She did laugh then, genuinely amused. Glancing back, she met Charlie’s mock-chagrined gaze. “Never mind. Doubtless it’s Ovid’s fault.”
They heard footsteps on the path. Turned, stepped apart—appearing as subtly guilty as they wished.
Simon led Lucy Buckstead up the steps.
Portia felt herself react—as if her very senses were reaching out to him, focusing on him, locking exclusively on him now he was near. Charlie had been much nearer, yet had affected her not at all; just by appearing in her vicinity, Simon made her pulse thrum.
Remembering Charlie’s earlier comment, she summoned up her most disinterested mask and fixed it firmly in place.
Lucy saw it; her smile faltered. “Oh! We didn’t mean to interrupt.”
“Indeed,” Simon drawled. “Although the discussion seemed quite fascinating. What was the subject?”
His tone was coldly censorious.
Portia looked at him with chilly disdain. “Ovid.”
His lip curled. “I might have known.”
She’d fed him the opportunity, knowing what he would do; she knew it was all a charade, yet that sneer still hurt. It was much easier than she’d expected to give him her shoulder, to reach for Charlie’s arm. “We’ve had our fill of the view. We’ll leave you to enjoy it.”
Poor Lucy was obviously uncomfortable; Charlie had maintained an easy, socially confident if watchful mien, but as they headed back to the lawn, still walking close, he blew out a long breath. Looked ahead. “I don’t know if I can do this.”
She squeezed his arm. “We have to—the alternative is worse.”
They returned to the lawn, to the terrace, to the rest of the company. Worked at, kept up, further developed their charade through the rest of the day.
After taking that first step, Portia girded her loins and forced herself to treat Simon, not just as she used to, but with even greater dismissiveness, even deeper disdain. It wasn’t easy; she couldn’t meet his eyes, kept her gaze locked on his lips, thin, hard, set in something very close to contempt.
His attitude, his coldness, his overt disapproval, helped on the one hand, and hurt, scored deeply, on the other.
Even knowing it was all pretense, the illusory world was the one they now inhabited. And in it, their behavior threatened not just her, not just him, but all that lay between them.
She reacted to that threat, perceived if not real; her heart still contracted until it ached. By the time night fell, and the household had retired, her composure, the inner shield b
etween herself and the rest of the world, felt bruised and dented.
But all members of the company had seen and, if their expressions and hints of disapproval were any guide, had believed.
That, she assured herself, as she tossed and turned on the trestle before the hearth in Lady O’s room, was what mattered.
Even Lady O had bent a cold eye on her, but, as if she knew too much to be so easily led, had made no direct comment. Just watched, eagle-eyed.
Now, across the room, she was quietly snoring.
The clocks in the house started to chime—twelve o’clock. Midnight. All others in the house were doubtless snug in their beds, sleeping soundly . . . settling on her back, she closed her eyes, and willed herself to do the same.
Couldn’t. Could not still the turmoil inside her.
It was irrational, emotional, but it felt so very real.
She dragged in a breath, felt it catch, sensed the tightness about her chest that hadn’t eased since that moment in the temple.
Stifling a curse, she tossed back the covers and rose. She’d left out her gown for the morning; she wriggled into it, laced it up well enough to pass muster, slipped on her shoes, stuffed her stockings in her pocket, cast one last glance at Lady O in the big bed, then stole to the door, eased it open, and slipped out.
Standing by the window, coatless, waistcoatless, a glass of brandy in his hand, Simon looked down into the garden, and tried not to think. Tried to still his mind. Tried to ignore the growling predator within, and all its fears. They were groundless, he knew, yet . . .
The door opened; he looked across—turned as Portia whisked in and quietly shut it.