Being this close, trapped in his arms, made her feel . . . among other things, light-headed.
He slowed; she refocused.
With a flourish, he set her on the curricle’s seat.
Startled, she grasped the railings, out of habit drawing her skirts close so he could sit beside her—noting the equally startled face of Wilks, his groom.
“Ah . . . afternoon, Miss Portia.” Wide-eyed, Wilks bobbed as he handed the reins to Simon.
Wilks had to have witnessed the entire performance; he was waiting for her to explode, or at least say something cutting.
And he wasn’t the only one.
She smiled with perfect equanimity. “Good afternoon, Wilks.”
Wilks blinked, nodded warily, then hurried back to his place.
Simon glanced at her as he climbed up beside her. As if expecting her to bite. Or at the very least snarl.
He wouldn’t have believed a sweet smile, so she faced forward, serenely composed, as if her joining him in the curricle had been her idea. His suspicious glance was worth every tithe of the effort such sunny compliance cost her.
The curricle jerked, then rolled forward. The instant he had his bays bowling along, she asked, “How are your parents?”
A pause greeted that, but then he replied.
She nodded and launched into an account of her family, all of whom he knew, describing their health, their whereabouts, their latest interests. As if he’d asked, she continued, “I came down with Lady O.” For years, that had been their shorthand for Lady Osbaldestone, a connection of the Cynsters’ and an old friend of her family’s, an ancient beldame who terrorized half the ton. “She spent the last weeks at the Chase, and then had to travel down here. She’s an old friend of Lord Netherfield, did you know?” Viscount Netherfield was Lord Glossup’s father and was presently visiting at Glossup Hall.
Simon was frowning. “No.”
Portia smiled quite genuinely; she was fond of Lady O, but Simon, in company with most gentlemen of his ilk, found her perspicaciousness somewhat scarifying. “Luc insisted she shouldn’t cross half the country alone, so I offered to come, too. The others who’ve arrived so far . . .” She rattled on, acquainting him with those present and those yet to arrive, precisely as any friendly, well-bred young lady might.
The suspicion in his eyes grew more and more pronounced.
Then the gates of Glossup Hall appeared, set wide in welcome. Simon turned the bays in and set them pacing up the drive.
The Hall was a sprawling country house built in Elizabethan times. Its typical redbrick facade faced south and boasted three stories with east and west wings set perpe
ndicular to it. The central wing housing the ballroom and conservatory made up the middle stroke of the E. As they neared, sunlight glanced off the rows of mullioned windows and glowed on the tall chimneys with their ornate pots.
By the time he swung the bays into the circular forecourt, Simon felt thoroughly disconcerted. Not a common feeling, not for him; there wasn’t much in tonnish life that could throw him off-balance.
Other than Portia.
If she’d railed at him, used her sharp tongue to its usual effect, all would have been normal. He wouldn’t have enjoyed the encounter, but neither would he have felt this sudden disorientation.
Rack his brains though he might, he couldn’t recall her ever behaving toward him with such . . . feminine softness was the description that sprang to mind. She was usually well armored and prickly; today, she’d apparently left her shield and spears behind.
The result was . . .
He reined in the bays, pulled on the brake, tossed the ribbons to Wilks, and stepped down.
Portia waited for him to come around the carriage and hand her down; he watched, expecting her to leap down in her usual, independent, don’t-need-you way. Instead, when he offered his hand, she placed her slim fingers across his palm and let him assist her to alight with stunning grace.
She looked up and smiled when he released her. “Thank you.” Her smile deepened; her eyes held his. “You were right. My foot is in an unquestionably better state than it otherwise would have been.”
Her expression one of ineffable sweetness, she inclined her head and turned away. Her eyes were so dark he hadn’t been able to tell if the twinkle he’d thought he’d seen in them was real, or merely a trick of the light.
He stood in the forecourt, grooms and footmen darting around him, and watched as she glided into the house. Without a single glance back, she disappeared into the shadows beyond the open front door.