Even though he’d intended to goad her into it, it still shocked. Stung.
“You’re nothing but an insensitive clod.” Her voice wavered with genuine passion; her breasts swelled as she drew breath. “Why I bothered with you . . . I can’t believe I wasted my time! I never want to see you or speak to—”
“If we never exchange another word in this lifetime, it will still be too soon for me.”
She held his gaze. Between them, around them, temper—both his and hers—swirled, touching but not investing, coloring but not truly driving. They were still acting, but . . .
Dragging in a shaky breath, she drew herself up and looked down her nose at him. “I have nothing more to say to you. I don’t wish to set eyes on you again—not ever!”
He felt his jaw clench. “That’s one thing I’ll be happy to promise.” He ground out the words, capped them with, “If you’ll do the same?”
“That will be a pleasure. Good-bye!”
She spun on her heel and stormed off down the terrace. The tempo of her steps echoed, a clear indication of h
er state.
He hauled in a breath, held it—desperately fought the urge to follow her. Knew the moon cast his shadow back along the terrace, that anyone watching from the drawing room would know she’d gone off alone—that he wasn’t following her.
She reached the lawns and headed straight for the lake path.
Swinging around, he strode back up the terrace, past the drawing room doors, ajar as he’d left them; without a glance to left or right, he headed for the stables.
Prayed he’d have time to circle around and join her before the murderer did.
Portia strode rapidly across the lawn and on toward the lake. She’d imagined doing so eagerly if anxiously; the tumult of emotions roiling inside her made it easy to appear overset.
Cocktease? That hadn’t been in the script they’d rehearsed. Nor had her slapping him. He’d done it deliberately; she could, perhaps, understand why, but she wasn’t going to forgive him easily. In the heat of the moment, the accusation had hurt.
She could feel her cheeks still flaming; as she walked, she put her hands to her face, trying to cool the burning.
Tried, desperately, to get her mind back on track—to focus on why she was here, why they’d had to stage that horrible fight.
Stokes had pointed out that the murderer would only approach her if he thought she was alone—alone in a suitable environment in which he could murder her and escape undetected. No one would readily believe she’d be witless enough to go wandering in the gardens alone in the gathering twilight—not unless she had a damned good reason.
Even more, no one would believe Simon would allow her to do so—not unless he had a damned good reason. Not unless, as Charlie had remarked, something cataclysmic had happened to stop him watching over her.
Apparently his habit, one admittedly he’d never concealed, had been widely noted.
Until Charlie had mentioned it, she’d never really thought of how Simon’s behavior must have, over all the years, appeared to others . . .
Wondered how, knowing what she now did, she’d managed to be so blind.
Remembered with a start that she should keep her eyes peeled for the murderer. If they’d succeeded, he’d be on his way down to find her.
Her liking for the lake path was, so Stokes and Charlie had averred, also well-known, but they’d chosen that venue for other reasons; the path was completely visible all the way around—easy for Stokes and Charlie to hide here and there and watch over her. Simon would join them, of course, but to avoid scuppering their plan, he had to go all the way to the stables before circling back.
Blenkinsop was also on watch, the only other person in their confidence. Simon had wished to seed the gardens with footmen, standing like statues in the shadows; only the argument that the murderer was bound to come across one while following Portia, and thus get the wind up and after all their hard work not appear, had changed his mind.
But Blenkinsop was trustworthy and, like all good servants, next to invisible. He’d keep watch from the house and follow whichever gentleman set out for the lake.
She reached the edge of the main lawn and headed down the first slope toward the lake. Raising her head, she scanned the skies, drew in a breath.
The weather was the only thing that, thus far, had not gone their way. Clouds had blown up, ragged and dark, not quite preempting the sunset but deepening the twilight.
She strode along as if furiously angry, not inwardly calmly expectant as she’d expected to be, but with her nerves jumping, twitching at every sound. The emotions stirred by their argument had yet to settle; roused, uncertain, they left her uneasy.
They’d presumed that, walking quickly, she’d easily reach the lake before the murderer . . . she hoped they hadn’t overlooked some minor detail—like the murderer’s having already been out, strolling the gardens and thus being much closer—