Her gaze on the horizon, Portia sensed that connection’s shimmering touch, felt her heart swell as if to accommodate it. Was this what happened? That somehow a link grew between two people-a channel of understanding independent of all things physical?
Whatever it was, it felt special, precious. She glanced at him briefly, too wise to imagine he didn’t sense it, too. He didn’t seem to be fighting it, or denying it; she wondered what he truly thought.
After an hour of simple pleasures, in complete and relaxed accord, they reluctantly returned to the horses and curricle and headed back to the Hall.
They returned just in time for luncheon, just in time to be treated to another petulant performance by Kitty. The lighter mood the morning had engendered rapidly dissipated.
The seating was not specified at luncheon; Simon claimed the chair beside Portia, sat, ate, and watched. Most of the company did the same; if Kitty had possessed the slightest sensibility, she would have noticed the distancing, the guardedness, and muted her behavior accordingly.
Instead, she seemed in the oddest mood, pouting, threatening to sulk over the news of their morning’s outing on the one hand, on the other brittlely excited, eyes alight with almost frenetic anticipation-an expectation of something desperately significant no one else knew of.
“Why, we’ve been to the Rings many times before, dear,” Mrs. Archer reminded Kitty. “I declare it would be quite fatiguing to have to see them again.”
“Indeed,” Kitty averred, “but I-”
“Naturally,” Mrs. Buckstead joined in, smiling benignly down the table at her daughter and the Hammond girls, “the younger ones need to get out in the fresh air.”
Kitty glared at her. “Winifred-”
“And, of course, once one’s married, gadding about on morning adventures does lose its appeal.” Unperturbed, Mrs. Buckstead helped herself to more iced asparagus.
For one instant, Kitty was dumbfounded, then her gaze swung down the table. To Portia. Unaware, Portia continued eating, her gaze lowered, a faint but definite smile-a gentle, abstracted, in many ways revealing smile- curving her lips.
Eyes narrowing, Kitty opened her mouth-
Simon reached out, picked up his glass. Kitty glanced at him-he caught her gaze. Held it as he sipped, then slowly lowered his glass to rest it on the table.
Let Kitty read in his eyes what he would do if she dared vent her jealousy on Portia-if she made the slightest allusion to the morning adventures she suspected he and Portia had enjoyed.
For an instant, Kitty teetered on the brink, then sanity seemed to reassert itself; she drew breath and looked down at her plate.
Elsewhere about the table, Mr. Archer, to all appearances oblivious of his younger daughter’s shortcomings, continued a discussion with Mr. Buckstead; Lord Glossup was talking to Ambrose, while Lady O chatted to Lady Glossup with superb disregard for all else about her.
Gradually, with Kitty sunk in silence, other conversations commenced, Lady Calvin claiming James’s and Charlie’s attention, Desmond and Winifred trying to draw out Drusilla.
Simon exchanged light comments with Annabelle Hammond, on his other side; inwardly, his mind raced. Kitty’s discretion was nonexistent; who knew when, provoked, she would blurt something out? If she did…
The meal drew to a close; he bided his time. The instant Portia set down her fork, he reached out and stroked a finger over her wrist.
She glanced at him, raised a brow.
“Let’s go for a walk.”
Her brows rose higher; he could see the thoughts-the speculation-whirling through her mind. Lips twisting, he clarified, “I want to talk to you.”
On the subject that, courtesy of Kitty, could no longer safely be left unbroached.
She studied his eyes, saw he was serious; curious, she inclined her head. Lifting her napkin to her lips, she murmured, “Slipping away from the others might not be that easy.”
In that, she was correct; although the table broke up and in the main the guests scattered to spend the afternoon in various ways, Annabelle, Cecily, and Lucy clung to Portia, clearly expecting to follow her lead. Excusing himself from a billiard match with James and Charlie, Simon followed the four females out to the terrace, wondering how to lose three.
He paused in the doorway from the morning room, considering and discarding various options, then he heard stumping behind him. He turned as Lady O came up; she grasped his arm as he instinctively offered it.
She looked out at the four young ladies standing in a group by the balustrade. Shook her head. “You’ll never manage it.”
Before he could think of any suitable rejoinder, she shook his arm. “Come on-I want to go and sit in the shrubbery courtyard.” A distinctly evil grin curved her lips. “Seems like a place where one hears all sorts of things.”
Assuming she had some scheme in mind, Simon led her out. They crossed the terrace, and he helped her down the steps. When they reached the lawn, she abruptly stopped.
And turned back. Waved to the young ladies. “Portia-fetch my parasol, if you would, my dear.”
Portia had been watching them. “Yes. Of course.”
Excusing herself to the other girls, she went indoors.
Lady O turned and stumped on.
He was settling her in the shrubbery courtyard, on a wrought-iron garden seat set beneath the spreading branches of a magnolia, when Portia joined them.
She looked at the tree. “You won’t need this after all.”
“Never mind. It’s served its purpose.” Lady O took the parasol, then settled her many layers and leaned back, closing her eyes. “You may go, the pair of you.”
Simon looked at Portia; she opened her eyes wide, shrugged.
They turned.
“Incidentally,” Lady O said, “there’s another exit from this place.” They turned back. Barely opening her eyes, she pointed with her cane. “That path. From memory, it leads through the back of the rose garden to the lake.”
She closed her eyes again.
Simon looked at Portia.
Smiling, she returned to the seat, bent and kissed Lady O’s cheek. “Thank you. We’ll come back-”
“I’m perfectly able to get myself back to the house if I wish.” Cracking open both lids, she fixed them with her best basilisk stare. “You two take yourselves off-no need in the world to hurry back.”
When they didn’t immediately move, she lifted both cane and parasol and shooed them. “Go! Go!”
Smothering grins, they went.
“She’s incorrigible.”
Gazes touching, they ducked through the archway into the rose garden.
“I don’t think she’s ever been anything else.”
He reached for Portia’s hand, twined his fingers with hers. They walked on, swiftly leaving the rose garden for the less structured gardens above the lake.
Ten minutes later, they paused where the path they’d followed crested the rise above the lake. He looked out over the water; not another soul was in sight. “Come on.” He led Portia down the narrow path and onto the wider path circling the lake.
She fell into step beside him. He kept hold of her hand; he was reasonably sure none of the others was likely to wander this way, not in the next hour.
When he led her past the front of the summerhouse, she glanced at him. He could sense her thoughts, but instead of asking where they were going, she went straight to the heart of things. “What did you want to talk about?”
Now the moment was upon him-them-although he knew what he needed to say, he wasn’t sure how to proceed. Thanks to Kitty, he hadn’t had time to plan what was, in truth, a most crucial engagement in his campaign to win Portia to wife. “I ran into Kitty after I left you this morning.” He glanced at her, met her widening eyes.
