The Perfect Lover (Cynster 10)

Learning by observing the successes—and failures—of others was only wise.

The thought had her glancing about. Kitty, in her shimmering aquamarine silk gown, positively sparkled with effervescent charm as she flitted from group to group. No sign of her earlier pout remained; she seemed in her element.

Henry was talking with Simon and James; he no longer seemed concerned or distracted by Kitty.

Perhaps she’d misread their earlier interaction?

Someone loomed at her elbow; Portia turned to find Ambrose Calvin bowing. She bobbed a curtsy.

“Miss Ashford—a pleasure to meet you. I’ve noticed you at several London events, but never had a chance to make your acquaintance.”

“Indeed, sir? Do I take it you spend most of your time in the capital?”

Ambrose had very dark brown eyes and light brown hair; his features were regular, of a patrician cast yet softened by politeness and courtesy enough to be pleasing. He inclined his head. “For the most part.” He hesitated, then added, “It’s my hope to enter Parliament at the next election. Naturally, I spend as much time as I can following current events—to be close to the source, one must be in the cap-ital.”

“Yes, of course.” It hovered on the tip of her tongue to explain that she quite understood, being acquainted with Michael Anstruther-Wetherby, the Member for Godleigh, in West Hampshire but the sharpness she glimpsed in Ambrose’s dark eyes set a guard on her tongue. “I’ve often thought that, in these changing times, serving your constituency in Parliament must be highly rewarding.”

“Indeed.” There was nothing in Ambrose’s tone to suggest he was fired by any reformist zeal. “It’s my thesis that we need the right men in place—those actively interested in governing, in guiding the country down the correct paths.”

That sounded a trifle too pompous for her liking; she changed tack. “Have you decided where you will stand?”

“Not as yet.” Ambrose’s gaze shifted to the group across the room—Lord Glossup, Mr. Buckstead, and Mr. Archer. An instant passed, then he refocused on her, and smiled, somewhat patronizingly. “You are likely not aware, but such matters are usually—and best—arranged within the party. I’m hoping for news of my selection quite soon.”

“I see.” She smiled sweetly in return, the sort of smile Simon would have known not to take at face value. “Then we must hope the news is all you deserve.”

Ambrose accepted the comment in the way he wished to hear it; she felt decidedly patronizing herself as they turned to the others about them and joined the wider conversation.

Five minutes later, Lady Glossup raised her voice, asking for volunteers to provide the company with some music.

Before anyone could react, Kitty stepped forward, her face alight. “Dancing! That’s just what we need.”

Lady Glossup blinked; beside her, Mrs. Archer looked blank.

“Now”—in the center of the room, Kitty twirled, hands lightly clapping—“who will play for us?”

Portia had answered that call so many times over the years, it was all but second nature. “I would be pleased to play for you, if you wish.”

Kitty looked at her with surprise tinged with suspicion, almost instantly overlaid by acceptance. “Capital!” Turning, she waved at the gentlemen. “James, Simon—if you would position the pianoforte? Charlie, Desmond—those chairs can go back against the wall.”

As she took her seat before the keys, Portia glanced again at Kitty; it seemed nothing bar the simple delight of dancing was behind her actions. Infused by such innocent eagerness, she appeared truly attractive; gone was the siren who’d waylaid James on the stairs, the sultry, disaffected lady who’d first entered the drawing room.

Portia ran her fingers experimentally over the keys; the instrument was in tune, thank heavens! As she looked up, a stack of music books thumped down on the piano’s polished top.

Glancing up, she met Simon’s steady blue gaze, then he raised one brow. “Hiding behind your accomplishments as usual, I see.”

She blinked at him in surprise; with an enigmatic look, he turned and joined the throng sorting themselves into pairs.

Shaking aside the odd comment, she set her hands to the keys and let her fingers glide into the introduction to a waltz.

She knew many; music had always come naturally to her, simply flowed from her fingers, which was why she so often offered to play. She didn’t need to think to do it; she enjoyed it, was comfortable sitting at the piano, and could, as she wished, either lose herself in the music or study the company.

It was the latter she elected to do that evening.

What she saw fascinated.

As was customary, the pianoforte stood at the other end of the large room from the fireplace and the chairs and sofas on which the older members of the company sat. The dancers filled the space between; as few imagined the music maker was not watching her fingers, those couples seeking to use the dance for private communication chose to do so while traversing the side of the room farthest from the sharp eyes of their elders. Thus, directly in front of her.

She was quite content to move smoothly from one waltz to the next, mixing in a country dance here and there, giving the dancers only enough time to catch their breath and change partners.