Her mind snapped away, concentrating on Simon. He was a nice enough escort, and certainly never pushed his luck with her or tried it on. She was easy enough with him, in a casually indifferent way. He didn’t threaten her.
Not like the man watching her…
Now that that the wretched speech was finally over, surely she could get away? She would finish her coffee and then get Simon to put her into a taxi. She wouldn’t let him come with her—he would probably get desperate and try to pounce, and she didn’t want that. She liked him, and didn’t want to hurt him. Better by far to end the evening in public and escape on her own.
She wondered if Tom would still be up. She hoped not. He needed an early night. He hadn’t looked well at all.
A faint furrow of concern marked her brow. Was it just flu? He’d seemed under the weather for a good few months now. She hadn’t seen a great deal of him recently—she’d been off in the States last month, tracking down some of the Tellers that had got sold to American buyers years ago. He ought to get out of London, spend some time at Salton. Catch up with Felicity.
They really ought to get on with it and marry, Portia found herself thinking—a familiar refrain. They were so obviously ideal for each other. Neither liked London, and both were far happier at Salton. Felicity would be ideal for Salton, Portia knew. She had an instinctive feel for the place. She wouldn’t muck it up. She’d leave things alone.
Portia had lived in dread that Tom would marry some woman who would summon an army of ghastly fashionable interior designers and turn Salton into some vile ‘showpiece’—but Felicity Pethridge would never do that. She’d just settle in, be devoted to Tom, give him a brood of tumbling children, and take her place as one of the long, long line of châtelaines who had kept Salton going through the centuries.
A poignant look softened Portia’s clear grey eyes. It was one of the painful ironies of the English land inheritance system that daughters never got to live in the houses they grew up in—not unless there was no son to inherit, of course. Daughters had to go off and look after someone else’s place. A guilty look entered her eye. That had been the main appeal of Geoffrey Chandler, she knew—not him, but the prospect of running his vast Elizabethan pile in Shropshire, which came complete with an art collection.
But although the art collection had been to die for, it hadn’t proved sufficient to marry for. Poor Geoffrey. If he hadn’t managed to persuade her—against her better judgement—to pre-empt their wedding night, she might have gone ahead and married him. As it was, a month in Tuscany with him had made her realise she couldn’t possibly go ahead with the wedding. Not even holing up in the Uffizi for sanctuary during the day had been compensation for the ordeals of the night.
Instinctively her mind shied away from the memories. He’d tried so hard, and she’d still hated it. And even though she’d tried desperately not to let her revulsion show, of course he had realised—and that had just made things even more unbearable.
Ending the engagement had been awful too—painful and embarrassing, and making her feel so guilty. And when Geoffrey had announced a whirlwind engagement to one of her own schoolfriends not two months later she’d felt more than guilty.
She’d felt totally inadequate.
A shiver went through her. After the disaster with poor Geoffrey she’d simply given up on sex, and had found abstinence a huge relief. She knew that the men of her acquaintance thought her frigid, but she didn’t care. She just wanted them to leave her alone.
She didn’t even like them looking at her.
The nape of her neck prickled again. That wretched man was still over there, keeping his eyes on her.
Dark, hooded eyes…
She straightened her back and pushed her coffee cup away. For one extraordinary, inexplicable moment she’d wanted to turn her head and check whether he was, indeed, still keeping her in his eyeline.
Instead, she turned to Simon.
‘I don’t mean to be a wet blanket, Si, but I’ve got quite an early start tomorrow. Do you think you could get me a cab? I’d better make a move.’
Disappointment showed in his pale blue eyes.
‘Must you? I thought we might be able to take in a club…’
He sounded so hopeful she hated to turn him down. But what was the point of going on anywhere with him? He’d just get ideas. Hopes.
She laid a hand on his sleeve. ‘I don’t think so, Simon—I’m sorry.’
There had been pity in her eyes, and she saw him flinch and hated herself for it.
She got to her feet, and the rest of the men at the table, realising she was leaving, stood up as well. She took her leave, bidding them all goodnight, and one of the younger ones asked her to give his regards to Tom.
‘No show tonight, I see,’ the man said. ‘Well, it’s understandable.’
‘He’s got flu,’ said Portia.
Another of the men laughed. ‘He’s certainly caught a cold, all right!’
The others laughed, exchanging glances. Portia frowned. She hadn’t a clue what they meant, and didn’t want to know. She just wanted to head for home.
She bent down to retrieve her evening bag from under her chair and stood away from the table. Simon took her arm and they started to make their way to the exit, on the far side of the room. With the speeches over there was a lot of movement, with people heading out to the restrooms or to the bar in the reception lobby, or just to go and catch up with diners at other tables.