The Perfect Lover (Cynster 10)

Mentally shaking aside the confusion that was Kitty, determined to make the most of the ball, Portia carefully noted all that the other ladies let fall of their preparations and gowns.

She shifted from group to group, intent, absorbed; it was some time before she registered that Simon was either hovering close by or else watching her.

He was presently standing with Charlie and James, a little beyond the group she was engaged with. Lifting her head, she looked directly at him, expecting to see an expression of bored irritation, his customary expression when he was watching over her because of his compulsive protectiveness.

Instead, when her eyes met his, she could detect no hint of irritation. Something, yes, but something much harder, more steely; his whole expression reflected it, the austere angles of cheek and brow, the squared and determined jaw.

Their gazes locked for only mere moments, yet it was enough for her to see and know. To react.

Hauling in a breath, she turned back to Winifred, nodding as if she’d heard what had been said; her only clear thought was that whatever impulse was driving Simon to watch her, it wasn’t protection he had in mind.

The younger ladies were not the only ones enthused by the prospect of the ball. Lady Hammond, Lady Osbaldestone, even Lady Calvin were very ready to allow themselves to be thus entertained.

It was summer; there were precious few other events at which they might exercise their talents.

Portia did not immediately preceive the source of their interest; when, however, in midafternoon, Lady O demanded her assistance in going upstairs and settling for her nap—only to insist they go via Portia’s room—understanding dawned.

“Don’t stand around gawping, gel!” With her cane, Lady O thumped the gallery floor. “Show me the gown you intend wearing tonight.”

Resigned, wondering if any good might come of it, Portia ushered her to the chamber she’d been given in the east wing. It was a largish room with a good-sized armoire in which the maid had hung all her gowns. After installing Lady O in the armchair before the hearth, she went to the armoire and set the doors wide.

And hesitated. She hadn’t really thought about what she would wear; she’d never truly bothered about such things. Courtesy of Luc and the family’s excellent finances, she had pretty gowns aplenty, yet until now, she’d taken them, and her appearance in general, for granted.

Lady O snorted. “As I thought—you haven’t the vaguest notion. Well, then, let’s see what you’ve brought with you.”

Dutifully, she paraded the evening gowns she’d packed. Now she thought of it, she favored one in deep green silk, and said so.

Lady O shook her head. “Not at this point. Leave the dramatics for later, once you’re sure of him. That’s when they’ll have the most useful effect. For tonight, you need to appear . . .” She waggled her hand. “Less certain, less sure. Think strategy, gel!”

Portia had never considered the color of gowns in such a light; she resurveyed the gowns she’d left draped on the bed, thinking anew . . .

“How about this one?” She extracted a gown of soft pearl grey silk—an unusual color, especially for an unmarried lady, but with her dark hair and eyes, and her height, she could carry it well.

“Hmm.” Lady O gestured. “Hold it up.”

Portia did so, smoothing the bodice over her bosom, draping it so Lady O could see the clever cut. The underbodice was fitted silk, with very fine silk chiffon of the exact same shade draped loosely over it, disguising the décolleté neckline, making it seem much less daring.

A slow smile spread over Lady O’s face. “Perfect. Not innocent so much as not quite attainable. Have you shoes to go with it?”

She had, along with a fine, dark grey beaded shawl and matching reticule; Lady O nodded her approval. “And I thought I’d wear my pearls.”

“Let me see them.”

She fetched the long strand of creamy pearls from her jewel casket and draped them about her neck. The strand was long enough to reach nearly to her waist. “I’ve drop earrings to match.”

Lady O gestured to the necklace. “Not like that—try it wound once round your throat, then let the rest dangle.”

She raised her brows, but obliged.

“Now hold up the gown again . . .”

She did as she was told, smoothing the bodice into place. Turning to the cheval glass in the corner, she surveyed the unexpected effect. “Oh. I see.”

“Indeed.” Lady O nodded with satisfaction. “Strategy! Now!” She heaved herself out of the armchair; Portia left the gown on the bed and hurried to help. Once upright, Lady O headed for the door. “You may now help me to my room and onto my bed. You will then return here, lie down on your bed, and rest.”

“I’m not tired.” She’d never rested before a ball in her life.

The shrewd look Lady O shot her as she stepped into the corridor said she suspected as much. “Be that as it may, you will please me by returning here and lying down upon your bed until it’s time to dress for dinner and the ball.” When she opened her mouth to argue, Lady O silenced her with an upraised hand. “Aside from the fact that no lady wishful of appearing her best should attend a ball other than well rested, what else, pray tell, had you planned to do?”