Passing under the green archway, she strolled into the hedged walk; she’d reached the same spot as in her earlier foray when the old saw that theory frequently did not predict practice was proven.
“You witless child! Of course the babe’s Henry’s. You cannot be so foolish as to suggest anything else.”
Mrs. Archer, one step away from hysteria.
“It’s not me who’s foolish.” Kitty’s voice lashed. “And I won’t have it, I tell you! But you needn’t worry. I know who the father is. It’s simply a matter of persuading him to see things my way, then all will be well.”
Silence greeted that, then Mrs. Archer—Portia could almost hear her dragging in a deep breath—asked, her voice quavering, “Your way. Things always have to be your way. But what way is that?”
Portia wanted to turn and leave, but she understood precisely what Mrs. Archer was asking, what she feared. The matter lay too close to Portia’s heart not to know . . .
“I told you before.” Kitty’s voice strengthened. “I want excitement. I want thrills! I won’t simply sit by and have a baby—swell up and grow ugly—”
“You’re a fool!” Mrs. Archer sounded distraught. “You married Henry—you wanted to—”
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“Only because you told me I would be a lady and have everything I want—”
“But not this! Not like this. You can’t—”
“I can!”
Portia swung on her heel and stalked away, her footfalls muffled by the thick grass. Her emotions were roiling, she couldn’t think—didn’t want to think about what Kitty intended. She walked fast, furiously, her skirts swishing, her gaze locked on the lawn before her.
She walked into Simon.
He caught her, steadied her, looked into her face, looked over her head toward the shrubbery. “What happened?”
One glance at his face, at the rocklike planes, the feel of the tensing muscles under his sleeve, had her gulping in a breath, quickly shaking her head. “I need to get out of here. At least for an hour or two.”
He studied her face. “We can walk to the lookout.”
“Yes.” She hauled in another breath. “Let’s.”
They walked side by side across the gardens, then on via the path through the woods. She didn’t take Simon’s arm, he didn’t offer it, yet despite the lack of touch, she was very much aware he was with her. Beside her, not crowding her. Given the turmoil her temper was in, she appreciated the fact and was grateful.
He, of course, was the last person she’d actually wanted to meet, given the subject she wanted—needed—to think about. To dissect, examine, ultimately to understand. Given the nature of that subject, given he was so intimately involved, literally as well as figuratively, she’d expected to feel some degree of . . . not shyness, but uncertainty when alone with him. When close to him.
Instead, all she’d felt, still felt, was safe, both now and throughout the day. Not necessarily completely comfortable, but assuredly not trepidatious. She was absolutely certain he would always behave predictably, that he, all he was, would never change; he would never be, could never be, the source of any threat to her.
Not physically. Emotionally might be a different tale.
Mentally grimacing, she kept her eyes down and walked steadily on. Aware of him prowling beside her.
Aware she drew comfort from his presence.
It was Kitty and her doings that had once again distracted her, this time disturbing her in a more profound way. In response, it was doubtless only natural to draw close to those she understood and trusted. Like Lady O.
Like Simon.
They emerged onto the side of the ridge, a stretch of path where the wood fell back and the winds blew up from the distant sea. A breath of freshness reached them, the first stirrings of the storm still far away. The waft of cooler air lifted the curls from her nape, sent others dancing about her face.
She halted, tucking the wayward strands back, lifting her face to the faint breeze.
Simon stopped by her shoulder, raised his head, looked out over the fields to the black clouds roiling on the distant horizon. Then he let his gaze swing back to Portia’s face.
He hadn’t been surprised to find her in the gardens. Any other lady would have been resting, recuperating from the exertions of the day. Not Portia.