There was no laughter or smiles left to lighten the mood. No one suggested music. The ladies conversed quietly in somber tones, talking of inconsequential things—faraway things, things that didn’t matter.
When, with Lord Netherfield and Lord Glossup, he rejoined the ladies, Simon sought out Portia, and led her out onto the terrace. Out of the heavy, brooding atmosphere, outside where they could breathe a little easier and talk freely.
Not that outside was all that much better; the air was heavy and sultry, just beginning to stir as another storm blew in.
Releasing his arm, Portia walked to the balustrade; leaning both hands on it, she looked out over the lawn. “Why kill Dennis?”
He’d halted in the middle of the flags; he stayed where he was, giving her some space. “Presumably for the same reason he had a try at you. Dennis wasn’t so lucky.”
“But if Dennis had known anything, why didn’t he say something? Stokes questioned him, didn’t he?”
“Yes. And he might have said something, only to the wrong person.”
She turned, frowning. “What do you mean?”
He grimaced. “When Stokes went to tell the gypsies, one of the women said Dennis had been brooding over something. He wouldn’t say what—the woman thought it was something he’d seen on his way back from the house after he’d learned of Kitty’s death.”
She turned away, facing the deepening shadows. “I’ve thought and thought, but I still can’t remember . . .”
He waited. When she said nothing more, he shifted back; hands in his pockets, he leaned his shoulders against the wall. And watched the night slowly wash over the trees and lawns, wash over them as the last of the light faded.
Watched her, and quelled the welling urge to corral her, to somehow claim her, seal her off in some tower away from the world and all possible harm. The feeling was familiar, yet so much stronger than it had been before. Before he had realized all she truly was.
The wind rose, bringing with it the scent of rain. She seemed content, as was he, simply to stand and let the peace of the night restore their own.
He’d followed her that morning, stepping off the terrace obediently twenty yards in her wake, wondering what she intended to think about. He’d thought himself—had wished for the ability, at any time, to stop her thinking about them at all.
When she did . . . it worried him, bothered him. The prospect that she would think too much about their relationship, and convince herself it was too dangerous, too threatening to pursue, frightened him.
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A telling fear, a revealing vulnerability.
He knew that, too.
Finally, perhaps, was close to understanding it.
She’d always been “the one”—the only female who effortlessly impinged on his consciousness, and on his senses, simply by existing. He’d always known she was in some way special to him, but being acquainted from the first with her attitude to men, men like him in particular, he’d hidden the truth away, refused to acknowledge what it was. What it might grow—had grown—to be.
He no longer had the option of denying it. The past days had stripped away all the veils, all his careful screens. Leaving what he felt for her starkly revealed, at least to him.
She hadn’t seen it yet, but she would.
And what she would do then, what she would decide then . . .
He focused on her, standing slender and straight by the balustrade. Felt the welling urge to simply seize her and be damned, to give up all pretense of letting her come to her own decision, to come to him of her own accord, rise up and flow through him, fed and strengthened by the latest dangers . . . yet he knew the first step he took in that direction would be like a slap in the face to her.
She’d stop trusting him, step back.
And he’d lose her.
The rising wind set the ends of her hair dancing. It felt fresh, cooler; the rain was not far away.
He pushed away from the wall, stepped toward her—
Heard a grating sound high above. Looked up.
Saw a shadow detach from the roof high above.