The Perfect Lover (Cynster 10)

“I will.” Portia turned to the buffet and picked up a plate. The salmon was displayed on a large platter set at the back; she would have to stretch.

“Would you like some?”

She glanced up, smiling at Simon, suddenly beside her. She’d known it was him in the instant before he spoke; she wasn’t entirely sure how. “Thank you.”

He could reach the platter easily; she held out her plate and he laid a thick slice of the succulent fish upon it, then helped himself to two. He followed her along the table as she made her selections, doing the same.

When she paused at the end of the buffet and looked around, wondering where to sit, he stopped again at her shoulder and waved toward the lawn. “We could join Winifred.”

Winifred was sitting alone at a table for four. Portia nodded. “Yes, let’s.”

They crossed the lawn; she was conscious of Simon beside her, as if he were shepherding her, although from what he might think to protect her she couldn’t fathom. Winifred looked up as they neared; she smiled in welcome. Simon held out the chair opposite and Portia sat, then he took one of the seats between them.

Within minutes, Desmond joined them, taking the last chair. Winifred, who had smiled up at him, looked at his plate, and frowned. “Aren’t you hungry?”

Desmond glanced at the plate on which resided one slice of salmon and two lettuce leaves. He hesitated for only an instant, then replied, “First course. I’ll go back once I’ve finished this.”

Portia bit her lip and looked down. From the corner of her eye, she could see Kitty standing on the terrace at the end of the buffet, staring their way. Portia shot a glance at Simon; he met it—even though his expression remained utterly bland, she knew he’d noticed, too.

Clearly James was not the only gentleman running from Kitty’s embrace.

Mrs. Archer waved and called Kitty to her—to the table where she and Henry and Kitty’s father were seated. Kitty’s reluctance was transparent, but there was little she could do to avoid joining them. To everyone’s relief, she did so with some semblance of grace.

Everyone relaxed and started to talk. The only one who showed no sign of relief was Winifred—indeed, she’d given no sign of being aware of her sister’s behavior at all.

Yet as they chatted and ate, Portia, surreptitiously studying Winifred, found it hard to believe she was ignorant of Kitty’s designs. Winifred spoke softly; she was naturally quiet but not at all shy or hesitant—she declared her views calmly, always courteous but never submissive. Portia’s respect for Kitty’s older sister grew.

Sherbet and ices ended the meal, then they all rose and mingled on the lawn, in the shade of the large trees.

“It’s the ball tonight—I’m so looking forward to it!” Cecily Hammond all but bounced with excitement.

“Indeed, I think every house party should have one. It’s the perfect opportunity, after all.” Annabelle Hammond turned to Kitty as she joined them. “Lady Glossup told me the ball was your idea, Mrs. Glossup, and that you’ve done most of the organizing. I think we must all thank you for your foresight and industry on our behalfs.”

The perhaps naive but glowingly sincere praise had Kitty smiling. “I’m so glad you think it will be diverting—I truly believe it’ll be a delightful night. I do so love dancing, and felt sure most of you would feel the same.”

Kitty glanced around; a general murmur of agreement ensued. For the first time, Portia glimpsed a real eagerness, something almost naive in Kitty—a real wish for the glitter and glamor of the ball, a belief that in it she would find . . . something.

“Who will be attending?” Lucy Buckstead asked.

“All the surrounding families. It’s been over a year since there was a major ball here, so we’re assured of a good turnout.” Kitty paused, then added, “And there’s the officers stationed at Blandford Forum—I’m sure they’ll come.”

“Officers!” Cecily’s eyes were round. “Will there be many?”

Kitty named some of those she expected. While the news that military uniforms would grace the dance floor that evening was met with interest by the ladies, Portia noted the gentlemen were not so enthused.

“Dashed bounders and half-pay officers, I’ll be bound,” Charlie muttered in an aside to Simon.

It was on the tip of Portia’s tongue to retort that such guests would doubtless keep them on their toes, but she swallowed the words. No sense doing anything more to trigger Simon’s usual protectiveness; it would doubtless surface tonight without any further prodding. She would have to beware, perhaps try to avoid him. The last thing she’d need tonight was a chaperon.

A major country ball promised to be an excellent venue at which to further polish her, not to put too fine a point on it, husband-hunting skills. Many of the gentlemen she would meet she would assuredly never meet again; they were perfect examples on which to practice.

All young unmarried ladies fell over themselves to attend balls; she supposed she’d have to develop the habit. For now, as they stood in loose groupings and conversed beneath the trees, she listened and took note of the reactions of the other ladies—of Winifred’s quiet enthusiasm, Drusilla’s reserved acceptance, the Hammond girls’ thrilled excitement, Lucy’s romantic expectations.

And Kitt

y’s genuinely keen anticipation of delight. For a lady who’d been married for some years, who had presumably attended her fair quota of balls, the fervor with which she looked forward to the evening was unexpected. It made her appear younger, even naive.

Odd, given her other recent actions.