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
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
