He was aware of every pore of her body moving with his, of the complementarity, the deep and abiding link that seemed to fuse them.
That, at the last, locked them together as they reached the bright peak, senses exploding in a starburst of pleasure before tumbling headlong into bliss.
Satiation, sensual satisfaction—what he experienced with her was so much more than that. Withdrawing from her, slumping by her side, glory singing in his veins, he drew her close, locked her to him, close by his heart.
Where he needed her to be.
Inexpressible comfort flowed through him; he sank into sated dreams.
The next morning, Kitty, more accurately Catherine Glossup née Archer, was laid to rest in the Glossup family plot beside the tiny church in Ashmore village.
Everyone from the house attended, bar only the handful of servants left to prepare the wake.
As for the county, the surrounding families were represented by the patriarchs; none of their ladies attended.
Therein lay a message Portia, Simon, and Charlie could read with ease. Standing back, ready to lend an arm should Lady O or Lord Netherfield require one, they watched as the usually jocular neighbors, many of whom they’d met at Kitty’s luncheon, somberly came forward to speak with the family, to murmur condolences, then, clearly uncomfortable, walk away.
“That doesn’t look good,” Charlie murmured.
“They’re reserving judgment,” Portia replied.
“Which means they believe there’s a reasonable chance one of the Glossups . . .” Simon let his words trail away; none of them needed to hear the truth stated.
The service had been the usual sober affair, somewhat abbreviated given the circumstances and of a darker tone. As if a cloud now hovered over them all, or at least over Glossup Hall. A cloud that would only be dissipated by the unmasking of Kitty’s murderer.
When the right words had been said, all condolences offered and received, the gathering broke up. After seeing Lady O and Lord Netherfield into the carriage they were sharing, Simon handed Portia up into his curricle, followed, and took up the reins as Charlie clambered up behind; with a flick of his wrist, he set his bays in motion, stepping smartly down the lane.
Minutes went by, then Charlie swore.
Portia turned to look at him.
“Sorry.” He grimaced. “I was just recalling James’s face. And Henry’s.”
“Let alone Lord and Lady Glossup’s.” Simon’s tone was tight. “They’re all trying to put a brave face on it, yet they can see what’s coming, and there’s precious little they can
do to avoid it.”
Portia frowned. “It’s not fair. They’re not the only ones who might have murdered Kitty.”
“Given Kitty’s performance at the luncheon party, doubtless repeated, embroidered, and spread far and wide, polite society will see no reason to look further.”
Charlie swore again, this time with more feeling. “That’s just what I meant. No matter that they were the victims of Kitty’s antics in the first place, dashed if now they aren’t the victims of her murderer.”
Portia felt forced to point out, “It could be one of them.”
Charlie snorted. “And pigs might fly.”
She glanced at Simon; he kept his eyes on the road, but from the grim set of his mouth, she assumed he agreed with Charlie. Understandable, she supposed; they were such close friends of James’s, and of the family, too.
Facing forward, she thought about what she felt, not with her head but with her heart. When the gates of the Hall loomed ahead, she said, “Actually, everyone here, excepting you both and me, and the younger girls, Lady O, Lady Hammond, and Mrs. Archer, are in similar straits, even if they haven’t understood that yet.”
Charlie humphed. “If the silence over the breakfast table this morning was anything to judge by, most have realized—they’re just avoiding thinking about it.” After a moment, he added, “Not every day one attends a house party and finds oneself embroiled in murder.”
Simon drew up in the forecourt; a groom came running. Simon handed over the reins, then helped her down. The first of the other carriages was coming slowly up the drive; Simon exchanged a glance with her, then caught Charlie’s eye—the three of them moved off, taking the path into the pinetum.
Reversing the route she and Simon had walked prior to her stumbling on poor Kitty’s body . . . Portia caught herself up. Poor Kitty?
After a moment, she linked her arm in Simon’s; he glanced at her face, but said nothing. They walked slowly under the trees, Charlie trailing, equally pensive, behind them.