The Perfect Lover (6 page)

He met her eyes briefly, then replied, “Because James will try very hard not to cause Henry any pain—any more pain than necessary. Kitty knows that—it makes her bolder. Neither Charlie nor I would have any compunction in treating her as she deserves, were she to push us beyond a certain point.”

“But she’s clever enough not to?”

He nodded.

“What about Henry?”

“When they married, he was extremely fond of her. I don’t know how he feels about her now. And before you ask, I have no idea why she is as she is—none of us does.”

She saw Kitty across the room, smiling beguilingly up at Ambrose, who was doing his best to pretend he hadn’t noticed.

She felt Simon’s gaze on her face.

“Any suggestions?”

She looked at him, then shook her head. “But . . . I don’t think it’s any irrational compulsion—you know what I mean. She knows what she’s doing; she’s quite deliberate. She has some motive—some goal—in mind.”

Simon said nothing. The final chords of the waltz sounded. They stopped and chatted with Annabelle and Desmond, then exchanged partners as the next dance began.

She held to her vow and chatted easily with Desmond; she parted from him thinking Winifred was to be congratulated on her good fortune—Desmond seemed a thoroughly likable if somewhat serious gentleman. She danced with Charlie, James, and Ambrose, and put her wiles to work with each one; as she wouldn’t know how to flirt to save herself, she felt secure in doing so, certain they wouldn’t read anything beyond general interest into her artful questions.

Then she danced with Henry, and felt quite dreadful. Even though he made every effort to entertain her, she couldn’t help but be conscious of his awareness of Kitty’s behavior.

The situation was difficult—Kitty was clever, artful. There was nothing that could be held up as beyond the pale, but her flirting was of the degree, and constancy, that left a very large question in everyone’s mind.

Why was she doing it?

Portia couldn’t imagine, for Henry was much as Desmond was, a quiet, gentle, decent man. In the ten minutes she spent conversing with him, she fully understood James’s wish to protect him, regardless of the circumstances, and Simon’s and Charlie’s support to that end.

She agreed with them entirely.

By the time they called for an end to the dancing, the question that most insistently nagged was how many others saw Kitty’s behavior as she, Simon, Charlie, James, and, most likely, Henry did?

Ambrose and Desmond almost certainly, but what of the ladies? That was much harder to guess.

The tea trolley arrived, and everyone gathered around, happy to rest and take their ease. Conversation was relaxed; people no longer felt the need to fill every silence. Portia sipped, and watched; Kitty’s call for dancing had been inspired—it had cut through the rigid formalities and forged them into a group far faster than usually occurred. Now, instead of the shifting currents between various members, there was a cohesiveness, a sense of being here to share the time with these others, that would surely make the following days more enjoyable.

She was setting aside her empty cup when Kitty once again claimed center stage. She rose, her skirts shushing; placing herself at the focal point of the gathering, she smiled charmingly, hands wide. “We should walk in the gardens before retiring. It’s positively balmy outside, and so many of the scented plants are flowering. After all that dancing, we need a moment’s reflection in peaceful surrounds before repairing to our rooms.”

Once again, she was right. The older members of the company who hadn’t danced did not feel so inclined, but all those who’d whirled about the room definitely did. They followed Kitty out of the French doors and onto the terrace; from there, they ventured down onto the lawns in twos and threes.

She wasn’t surprised when Simon materialized beside her on the terrace; whenever they were in the same party, in situations like this, he’d be somewhere close—on that she could happily wager. Taking the role of reluctant protector had been his habit for years.

But then he broke with custom and offered her his arm.

She hesitated.

Simon watched her blink at his sleeve as if she wasn’t quite sure what it was. He was waiting when she glanced up; he caught her eye, raised one brow in a wordless, deliberately arrogant challenge.

Up went her chin; with haughty calm she placed her fingers on his sleeve. Hiding his smile, small victory though it was, he led her down the shallow steps onto the lawn.

Kitty had gone ahead with Ambrose and Desmond, conversing animatedly with Lucy Buckstead so that the damsel was forced to accompany the trio rather than hang back and walk with James as had most likely been her aim. Charlie and James escorted the Hammond girls and Winifred; Drusilla had declined to join them, citing an aversion to the evening air, and Henry had been engrossed in a conversation with Mr. Buckstead.

Reaching the lawns, they stepped out. “Do you have any preference—any sight you wish to see?” He gestured about them.

“By the fitful moonlight?” Portia tracked Kitty’s small band as they headed away from the house, toward the dark band of huge rhododenrons that bordered the lawn. “What’s that way?”

He’d been watching her face. “The temple.”

Her brows rose, faintly supercilious. “Which way is the lake?”

He waved to where the lawn sloped down and away, forming a broad green path wending through the garden beds. “It’s not close, but not too far for a stroll.”

They strolled that way. The others ambled after them; the Hammond sisters’ exclamations over the extensive gardens, the huge shrubs and trees, the numerous walks, borders, and well-stocked beds, rippled an appreciative chorus in the soft evening air. The gardens were indeed lush and dense; the combined scents of untold flowers wreathed through the warm dark.

They walked on, neither fast nor slow, with no vital aim; the moment was goal enough, peaceful, quiet—unexpectedly companionable.

Behind them, the others dawdled, their voices falling to a murmur. He glanced at Portia. “What are you about?”

She tensed fractionally. “About?”

“I heard you in the lookout, remember? Something about learning more, making a decision, and considering all those eligible.”

She glanced at him, her face shadowed by the trees beneath which they were passing.

He prompted, “Eligible for what?”

She blinked, her gaze on his face, then she looked forward. “It’s . . . just a point of interest. Something I’ve been wondering about.”

“What is ‘it’?”

After a moment, she replied, “You don’t need to know.”

“Meaning you don’t wish to tell me.”

She inclined her head.

He was tempted to press, but she’d be here, under his eye, for the next several days; he’d have time and more to figure out her latest start simply by watching all she did. He’d seen her taking note of the gentlemen over the dinner table, and when she’d danced with James and Charlie, and Winfield, too, she’d been unusually animated, leading the conversation with questions. He was quite sure those questions hadn’t been about Kitty; she might ask him such things, but that was because they were almost family—with each other, they didn’t even pretend to the social niceties.

“Very well.”

His easy acceptance earned him a suspicious look, but it wasn’t in her interests to quibble. He let his lips curve, heard her soft humph as she faced forward once more. They strolled on in easy silence, neither feeling any need to state the obvious—that he would keep watching her until he learned her secret, and that she was now warned that he would.

As they crossed the last stretch of lawn above the lake, he reviewed her behavior thus far. Had she been any other female, he would have suspected she was husband-hunting, yet she’d never been so inclined. She’d never had much use for the male of the species; he couldn’t imagine any circumstance that might have changed her mind.

Much more likely was that she was searching for some knowledge—possibly some introduction to or information on some activity not normally open to females.
That
seemed highly probable—exactly her cup of tea.

They reached the lip from which the grassed path ran gently down to the lake. They halted, she to sweep the scene before her, the vista of the wide lake, its waters dark and still, a black pit lying in a natural valley with a wooded hill looming beyond, an informal pinetum on rising ground to the right and, just visible in the weak light, the summerhouse on the far left shore, starkly white against a black backdrop of massed rhododendrons.

The sight held her silent, absorbed, head up as she took in the view.

He seized the moment to study her face . . . the conviction that she was seeking a gentleman to introduce her to some illicit experience grew, burgeoned, took hold. In an unexpected way.

“Oh! My goodness!” Annabelle came up, then the others joined them.

“How lovely! Why—it’s quite Gothic!” Cecily, hands clasped, bobbed with delight.

“Is it really very deep?” Winifred looked at James.

“We’ve never found the bottom.”

The response drew horrifed looks from the Hammond sisters.

“Shall we go on?” Charlie looked at Portia and Simon. There was a narrow path all the way around the lake, hugging the shore.

“Oh.” Annabelle exchanged a glance with Cecily. “I don’t think we should. Mama said we must rest well tonight to recover from the rigors of the journey.”

Winifred, too, demurred. James gallantly offered to escort the three ladies back to the house. With good nights, they parted. Flanked by Charlie and Simon, Portia headed down to the lake.

They walked and chatted; it was really very easy. They all moved in the same circles; it was a simple matter to fill the time with comments and observations on all that had transpired in the Season just past—the scandals, the marriages, the most scintillating
on-dits
. Even more surprising, Simon did not, as he usually did, comport himself in unhelpful silence; instead, he helped keep the conversation rolling along the generally accepted paths. As for Charlie, he’d always been a rattlepate; it was easy to tempt him into regaling them with colorful tales of wagers gone wrong, of the exploits of the younger bucks.

They paused before the summerhouse, admiring the neat wooden structure, a bit bigger than usual because of its distance from the house, then continued on around the lake.

When they started back up the slope to the house, she felt rather smug. She’d survived a whole evening, and a long night walk with two of the ton’s foremost wolves, quite creditably; conversing with gentlemen—drawing them out—hadn’t been as difficult as she’d supposed.

They were halfway up the rise when Henry appeared and started down toward them.

“Have you seen Kitty?” he asked as he neared.

They shook their heads. Halting, they all looked down at the lake. The path in its entirety was visible from where they stood; Kitty’s aquamarine silk gown would have been easy to spot.

“We saw her when we started out,” Portia said. “She and some others were heading for the temple.”

Simon added, “We haven’t seen her, or those others, since.”

“I’ve already been to the temple,” Henry said.

A footstep sounded nearby. They all turned, but it was James who came out of the shadows.

“Have you seen Kitty?” Henry asked. “Her mother wants her.”

James shook his head. “I’ve just been up to the house and back. I didn’t see anyone en route.”

Henry sighed. “I’d better keep looking.” With a bow to Portia and a nod to the men, he headed off toward the pinetum.

They all watched him go until the shadows swallowed him up.

“It might have been better,” James remarked, “if Mrs. Archer had thought to speak with Kitty earlier. As it is . . . Henry might be better off not finding her.”

They all comprehended exactly what he meant. The silence lengthened.

James recollected himself; he glanced at Portia. “Your pardon, my dear. I fear I’m not in the best of moods tonight—no good company. If you’ll excuse me, I’ll go back to the house.”

He bowed rather stiffly. Portia inclined her head. With brief nods to Simon and Charlie, James turned on his heel and strode back up the lawn.

The three of them followed more slowly. In silence; there seemed little to say and indeed, some odd sort of safety in not putting what they were thinking into words.

They were at an intersection with a path leading toward the temple on one hand, and on the other curving around to the pinetum, when they heard a light footstep.

As one, they halted and looked down the shadowy path toward the temple.

A figure emerged from a minor path leading down and away from the house. A man, he started along the cross path toward them; stepping into a patch of moonlight, he looked up—and saw them. With no check in his stride, he stepped sideways, onto another of the myriad paths that riddled the dense shrubberries.

His shadow vanished. Leaves rustled, and he was gone.

An instant passed, then they each drew breath, faced forward, and walked on. They didn’t speak, nor did they catch each other’s eye.

Nevertheless, each knew what the others were thinking.

The man hadn’t been a guest, nor yet a servant or helper on the estate.

He’d been a gypsy, lean, dark, and handsome.

With his unruly black hair wildly disarranged, his coat undone, his shirttails loose and flapping.

It was difficult to imagine any innocent reason for such a man to have been up at the house, let alone leaving in such a fashion at such a late hour.

On the main lawn, they met Desmond, Ambrose, and Lucy, like them, heading back to the house.

Of Kitty, they saw no sign.