The Perfect Lover

comfortable, but assuredly not trepidatious. She was absolutely certain he would always behave predictably, that he, all he was, would never change; he would never be, could never be, the source of any threat to her.

Not physically. Emotionally might be a different tale.

Mentally grimacing, she kept her eyes down and walked steadily on. Aware of him prowling beside her.

Aware she drew comfort from his presence.

It was Kitty and her doings that had once again distracted her, this time disturbing her in a more profound way. In response, it was doubtless only natural to draw close to those she understood and trusted. Like Lady O.

Like Simon.

They emerged onto the side of the ridge, a stretch of path where the wood fell back and the winds blew up from the distant sea. A breath of freshness reached them, the first stirrings of the storm still far away. The waft of cooler air lifted the curls from her nape, sent others dancing about her face.

She halted, tucking the wayward strands back, lifting her face to the faint breeze.

Simon stopped by her shoulder, raised his head, looked out over the fields to the black clouds roiling on the distant horizon. Then he let his gaze swing back to Portia’s face.

He hadn’t been surprised to find her in the gardens. Any other lady would have been resting, recuperating from the exertions of the day. Not Portia.

His lips twitched at a mental image of her listless and die-away, lethargic on her bed. She was the most energetic woman he knew, full of restless, seemingly boundless energy, one facet of her that had always attracted him in a flagrantly physical way.

He’d never known her to pretend to a delicacy with which she wasn’t afflicted. Her unflagging zest had always been enough to keep up with him.

Quite possibly in any sphere.

He let his gaze sweep down, over her supple, slender figure, down over the length of her long, long legs. Poised as she was, she vibrated with vitality, with vigorous life.

Definitely a point in her favor.

Currently, however, she was as distracted as he’d ever seen her.

“What’s the matter?”

She glanced at him, searched his face briefly, confirming what she’d heard in his tone-that he wasn’t about to be fobbed off with anything short of the truth.

Her lips twisted; she looked back at the view. “Kitty’s pregnant. This morning, I overheard her telling Winifred- trying to get Winifred to think the baby was Desmond’s.”

He made no effort to mask his distaste. “How very unappealing.”

“The baby isn’t Henry’s.”

“So I would suppose.”

She glanced at him, frowned. “Why?”

He met her gaze. Grimaced. “I gather she and Henry have been estranged for some time.” He hesitated, then continued, “I suspect what we overheard the other night between Henry and James was discussion of a possible divorce.”

“Divorce?”

Portia stared at him. He didn’t need to spell out the implications for her; a divorce would mean scandal, and in this case total ostracism for Kitty.

She looked away. “I wonder if Kitty knows?” She paused, then went on, “Just now, I heard Mrs. Archer and Kitty discussing the matter. What Kitty intends to do.”

It wasn’t his child, yet his gut chilled. “What was she proposing?”

“She doesn’t want the child. She doesn’t want to grow fat and… I think she simply doesn’t want anything to get in the way of what she calls excitement-something she considers her due.”

He was out of his depth. With a slew of sisters, older and younger, he’d thought he had at least a passing acquaintance with the female psyche, yet Kitty was beyond his comprehension. Portia turned and headed on; he followed, ambling beside her.

Knowing full well that whatever had been bothering her was still exercising her mind. He let her wrestle with it as they trailed along the crest, and through the next section of the wood. When they emerged onto the final open stretch along the ridge above Ashmore village, and the vertical crease between her brows was still there, he stopped. Waited until she realized and turned to look at him questioningly.

“What is it?”

Her eyes remained steady on his, then her lips twisted, and she looked away. He waited, silent; after a moment, she glanced at him. “You have to promise not to laugh.”

He opened his eyes wide.

She frowned, looked away, started strolling, paused until he joined her, then walked on but slowly, brows drawn down. “I’ve been wondering… later… after, if… well, would I-could I-turn out like Kitty?”

“Like Kitty?” For one instant, he couldn’t imagine what she meant.

She glanced at his face, frowned harder. “Like Kitty, with her addiction to excitement.”

He stopped. She did, too.

He couldn’t help it. He laughed.

Not even her thinning lips, not even the fury flaring in her eyes could stop him.

“You promised!” She swatted him.

That only made stopping all the harder.

“You-!” She biffed him again.

He caught her hands, held them down, locked in his. “No-stop.” He dragged in a breath, his gaze on her face. The real worry and confusion in her eyes-clear now she’d lost her temper-hauled him back to sobriety with a thump. She couldn’t believe…?

He captured her gaze, held it. “There is no possibility in this world that you could ever be like Kitty. That you would ever convert to something like her.” She didn’t look convinced. “Believe me-none. No prospect at all.”

Narrow-eyed, from behind the black screen of her lashes, she studied his face. “How do you know?”

Because he knew her.

“You are not Kitty.” He heard the words, dragged in a breath and invested the next phrases with absolute conviction. “You could never-would never-behave like her.”

She held his gaze, her expression still unsure.

He suddenly realized just what they were talking about-all they were talking about. His lungs contracted, his throat tightened as he realized she-they-stood teetering on a precipice. He’d known, expected, would have been shocked if she hadn’t had reservations, if she hadn’t thought long and hard before giving herself to him.

Knowing her so well, her curiosity, her willful need to know, he’d been confident of her ultimate decision. Never in his wildest dreams had he imagined Kitty would throw up a hurdle, let alone a hurdle like this.

He searched Portia’s eyes as she searched his. Hers were so dark, the color of midnight, only strong emotions were easy to define. Now, they were simply less sharp, clouded by uncertainty-an uncertainty that was self- directed, not, as he’d anticipated, directed at him.

She blinked; he sensed her retreating. Instinctively reacted.

“Trust me.” He gripped her hands tighter, captured her gaze anew, then he altered his grip and lifted her hands, first one, then the other, to his lips. “Just trust me.”

Her eyes had widened. After a moment, she asked, “How can you be so sure?”

“Because it…” Lost in her eyes, aware he had to speak the absolute truth, he couldn’t for the life of him think of words to describe all that they meant by that, the reality of what they were discussing. “This-all that’s between us, all that could be-not even that would ever be strong enough to change you. To make you into a different person.”

She frowned, but in thought, not rejection. He let her draw her hands from his; she turned and faced the fields, looking, perhaps, but not seeing.

After a moment, she swung around and walked on toward the lookout. He stirred, and followed on her heels.