He’d seen the view before. He turned to the lookout, and the female presently in it. She was standing at the railing, gazing out to sea. From her stance and stillness, he assumed she hadn’t seen him.
Lips setting, he walked on. He wouldn’t need to give any reason for joining her. For the past decade, he’d treated her with the same insistent protectiveness he applied to all the females of his family; doubtless it was her relationship—the fact she was his brother-in-law Luc’s sister—that dictated how he felt about her despite the lack of blood ties.
To his mind, Portia Ashford was family, his to protect. That much, at least, was unarguable.
What tortuous logic had prompted the gods to decree that a woman needed a man to conceive?
Portia stifled a disgusted humph. That was the crux of the dilemma now facing her. Unfortunately, there was no point debating the issue—the gods had so decreed, and there was nothing she could do about it.
Other than find a way around the problem.
The thought increased her irritation, largely self-directed. She had never wanted a husband, never imagined that the usual path of a nice, neat, socially approved marriage with all its attendant constraints was for her. Never had she seen her future in such terms.
But there was no other way.
Stiffening her spine, she faced the fact squarely: if she wanted children of her own, she would have to find a husband.
The breeze sidled up, whispering, coolly caressing her cheeks, lightly fingering the heavy waves of her hair. The realization that children—her own children, her own family—were what in her heart she truly yearned for, the challenge she’d been raised, like her mother, to accept and conquer, had come just like the breeze, stealing up on her. For the past five years, she’d worked with her sisters, Penelope and Anne, in caring for foundlings in London. She’d plunged into the project with her usual zeal, convinced their ideals were both proper and right, only to discover her own destiny lay in a direction in which she’d never thought to look.
So now she needed a husband.
Given her birth, her family’s status and connections, and her dowry, gaining such an encumbrance would be easy, even though she was already twenty-four. She wasn’t, however, fool enough to imagine any gentleman would do. Given her character, her temperament, her trenchant independence, it was imperative she choose wisely.
She wrinkled her nose, her gaze fixed unseeing on the distant prospect. Never had she imagined she would come to this—to desiring a husband. Courtesy of their brother Luc’s disinterest in pushing her and her sisters into marriage, they’d been allowed to go their own way; her way had eschewed the ballrooms and salons, Almack’s, and similar gatherings of the ton at which marriageable young ladies found their spouses.
Learning how to find a husband had seemed beneath her—an enterprise well below the more meaty challenges her intellect demanded . . .
Recollections of past arrogance—of all the chances to learn the hows and wherefores of husband selection and subsequent snaring at which she’d turned up her nose—fed her aggravation. How galling to discover that her intellect, widely accepted as superior, had not forseen her present state.
The damning truth was she could recite Horace and quote Virgil by the page, yet she had no real idea how to acquire a husband.
Let alone the right one.
She refocused on the distant sea, on the sunlight winking off the waves, constantly vacillating. Just as she was, had been for the past month. That was so unlike her, so at odds with her character—always decisive, never weak or shy—her indecision grated on her temper. Her character wanted, nay demanded, a decision, a firm goal, a plan of action. Her emotions—a side of herself she’d rarely been swayed by—were far less sure. Far less inclined to jump into this latest project with her customary zeal.
She’d revisted the arguments ad infinitum; there were no further aspects to be explored. She’d walked here today determined to use the few hours before the other guests arrived and the house party got under way to formulate a plan.
Lips setting, she narrowed her eyes at the horizon, aware of resistance welling inside, of a shying away from the moment—so aggravating yet so instinctive, so powerful she had to fight to override it and push ahead . . . but she was not going to leave without a firm commitment.
Grasping the lookout’s railing, she tipped her chin high and firmly stated, “I will use every opportunity the house party provides to learn all I can and make up my mind once and for all.” That was nowhere near decisive enough; determinedly, she added, “Whoever is present of suitable age and station, I swear I will seriously consider him.”
There—at last! She’d put her next step into words. Into a solemn vow. The positive uplifting feeling that always followed on the heels of decision welled within her—
“Well, that’s heartening, I must say, although of suitable age and station for what?”
With a gasp, she whirled. For one instant, her mind boggled. Not with fear—despite the shadows in which he stood and the brightness of the day behind him, she’d recognized his voice, knew whose shoulders blocked the entrance arch.
But what in all Hades was he doing here?
His gaze sharpened—a disconcertingly acute blue gaze far too direct for politeness.
“And what haven’t you made up your mind about? That usually takes you all of two seconds.”
Calmness, decisiveness—fearlessness—returned in a rush. She narrowed her eyes. “That is none of your affair.”
He moved, deliberately slowly, taking three prowling steps to join her by the railing. She tensed. The muscles framing her spine grew rigid; her lungs locked as something within her reacted. She knew him so well, yet here, alone in the silence of the fields and sky, he seemed larger, more powerful.
More dangerous in some indefinable way.