The Perfect Lover (Cynster 10)

She blinked, then said, “Dennis—the gardener—was there when I came out.”

He grimaced, and waved her up the stairs. When they stepped into the gallery, he murmured, “His fixation’s unhealthy. I’ll mention it to James.”

Portia nodded. It was on the tip of her tongue to mention she’d seen Ambrose, too, but he hadn’t been there when they’d returned. No reason for Simon to mention him, too.

They’d reached her room; she tugged and Simon stopped. She indicated the door with her head.

Simon glanced at it, then shifted his hold, twined his fingers with hers and lifted her hand to his lips. “Sleep well.”

She met his hooded gaze, then stepped close, stretched up, and touched her lips to his. “And you.”

Sliding her hand from his, she opened the door and slipped through, closing it softly behind her.

A full minute passed before she heard him walk away.

Realizing just how real, how physical, Simon’s desire for her was had definitely been something of a shock. A bigger, more eye-opening shock than all else she’d learned thus far.

It was also a temptation, a bigger temptation than all else put together, to go forward and learn what lay beyond, what, for them, was the emotion compelling them to intimacy. The emotion that, with every look, every shared moment, seemed to grow stronger, more definite.

More real.

That was somewhat shocking, too.

Portia halted on the terrace and looked about. After breakfasting with Lady O, she’d left her to dress and grasped the moment to herself—to stroll and think.

After what had transpired last night in the summerhouse, thinking ranked high on her list of things to do.

Traces of dew still remained on the grass, but wouldn’t last long. The sun was already beaming down; it was going to be another warm day. The house party was decamping, taking a long drive through Cranborne Chase, then lunching at an inn before returning. Everyone was hoping a day away from the Hall would lift the atmosphere and bury the memories of yesterday.

The shrubbery was one area she’d yet to explore; stepping down from the terrace, she headed for the archway cut into the first hedge. Like all the regions of the Glossup Hall gardens, the shrubbery was extensive, yet she’d wandered only a little way when she heard voices.

She slowed.

“Don’t you find the question of its paternity quite tantalizing?”

Paternity? Shock rooted Portia to the spot. It was Kitty who’d spoken.

“I really don’t feel it’s incumbent on me to guess. No doubt you’ll reveal all when you’re ready.”

Winifred. The sisters were on the other side of the hedge from Portia. The green-walled path in which she stood turned farther along; presumably there was a courtyard of some sort, with a fountain or pool.

“Oh, I think you’ll be interested in this. It touches so close, you see.”

Kitty’s tone was that of a vindictive child hugging a particularly obnoxious secret to her bosom, biding her time, keen to make most misery; it was plain who she wished Winifred to imagine was the father of her child.

There was a rustle and swish of skirts, then Winifred spoke again. “You know, my dear, there are times when I look at you and can only wonder if Mama played Papa for a fool.”

The contempt in the words was all the more powerful because they were uttered in Winifred’s soft voice. Worse, there was something else there, edging the contempt, that was even less pleasant.

“And now,” Winifred said, “if you’ll excuse me, I must get ready for the drive. Desmond’s taking me up in his curricle.”

Portia turned and walked quickly out of the shrubbery. She swung into the rose garden; sniffing the large blooms, she waited, one eye on the lawn, until she saw Winifred walk past and go into the house. When Kitty did not immediately appear, Portia started for the house herself.

Glancing back across the lawn at the shrubbery, she caught a glimpse of Dennis, weeding a bed at the foot of a hedge, one of the hedges that must enclose the shrubbery courtyard. He glanced her way; there were dark circles under his eyes.

Small wonder. Portia climbed to the terrace and entered the house.

She’d promised to return and help Lady O downstairs; when she reached her room, Lady O was ready, sitting waiting in the armchair by the hearth. One look at Portia’s face and she waved the maid away. The instant the door shut, she demanded, “Right, then! Let’s have your report.”