The Perfect Lover (Cynster 10)

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.