The Perfect Lover (Cynster 10)

Movement across the room caught her eye; Kitty entered and paused, surveying the company. Henry detached himself from a group and crossed to her side. He spoke to her quietly, head lowered, clearly a private word.

Kitty stiffened; her head rose. She threw Henry a look of dismissive affront, then replied very shortly, gave him her shoulder, and, with an expression perilously close to a truculent pout, all but flounced off to speak with Ambrose and Drusilla Calvin.

Henry watched Kitty go. His features were tight, controlled, closed, yet the underlying impression was one of pain.

Clearly all was not well on that front.

Portia returned to the conversation still bubbling about her. Annabelle turned to her, eyes eager and wide. “Have you visited there yet?”

She’d obviously missed something; she glanced at Simon.

His eyes met hers; his brows quirked, but he consented to save her. “Portia hasn’t visited here before—she’s as new to the delights of the Hall as you both. As for the temple . . .” His gaze returned to Portia’s face. “I must admit I prefer the summerhouse by the lake. Perhaps a touch too private for some, but the quietness over the water’s soothing.”

“We must be sure to walk that way.” Cecily was busy making plans. “And I hear there’s a lookout, too, somewhere nearby?”

“I’ve walked there.” Refusing to meet Simon’s eye, Portia did her bit to slake the Hammond girls’ thirst for information.

That topic absorbed them until dinner was announced. Once seated at the long table, mindful of her vow, Portia turned her attention to reconnoitering the field.

Whoever is present of suitable age and station, I swear I will seriously consider him.

So whom was she considering? All the males about the table were, at least theoretically, of suitable station, else they wouldn’t be present. Some were married and thus easily eliminated; of those left, some she knew better than others.

As they ate and talked, while she attended this discussion, then that, she let her gaze roam, noting each head, acknowledging each possibility.

Her gaze came to rest on Simon, seated across the table two places down. He was struggling to make conversation with Drusilla, who seemed peculiarly reserved, severe, but uncomfortable too. Portia inwardly frowned; regardless of their frequent disagreements, she knew Simon’s manners were polished to a high gloss and would never be at fault in a soci

al situation. Whatever the problem, it lay with Drusilla.

There was a lull in the chatter around her; her gaze remained on Simon, noting the glimmer of gold in his hair, his long, elegant fingers curving about his wineglass, the resigned set of his lips as he sat back, leaving Drusilla to herself.

She’d been staring too long; he felt her gaze.

In the instant before he looked her way, she looked down, calmly helping herself to more vegetables, then turning to Mr. Buckstead beside her.

Only when she felt Simon’s gaze shift from her did she breathe freely again.

Only then realized how odd was her reaction.

Whoever is present of suitable age and station . . .

By the time the ladies rose and departed for the drawing room, leaving the gentlemen to their port, she’d mentally inked three names onto her list. The house party was clearly destined to be a trial, a testing ground on which she could develop her husband-selection skills; none of the gentlemen present were the sort she could imagine entrusting with her hand, but as specimens on which to practice, they would do very well.

James Glossup and Charlie Hastings were exactly the sort of gentlemen whose attributes she needed to learn to weigh.

As for Simon, just because she’d known him all her life, just because they’d spent the last decade irritating each other—just because she would never have thought to put him on her list if she hadn’t made her vow in those precise terms without knowing he’d be present—none of that was reason enough to close her eyes to his marriageable qualities.

Qualities she needed to learn to assess and evaluate.

Indeed, sweeping into the drawing room behind Lady O, it occurred to her that, Cynster that he was, Simon’s marriageable qualities might well provide the benchmarks against which she measured all others.

It was a discomposing thought.

Luckily, as the gentlemen weren’t present, she could put it from her mind and allow herself to be distracted by the chatter of the Hammond girls and Lucy Buckstead.

Later, when the gentlemen returned and conversations became more general, she found herself in a group with Winifred Archer and Desmond Winfield. Both were pleasant, a fraction reserved although neither lacked confidence, yet within five minutes, she would have wagered her best gown that there was some understanding between them, or developing between them, certainly. What Winifred’s attitude was she couldn’t tell, but Desmond, despite his exemplary manners, figuratively had eyes only for Winifred.

Her mental pencil was poised to strike Desmond from her list, but then she paused. Perhaps, given her relative inexperience in this sphere, she should still consider him, not as a potential husband for her, but in defining the gentlemanly attributes ladies like Winifred, who despite her quietness registered as eminently sane, required and approved of.