The Perfect Lover (Cynster 10)

“I believe just that was in a certain gentleman’s mind.” Simon lied without compunction. “He was asking after you as we passed—dark-haired, someone up from town.”

“Oh?” Kitty was instantly diverted. “Did you recognize him?”

“Not to name.” Simon glanced at the area inside the doors, now filled with guests streaming in. “Can’t see him at present—perhaps you’d better circulate that way and see if you can come up with him.”

Kitty hesitated for only an instant, then smiled—intently—up at James. “You will save that waltz for me, won’t you?”

James’s face set like stone. “If we happen to be near at the time, and not otherwise engaged . . .” He shrugged. “There are many guests it’s our duty to entertain.”

Kitty’s eyes flashed; her lips pressed tight on an unwise rejoinder. With Lucy and Simon looking on, she was forced to incline her head. She looked at Simon. “Dark-haired, you said?”

He nodded. “Average height, good build. Good hands. Excellent tailor.”

That summed up the attributes one gentleman was likely to notice about another; Kitty swallowed the bait whole—with a brief nod, she left them.

James met Simon’s eyes; his relief was transparent.

Between them, Lucy brightly remarked, “I hadn’t realized you had so many neighbors in the district.” She glanced at James. “Perhaps we could stroll, and you would be good enough to introduce me?”

James hesitated for only an instant, then smiled and offered his arm. “If you wish, I would be honored.”

Simon was not surprised at the glance James, straightening, shot him over Lucy’s head. Another plea—this one not to leave him alone with Lucy. Swallowing his own urgency—Portia was unlikely to do anything rash, after all—he consented to stroll and chat, making them a threesome; he could sympathize wit

h James’s desire not to encourage Lucy to imagine there was anything personal developing between them.

“Thank you.” James clapped him on the shoulder as the first dance commenced, and they stood watching Lucy whirl down the set with the young squire who had earnestly solicited her hand. “Now you can see why I was so keen to have you here.”

Simon humphed. “I wouldn’t worry overmuch about Lucy—she might be enthusiastic, but she knows where the lines are drawn. Kitty, however . . .” He glanced at James. “Do you intend remaining here after the houseguests have left?”

“Good God, no!” James shuddered. “I’m leaving in the same hour you are—I think I’ll go visit old Cromer. Northumberland ought to be far enough to outdistance even Kitty.”

Simon grinned and they parted. While socializing with James and Lucy, he’d surreptiously quartered the room and located Portia. She was presently standing along the opposite wall, near the French doors open to the terrace and the balmy evening outside. Charlie flanked her, along with an officer in dress uniform; both were fully engaged, attentive to the exclusion of all else about them, ignoring the glitter and swirl of the ball.

Understandable, for Portia was sparkling. Her dark eyes were alive, her hands gestured gracefully, her face was alight. Even from a distance, he felt the tug. Her attention was wholly given to whichever man was speaking with her; such devotion was guaranteed to fix—transfix—any healthy male.

In any other woman, he’d have labeled such behavior flirting, and been right, but Portia was, he was still prepared to swear, constitutionally incapable of that art. He circled the room, gauging his approach; his gaze on the three, he studied their faces, and doubted even Charlie and her latest conquest, whoever he was, mistook her behavior for the customary invitation.

It was something else. Just what, the mystery of what she was about, only lent her greater charm, made her attraction even more potent.

He was mere yards from her when a hand descended on his arm and gripped with surprising strength.

“There you are!” Lady Osbaldestone grinned evilly up at him. “You haven’t any sisters or cousins present, so you can’t be employed. Just come with me—there’s someone I want you to meet.”

“But—” He resisted her tug; she wanted to lead him away from Portia. The damn ball had been going an hour, and this was the closest he’d got.

Lady O glanced at his face, then around him—at Portia. “Portia? Pshaw!” She flicked her fingers. “No need for you to concern yourself there—and anyway, you don’t even like her.”

He opened his mouth to refute at least the former.

Lady O shook her head. “Not your problem if your friend Charlie supplies her with one too many glasses of champagne.”

“What?” He tried to turn and look.

Lady O held on to him with a viselike grip. “So what if she gets a mite tipsy? She’s old enough to know what’s what, and strong enough to hold her own. Do her good to have her eyes opened a trifle—silly chit’s twenty-four, after all.” Lady O snorted, and yanked. “Now come along. This way.”

She waved ahead with her cane; suppressing his welling panic, he conceded. The fastest way to freedom was to fall in with Lady O’s plans. At the first opportunity, he’d escape—and after that, nothing would get in his way.

Portia saw Lady O lead Simon off, and inwardly sighed, whether with relief or disappointment she wasn’t sure. She didn’t want him hovering in his usual, arrogantly disapproving manner, yet that might not have been his intention. If the look in his eyes earlier was any guide, his attitude to her had changed, but to what she didn’t know, and hadn’t yet had a chance to divine. Regardless, she wanted to try out her new weapon on him. He was one of the three she’d elected to “consider,” and while she was doing quite well with Charlie and James, she’d yet to take a tilt at Simon.