The Perfect Lover (Cynster 10)

The conversation remained stilted. Kitty continued to play the martyr; Lady Glossup was at a loss to know how to deal with her, and Mrs. Archer, all but visibly wringing her hands, starting every time anyone directed a remark her way, was no use at all.

It soon became apparent that, far from coming to rescue them, the gentlemen had decided to leave them to their fate. And Kitty.

It was difficult to blame them; if the ladies—including Lady O, who sat openly frowning at Kitty—could not fathom what was going on, the men must be completely at sea.

Accepting the inevitable with true grace, Lady Glossup called for the tea trolley. They all remained just long enough to do justice to one cup, then rose and retired.

After seeing Lady O to her room, Portia retreated to her own chamber, high in the east wing. The window overlooked the gardens; she paced before it, frowning at the floor, oblivious of the silvered view.

She’d told Simon she believed that Kitty did not understand or value trust; she’d been speaking of trust between two people, but the performance they’d just witnessed had confirmed her view, albeit in a different context.

They all felt—they’d all reacted—as if Kitty had broken a social trust, that she’d betrayed them by refusing to follow any of the patterns they recognized. The patterns of social commerce, of civility, the underlying structure of how they related one to the other.

Their reaction had been quite profound, the gentlemen’s refusal to return to the drawing room a very definite statement.

An emotional statement—indeed, they’d all reacted emotionally, instinctively, deeply disturbed by Kitty’s breaking the social code they all held in common.

Portia stopped, stared out at the darkened gardens, but didn’t trul

y see them.

Trust and emotion were closely linked. One led to the other; if one was prodded, the other responded.

Frowning, she sat on the window seat; after a moment, she crossed her forearms on the sill and rested her chin upon them.

Kitty wanted love. In her heart, Portia knew that was so. Kitty was searching for that which so many other ladies looked for, but in Kitty’s case, with her unrealistic expectations, love was no doubt highly colored, a passionate, overpowering emotion that rose up and swept one away.

Unless she missed her guess, Kitty subscribed to the idea that passion came first, that highly charged physical intimacy was the path, the gateway to deep and meaningful emotional attachment. Presumably she believed that if the passion was not sufficiently intense, then the love she imagined would ultimately arise from it would not be sufficiently powerful—powerful enough to hold her interest, to satisfy her craving.

That would explain why she did not value Henry’s gentle devotion, why she seemed bent on raising an illicit and powerful lust in some other man.

Portia grimaced.

Kitty was wrong.

If only she could explain it to her . . .

Impossible, of course. Kitty would never take advice from an unmarried, virginal, near-apeleader-cum-bluestocking on the subject of love and how to secure it.

A soft breeze wafted through the window, stirring the heavy air. It was silent outside, dark but not black, cooler than indoors.

Portia rose, shook out her skirts, and headed for the door. She couldn’t sleep yet; the atmosphere in the house was oppressive, uncertain, not at peace. A walk in the gardens would calm her, let her thoughts settle.

The morning room doors were still open to the terrace; she walked through and out, into the welcome softness of the night. The scents of the summer garden wreathed around her as she strolled toward the lake; night stock, jasmine, and heavier perfumes mingled and teased her senses.

Moving through the shadows, she glimpsed a man—one of the gentlemen—standing on the lawns not far from the house. He was looking out into the darkness, apparently lost in thought. The path to the lake took her nearer; she recognized Ambrose, but he gave no sign of noticing her.

She was in no mood for polite conversation; she was sure Ambrose wasn’t either. Keeping to the shadows, she left him to his thoughts.

A little farther on, while crossing one of the many intersecting paths, she glanced to her right, and saw the young gypsy-cum-gardener—Dennis, she’d heard Lady Glossup call him—standing absolutely still in the shadows along the minor path.

She continued on without pause, sure Dennis hadn’t seen her. As before when she and Simon had seen him, his attention was focused on the private wing of the house. Presumably, he’d retreated deeper into the gardens because of Ambrose’s presence.

Quelling a frown, she pushed the matter from her mind; it left a lingering distaste. She didn’t want to dwell on what Dennis’s nocturnal vigil might mean.

The idea naturally brought Kitty to mind—she bundled her out of her thoughts, too. What had she been thinking about before?

Trust, emotion, and passion.