“We’ll see you along the road,” he called to James, still supervising the ladies’ mounts. James waved. The groom holding the bays’ heads leapt back. With a flourish of his whip, Simon sent the pair sweeping out into the drive.
They didn’t talk, didn’t need to. She looked around eagerly, keen to see a part of the country she hadn’t before explored. After they left the tall trees of Cranborne Chase behind, stands of beeches occasionally lined the road as it crossed the gently undulating heathland. Simon let the bays stretch their legs, then reined them in to a gentle trot. The others, riding cross-country, caught up with them close to their destination; they rode in convoy about the curricle, chatting, exchanging quips and stories.
About them, the morning waxed glorious—blue skies above, sunshine streaming down, and a breeze fresh enough to clear the stuffiest head. The party enjoyed themselves in innocent exploration, clambering up and about the three rings of defensive earthworks surrounding the old fort. Everyone was so relieved by the respite from the snarled tensions at the Hall, each and every one went out of their way to be gracious and charming—even Oswald and Swanston.
Throughout, Portia was aware of Simon watching her—watching over her. She was used to such attention from him; previously, it had invariably pricked her temper. Today . . . while she strolled beside Winifred and Lucy, lifting her face to the breeze blowing from the distant sea, even though he wasn’t near, she still felt his gaze, and, to her surprise, felt . . . cared for. Cherished.
There was something quite different in how he watched her now.
Intrigued, she stopped walking, let the others go ahead, then turned and looked across to where he stood, idly listening to Charlie and James arguing. Across the green dip between two of the rings, he met her gaze, then, taking his hands from his pockets, he left the others and walked to join her.
As he neared, he searched her face. He stopped beside her, holding her gaze, screening her from the others. “Are you all right?”
For one instant, she didn’t answer, too busy reading—savoring—the expression in his eyes. Not his face, that was set in its usual arrogantly austere lines, but his eyes were softer, his concern quite different—of a different nature—to what it had been in years past.
The sight warmed her. From her heart outward, like a sudden upwelling of joy.
She smiled, inclined her head. “Yes. Perfectly.”
A cry reached them—they looked across to where Oswald and Swanston had engaged in mock-battle for the entertainment of the Hammond sisters. Her smile deepening, she put her hand on Simon’s arm. “Come—walk with me.”
He did, keeping by her side as they ambled. Words were superfluous; not even glances were needed to maintain the connection.
Her gaze on the horizon, Portia sensed that connection’s shimmering touch, felt her heart swell as if to accommodate it. Was this what happened? That somehow a link grew between two people—a channel of understanding independent of all things physical?
Whatever it was, it felt special, precious. She glanced at him briefly, too wise to imagine he didn’t sense it, too. He didn’t seem to be fighting it, or denying it; she wondered what he truly thought.
After an hour of simple pleasures, in complete and relaxed accord, they reluctantly returned to the horses and curricle and headed back to the Hall.
They returned just in time for luncheon, just in time to be treated to another petulant performance by Kitty. The lighter mood the morning had engendered rapidly dissipated.
The seating was not specified at luncheon; Simon claimed the chair beside Portia, sat, ate, and watched. Most of the company did the same; if Kitty had possessed the slightest sensibility, she would have noticed the distancing, the guardedness, and muted her behavior accordingly.
Instead, she seemed in the oddest mood, pouting, threatening to sulk over the news of their morning’s outing on the one hand, on the other brittlely excited, eyes alight with almost frenetic anticipation—an expectation of something desperately significant no one else knew of.
“Why, we’ve been to the Rings many times before, dear,” Mrs. Archer reminded Kitty. “I declare it would be quite fatiguing to have to see them again.”
“Indeed,” Kitty averred, “but I—”
“Naturally,” Mrs. Buckstead joined in, smiling benignly down the table at her daughter and the Hammond girls, “the younger ones need to get out in the fresh air.”
Kitty glared at her. “Winifred—”
“And, of course, once one’s married, gadding about on morning adventures does lose its appeal.” Unperturbed, Mrs. Buckstead helped herself to more iced asparagus.
For one instant, Kitty was dumbfounded, then her gaze swung down the table. To Portia. Unaware, Portia continued eating, her gaze lowered, a faint but definite smile—a gentle, abstracted, in many ways revealing smile—curving her lips.
Eyes narrowing, Kitty opened her mouth—
Simon reached out, picked up his glass. Kitty glanced at him—he caught her gaze. Held it as he sipped, then slowly lowered his glass to rest it on the table.
Let Kitty read in his eyes what he would do if she dared vent her jealousy on Portia—if she made the slightest allusion to the morning adventures she suspected he and Portia had enjoyed.
For an instant, Kitty teetered on the brink, then sanity seemed to reassert itself; she drew breath and looked down at her plate.
Elsewhere about the table, Mr. Archer, to all appearances oblivious of his younger daughter’s shortcomings, continued a discussion with Mr. Buckstead; Lord Glossup was talking to Ambrose, while Lady O chatted to Lady Glossup with superb disregard for all else about her.
Gradually, with Kitty sunk in silence, other conversations commenced, Lady Calvin claiming James’s and Charlie’s attention, Desmond and Winifred trying to draw out Drusilla.