The Perfect Lover (Cynster 10)

Simon exchanged light comments with Annabelle Hammond, on his other side; inwardly, his mind raced. Kitty’s discretion was nonexistent; who knew when, provoked, she would blurt something out? If she did . . .

The meal drew to a close; he bided his time. The instant Portia set down her fork, he reached out and stroked a finger over her wrist.

She glanced at him, raised a brow.

“Let’s go for a walk.”

Her brows rose higher; he could see the thoughts—the speculation—whirling through her mind. Lips twisting, he clarified, “I want to talk to you.”

On the subject that, courtesy of Kitty, could no longer safely be left unbroached.

She studied his eyes, saw he was serious; curious,

she inclined her head. Lifting her napkin to her lips, she murmured, “Slipping away from the others might not be that easy.”

In that, she was correct; although the table broke up and in the main the guests scattered to spend the afternoon in various ways, Annabelle, Cecily, and Lucy clung to Portia, clearly expecting to follow her lead. Excusing himself from a billiard match with James and Charlie, Simon followed the four females out to the terrace, wondering how to lose three.

He paused in the doorway from the morning room, considering and discarding various options, then he heard stumping behind him. He turned as Lady O came up; she grasped his arm as he instinctively offered it.

She looked out at the four young ladies standing in a group by the balustrade. Shook her head. “You’ll never manage it.”

Before he could think of any suitable rejoinder, she shook his arm. “Come on—I want to go and sit in the shrubbery courtyard.” A distinctly evil grin curved her lips. “Seems like a place where one hears all sorts of things.”

Assuming she had some scheme in mind, Simon led her out. They crossed the terrace, and he helped her down the steps. When they reached the lawn, she abruptly stopped.

And turned back. Waved to the young ladies. “Portia—fetch my parasol, if you would, my dear.”

Portia had been watching them. “Yes. Of course.”

Excusing herself to the other girls, she went indoors.

Lady O turned and stumped on.

He was settling her in the shrubbery courtyard, on a wrought-iron garden seat set beneath the spreading branches of a magnolia, when Portia joined them.

She looked at the tree. “You won’t need this after all.”

“Never mind. It’s served its purpose.” Lady O took the parasol, then settled her many layers and leaned back, closing her eyes. “You may go, the pair of you.”

Simon looked at Portia; she opened her eyes wide, shrugged.

They turned.

“Incidentally,” Lady O said, “there’s another exit from this place.” They turned back. Barely opening her eyes, she pointed with her cane. “That path. From memory, it leads through the back of the rose garden to the lake.”

She closed her eyes again.

Simon looked at Portia.

Smiling, she returned to the seat, bent and kissed Lady O’s cheek. “Thank you. We’ll come back—”

“I’m perfectly able to get myself back to the house if I wish.” Cracking open both lids, she fixed them with her best basilisk stare. “You two take yourselves off—no need in the world to hurry back.”

When they didn’t immediately move, she lifted both cane and parasol and shooed them. “Go! Go!”

Smothering grins, they went.

“She’s incorrigible.”