The Perfect Lover (Cynster 10)

There was enough sharpness in the question to give her pause. She considered as they walked down the corridor, then confessed, “A walk in the garden, then maybe a survey of the library.”

“And do you imagine, given the composition of this party, that you will be able to accomplish that while remaining alone?”

She grimaced. “Probably not. Someone’s bound to see me and come to join me—”

“Not someone—some gentleman. All the other ladies will have the wit to rest, of that you may be sure.” Lady O stopped outside her door and set it swinging wide; Portia followed her in, closing the door behind them.

“One or other gentleman—even more likely more than one—will join you.” Lady O set her cane aside, hitched herself up on her bed, and fixed Portia with a sapient eye. “Now think! Is this wise?”

It was like being tutored in an art she had no previous training in; she guessed. “No?”

“Of course it’s not!” Lady O fell back on her pillows, and settled herself comfortably. She squinted at Portia. “You’ve spent all morning and half the afternoon with them. Giving them a steady diet of your company is unlikely to lead to any hunger. Now—the next hours until the ball—is the time to deprive them of sustenance. Then, later, over dinner and at the ball, they’ll come more readily to your hand.”

Portia couldn’t help but laugh; leaning forward, she kissed Lady O’s cheek. “You’re a terrible schemer.”

“Nonsense!” Lady O closed her eyes and composed her features. “I’m an experienced general, and I’ve fought—and won—more battles than you can count.”

Smiling, Portia retreated. She was at the door when, without opening her eyes, Lady O ordered, “Now go and rest.”

Portia grinned. “Yes, sir!” Opening the door, she slipped out.

And, for once, did as she was bid.

Now remember—think strategy!”

With those rousing words, Lady O swept into the drawing room, leaving Portia to follow rather less forcefully in her wake. Head high, she glided in—and was immediately aware of heads turning.

Even more interesting, while the female heads, after the briefest of comprehensive glances, turned back to their conversations, the male heads remained turned her way for significantly longer, some until they were recalled to their surroundings by some comment.

She knew well enough to pretend not to have noticed. With unimpaired serenity, she curtsied to Lady Glossup, who inclined her head with a regal smile, then continued on to join Winifred, who was talking to Desmond and James.

The admiration in both Desmond’s and James’s eyes as they greeted her was marked. She blithely accepted it as her due and slid into the usual social patter.

Inwardly, she frowned. Had she changed? Was she somehow different just because she’d decided to seek a husband—did it show in some way? Or, given that previously she’d never bothered to notice how people, gentlemen especially, reacted to her, had she always excited such responses and never noticed?

As she circulated, exchanging greetings here and there, she became increasingly sure the latter was the case. A lowering thought in some respects; Lady O had been right—she must have had her nose very much in the clouds. Yet the realization boosted her confidence; for the first time she realized she had something—some weapon, some power—she could use to attract and attach a husband.

Now all she had to do was learn how to chose the right gentleman and learn to wield that weapon.

Simon stood chatting with the Hammond sisters and Charlie; she passed by with a cool nod. He’d been watching her consistently since she’d entered the room. His expression was hard, rocklike; she couldn’t tell what he was thinking.

The last thing she wanted was to encourage his protectiveness; she glided on to join Ambrose and Lady Calvin.

Simon watched Portia smile and charm Ambrose. The muscles of his face set even harder, the better to suppress his scowl. Why he felt as he did—what the emotions roiling within him were—he was in no mood to consider. Never in his life had he felt this way—more than driven. Goaded.

The fact he didn’t know why, didn’t understand, only increased the pressure. Something had changed, but he couldn’t free his mind of its overriding obsession long enough to identify what.

This afternoon, he’d lain in wait for Portia to come down after seeing Lady O to her room. He’d wanted to talk to her, to inveigle her into revealing just what she was seeking to learn.

S

he hadn’t appeared—or rather, he hadn’t found her, which raised the question of where she’d gone, and with whom.

He could see her from the corner of his eye, a slender figure in soft pearl grey, her dark hair piled high, higher than he’d seen it before. The style left her nape exposed, drew his attention to the graceful curve of her neck, the fine bones of her shoulders. The pearl necklace she wore . . . one strand circled her throat, the other loop hung low, dangling beneath the gauzy edge of her bodice, disappearing into the shadowy valley between her breasts. Taking his imagination with it. His senses remained riveted even when he looked away; his palms tingled.

She still moved without consciousness or guile; the way she conversed hadn’t altered. Yet something within him recognized beyond doubt that her intent had changed.

Why that should affect him he didn’t know—he only knew it did.