The Perfect Lover (Cynster 10)

> Simon looked at her, a long, considering glance, then gave James his hand. “Ask for my opinion in three months.”

James laughed, shook his hand. “I suspect I’ll know your opinion somewhat earlier than that.”

Simon shook Charlie’s hand, then climbed up beside her. He flicked the reins the instant they were settled; with smiles and waves, they were off.

She sat back, and wondered. Her box and bandbox were strapped behind and Wilks had been dispatched with Lady O. There was, of course, nothing the least noteworthy in Simon driving her up to town, nothing the least scandalous in driving in an open carriage alone. They were following Lady O, in whose care she was. All perfectly aboveboard.

Except that he and she were not heading directly to London, but by way of somewhere else. Where she couldn’t imagine, let alone why.

Even though she’d expected not to head for town, she was nevertheless surprised when, on reaching the main gate and the lane, Simon turned his horses west, away from Ashmore.

“The west country?” She racked her brains. “Gabriel and Alathea? Or Lucifer and Phyllida?”

Simon grinned, shook his head. “You don’t know the place—you’ve never been there. I haven’t been there in years.”

“Will we reach there tonight?”

“In a few hours.”

She sat back and watched the hedgerows slide by. Realized the feeling enfolding her was contentment. Even though she didn’t have a clue where he was taking her.

A smile threatened; she suppressed it. Knew if he saw it he’d ask for an explanation; although she could make a good attempt, now was neither the time nor place.

The simple truth was, with no other man could she imagine being in such a situation and simply accepting it with such inner serenity.

She let her gaze drift to his face, watched for a while, then looked forward before he felt her gaze. She trusted him. Absolutely. Not just physically, although between them, in that arena, the truth was now clear—she was his, but he was also hers, and, it seemed, always had been—she also trusted him in all other spheres.

She trusted his strength—that he would never use it against her, but that it would be there, always, whenever she needed its protection. She trusted his loyalty, his will—most importantly, she trusted his heart.

Knew, in her own, that in the vulnerability he’d embraced, faced, and let her see, accepted that she had to see, lay a guarantee to last a lifetime.

Love. The wellspring of trust, the ultimate cornerstone for marriage.

Trust, strength, security—and love.

She, and he, had it all.

All they needed to go on with.

Wherever he was taking her.

Settling back, she faced forward, willing to follow the road before them wherever it led.

It led to the town of Queen Charlton in Somerset, and ultimately to a house called Risby Grange. Simon stopped in the village and took a large room at the inn. Portia made sure she kept her gloves on all the time, but detected no hint that the innwife suspected they were not man and wife.

Perhaps Charlie was right, and the underlying truth showed, regardless of the existence of formalities.

Leaving their bags at the inn, they followed a winding lane, and in midafternoon drove in through the arched gatehouse of Risby Grange.

Simon halted the horses just inside the gatehouse. Before them, sprawled across the crest of the gently rising lawns, the house lay basking in the sunshine, its pale grey stone half-covered with creeper, mullioned windows winking below crenellated battlements.

The house was old, solid, well-kept, but appeared to be deserted.

“Who lives here?” she asked.

“At present, no one other than a caretaker.” Simon set the bays trotting up the drive. “I doubt he’ll be around. I’ve got a key.”

She looked at him, waiting, but he said no more. Reaching the court before the shallow steps leading up to the front door, he turned the horses onto the adjacent lawn. They both jumped down; after tying the reins to a tree and checking the curricle’s brake, he took her hand and they crossed the graveled court, climbed the steps.