The Perfect Lover (Cynster 10)

“Do you drive your own phaeton in town?”

James glanced at her. “Yes. I have a pair of matched greys, very nice steppers.”

“Mr. James . . .” The head stableman called from the door; their horses were ready. James gestured; Portia turned, and they walked back up the aisle.

James’s gaze was on her face, not intent but curious. “The greys are in the other wing of the stable—if you like, I’ll show them to you sometime.”

“That would be nice, if we have time.”

He shrugged. “We can make time.”

She smiled as they emerged into the sunshine. Into the courtyard where the others were milling. Charlie and the stableman were assisting Lucy and Drusilla into their saddles at the mounting block. Portia headed to where a stableboy held the chestnut mare she’d selected—with James’s and Simon’s help. Reaching the horse’s side, she turned. Waited.

James had paused to pat his own mount, then he looked at the group about the mounting block.

Portia focused her gaze on him, waiting for him to realize and lift her to her saddle.

“Here—let me.”

She turned as Simon appeared at her shoulder.

He frowned; his hands fastened about her waist. “We haven’t got all day to stand around staring.”

He hefted her up with ridiculous ease; once again she lost her breath. He set her safely in the saddle, then released her, pushed her skirts aside, and held the lower stirrup. Gathering her scattered wits, she settled her boots into position, then rearranged her skirts. “Thank you,” she said, but he was already moving away.

She watched as he took the reins of his mount from a groom and swung up to the animal’s back with lithe ease. Why was he frowning? It wasn’t so much a lowering of his brows as a hardness in his blue eyes. Mentally shaking her head, she retrieved her reins from the stableboy and nudged the mare into a walk.

James saw she was ready, mounted his gelding, and joined her under the stable arch. Simon shepherded Lucy and Drusilla along, his gaze raking their postures, assessing their abilities. Charlie scrambled into his saddle and followed.

With Portia beside him, James led the way out, at a walk, then a trot. Rutlandshire-born and -bred, she’d ridden with the hunt in earlier years; while she was no longer quite so wild, she still loved to ride. The little mare was skittish and playful; she indulged her just so far, drawing her patiently back into line until she settled.

James had wanted to give her a docile grey mare; she’d opened her mouth to protest, and would certainly have done so, but Simon had intervened and suggested the chestnut instead. James had accepted Simon’s assessment of her abilities with a raised brow but no comment; she’d bitten her tongue and thanked both of them with a smile.

Now James was watching her, gauging, assessing; Simon, she realized, wasn’t. A quick glance around showed him, still with that frown in his eyes, watching Lucy and Drusilla. Charlie, his mount trotting easily beside Drusilla’s, was chatting with his usual facility. Drusilla, as always, was quiet, but she seemed to be listening, or making an effort to listen . . . Portia wondered if it was at her mother’s insistence that she’d joined them.

Lucy kept darting glances ahead—at her and James. Facing forward, recognizing that in all kindness she should yield her position to Lucy shortly, she smiled at James. “I love to ride—is there much hunting in these parts?”

As they rode down the leafy lanes, he answered her questions readily; she gradually steered them in the direction she wished—to what his life was like, his preferred activities, his dislikes, his aspirations. All subtly, of course.

Despite her best efforts, or perhaps because of them, by the time they reached the outliers of Cranborne Chase, the ancient royal hunting forest, a puzzled, curious, but somewhat cautious look had taken up residence in James’s brown eyes.

She smiled airily. They reined in and waited for the others to come up before venturing into the rides between the towering oaks. Seizing the moment to yield her position to Lucy, she set her mare to trot smartly beside Charlie’s grey.

Charlie brightened; he turned to her, leaving Drusilla to Simon. “I say—meant to ask. Did you hear about the scandal with Lord Fortinbras at Ascot?”

He rattled on happily; somewhat to her surprise, despite his readiness to talk, she found it difficult to direct his attention to himself. At first, she thought it was simply his natural, outward-looking character, but when he time and again slid around her carefully posed questions, when she caught a flicker of his lashes, and a sharp, far-from-innocent glance, she realized his patter was a shield of sorts—a defense he deployed, all but instinctively, against women who wanted to get to know him.

James was more sure of himself, therefore less defensive. Charlie . . . in the end, she smiled at him, perfectly genuinely, and dropped her inquiries. They were little more than a game—a practice; it would be unkind to set him on edge, to spoil his enjoyment of the house party, purely to sharpen her skills.

She looked around. “We’ve been terribly restrained so far—dare we gallop a little, do you think?”

Charlie’s eyes widened. “If you like . . . I can’t see why not.” He looked forward and whooped. James looked back. Charlie signaled they were going to ride on; James slowed, nudging his and Lucy’s mounts to the side of the path.

Portia sprang the mare. She passed James and Lucy with the mare stretching into a gallop. The ride was wide, more than enough space for two horses abreast, but she was well in the lead as she reached the first bend. A long stretch of turf lay ahead; she let the mare have her head and raced, the thud of hooves behind drowned beneath the relentless beat of the chestnut’s stride. The steady pounding, the reaching rhythm, slid through her, echoed in her heart, in the flash tide of blood through her veins, the giddy rush of exhilaration.

The end of the turf drew near; she glanced back. Charlie was some yards back, unable to overtake her. Behind him, the other four were coming along, galloping, but not racing.

With a grin, she faced forward, and swept down the track as it constricted; twenty yards on, it opened onto another glade. Joy in her heart, she flung the mare into it, but halfway along started to rein in.