The Perfect Lover (42 page)

He frowned. “Why here?”

She sighed, turned her head, opened both eyes. Ran her gaze down to his feet. “The pine needles. We heard you coming from a long way off. No one can sneak up on us here.”

Charlie straightened away from his tree. “Now that you’re awake, can you please sit down?” With an exaggerated bow, he waved her to the low bank edging the clearing. When she stared at him, he pointedly added, “So we can?”

Simon glanced at Portia, saw the look on her face, smiled for the first time since she’d left him that morning. He reached for her hand, tugged, and towed her to the bank. “She’s not accustomed to having her sensibilities treated with such care. In fact,” he met her gaze as he swung her about. “I’m not sure she approves.”

Her eyes flashed, the Portia of old appearing briefly. Tipping her nose in the air, she humphed, but consented to sit.

They did, too, one on either side of her, lounging on the grassy bank.

The minutes ticked by and they sat in relaxed silence, looking out through the trees, letting the peace enfold them. Drinking it in, like a potion to give them strength through what they knew was yet to come.

The westering sun was slanting through the trees when Simon at last stirred. The other two looked at him.

He read the lack of enthusiasm in their faces, also their resolve. Grimaced. “We’d better rehearse our last act.”

The curtain went up in the drawing room before dinner. Portia arrived late, after everyone else. She swept in, magnificent in her deep green silk gown; pausing on the threshold, head high, she scanned the company.

Her gaze stopped on Simon; the look she bent on him was cold, chilly, with an underlying fury. Something close to dismissive contempt. Then she shifted her gaze to Charlie—all her ice melted as she smiled.

Ignoring Simon and all the others, she crossed to Charlie’s side.

He returned her smile, but his gaze flicked to Simon. Whether it was the way he shifted as she joined him, offering his arm—which she was clearly intending to take—but stepping a little aside, as if to step away from the company, to withdraw to a more seemly privacy, whether it was the slight awkwardness he managed to infuse into his actions, his reception conveyed the impression he was suddenly having second thoughts as to his role in her transparent scheme.

Her scheme to strike at Simon—whether to make him jealous, or to punish him for some transgression or omission, no one could guess.

Whatever the cause, everyone by now recognized her intention.

She laughed, cajoled, held Charlie captive, mesmerized him with her eyes. Flirted to the top of her bent. Simon and Charlie had spent an hour lecturing her, teaching her how; bowing to their expertise, she followed their instructions to the letter.

It felt so wrong, yet . . . they had both been earnest in insisting she carry the charade through.

As she gaily chattered, freely dispensing her smiles on Desmond, who wandered up, and Ambrose, who joined them later, she nevertheless kept her sights set firmly on Charlie, her hand on his sleeve.

Simon stood across the room with Lucy, Drusilla, and James, yet his eyes rarely left them. His gaze could only be described as black.

He had a temper, something everyone instinctively recognized on meeting him; he didn’t have to show it for all to know. Now he was deliberately giving it rein, it was like a living force, growing, swelling, ballooning as he watched them.

Winifred came up. “Tell me, Miss Ashford, will you be returning to your brother’s house tomorrow?”

It was undoubtedly the most pointed comment on her unseemly behavior Winifred could bring herself to make. Portia inwardly apologized as she let her smile brighten. “Actually . . .”—she cast a glance at Charlie, fractionally raised one brow, then looked back at Winifred—“I might go up to London for a few days. Look in on the town house for my brother, tend to a few matters. Of course,” she went on, her transparent expectations giving her words the lie, “there’s so little real entertainment to be found in town in July, I daresay I’ll be quite moped.”

She glanced again at Charlie. “You’ll be heading back to town, won’t you?”

Her implication was blatant. Winifred was so shocked she gasped, then looked thoroughly unhappy. Desmond raised a brow, subtly disapproving. Ambrose looked coldly bored.

“Ma’am—dinner is served.”

Portia had never in her life been so thankful to hear those words. Quite what the others would have said if the moment had lengthened, how Charlie might have replied, what riposte she might have been forced to make . . . thank heaven for butlers.

Desmond offered Winifred his arm; she glanced at it, then met his eyes, then, as if making a decision, laid her hand on his sleeve and let him steer her to the dining room. Portia followed on Charlie’s arm. He pinched her fingers when, her gaze fixing on Winifred and Desmond—her mind praying the murderer would not prove to be he—she failed to play her part.

She turned her lapse to advantage; as they passed into the dining room, she slanted him a playfully knowing glance. “You’re altogether too demanding.”

The smile that went with the words clearly invited him to demand as much as he wished; taking their seats about the dinner table, many of the company noticed.

The Hammond sisters had regained something of their youthful exuberance; with the prospect of escape nearing, and the incident with the urn reduced to mere accident, they were sufficiently restored to laugh and chatter gaily with Oswald and Swanston—thoroughly innocent play that cast Portia’s endeavor in an even stronger, more contrasting light.

She was grateful to Lady Glossup, who had clearly attempted to separate the warring parties, thereby reducing the opportunity for further conflict. Portia was seated close to one end of the table, Simon in the middle on the opposite side, and Charlie at the far end, on the same side as she so they couldn’t even exchange glances.

With perfect equanimity, ignoring Simon’s unrelievedly dark looks, she set herself to entertain her neighbors, Mr. Archer and Mr. Buckstead, the two of the company least aware of the drama being enacted under their noses.

When the ladies rose, she joined them, her expression easy and content. But as she drew level with Simon on the other side of the table, on his feet as were all the gentlemen as the ladies filed out, she deliberately, coldly, challengingly, met his gaze. Held it. Equally deliberately, as she came to Charlie, she raised a hand and ran her fingers along the back of his shoulders, briefly ruffling the hair at his nape, before smiling into Simon’s furious eyes. Letting her hand fall, she turned and, head high, glided out of the dining room.

Most had caught the moment.

Lady O’s black eyes narrowed to shards, but she said nothing. Just watched.

The other matrons were more openly censorious, but in the circumstances, could do little to interfere. Flirting, even of the type she was indulging in, had never been a crime within the ton; it was only the memory of Kitty that now made it seem so dangerous in their eyes.

Nevertheless, she gave them no other opening to reproach her actively; she behaved as she normally would, with perfect grace, while they waited for the gentlemen to join them. Tonight, the last night of the house party, it would be viewed as odd if any gentleman excused himself, for whatever reason. They would all come, and relatively soon; they would all be present to witness the penultimate scene.

As the minutes ticked by, Portia felt her nerves tighten. She tried not to think of what was to come, yet, notch by notch, a vise closed about her lungs.

Finally, the doors opened and the gentlemen walked in. Lord Glossup led the way, Henry beside him. Simon followed, strolling beside James; his eyes searched the company and found her.

As they’d arranged, Charlie ambled in a few feet behind Simon.

Portia fixed her gaze on Charlie, let her face light with anticipation and more. Smiling delightedly, she left her position beside the chaise and crossed the room toward him.

Simon stepped sideways, blocking her path. His fingers closed about her elbow; he swung her to him. “If you could spare me a few minutes of your time.”

No question, no request.

Portia reacted, let her face set. She tried to twist her elbow free—winced when his grasp tightened and his fingers bit. Head rising, she met his gaze squarely—as belligerent, as challenging as she needed to be. “I think not.”

She felt it then—felt his anger rise like a wave and crash down on her.

“Indeed?” His tone was controlled; his fury swirled around them. “I believe you’ll find you’re mistaken.”

Even knowing the script they’d agreed to, knowing what he would do next, she still felt shocked when he bodily swung her to the windows and, her arm locked in an unforgiving grip, walked to the terrace doors.

Taking her with him.

She had to go—it was that or be openly dragged. Or lose her footing and fall. She’d never been physically compelled in her life; the sensation—her helplessness—was enough to send her temper into orbit. She could feel her cheeks flame.

He opened the doors and propelled her outside, marched her ruthlessly along until they were beyond the drawing room windows.

Not, quite, out of earshot.

They’d agreed that once they’d set the stage, they couldn’t afford not to play out the scene, not perform according to the script.

She finally succeeded in dragging in a breath. “How
dare
you?” Out of sight of the others, she halted, struggled.

He released her, but she sensed the momentary hesitation—the fractional pause while he forced his fingers to let her go.

She faced him, glared, searched his eyes—saw he was as close to truly losing his temper as she was to losing hers.

“Don’t you dare upbraid me.” She took a step back—remembered their rehearsed script. Lifted her chin. “I’m not yours to dictate to—I don’t belong to you.”

She hadn’t thought his expression could get harder, but it did.

He stepped toward her, closing the distance. His eyes were shards of blue flint, his gaze sharp enough to slice. “And what of
me
?” The suppressed fury in his voice vibrated through her. “Am I some toy you enjoy and then blithely toss away? Some lapdog you tease with your favors, then kick aside when you grow bored?”

Staring into his eyes, she abruptly wavered her resolve. Her heart wrenched as she realized he was voicing real fears—that the pretense, for him, echoed a reality he was supremely vulnerable to . . .

The urge—the need—to reassure him nearly flattened her. She had to call on every ounce of her will to hold his gaze, lift her head until her spine ached, and lash back at him. “It’s not
my
fault you misread things—that your never-faltering masculine ego couldn’t believe I wasn’t fascinated to blindness with you.” Her voice rose, contemptuous and defiant. “I never promised you
anything
.”

“Hah!” His laugh was harsh and hollow. “You and your promises.”

Simon looked at her, deliberately let his gaze travel down, then insolently back up to her face. His lip curled. “You’re nothing but a high-bred cocktease.”

Her eyes blazed. She slapped him.

Even though he’d intended to goad her into it, it still shocked. Stung.

“
You’re
nothing but an insensitive clod.” Her voice wavered with genuine passion; her breasts swelled as she drew breath. “Why I bothered with you . . . I can’t believe I wasted my time! I never want to see you or speak to—”

“If we never exchange another word in this lifetime, it will still be too soon for me.”

She held his gaze. Between them, around them, temper—both his and hers—swirled, touching but not investing, coloring but not truly driving. They were still acting, but . . .

Dragging in a shaky breath, she drew herself up and looked down her nose at him. “I have nothing more to say to you. I don’t wish to set eyes on you again—
not ever
!”

He felt his jaw clench. “That’s one thing I’ll be happy to promise.” He ground out the words, capped them with, “If you’ll do the same?”

“
That
will be a pleasure. Good-bye!”

She spun on her heel and stormed off down the terrace. The tempo of her steps echoed, a clear indication of her state.

He hauled in a breath, held it—desperately fought the urge to follow her. Knew the moon cast his shadow back along the terrace, that anyone watching from the drawing room would know she’d gone off alone—that he wasn’t following her.

She reached the lawns and headed straight for the lake path.

Swinging around, he strode back up the terrace, past the drawing room doors, ajar as he’d left them; without a glance to left or right, he headed for the stables.

Prayed he’d have time to circle around and join her before the murderer did.

P
ortia strode rapidly across the lawn and on toward the lake. She’d imagined doing so eagerly if anxiously; the tumult of emotions roiling inside her made it easy to appear overset.

Cocktease?
That hadn’t been in the script they’d rehearsed. Nor had her slapping him. He’d done it deliberately; she could, perhaps, understand why, but she wasn’t going to forgive him easily. In the heat of the moment, the accusation had hurt.