The Perfect Lover (Cynster 10)

Charlie’s grim pronouncement had her studying his face. Realizing . . . “You’re not enjoying this any more than we are.”

The look he shot her, safe enough with all the others far behind, was ascerbic. “I think I can confidently state that I’m enjoying this considerably less than you both, and that’s despite knowing both of you hate it.”

She frowned as they followed the narrowing lawn path on toward the lake. “Can’t you just think of me in the same vein as one of the married matrons I assume you occasionally consort with?”

“That’s just the problem. I do think of you like that, only you’re his wife. Makes a rather big difference, you know. I don’t relish the prospect of being rent limb from limb—I avoid jealous husbands on principle.”

“But he’s not my husband.”

“Oh, ain’t he, though?” Charlie’s brows rose high. “You couldn’t prove it by his behavior—or yours, come to that. And I think I can lay claim to some expertise in that sphere.”

He looked down as they walked on, didn’t see her smile.

“In fact, I think,” he continued, grimacing as he lifted his head, “that that’s the reason our plan just might work.”

Given the distance from the house, and the clear area around them, it seemed safe to talk freely. “Do you think it truly is working?”

He grinned at her, lifted a hand and flicked back a lock of black hair that the wind had sent sneaking across her cheek; they still had to keep up appearances. “Henry looked as sick as a horse—all because of us. After this morning, James has retreated, but he’s watching us, too. Desmond . . . he’s a quiet one, but now Winifred’s drawn back, he has plenty of time on his hands, and he’s definitely been frowning our way.”

“Frowning? Not just watching?”

“Frowning,” Charlie averred. “But in what sense I couldn’t say—I don’t know him well enough.”

“What about Ambrose?”

Charlie grimaced. “Oh, he’s noticed, but I can’t say I’ve seen him paying much attention. He’s the only one of us who’s got anything from the last days; he’s been using the time to bend Mr. Buckstead to his cause. Mr. Archer, too, although the poor man isn’t really taking much in.”

They’d reached the lake path; they started to amble around it. When the path leading into the pinetum lay just ahead, Portia tugged Charlie’s arm. “Look back—can you see anyone?”

Charlie twisted around and scanned the lawn paths rising toward the house. “No one—not even Simon.”

“Good—come on.” Portia caught up her skirts and whisked onto the smaller path; Charlie followed close behind. “He’ll find us.”

He did, but not before weathering a moment of sheer panic. He’d assumed they’d go to the summerhouse; when he reached it and found it empty . . .

Tramping through the pinetum, Simon caught a glimpse of Portia’s blue gown through the trees ahead. The vise locked about his chest finally loosened; drawing a freer breath, he trudged on, the thick carpet of dried pine needles crunching with every step.

What he’d felt in that moment when he’d stood and stared around at the empty chairs and sofa in the summerhouse . . . clenching his jaw, he pushed the memory away. He’d never before been conscious of jealousy, but the corrosive emotion that had seared him—it couldn’t be termed anything else.

No, he wasn’t going to be an easy husband to live with; he had to admit Portia was right to consider very carefully before accepting him. He had a sneaking suspicion that when it came to the more emotional aspects of their potential, soon-to-be union, she saw him more clearly than he saw himself.

They’d stopped in a small clearing; Charlie was leaning against the bole of one tall tree, Portia was leaning against another, opposite, her spine supported by the bole, her head back, eyes closed.

He marched into the clearing, halted, and fixed both with a very straight glance. “What the devil are you doing?”

He kept his voice low, even.

Portia opened one eye, looked at him. “Resting.”

She closed her eye again, straightened her head against the tree. “Charlie was getting worn out and slipshod. So was I. We needed a respite from the fray.”

He frowned. “Why here?”

She sighed, turned her head, opened both eyes. Ran her gaze down to his feet. “The pine needles. We heard you coming from a long way off. No one can sneak up on us here.”

Charlie straightened away from his tree. “Now that you’re awake, can you please sit down?” With an exaggerated bow, he waved her to the low bank edging the clearing. When she stared at him, he pointedly added, “So we can?”

Simon glanced at Portia, saw the look on her face, smiled for the first time since she’d left him that morning. He reached for her hand, tugged, and towed her to the bank. “She’s not accustomed to having her sensibilities treated with such care. In fact,” he met her gaze as he swung her about. “I’m not sure she approves.”