaguely.

James brushed past Kitty. “Allow me-I was just heading for the drawing room. I take it that’s where you wish to go?”

He took her hand and set it on his sleeve; she met his eyes, and saw the plea therein.

“Yes, please. I would be most grateful for your escort.” She smiled easily, then turned to Kitty.

Kitty didn’t smile back; she nodded somewhat curtly.

Portia raised her brows. “Aren’t you joining us, Mrs. Glossup?”

Beside her, James stiffened.

Kitty waved. “I’ll be along shortly. Do go on.” With that, she turned and headed for the stairs.

James relaxed. Portia turned and let him steer her toward the central wing. She glanced at his face; he was frowning, and a trifle pale. “Are you all right, Mr. Glossup?”

He glanced at her, then smiled-charmingly. “Do call me James.” With a backward nod, he added, “Thank you.”

Brows rising, she couldn’t resist asking, “Is she often like that-importuning?”

He hesitated, then said, “She seems to be getting rather worse.”

He was clearly uncomfortable; she looked ahead. “You’ll just have to cling to other ladies until she gets over it.”

He threw her a sharp glance, but didn’t know her well enough to be sure of her irony. She let him guide her through the house, hiding a smile at the bizarre twist that had a rake of James Glossup’s standing relying on her for, as it were, protection of his virtue.

She caught his eye as they entered the front hall; he was almost certain she was laughing, but wasn’t sure about what. The drawing room loomed; she faced forward. Simon would have known.

As they crossed the threshold, she saw him, standing to one side of the fireplace, conversing with Charlie and two bright young things-Lady Hammond’s daughters, Annabelle and Cecily. Lady Hammond herself, a warmhearted matron of sunny charm, was seated on the chaise beside Lady Osbaldestone.

Across the room, Simon’s eyes met Portia’s. James excused himself and went to talk to his father. After pausing to greet Lady Hammond, a friend of her mother’s, Portia joined Simon and Charlie, Annabelle and Cecily.

The girls were a breath of fresh air; they were innocents, yet entirely at home in this sphere and determined to be the life-or lives-of the party. Portia had known them for years; they greeted her with typical joy.

“Splendid! I didn’t know you’d be here!”

“Oh, it’ll be wonderful-I’m sure we’ll have such fun!”

Wide eyes, bright smiles-it was impossible not to respond in kind. After the usual inquiries about families and acquaintances, the talk focused on the expected pleasures of the coming days and the amenities afforded by the Hall and its neighborhood.

“The gardens are extensive, with lots of walks. I read that in a guidebook,” Annabelle confessed.

“Oh, and there’s a lake-the book said it was not man-made but filled by a natural spring and quite deep.” Cecily grimaced. “Too deep for punting. Imagine!”

“Well,” Charlie put in, “you wouldn’t want to risk falling in. Deuced cold-I can vouch for it.”

“Good heavens!” Annabelle turned to Charlie. “Did you? Fall in, I mean?”

Portia caught the glance Charlie sent Simon, and the answering quirk of Simon’s lips; she judged it more likely Charlie had been thrown in.

Movement across the room caught her eye; Kitty entered and paused, surveying the company. Henry detached himself from a group and crossed to her side. He spoke to her quietly, head lowered, clearly a private word.

Kitty stiffened; her head rose. She threw Henry a look of dismissive affront, then replied very shortly, gave him her shoulder, and, with an expression perilously close to a truculent pout, all but flounced off to speak with Ambrose and Drusilla Calvin.

Henry watched Kitty go. His features were tight, controlled, closed, yet the underlying impression was one of pain.

Clearly all was not well on that front.

Portia returned to the conversation still bubbling about her. Annabelle turned to her, eyes eager and wide. “Have you visited there yet?”

She’d obviously missed something; she glanced at Simon.

His eyes met hers; his brows quirked, but he consented to save her. “Portia hasn’t visited here before-she’s as new to the delights of the Hall as you both. As for the temple…” His gaze returned to Portia’s face. “I must admit I prefer the summerhouse by the lake. Perhaps a touch too private for some, but the quietness over the water’s soothing.”

“We must be sure to walk that way.” Cecily was busy making plans. “And I hear there’s a lookout, too, somewhere nearby?”

“I’ve walked there.” Refusing to meet Simon’s eye, Portia did her bit to slake the Hammond girls’ thirst for information.

That topic absorbed them until dinner was announced. Once seated at the long table, mindful of her vow, Portia turned her attention to reconnoitering the field.

Whoever is present of suitable age and station, I swear I will seriously consider him.

So whom was she considering? All the males about the table were, at least theoretically, of suitable station, else they wouldn’t be present. Some were married and thus easily eliminated; of those left, some she knew better than others.

As they ate and talked, while she attended this discussion, then that, she let her gaze roam, noting each head, acknowledging each possibility.

Her gaze came to rest on Simon, seated across the table two places down. He was struggling to make conversation with Drusilla, who seemed peculiarly reserved, severe, but uncomfortable too. Portia inwardly frowned; regardless of their frequent disagreements, she knew Simon’s manners were polished to a high gloss and would never be at fault in a social situation. Whatever the problem, it lay with Drusilla.

There was a lull in the chatter around her; her gaze remained on Simon, noting the glimmer of gold in his hair, his long, elegant fingers curving about his wineglass, the resigned set of his lips as he sat back, leaving Drusilla to herself.

She’d been staring too long; he felt her gaze.

In the instant before he looked her way, she looked down, calmly helping herself to more vegetables, then turning to Mr. Buckstead beside her.

Only when she felt Simon’s gaze shift from her did she breathe freely again.

Only then realized how odd was her reaction.

Whoever is present of suitable age and station …

By the time the ladies rose and departed for the drawing room, leaving the gentlemen to their port, she’d mentally inked three names onto her list. The house party was clearly destined to be a trial, a testing ground on which she could develop her husband-selection skills; none of the gentlemen present were the sort she could imagine entrusting with her hand, but as specimens on which to practice, they would do very well.

James Glossup and Charlie Hastings were exactly the sort of gentlemen whose attributes she needed to learn to weigh.

As for Simon, just because she’d known him all her life, just because they’d spent the last decade irritating each other-just because she would never have thought to put him on her list if she hadn’t made her vow in those precise terms without knowing he’d be present-none of that was reason enough to close her eyes to his marriageable qualities.

Qualities she needed to learn to assess and evaluate.

Indeed, sweeping into the drawing room behind Lady O, it occurred to her that, Cynster that he was, Simon’s marriageable qualities might well provide the benchmarks against which she measured all others.

It was a discomposing thought.

Luckily, as the gentlemen weren’t present, she could put it from her mind and allow herself to be distracted by the chatter of the Hammond girls and Lucy Buckstead.

Later, when the gentlemen returned and conversations became more general, she found herself in a group with Winifred Archer and Desmond Winfield. Both were pleasant, a fraction reserved although neither lacked confidence, yet within five minutes, she would have wagered her best gown that there was some understanding between them, or developing between them, certainly. What Winifred’s attitude was she couldn’t tell, but Desmond, despite his exemplary manners, figuratively had eyes only for Winifred.

Her mental pencil was poised to strike Desmond from her list, but then she paused. Perhaps, given her relative inexperience in this sphere, she should still consider him, not as a potential husband for her, but in defining the gentlemanly attributes ladies like Winifred, who despite her quietness registered as eminently sane, required and approved of.

Learning by observing the successes-and failures-of others was only wise.

The thought had her glancing about. Kitty, in her shimmering aquamarine silk gown, positively sparkled with effervescent charm as she flitted from group to group. No sign of her earlier pout remained; she seemed in her element.

Henry was talking with Simon and James; he no longer seemed concerned or distracted by Kitty.

Perhaps she’d misread their earlier interaction?

Someone loomed at her elbow; Portia turned to find Ambrose Calvin bowing. She bobbed a curtsy.

“Miss Ashford-a pleasure to meet you. I’ve noticed you at several London events, but never had a chance to make your acquaintance.”

“Indeed, sir? Do I take it you spend most of your time in the capital?”

Ambrose had very dark brown eyes and light brown hair; his features were regular, of a patrician cast yet softened by politeness and courtesy enough to be pleasing. He inclined his head. “For the most part.” He hesitated, then added, “It’s my hope to enter Parliament at the next election. Naturally, I spend as much time as I can following current events-to be close to the source, one must be in the cap-ital.”

“Yes, of course.” It hovered on the tip of her tongue to explain that she quite understood, being acquainted with Michael Anstruther-Wetherby, the Member for Godleigh, in West Hampshire but the sharpness she glimpsed in Ambrose’s dark eyes set a guard on her tongue. “I’ve often thought that, in these changing times, serving your constituency in Parliament must be highly rewarding.”

“Indeed.” There was nothing in Ambrose’s tone to suggest he was fired by any reformist zeal. “It’s my thesis that we need the right men in place-those actively interested in governing, in guiding the country down the correct paths.”

That sounded a trifle too pompous for her liking; she changed tack. “Have you decided where you will stand?”

“Not as yet.” Ambrose’s gaze shifted to the group across the room-Lord Glossup, Mr. Buckstead, and Mr. Archer. An instant passed, then he refocused on her, and smiled, somewhat patronizingly. “You are likely not aware, but such matters are usually-and best-arranged within the party. I’m hoping for news of my selection quite soon.”

“I see.” She smiled sweetly in return, the sort of smile Simon would have known not to take at face value. “Then we must hope the news is all you deserve.”

Ambrose accepted the comment in the way he wished to hear it; she felt decidedly patronizing herself as they turned to the others about them and joined the wider conversation.

Five minutes later, Lady Glossup raised her voice, asking for volunteers to provide the company with some music.

Before anyone could react, Kitty stepped forward, her face alight. “Dancing! That’s just what we need.”

Lady Glossup blinked; beside her, Mrs. Archer looked blank.

“Now”-in the center of the room, Kitty twirled, hands lightly clapping-“who will play for us?”

Portia had answered that call so many times over the years, it was all but second nature. “I would be pleased to play for you, if you wish.”

Kitty looked at her with surprise tinged with suspicion, almost instantly overlaid by acceptance. “Capital!” Turning, she waved at the gentlemen. “James, Simon-if you would position the pianoforte? Charlie, Desmond-those chairs can go back against the wall.”

As she took her seat before the keys, Portia glanced again at Kitty; it seemed nothing bar the simple delight of dancing was behind her actions. Infused by such innocent eagerness, she appeared truly attractive; gone was the siren who’d waylaid James on the stairs, the sultry, disaffected lady who’d first entered the drawing room.

Portia ran her fingers experimentally over the keys; the instrument was in tune, thank heavens! As she looked up, a stack of music books thumped down on the piano’s polished top.

Glancing up, she met Simon’s steady blue gaze, then he raised one brow. “Hiding behind your accomplishments as usual, I see.”

She blinked at him in surprise; with an enigmatic look, he turned and joined the throng sorting themselves into pairs.

Shaking aside the odd comment, she set her hands to the keys and let her fingers glide into the introduction to a waltz.

She knew many; music had always come naturally to her, simply flowed from her fingers, which was why she so often offered to play. She didn’t need to think to do it; she enjoyed it, was comfortable sitting at the piano, and could, as she wished, either lose herself in the music or study the company.

It was the latter she elected to do that evening.

What she saw fascinated.

As was customary, the pianoforte stood at the other end of the large room from the fireplace and the chairs and sofas on which the older members of the company sat. The dancers filled the space between; as few imagined the music maker was not watching her fingers, those couples seeking to use the dance for private communication chose to do so while traversing the side of the room farthest from the sharp eyes of their elders. Thus, directly in front of her.

She was quite content to move smoothly from one waltz to the next, mixing in a country dance here and there, giving the dancers only enough time to catch their breath and change partners.

The first thing she noticed was that despite her genuine pleasure in dancing, Kitty was nevertheless pursuing an ulterior aim. Precisely what it was was difficult to discern; Kitty seemed to have more than one gentleman in her sights. She flirted-definitely flirted-with James, her brother-in-law, much to James’s irritation. With Ambrose, she was somewhat less overt, but there was still an inviting glint in her eye and a provocative smile on her lips. Although she watched closely, Portia could not fault Ambrose; he gave Kitty no encouragement at all.

With Desmond, Kitty was coy; she still flirted, but less overtly still, as if modulating her attack for his different character. Desmond seemed to hesitate, to waver; he did not encourage, but neither did he openly dismiss. But when it came to Simon, and Charlie, too, both seemed locked behind positive walls of disapproval. Kitty challenged them, yet her exhibition lacked conviction, as if with them her performance was all for show.

Why she bothered, Portia couldn’t imagine; was there something here she was missing?

Yet when Kitty danced with Henry, her husband, she was unresponsive. She made no effort to hold his attention; indeed, she barely said a word. Henry did his best, but could not quite hide his disappointment and a certain sad, resigned disapproval.

Of the others, it became quickly apparent that Lucy Buckstead had set her cap at James. She laughed and smiled with all the gentlemen, but with James, she hung on his every word, her eyes huge, sparkling, her lips parted.

James would have to watch himself, and not just on the Kitty front, a fact Portia suspected he knew; his behavior remained pleasant but cool.

The Misses Hammond weren’t interested in any liaisons; they were simply there to enjoy themselves and hoped others would enjoy themselves, too. Their youthful exuberance was something of a relief. Drusilla, in contrast, would have sat out the dances at her mother’s side if Lady Calvin had permitted it. Drusilla endured the measures with all the delight of a French aristocrat out for a ride in a tumbril.

As for Desmond and Winifred, there was quite definitely a romance in the air. It was positively instructional to watch the exchanges-Desmond suggesting, never pushing, not diffident yet not overconfident, Winifred quietly responding, lashes falling, eyes downcast, only to raise her gaze again to his face, to his eyes.

Portia looked down to hide a smile as she neared the end of the piece. With the last chord played, she decided the dancers could use a short interval while she searched through the stack of music sheets.

She stood up the better to leaf through them. She was halfway through the pile when she heard the rustle of skirts approaching.

“Miss Ashford, you’ve played for us so beautifully, but it’s unconscionable that in so doing you should be excluded from all the fun.”

Portia turned as Winifred swept up on Simon’s arm. “Oh, no. That is-” She stopped, unsure how to answer.

Winifred smiled. “I’d be grateful if you would allow me to relieve you. I would like to sit out a few dances, and… this seems the best way.”

Portia met Winifred’s eyes and realized that was literally true. If Winifred simply sat out, some would speculate as to why. Portia smiled. “If you wish.”

She stepped out from behind the piano stool. Winifred took her place; together they flicked quickly through the sheets, then Winifred made her selection and sat. Portia turned to the room-to Simon, who had, with uncharacteristic patience, waited.

He met her eyes, then offered his arm. “Shall we?”

It was absurd, but she’d never danced with him before. Not ever. The notion of spending ten minutes revolving around the room under his direction without their interaction descending into open warfare had not before seemed a possibility.

His gaze was steady, the challenge therein quite plain.

Remembering her vow-hearing it echo in her brain-she lifted her chin, and smiled. Charmingly. Let him make of it what he would. “Thank you.”

Suspicion flowed behind his eyes but he inclined his head, anchored her hand on his sleeve, and led her to join the others on the floor as Winifred commenced a waltz.

The first jolt to her equanimity came when he drew her into his arms, when she felt the steely strength of him surround her, and recalled-too well, too vividly-how it had felt when he’d carried her. Once again, her lungs seized, her breath caught, then continued more shallowly; the sensation of his hand, large and strong on her back, distracted her-something she fought to hide.

The music caught them, held them, set them revolving; their gazes touched, slid away.

She could barely breathe. She’d waltzed times without number, even with gentlemen of his ilk; never before had the physical sensations even impinged on her awareness, let alone threatened to suborn her wits. But she’d never been this close to him; the shift and sway of their bodies, her awareness of his strength, her suppleness, the harnessed power, all cascaded through her, bright, sharp, disorienting. She blinked, twice, fighting to focus her mind-on anything except the way they were whirling so effortlessly, on the sensation of being swept away, on the tingles of anticipation streaking through her.

Anticipation of what?

She only just stopped herself from shaking her head in a no-doubt-vain attempt to shake her wits into order. Dragging in a breath, she glanced around.

And saw Kitty waltzing with Ambrose. Her performance, with all its subtle variations, was still going on.

“What is Kitty up to-do you know?”

The first thought that had popped into her head, but she’d never been missish, especially not with Simon. He’d been watching her intently; she’d been careful not to meet his gaze. Now she glanced up and, to her relief, saw the frown, the exasperated expression she was used to seeing, form in his eyes.

Reassured, she raised her brows.

His lips thinned. “You don’t need to know.”

“Possibly not, but I wish to-for reasons of my own.”

His frown took on another dimension; he couldn’t fathom what “reasons” she meant. She smiled. “If you don’t tell me, I’ll ask Charlie. Or James.”

It was the “Or James” that did it; he sighed through his teeth, looked up, steered them around the end of the room, then said, his voice low, “Kitty has a habit of flirting with any personable gentleman she meets.” After a moment, he added, “How far it goes…”

He tensed to shrug, but didn’t. His jaw set. When he didn’t go on and continued not to meet her eyes, she, intrigued that he hadn’t been able to give her the polite lie, evenly supplied, “You know perfectly well how far it goes because she’s made improper advances to you, and Charlie, and she’s still pressing James.”

He looked down at her then, something a great deal more complex than irritation in his face. “How the devil did you discover that?”

She smiled-for once not to irritate but reassure. “You and Charlie exude the most trenchant disapproval whenever you’re at all close to her in even a semiprivate setting-like during a waltz. And James because I came upon him in extremis this evening.” She grinned. “I rescued him-that’s why we came in together.”

She sensed a slight easing of his tension and pressed her advantage; she really did wish to know. “You and Charlie have succeeded in convincing her you”-she gestured with her free hand-“aren’t interested. Why hasn’t James done the same?”

He met her eyes briefly, then replied, “Because James will try very hard not to cause Henry any pain-any more pain than necessary. Kitty knows that-it makes her bolder. Neither Charlie nor I would have any compunction in treating her as she deserves, were she to push us beyond a certain point.”

“But she’s clever enough not to?”

He nodded.

“What about Henry?”

“When they married, he was extremely fond of her. I don’t know how he feels about her now. And before you ask, I have no idea why she is as she is-none of us does.”

She saw Kitty across the room, smiling beguilingly up at Ambrose, who was doing his best to pretend he hadn’t noticed.

She felt Simon’s gaze on her face.

“Any suggestions?”

She looked at him, then shook her head. “But… I don’t think it’s any irrational compulsion-you know what I mean. She knows what she’s doing; she’s quite deliberate. She has some motive-some goal-in mind.”

Simon said nothing. The final chords of the waltz sounded. They stopped and chatted with Annabelle and Desmond, then exchanged partners as the next dance began.

She held to her vow and chatted easily with Desmond; she parted from him thinking Winifred was to be congratulated on her good fortune-Desmond seemed a thoroughly likable if somewhat serious gentleman. She danced with Charlie, James, and Ambrose, and put her wiles to work with each one; as she wouldn’t know how to flirt to save herself, she felt secure in doing so, certain they wouldn’t read anything beyond general interest into her artful questions.

Then she danced with Henry, and felt quite dreadful. Even though he made every effort to entertain her, she couldn’t help but be conscious of his awareness of Kitty’s behavior.

The situation was difficult-Kitty was clever, artful. There was nothing that could be held up as beyond the pale, but her flirting was of the degree, and constancy, that left a very large question in everyone’s mind.

Why was she doing it?

Portia couldn’t imagine, for Henry was much as Desmond was, a quiet, gentle, decent man. In the ten minutes she spent conversing with him, she fully understood James’s wish to protect him, regardless of the circumstances, and Simon’s and Charlie’s support to that end.

She agreed with them entirely.

By the time they called for an end to the dancing, the question that most insistently nagged was how many others saw Kitty’s behavior as she, Simon, Charlie, James, and, most likely, Henry did?

Ambrose and Desmond almost certainly, but what of the ladies? That was much harder to guess.

The tea trolley arrived, and everyone gathered around, happy to rest and take their ease. Conversation was relaxed; people no longer felt the need to fill every silence. Portia sipped, and watched; Kitty’s call for dancing had been inspired-it had cut through the rigid formalities and forged them into a group far faster than usually occurred. Now, instead of the shifting currents between various members, there was a cohesiveness, a sense of being here to share the time with these others, that would surely make the following days more enjoyable.

She was setting aside her empty cup when Kitty once again claimed center stage. She rose, her skirts shushing; placing herself at the focal point of the gathering, she smiled charmingly, hands wide. “We should walk in the gardens before retiring. It’s positively balmy outside, and so many of the scented plants are flowering. After all that dancing, we need a moment’s reflection in peaceful surrounds before repairing to our rooms.”

Once again, she was right. The older members of the company who hadn’t danced did not feel so inclined, but all those who’d whirled about the room definitely did. They followed Kitty out of the French doors and onto the terrace; from there, they ventured down onto the lawns in twos and threes.

She wasn’t surprised when Simon materialized beside her on the terrace; whenever they were in the same party, in situations like this, he’d be somewhere close-on that she could happily wager. Taking the role of reluctant protector had been his habit for years.

But then he broke with custom and offered her his arm.

She hesitated.

Simon watched her blink at his sleeve as if she wasn’t quite sure what it was. He was waiting when she glanced up; he caught her eye, raised one brow in a wordless, deliberately arrogant challenge.

Up went her chin; with haughty calm she placed her fingers on his sleeve. Hiding his smile, small victory though it was, he led her down the shallow steps onto the lawn.

Kitty had gone ahead with Ambrose and Desmond, conversing animatedly with Lucy Buckstead so that the damsel was forced to accompany the trio rather than hang back and walk with James as had most likely been her aim. Charlie and James escorted the Hammond girls and Winifred; Drusilla had declined to join them, citing an aversion to the evening air, and Henry had been engrossed in a conversation with Mr. Buckstead.

Reaching the lawns, they stepped out. “Do you have any preference-any sight you wish to see?” He gestured about them.

“By the fitful moonlight?” Portia tracked Kitty’s small band as they headed away from the house, toward the dark band of huge rhododenrons that bordered the lawn. “What’s that way?”

He’d been watching her face. “The temple.”

Her brows rose, faintly supercilious. “Which way is the lake?”

He waved to where the lawn sloped down and away, forming a broad green path wending through the garden beds. “It’s not close, but not too far for a stroll.”

They strolled that way. The others ambled after them; the Hammond sisters’ exclamations over the extensive gardens, the huge shrubs and trees, the numerous walks, borders, and well-stocked beds, rippled an appreciative chorus in the soft evening air. The gardens were indeed lush and dense; the combined scents of untold flowers wreathed through the warm dark.

They walked on, neither fast nor slow, with no vital aim; the moment was goal enough, peaceful, quiet-unexpectedly companionable.

Behind them, the others dawdled, their voices falling to a murmur. He glanced at Portia. “What are you about?”

She tensed fractionally. “About?”

“I heard you in the lookout, remember? Something about learning more, making a decision, and considering all those eligible.”

She glanced at him, her face shadowed by the trees beneath which they were passing.

He prompted, “Eligible for what?”

She blinked, her gaze on his face, then she looked forward. “It’s… just a point of interest. Something I’ve been wondering about.”

“What is ‘it’?”

After a moment, she replied, “You don’t need to know.”

“Meaning you don’t wish to tell me.”

She inclined her head.

He was tempted to press, but she’d be here, under his eye, for the next several days; he’d have time and more to figure out her latest start simply by watching all she did. He’d seen her taking note of the gentlemen over the dinner table, and when she’d danced with James and Charlie, and Winfield, too, she’d been unusually animated, leading the conversation with questions. He was quite sure those questions hadn’t been about Kitty; she might ask him such things, but that was because they were almost family-with each other, they didn’t even pretend to the social niceties.

“Very well.”

His easy acceptance earned him a suspicious look, but it wasn’t in her interests to quibble. He let his lips curve, heard her soft humph as she faced forward once more. They strolled on in easy silence, neither feeling any need to state the obvious-that he would keep watching her until he learned her secret, and that she was now warned that he would.

As they crossed the last stretch of lawn above the lake, he reviewed her behavior thus far. Had she been any other female, he would have suspected she was husband-hunting, yet she’d never been so inclined. She’d never had much use for the male of the species; he couldn’t imagine any circumstance that might have changed her mind.

Much more likely was that she was searching for some knowledge-possibly some introduction to or information on some activity not normally open to females. That seemed highly probable-exactly her cup of tea.

They reached the lip from which the grassed path ran gently down to the lake. They halted, she to sweep the scene before her, the vista of the wide lake, its waters dark and still, a black pit lying in a natural valley with a wooded hill looming beyond, an informal pinetum on rising ground to the right and, just visible in the weak light, the summerhouse on the far left shore, starkly white against a black backdrop of massed rhododendrons.

The sight held her silent, absorbed, head up as she took in the view.

He seized the moment to study her face… the conviction that she was seeking a gentleman to introduce her to some illicit experience grew, burgeoned, took hold. In an unexpected way.

“Oh! My goodness!” Annabelle came up, then the others joined them.

“How lovely! Why-it’s quite Gothic!” Cecily, hands clasped, bobbed with delight.

“Is it really very deep?” Winifred looked at James.

“We’ve never found the bottom.”

The response drew horrifed looks from the Hammond sisters.

“Shall we go on?” Charlie looked at Portia and Simon. There was a narrow path all the way around the lake, hugging the shore.

“Oh.” Annabelle exchanged a glance with Cecily. “I don’t think we should. Mama said we must rest well tonight to recover from the rigors of the journey.”

Winifred, too, demurred. James gallantly offered to escort the three ladies back to the house. With good nights, they parted. Flanked by Charlie and Simon, Portia headed down to the lake.

They walked and chatted; it was really very easy. They all moved in the same circles; it was a simple matter to fill the time with comments and observations on all that had transpired in the Season just past-the scandals, the marriages, the most scintillating on-dits. Even more surprising, Simon did not, as he usually did, comport himself in unhelpful silence; instead, he helped keep the conversation rolling along the generally accepted paths. As for Charlie, he’d always been a rattlepate; it was easy to tempt him into regaling them with colorful tales of wagers gone wrong, of the exploits of the younger bucks.

They paused before the summerhouse, admiring the neat wooden structure, a bit bigger than usual because of its distance from the house, then continued on around the lake.

When they started back up the slope to the house, she felt rather smug. She’d survived a whole evening, and a long night walk with two of the ton’s foremost wolves, quite creditably; conversing with gentlemen-drawing them out-hadn’t been as difficult as she’d supposed.

They were halfway up the rise when Henry appeared and started down toward them.

“Have you seen Kitty?” he asked as he neared.

They shook their heads. Halting, they all looked down at the lake. The path in its entirety was visible from where they stood; Kitty’s aquamarine silk gown would have been easy to spot.

“We saw her when we started out,” Portia said. “She and some others were heading for the temple.”

Simon added, “We haven’t seen her, or those others, since.”

“I’ve already been to the temple,” Henry said.

A footstep sounded nearby. They all turned, but it was James who came out of the shadows.

“Have you seen Kitty?” Henry asked. “Her mother wants her.”

James shook his head. “I’ve just been up to the house and back. I didn’t see anyone en route.”

Henry sighed. “I’d better keep looking.” With a bow to Portia and a nod to the men, he headed off toward the pinetum.

They all watched him go until the shadows swallowed him up.

“It might have been better,” James remarked, “if Mrs. Archer had thought to speak with Kitty earlier. As it is… Henry might be better off not finding her.”

They all comprehended exactly what he meant. The silence lengthened.

James recollected himself; he glanced at Portia. “Your pardon, my dear. I fear I’m not in the best of moods tonight-no good company. If you’ll excuse me, I’ll go back to the house.”

He bowed rather stiffly. Portia inclined her head. With brief nods to Simon and Charlie, James turned on his heel and strode back up the lawn.

The three of them followed more slowly. In silence; there seemed little to say and indeed, some odd sort of safety in not putting what they were thinking into words.

They were at an intersection with a path leading toward the temple on one hand, and on the other curving around to the pinetum, when they heard a light footstep.

As one, they halted and looked down the shadowy path toward the temple.

A figure emerged from a minor path leading down and away from the house. A man, he started along the cross path toward them; stepping into a patch of moonlight, he looked up-and saw them. With no check in his stride, he stepped sideways, onto another of the myriad paths that riddled the dense shrubberries.

His shadow vanished. Leaves rustled, and he was gone.

An instant passed, then they each drew breath, faced forward, and walked on. They didn’t speak, nor did they catch each other’s eye.

Nevertheless, each knew what the others were thinking.

The man hadn’t been a guest, nor yet a servant or helper on the estate.

He’d been a gypsy, lean, dark, and handsome.

With his unruly black hair wildly disarranged, his coat undone, his shirttails loose and flapping.

It was difficult to imagine any innocent reason for such a man to have been up at the house, let alone leaving in such a fashion at such a late hour.

On the main lawn, they met Desmond, Ambrose, and Lucy, like them, heading back to the house.

Of Kitty, they saw no sign.