The Perfect Lover (Cynster 10)

They watched as, with some argument and many weak smiles, she succeeded in extricating her daughter. Arm in arm, she marched Kitty back to the main lawn, where the majority of guests had remained.

The officers and gentlemen re-formed into groups and continued to talk. Simon led Portia on.

They met and conversed with a number of other couples strolling in the opposite direction. Finally regaining the main lawn, they stepped into the still-considerable throng, and immediately heard Kitty.

“Oh, thank you! That’s exactly what I need.” She hiccupped. “I’m so very thirsty!”

To their right, the young gardener, roped in to help as a waiter, stood by the hedge bearing a salver with glasses of champagne. In his borrowed black clothes, tall and rather gangly, with his shock of black hair and dark eyes, he possessed a certain dramatic handsomeness.

Kitty certainly thought so; standing before him, she ogled him blatantly over the rim of the glass she was draining.

Portia had seen, and heard, enough; her hand on Simon’s arm, she pushed—he moved as she wished and they strolled away into the crowd.

They spent the next twenty minutes in blissfully pleasant conversation, meeting with Charlie, then later the Hammond girls, both flown with success and happiness over the youthful swains they’d met. Chattering, teasing, they’d all relaxed, imbued with good feelings, when a stir by the terrace steps had them turning, looking.

Along with all about them.

What they saw transfixed them.

At the bottom of the steps, Ambrose Calvin stood with Kitty draped upon him. She’d wound her arms about his neck; her face, uptilted to his, was filled with laughing, openly sensual delight.

No one could make out what she was saying—she was attempting to whisper, yet the words were loud, slurred, her tongu

e tripping.

She dragged heavily on Ambrose while he, rigid and pale, fought to put her from him.

All talking stopped. Everyone simply stared.

Absolute silence descended. All movement ceased.

Then a guffaw, quickly smothered, shattered the frozen tableau. Drusilla Calvin left the crowd; coming up behind Kitty, a much smaller woman, she reached around and grabbed her arms, aiding her brother to free himself.

The instant he did, Lady Hammond and Mrs. Buckstead swooped on the trio; all sight of Kitty was lost in the ensuing melee. There were calls for cold water and orders flung at the staff; it quickly became clear they were saying Kitty was ill and had been taken faint.

Portia met Simon’s eyes, then turned her back on the fracas and engaged the Hammond sisters, picking up their comments where they’d broken off. The girls, although momentarily distracted, were too well-bred not to follow her lead. Simon and Charlie did the same.

Everyone tried not to look at the group by the terrace, now swollen by Lord and Lady Glossup, Henry, and Lady Osbaldestone and Lord Netherfield. Lady Calvin had sailed up, too. Heads turned again as Kitty, a drooping little figure, was helped inside, supported by Lady Glossup and Mrs. Buckstead with Mrs. Archer, fluttering ineffectually, bringing up the rear.

At the base of the steps, those who hadn’t gone in exchanged glances, then turned and, easy smiles on their faces, returned to their conversations in the crowd.

There was no denying the awkwardness, no dispelling the questions raised, ones of impropriety if not outright scandal. Nevertheless . . .

Lady O stumped up, her lined face relaxed, no hint in her eyes or her bearing that anything untoward had occurred.

Cecily Hammond, greatly daring, asked, “Is Kitty all right?”

“Silly female’s taken ill—no doubt extended herself too far organizing today. Excitement, too, I don’t doubt. Had a dizzy spell—the heat wouldn’t have helped. No doubt she’ll recover, just needs to lie down for a spell. Young married lady, after all. She ought to have more sense.”

Lady O smiled brightly into Portia’s eyes, then her gaze passed on to both Simon and Charlie.

They all understood—that was the tale they were to spread.

The Hammond sisters didn’t need to have it explained. When Portia suggested they should part and mingle, Cecily and Annabelle were perfectly ready to flutter off like butterfiles and spread the word. Charlie went one way, Portia and Simon another. They exchanged a glance, then dutifully set themselves to do what they could to help smooth things over.

The other houseguests were doing the same; Lady Glossup took charge of the arrangements and sent the footmen into the crowd bearing ices, sorbets, and cakes.

All in all, they were moderately successful. The rest of the afternoon—the following hour or so—passed in reasonably comfortable style. That, however, was all on the surface, in the faces people showed to the world. Underneath . . . significant glances were exchanged between friends, although no one was so outré as to put their thoughts into words.