His lips thinned. “You don’t need to know.”
“Possibly not, but I wish to—for reasons of my own.”
His frown took on another dimension; he couldn’t fathom what “reasons” she meant. She smiled. “If you don’t tell me, I’ll ask Charlie. Or James.”
It was the “Or James” that did it; he sighed through his teeth, looked up, steered them around the end of the room, then said, his voice low, “Kitty has a habit of flirting with any personable gentleman she meets.” After a moment, he added, “How far it goes . . .”
He tensed to shrug, but didn’t. His jaw set. When he didn’t go on and continued not to meet her eyes, she, intrigued that he hadn’t been able to give her the polite lie, evenly supplied, “You know perfectly well how far it goes because she’s made improper advances to you, and Charlie, and she’s still pressing James.”
He looked down at her then, something a great deal more complex than irritation in his face. “How the devil did you discover that?”
She smiled—for once not to irritate but reassure. “You and Charlie exude the most trenchant disapproval whenever you’re at all close to her in even a semiprivate setting—like during a waltz. And James because I came upon him in extremis this evening.” She grinned. “I rescued him—that’s why we came in together.”
She sensed a slight easing of his tension and pressed her advantage; she really did wish to know. “You and Charlie have succeeded in convincing her you”—she gestured with her free hand—“aren’t interested. Why hasn’t James done the same?”
He met her eyes briefly, then replied, “Because James will try very hard not to cause Henry any pain—any more pain than necessary. Kitty knows that—it makes her bolder. Neither Charlie nor I would have any compunction in treating her as she deserves, were she to push us beyond a certain point.”
“But she’s clever enough not to?”
He nodded.
“What about Henry?”
“When they married, he was extremely fond of her. I don’t know how he feels about her now. And before you ask, I have no idea why she is as she is—none of us does.”
She saw Kitty across the room, smiling beguilingly up at Ambrose, who was doing his best to pretend he hadn’t noticed.
She felt Simon’s gaze on her face.
“Any suggestions?”
She looked at him, then shook her head. “But . . . I don’t think it’s any irrational compulsion—you know what I mean. She knows what she’s doing; she’s quite deliberate. She has some motive—some goal—in mind.”
Simon said nothing. The final chords of the waltz sounded. They stopped and chatted with Annabelle and Desmond, then exchanged partners as the next dance began.
She held to her vow and chatted easily with Desmond; she parted from him thinking Winifred was to be congratulated on her good fortune—Desmond seemed a thoroughly likable if somewhat serious gentleman. She danced with Charlie, James, and Ambrose, and put her wiles to work with each one; as she wouldn’t know how to flirt to save herself, she felt secure in doing so, certain they wouldn’t read anything beyond general interest into her artful questions.
Then she danced with Henry, and felt quite dreadful. Even though he made every effort to entertain her, she couldn’t help but be conscious of his awareness of Kitty’s behavior.
The situation was difficult—Kitty was clever, artful. There was nothing that could be held up as beyond the pale, but her flirting was of the degree, and constancy, that left a very large question in everyone’s mind.
Why was she doing it?
Portia couldn’t imagine, for Henry was much as Desmond was, a quiet, gentle, decent man. In the ten minutes she spent conversing with him, she fully understood James’s wish to protect him, regardless of the circumstances, and Simon’s and Charlie’s support to that end.
She agreed with them entirely.
By the time they called for an end to the dancing, the que
stion that most insistently nagged was how many others saw Kitty’s behavior as she, Simon, Charlie, James, and, most likely, Henry did?
Ambrose and Desmond almost certainly, but what of the ladies? That was much harder to guess.
The tea trolley arrived, and everyone gathered around, happy to rest and take their ease. Conversation was relaxed; people no longer felt the need to fill every silence. Portia sipped, and watched; Kitty’s call for dancing had been inspired—it had cut through the rigid formalities and forged them into a group far faster than usually occurred. Now, instead of the shifting currents between various members, there was a cohesiveness, a sense of being here to share the time with these others, that would surely make the following days more enjoyable.
She was setting aside her empty cup when Kitty once again claimed center stage. She rose, her skirts shushing; placing herself at the focal point of the gathering, she smiled charmingly, hands wide. “We should walk in the gardens before retiring. It’s positively balmy outside, and so many of the scented plants are flowering. After all that dancing, we need a moment’s reflection in peaceful surrounds before repairing to our rooms.”
Once again, she was right. The older members of the company who hadn’t danced did not feel so inclined, but all those who’d whirled about the room definitely did. They followed Kitty out of the French doors and onto the terrace; from there, they ventured down onto the lawns in twos and threes.