The Perfect Lover (Cynster 10)

The thud of hooves behind was growing fainter. No matter how much she enjoyed the speed, she wasn’t fool enough to race ahead along rides she didn’t know. Still, she’d had her moment; it was enough to tide her over. As the trees drew closer and the track once more narrowed, she eased the mare to a jog, then a walk.

Finally, at the very end of the glade, she halted. And waited.

Charlie was the first to join her. “You ride like a demon!”

She met his gaze, ready to defend herself—only to realize he wasn’t scandalized. The look in his eyes was quite different, as if her being able to ride so well had started some line of thought he hadn’t previously considered.

Before she had a chance to ponder that, James and Lucy rode up. Lucy was laughing, chattering, eyes radiant; James exchanged a glance with Charlie. With his usual smooth smile and easy address, he displaced his friend at Lucy’s side.

Simon and Drusilla joined them. They all stood milling for some moments, regaining their breath, letting the horses settle, then James spoke to Drusilla and they moved off, leading the way back to the Hall.

Lucy followed immediately, but was forced by Charlie’s gentle persistence to give him her attention. By the simple strategy of holding his horse back, he kept Lucy safely away from James.

Portia hid a grin, and fell in in their wake; she barely registered Simon’s presence beside her. Not outwardly. Her senses, however, were perfectly aware of his looming nearness, of the controlled strength with which he sat his mount as it ambled beside hers. She expected to feel something of her usual haughty resistance, precursor to irritation, yet . . . the faint prickling of her skin, the tightening of her lungs—these were not familiar.

“Still a hoyden at heart, I see.”

There was a hardness in his voice she hadn’t heard before.

She turned her head, met his gaze, held it for a pregnant moment, then smiled and looked away. “You don’t disapprove.”

Simon grunted. What could he say? She was right. He should dis

approve, yet there was something in him that responded—too readily—to the challenge of a woman who could ride like the wind. And with her, knowing she was nearly as assured in the saddle as he, there was no niggling concern to dim the moment.

He was irritated because he hadn’t been able to ride with her, not because she’d ridden as she had.

Their mounts ambled on; he glanced at her face—she was smiling lightly, clearly thinking, about what he had no idea. He waited for her to question him, talk to him, as she had with James and Charlie.

The horses plodded on.

She remained silent, distant. Elsewhere.

Finally, he accepted she had no intention of pursuing whatever she was after with him. The suspicion he’d been harboring darkened and grew. Her reticence with him seemed to confirm it; if she was set on gaining some illicit experience, the last man she’d apply to was him.

The realization—the flood of emotions it unleashed—made him catch his breath. A sharp stab of regret, the sense of something lost—something he hadn’t even realized he might hold dear. . . .

Mentally shaking his head, he dragged in a breath, glanced again at her face.

He wanted to ask, to demand, but didn’t know the question.

And didn’t know if she would answer, anyway.

After exchanging her riding habit for a gown of green-and-white twill and re-dressing her hair, Portia descended the stairs as the clang of the luncheon gong reverberated through the house.

Blenkinsop was crossing the front hall. He bowed. “Luncheon is served on the terrace, miss.”

“Thank you.” Portia headed for the drawing room. The ride had gone well; she’d acquitted herself quite creditably in the “chatting with gentlemen” stakes. She was learning, gaining confidence, exactly as she’d hoped.

Of course, the morning had been free of the distraction of Kitty and her antics. The first thing she heard on emerging through the French doors onto the terrace flags was Kitty’s seductive purr.

“I’ve always had a great regard for you.”

It wasn’t James but Desmond Kitty had backed against the balustrade. The woman was incorrigible! The pair were to her left; turning right, Portia pretended she hadn’t noticed. She continued to where a long table was set with serving platters, glasses, and plates. The rest of the company were gathered around, some already seated at wrought-iron tables on the terrace, others descending to the lawns where more tables were set in the shade of some trees.

Portia smiled at Lady Hammond, seated beside Lady Osbaldestone.

Lady O gestured to the cold salmon on her plate. “Wonderful! Be sure to try some.”