The Perfect Lover

4

Now remember-think strategy!”

With those rousing words, Lady O swept into the drawing room, leaving Portia to follow rather less forcefully in her wake. Head high, she glided in-and was immediately aware of heads turning.

Even more interesting, while the female heads, after the briefest of comprehensive glances, turned back to their conversations, the male heads remained turned her way for significantly longer, some until they were recalled to their surroundings by some comment.

She knew well enough to pretend not to have noticed. With unimpaired serenity, she curtsied to Lady Glossup, who inclined her head with a regal smile, then continued on to join Winifred, who was talking to Desmond and James.

The admiration in both Desmond’s and James’s eyes as they greeted her was marked. She blithely accepted it as her due and slid into the usual social patter.

Inwardly, she frowned. Had she changed? Was she somehow different just because she’d decided to seek a husband-did it show in some way? Or, given that previously she’d never bothered to notice how people, gentlemen especially, reacted to her, had she always excited such responses and never noticed?

As she circulated, exchanging greetings here and there, she became increasingly sure the latter was the case. A lowering thought in some respects; Lady O had been right-she must have had her nose very much in the clouds. Yet the realization boosted her confidence; for the first time she realized she had something-some weapon, some power-she could use to attract and attach a husband.

Now all she had to do was learn how to chose the right gentleman and learn to wield that weapon.

Simon stood chatting with the Hammond sisters and Charlie; she passed by with a cool nod. He’d been watching her consistently since she’d entered the room. His expression was hard, rocklike; she couldn’t tell what he was thinking.

The last thing she wanted was to encourage his protectiveness; she glided on to join Ambrose and Lady Calvin.

Simon watched Portia smile and charm Ambrose. The muscles of his face set even harder, the better to suppress his scowl. Why he felt as he did-what the emotions roiling within him were-he was in no mood to consider. Never in his life had he felt this way-more than driven. Goaded.

The fact he didn’t know why, didn’t understand, only increased the pressure. Something had changed, but he couldn’t free his mind of its overriding obsession long enough to identify what.

This afternoon, he’d lain in wait for Portia to come down after seeing Lady O to her room. He’d wanted to talk to her, to inveigle her into revealing just what she was seeking to learn.

She hadn’t appeared-or rather, he hadn’t found her, which raised the question of where she’d gone, and with whom.

He could see her from the corner of his eye, a slender figure in soft pearl grey, her dark hair piled high, higher than he’d seen it before. The style left her nape exposed, drew his attention to the graceful curve of her neck, the fine bones of her shoulders. The pearl necklace she wore… one strand circled her throat, the other loop hung low, dangling beneath the gauzy edge of her bodice, disappearing into the shadowy valley between her breasts. Taking his imagination with it. His senses remained riveted even when he looked away; his palms tingled.

She still moved without consciousness or guile; the way she conversed hadn’t altered. Yet something within him recognized beyond doubt that her intent had changed.

Why that should affect him he didn’t know-he only knew it did.

A stir near the door had him glancing that way. Kitty had joined them. She was resplendent in white satin liberally bedecked with silver lace. Her pale hair was intricately dressed; diamonds winked on her breast and in her lobes. Seen by herself, she was an enchanting sight, not least because she was flown with delight-it showed in her face, in her eyes, made her skin glow.

She very correctly spoke to the older members of the company, then took Henry’s arm and started to stroll, stopping by each group to pay and receive compliments.

Simon looked back at Portia. When Kitty paused beside her, the result was as he’d guessed; against Portia’s subtler, more intriguing beauty, Kitty appeared tawdry. She did not linger but moved on, then she was beside him.

They only had time to exchange a few words before the butler entered and announced that dinner was served.

He led Lucy in, hoping against hope… but no, the seating was organized, and he suspected Kitty had done the organizing. Lord and Lady Glossup took the chairs at the table’s ends; Kitty had seated herself in the middle along one side with Henry directly opposite, entirely appropriately. Desmond was on her left, Ambrose on her right. Portia was toward one end, between Charlie and James; he, Simon, was at the far end on the opposite side of the table, flanked by Lucy and the all-but-silent Drusilla.

If matters had been different, he would have had no reason to complain-Lucy was bright and cheery, even if her gaze strayed rather too often James’s way, and Drusilla required no more than the occasional polite word to be content. As it was, throughout the meal, he was forced to endure the sight of Portia being artfully regaled by Charlie and James.

Normally, he wouldn’t even have thought to watch her, not in this sphere; prior to today, her attitude to gentlemen had been nothing short of contemptuously dismissive. Neither Charlie nor James would have had the least chance of making any headway with her; the thought of her responding to their practiced wiles wouldn’t have entered his head.

All through the courses, he covertly watched her; at one point, he noticed Lady Osbaldestone’s eye on him and became even more careful. But his eyes had a will of their own; he couldn’t hear anything of their conversation but the way Portia smiled, the quick, alert, interested glances she lavished on both James and Charlie locked his attention on her.

What the devil was she up to?

What did she want to learn?

Even more importantly, did she have any idea what was going through James’s and Charlie’s heads?

He did. It bothered him more than he wanted to admit, far more than he wanted to think about.

Lady O’s head swung his way. Lowering his lashes, he turned to Lucy. “Have you heard of any plans for tomorrow?”

He bided his time; luckily Lucy was as eager as he to head for the ballroom. The instant Lady Glossup rose and shooed them in that direction, he offered Lucy his arm, leaving Drusilla to follow with Mr. Archer.

Having been nearer the doors, Portia, on Charlie’s arm, was some way ahead of them. In the front hall, they had to skirt the local guests who had started to arrive; the houseguests went directly down the hall to the ballroom. It was clear from the throng already in the foyer that the ball would be well attended; Simon swept Lucy straight on, intent on catching up with Portia before the developing crowd engulfed her.

Stepping into the ballroom, they saw James, just ahead of them, surveying those already present, scanning the heads.

Simon knew without question that James was seeking Portia; with Lucy on his arm, he paused.

Kitty swept up to James; she was there before he realized. Placing one hand on his arm, she stepped close-too close. James stepped back but she followed; he was forced to allow her to lean familiarly against him. Her smile was pure seduction; she spoke softly.

She was a small woman; to hear her, James had to lower his head, creating a tableau that suggested a relationship somewhat closer than family ties.

Beside him, Simon felt Lucy stiffen.

James straightened, lifted his head; an expression close to panic flitted over his features. He saw Simon; his eyes widened.

No friend could ignore such a plea.

Simon patted Lucy’s hand. “Come-let’s speak with James.”

From the corner of his eye, he saw Lucy’s chin rise. Determinedly, she stepped out beside him.

Kitty saw them coming; she fell back a step, so her body was not quite touching James’s.

“My dear Kitty!” Lucy spoke before they’d halted; they were now all on first-name terms. “You must be quite thrilled with the turnout. Did you expect so many?”

Kitty took a moment to change mental tracks, then she smiled. “Indeed, it’s very gratifying.”

“I’m surprised you aren’t standing with your mama-in-law to greet them.”

Simon bit his lip, inwardly applauding Lucy’s gumption; her eyes remained wide, her expression innocent, yet she’d swiftly put Kitty in an uncomfortable spot.

Kitty’s smile turned brittle. “Lady Glossup doesn’t require me to assist her. Besides”-she turned her gaze on James-“this is the best moment in which to make one’s arrangements to be sure one enjoys the evening to the fullest.”

“I believe just that was in a certain gentleman’s mind.” Simon lied without compunction. “He was asking after you as we passed-dark-haired, someone up from town.”

“Oh?” Kitty was instantly diverted. “Did you recognize him?”

“Not to name.” Simon glanced at the area inside the doors, now filled with guests streaming in. “Can’t see him at present-perhaps you’d better circulate that way and see if you can come up with him.”

Kitty hesitated for only an instant, then smiled-intently-up at James. “You will save that waltz for me, won’t you?”

James’s face set like stone. “If we happen to be near at the time, and not otherwise engaged…” He shrugged. “There are many guests it’s our duty to entertain.”

Kitty’s eyes flashed; her lips pressed tight on an unwise rejoinder. With Lucy and Simon looking on, she was forced to incline her head. She looked at Simon. “Dark-haired, you said?”

He nodded. “Average height, good build. Good hands. Excellent tailor.”

That summed up the attributes one gentleman was likely to notice about another; Kitty swallowed the bait whole-with a brief nod, she left them.

James met Simon’s eyes; his relief was transparent.

Between them, Lucy brightly remarked, “I hadn’t realized you had so many neighbors in the district.” She glanced at James. “Perhaps we could stroll, and you would be good enough to introduce me?”

James hesitated for only an instant, then smiled and offered his arm. “If you wish, I would be honored.”

Simon was not surprised at the glance James, straightening, shot him over Lucy’s head. Another plea-this one not to leave him alone with Lucy. Swallowing his own urgency-Portia was unlikely to do anything rash, after all-he consented to stroll and chat, making them a threesome; he could sympathize with James’s desire not to encourage Lucy to imagine there was anything personal developing between them.

“Thank you.” James clapped him on the shoulder as the first dance commenced, and they stood watching Lucy whirl down the set with the young squire who had earnestly solicited her hand. “Now you can see why I was so keen to have you here.”

Simon humphed. “I wouldn’t worry overmuch about Lucy-she might be enthusiastic, but she knows where the lines are drawn. Kitty, however…” He glanced at James. “Do you intend remaining here after the houseguests have left?”

“Good God, no!” James shuddered. “I’m leaving in the same hour you are-I think I’ll go visit old Cromer. Northumberland ought to be far enough to outdistance even Kitty.”

Simon grinned and they parted. While socializing with James and Lucy, he’d surreptiously quartered the room and located Portia. She was presently standing along the opposite wall, near the French doors open to the terrace and the balmy evening outside. Charlie flanked her, along with an officer in dress uniform; both were fully engaged, attentive to the exclusion of all else about them, ignoring the glitter and swirl of the ball.

Understandable, for Portia was sparkling. Her dark eyes were alive, her hands gestured gracefully, her face was alight. Even from a distance, he felt the tug. Her attention was wholly given to whichever man was speaking with her; such devotion was guaranteed to fix-transfix-any healthy male.

In any other woman, he’d have labeled such behavior flirting, and been right, but Portia was, he was still prepared to swear, constitutionally incapable of that art. He circled the room, gauging his approach; his gaze on the three, he studied their faces, and doubted even Charlie and her latest conquest, whoever he was, mistook her behavior for the customary invitation.

It was something else. Just what, the mystery of what she was about, only lent her greater charm, made her attraction even more potent.

He was mere yards from her when a hand descended on his arm and gripped with surprising strength.

“There you are!” Lady Osbaldestone grinned evilly up at him. “You haven’t any sisters or cousins present, so you can’t be employed. Just come with me-there’s someone I want you to meet.”

“But-” He resisted her tug; she wanted to lead him away from Portia. The damn ball had been going an hour, and this was the closest he’d got.

Lady O glanced at his face, then around him-at Portia. “Portia? Pshaw!” She flicked her fingers. “No need for you to concern yourself there-and anyway, you don’t even like her.”

He opened his mouth to refute at least the former.

Lady O shook her head. “Not your problem if your friend Charlie supplies her with one too many glasses of champagne.”

“What?” He tried to turn and look.

Lady O held on to him with a viselike grip. “So what if she gets a mite tipsy? She’s old enough to know what’s what, and strong enough to hold her own. Do her good to have her eyes opened a trifle-silly chit’s twenty-four, after all.” Lady O snorted, and yanked. “Now come along. This way.”

She waved ahead with her cane; suppressing his welling panic, he conceded. The fastest way to freedom was to fall in with Lady O’s plans. At the first opportunity, he’d escape-and after that, nothing would get in his way.

Portia saw Lady O lead Simon off, and inwardly sighed, whether with relief or disappointment she wasn’t sure. She didn’t want him hovering in his usual, arrogantly disapproving manner, yet that might not have been his intention. If the look in his eyes earlier was any guide, his attitude to her had changed, but to what she didn’t know, and hadn’t yet had a chance to divine. Regardless, she wanted to try out her new weapon on him. He was one of the three she’d elected to “consider,” and while she was doing quite well with Charlie and James, she’d yet to take a tilt at Simon.

Still, Charlie and Lieutenant Campion were interesting enough, and sufficiently susceptible to her wiles to count as practice.

She fixed her gaze on Lieutenant Campion’s face. “So you spend most of the year here in Dorset. Are the winters very cold?”

Campion beamed and replied. With little encouragement bar her rapt attention-her gaze fixed on his face, her mind cataloging all points of note he let fall-he was happy to divulge a great deal about himself, enough for her to guess his relative wealth, his family’s standing and properties, his enthusiasms both military and personal.

How very amenable gentlemen were, once one learned the knack. Comments made by her elder sisters regarding managing their husbands replayed in her mind.

Not that Lieutenant Campion would do for her; he lacked a certain something. Challenge, perhaps; she was quite sure she could wrap him about her little finger-curiously, that didn’t appeal.

Charlie, who had drifted away, returned, bearing yet another glass of champagne. He offered it with a flourish. “Here you are-you must be parched.”

She took the glass, thanked him, then sipped. The temperature in the ballroom was rising; the room was now crowded, the heat of bodies combining with the sultry heat of the night.

Charlie’s gaze had remained on her face. “That was an excellent set of plays at the Theatre Royale this last season-did you get a chance to see them?”

She smiled. “The first two, yes. The theater’s under new management, I heard.”

“Indeed.” Lieutenant Campion fixed Charlie with a steady gaze. “I understand…”

It occurred to Portia that Charlie had hoped to exclude the lieutenant with such a question; he hadn’t known Campion spent part of each Season on leave in town. Her lips twitched; the lieutenant continued, expounding at some length.

Charlie bore the reverse with grace, but seized the opportunity to solicit her hand the instant the musicians resumed playing.

She accepted, and they waltzed, with vigor, verve, and quite a bit of laughter. Charlie’s earlier reticence had flown; although he was still cautious about letting her know much about himself, he was much more intent on learning all he could of her.

And her intention. Her direction.

Well aware of that last, she laughed, gave him her eyes, her attention, but kept her thoughts to herself. Males of Charlie’s and James’s ilk seemed much more interested in learning just where she wished to lead them-what she truly wished to know-presumably wondering if they could assist her in the knowing… she smiled and wielded her wits to keep all such answers to herself. She saw no reason unnecessarily to lose what she was starting to suspect was a large part of her newfound allure.

The most engaging aspect of mentally fencing with gentlemen such as Charlie was that they understood the rules. And how to get around them.

When the last chord of the waltz faded, and they whirled to a halt, hot, exhilarated, and laughing, he smiled with dazzling charm. “Let’s recoup on the terrace-it’s far too stuffy in here.”

She kept her smile in place, and wondered if she dared.

Nothing attempted, nothing gained; she’d never know if she didn’t try.

“Very well.” She let her smile deepen, accepting the challenge. “Let’s.”

She turned toward the terrace-and nearly collided with Simon.

Her nerves leapt; for one instant, she couldn’t breathe. His eyes met hers; his expression was hard but she could read none of his usual disapproval therein.

“We were about to adjourn to the terrace.” The pitch of her voice sounded a fraction too high; the champagne, no doubt. “It’s grown rather warm in here.”

She used the excuse to wave a hand before her face. Her temperature had certainly risen.

Simon’s expression didn’t soften. He looked at Charlie. “I’ve just come from Lady Osbaldestone-she’s asking for you.”

Charlie frowned. “Lady Osbaldestone? What the devil does the old tartar want with me?”

“Who knows? She was, however, most insistent. You’ll find her near the refreshment room.”

Charlie glanced at her.

Simon’s hand closed about her elbow.

“I’ll escort Portia out for a stroll-with luck, by the time you’re finished with Lady Osbaldestone, we’ll be back.”

The suggestion sounded straightforward, yet Charlie wasn’t all that sure; the look he sent Simon said as much. But he had little choice; with a graceful bow to her and a nod to Simon, he headed for the far corner of the room.

Simon released her; turning, they strolled toward the open French doors.

She glanced at his face. “Did Lady O really want Charlie? Or are you just being your usual pompous self?”

He met her gaze for an instant, then waved her through the door. “It’ll be fractionally cooler outside.”

She stepped out onto the flags. “You made it up, didn’t you?”

He ushered her along; she swung around and stared at him.

He searched her face. His eyes narrowed. “You’re tipsy. How many glasses of champagne have you had?”

Again, he moved her on, his long fingers closing about her elbow as he steered her along the shadowy terrace. There were couples and groups strolling on the terrace and the nearby lawns, availing themselves of what relief there was in the fresher night air.

“That’s beside the point.” She was quite certain about that. “I’ve never been tipsy before-it’s quite pleasant.” Realizing how true that was, she plucked her elbow from his grip and twirled. “A new experience, and a perfectly harmless one.”

The look on his face was odd-patronizing, but also something else. Something more taken. A frisson of hope ran through her; would her wiles work on him as well?

She fixed her eyes on his face, and smiled winningly. Then she laughed and turned to walk on beside him. They were heading away from the bustle and the ballroom into less frequented areas; they could converse freely.

How silly, now that she thought of it. “No point getting you to talk about yourself-I know all about you already.”

The end of the terrace loomed near. She felt his gaze on her face.

“Actually”-his voice dropped to a deep murmur-“you know very little about me.”

The words slithered across her nerves, tantalizing, tempting; she merely smiled and let her disbelief show.

“Is that what you’re after-learning about gentlemen?”

She couldn’t recall hearing that peculiarly beguiling tone from him before; tilting her head, she considered. Her mind wasn’t, in truth, operating with its customary facility. “Not about gentlemen in general, and not just about them.” They turned the corner of the terrace and continued on; no one else was strolling on this side of the house. She drew in a breath, let it out with, “I want to learn about all the things I haven’t learned about before.”

There-that should hold him.

“What things?”

She whirled and stopped, her back to the house wall; some instinct warned her they were straying too far from the ballroom. Yet she smiled, openly delighted, at him, letting the happy confidence welling inside her show. “Why, all the things I haven’t experienced before.” She flung out her arms, her gaze locking with his. “The excitement, the thrills. All the things gentlemen can show me that I haven’t bothered with, until now.”

He’d halted, facing her, studying her eyes. His face was in shadow.

“Is that why you were so keen on strolling out here with Charlie?”

There was something in his tone that alerted her, that had her wrestling her wits back into place. She held his gaze steadily, and answered with the truth. “I don’t know. It wasn’t my suggestion-it was his.”

“Hardly surprising, given your wish to learn. And you did come out here.”

The accusation in his voice focused her wits wonderfully.

She lifted her chin. “With you. Not him.”

Silence.

The challenge lay between them, implicit, understood.

Their gazes remained locked; neither shifted, broke the spell. The heat of the night intensified and closed about them. She could have sworn things swayed. She could feel the blood beating under her skin, at her temples.

He was only a foot away; she suddenly wanted him closer, could sense some primal tug.

So could he. He shifted fractionally nearer, then froze; his face remained in shadow, his eyes unreadable.

“If it had been Charlie who brought you here, what would you have sought to learn?”

It took a moment to form an answer; she had to moisten her lips before she could say, “You know him much better than I-what do you think, given this moment, given this setting, I might have learned?”

Time stretched; her heartbeat made it seem forever. His eyes remained locked on hers, then he shifted, closed the distance. Slowly lowered his head.

One hand rose to touch her face, long fingers tracing, then cradling, her jaw, tipping her face up.

So his lips could settle, warm and strong, on hers.

Her lids fell; her lungs seized. Her senses swam as her body came to sensual life.

She had nothing to compare it with, that first precious kiss. No man before had dared to step this close, to take such a liberty. If any had, she’d have boxed his ears.

Simon’s lips moved on hers, warm and pliant, seeking; her fingers gripped the stone behind her, tight.

All her senses condensed until the gentle, beguiling pressure was all she knew, all she cared about. Her lips throbbed. Her head spun, and it wasn’t from the champagne.

She’d forgotten to breathe, even now didn’t care. She kissed him back, hesitant, not knowing…

He shifted, not away but closer yet. The fingers about her jaw firmed; the pressure of those beguiling lips increased.

She parted her own as he seemed to want her to; his tongue slid between-her knees quaked. He seemed to know-how she couldn’t guess; the caresses slowed, slowed, until each touch seemed drenched with languor, with unhurried appreciation, with simple shared pleasure. The dizzying shock of the novel intimacy faded.

The certain knowledge that she’d never been kissed before rocked Simon; the powerful urge to seize that raced through him in response shocked him to his core. He shackled it, refused to let it show-not in his lips, not through his fingers, not through the slow, mesmerizing play of his tongue.

She tasted of nectar, of warm peaches and honey. Of summer and goodness, fresh and untouched. He could have happily kissed her for hours, yet… he didn’t want to stop at just a kiss.

He’d backed her against the wall; he leaned one forearm on the cool stone, muscles bunching, fist clenching as he fought the urge to take advantage. To step closer yet, to press against her, to feel her silk-clad curves against him.

She was tall, long-legged; the impulse to confirm how well they would fit, the driving desire to soothe his aroused body with at least the touch of hers burned hot and strong. Along with an urgent need to fill his palms with her breasts, to duck his head and with his lips follow the tantalizing trail of her pearls to their end.

But this was Portia. Not even in the heady instant when he tried to break the kiss and she straightened, following his lips with hers, wanting more, and he sank back into her mouth, now freely-unreservedly-offered, did he forget who she was.

The conundrum was there, from the very first clear in his mind, mocking, jeering at the desire that rose so swiftly for her.

Every minute he indulged-indulged her, indulged himself-sent the price he would pay for ending the interlude soaring.

But end it he must. They’d been gone from the ballroom too long.

And this was Portia.

The effort to end the kiss and lift his head left him reeling. He lowered his hand from her face, lowered his arm, simply stood, waiting for the desire thundering through his veins to subside to a safe level. Watched her face as her lids fluttered, and rose.

Her eyes glittered darkly; a flush tinged her pale cheeks-it wasn’t a blush. She blinked, searched his eyes, his expression.

He knew she would read nothing-nothing she would know to recognize-in the graven lines of his face. In contrast, he could see the thoughts tumbling through her mind, mirrored in her expression.

No shock-he hadn’t expected it; surprise, curiosity, a thirst to know more. An awakened, intrigued awareness.

He drew a deep breath, waited a moment more until he was sure she was steady on her feet. “Come-we have to get back.”

Taking her hand, he turned and drew her with him, back around the corner, onto the main terrace.

There were two couples at the far end, but otherwise the terrace was deserted. He set her hand on his arm; they continued toward the ballroom in silence.

The French doors were near; he was thanking his stars she’d been sufficiently distracted to hold her tongue-he wasn’t up to any discussion, not at that moment-when he heard voices.

Portia heard them, too. Before he could stop her, she stepped to the balustrade and looked over, down to the path below.

He tugged, but she didn’t move. Something in her stillness alerted him. He moved to her side and looked down, too.

Hissed whispers floated up to them. Desmond stood with his back to the terrace wall. Kitty stood before him, clinging, her arms wound about his neck.

Desmond, rigid, was struggling to put her from him.

Simon glanced at Portia; she met his gaze.

They turned and strolled back into the ballroom.

What Kitty was up to, what she hoped to achieve with her outrageous behavior, Portia could not fathom; it was simply beyond her. She put it from her mind-she had far more important matters to ponder.

Such as the previous evening’s kiss.

Her first loverlike kiss-hardly surprising it so fascinated her. As she walked the gardens in the cool of the morning, she replayed the moment, relived the sensations, not just of Simon’s lips on hers but of all that had risen in response. The prickle of her nerves, the rush of blood beneath her skin, the welling urge to indulge in much greater physical closeness. No wonder other ladies found the activity addictive; she could almost kick herself for her previous disinterest.

She had certainly wanted more last night; she still did. And despite her inexperience, even despite his experience, she couldn’t help suspect-feel-that Simon had felt the same. If the opportunity had been there… instead, they’d had to return to the ballroom.

Once back among the dancers, they’d exchanged not a word about the interlude, or indeed, much else; she’d been too consumed with thinking about it, and he, presumably, had seen no reason to comment. She’d eventually retired to her bedchamber, her bed; the remembered sensation of his lips on hers had followed her into her dreams.

This morning, she’d risen, determined to embrace the experience and go forward. But rather than face Simon over the breakfast table before she’d had a chance to decide on her direction, she’d elected to take breakfast with Lady O in her room.

Lady O’s blithe comments on the propensity of gentlemen and their natures, peppered with elliptical allusions to the physical aspects of male-female relationships, had only made her more determined to sort out her own mind on the subject and decide how to go on.

Which was why she was walking alone in the gardens.

Trying to decide on the importance of a kiss. On how much significance to attach to her response.

Simon had given no indication that he found kissing her any different from kissing another. She wrinkled her nose as she headed down one of the lawn walks; she was too realistic not to acknowledge that he had to be an expert, that there were sure to be legions of ladies he’d kissed. Yet… she felt fairly certain he would kiss her again, if the opportunity presented.

That much, she felt comfortable with, reasonably sure. The path to the temple lay ahead; without conscious thought, her feet took her in that direction.

Her own route ahead was much less clear. The more she thought of it the more she felt at sea. Literally, as if she’d set out on a voyage on some fathomless ocean and then discovered she had no notion how to navigate, no map.

Would the next time she was kissed feel the same? Or had last night’s reaction been because it was the first time? Would she have felt the same if another gentleman had kissed her? If Simon were to kiss her again, would she feel anything at all?

To get right to the heart of the matter, was how she felt when a given gentleman kissed her even relevant?

The answers were hidden beneath a miasma of inexperience. Straightening her shoulders, she lifted her head-she would simply have to experiment and find out.

Decision taken, she felt much more positive. The temple appeared before her, a small marble folly with Ionic columns. It was surrounded by lush flower beds; as she started up the steps, she noticed a gardener, a youngish man with a thick thatch of black hair, weeding one of the beds. He glanced up at her; she smiled and nodded. He blinked, looking rather uncertain, but politely nodded back.

Portia stepped up to the marble floor of the temple-and immediately realized why the gardener had looked uncertain. The temple was filled with words-an altercation. If she’d been paying attention she would have heard it before she climbed the steps. The gardener would be able to hear every word. In the quiet of the garden, he could hardly help it.

“Your behavior is unconscionable! I did not bring you up to comport yourself in such a manner. I can’t conceive what you think to achieve by such appalling displays!”

The melodramatic tones belonged to Mrs. Archer. The words rose up from where Portia assumed a seat was set on the outside of the temple, overlooking the view. Within the temple, the words echoed and grew.

“I want excitement in my life!” Kitty declared in ringing tones. “You married me to Henry and told me I’d be a lady-you painted the position of his wife in glowing colors! You led me to believe I’d have everything I’d ever want-and I haven’t!”

“You can’t possibly be so naive as to imagine all in life will be precisely as you dream!”

Portia was glad someone was saying what needed to be said, but she had absolutely no wish to overhear it. Silently, she turned and went back down the steps.

As she gained the path, she heard Kitty reply in hard, harsh tones, “More fool I, I believed you. Now I’m living the reality-do you know he wants us to live here for most of the year? And he wants me to give him children?”

The last was said as if Henry had asked her to contract the plague; stunned, Portia hesitated.

“Children,” Kitty went on, scorn dripping. “I’d lose my figure. I’d bloat and swell and no one would look at me! Or if they did, they’d shudder and look the other way. I’d rather be dead!”

Something close to hysteria screamed in the words.

Portia shivered. Refocusing, she saw the gardener; their gazes met. Then she lifted her head, drew breath. The gardener returned to his bedding plants. She walked on.

Frowning.

Reemerging onto the main lawn, she saw Winifred, like her, idly ambling. Thinking it wise to ensure Winifred did not amble to the temple, she changed course and joined her.

Winifred smiled with easy welcome. Portia smiled back. Here, at least, was someone she might learn from.

After exchanging greetings, by mutual accord they turned toward the lawn walks leading to the lake.

“I hope you don’t think me unforgiveably forward,” she began, “but I couldn’t help noticing…” She glanced at Winifred’s face. “Am I right in assuming there’s some degree of understanding between you and Mr. Winfield?”

Winifred smiled, then looked ahead. After a moment, she said, “It would perhaps be more realistic to say we’re considering some degree of understanding.” Her lips curved; she glanced at Portia. “I know that sounds very timid, but, indeed, I suppose I am that, at least when it comes to marriage.”

Portia saw the chance and seized it with both hands. “I know just what you mean-indeed, I feel the same.” She caught Winifred’s gaze. “I’m at present considering marriage-in general at this point-and have to confess there’s much I don’t understand. I’ve left it late for entirely selfish reasons, because of my absorption with other things in life, so now I find myself somewhat at a loss, and not as informed as I ought to be. However, I imagine you’ve had much more experience…?”

Winifred grimaced, but her eyes were still easy, her expression gentle. “As to that, indeed, I have had more experience, in a way, but I fear it is not the sort to assist any other lady in understanding.” She gestured. “I’m thirty, and still unwed.”

Portia frowned. “Forgive me, but you’re wellborn, well dowered by my guess, and not unattractive. I imagine you’ve had many offers.”

Winifred inclined her head. “Some, I grant you, but not many. I have not encouraged any gentleman to date.”

Portia was at a loss.

Winifred saw it and smiled wrily. “You’ve favored me with your confidence-in return I will give you mine. You do not, I take it, have a very lovely younger sister? In particular, a highly acquisitive younger sister?”

Portia blinked; an image of Penelope, spectacled and severe, rose in her mind. She shook her head. “But… why…? Kitty has been married for some years, has she not?”

“Oh, indeed. But, unfortunately, marriage has not dampened her desire to seize whatever might come to me.”

“She”-Portia searched for the word-“poached your suitors?”

“Always. Even from the schoolroom.”

Despite the revelation, Winifred’s expression remained calm, serene-resigned, Portia realized.

“I’m not sure,” Winifred continued, meeting Portia’s eyes, “that in truth I shouldn’t be grateful. I would not wish to marry a gentleman so easily led astray.”

Portia nodded. “Indeed not.” She hesitated, then ventured, “I mentioned Mr. Winfield-he appears to have remained constant in his regard for you despite Kitty’s best efforts.”

The glance Winifred threw her was uncertain; for the first time, Portia glimpsed the lady behind the quiet mask who’d suffered consistent disappointment at her sister’s hands. “Do you think so?” Then Winifred smiled, wry again; her mask slipped back into place. “I should tell you our history. Desmond met the family in London some years ago. At first, he was greatly taken with Kitty, as most gentlemen are. Then he discovered she was married, and transferred his attentions to me.”

“Oh.” They’d reached the end of the walk. After standing for a moment, looking down toward the lake, they turned and headed back toward the house. “But,” Portia continued, “doesn’t that mean Desmond’s been pursuing you for some years?”

Winifred inclined her head. “About two.” After a moment, she somewhat diffidently added, “He told me he retreated from Kitty as soon as he’d drawn close enough to see her for what she is. Only later did he learn she was married.”

Fresh in Portia’s mind was the scene she’d witnessed below the terrace the night before. “He does seem… quite stiff with Kitty. I’ve seen no indication that he would welcome the opportunity to further any interest with her-quite the opposite.”

Winifred looked at her, studied her face, her eyes. “Do you think so?”

Portia met her gaze. “Yes. I do.”

The emotion-the hope-she glimpsed in Winifred’s eyes before she looked away made her feel unexpectedly good. Presumably that was what Lady O felt when she meddled to good effect; for the first time in her life, Portia could see the attraction.

They walked on. She glanced up; the sight of the two male figures coming toward them abruptly recalled her to her own situation.

Simon and James strolled up. With their usual polished charm, they greeted both her and Winifred. Surreptitiously, Portia studied Simon, but could detect no change in his demeanor, sense nothing specific in his attitude toward her-no hint of what he thought about their kiss.

“We’ve been dispatched to fetch you,” James said. “There’s a picnic on. It’s been decided luncheon will taste much better in the ruins of the old priory.”

“Where is this priory?” Winifred asked.

“To the north of the village, not far. It’s a pretty place.” James gestured expansively. “A perfect place to eat, drink, and relax in the bosom of the countryside.”