The Perfect Lover (Cynster 10)

Still, Charlie and Lieutenant Campion were interesting enough, and sufficiently susceptible to her wiles to count as practice.

She fixed her gaze on Lieutenant Campion’s face. “So you spend most of the year here in Dorset. Are the winters very cold?”

Campion beamed and replied. With little encouragement bar her rapt attention—her gaze fixed on his face, her mind cataloging all points of note he let fall—he was happy to divulge a great deal about himself, enough for her to guess his relative wealth, his family’s standing and properties, his enthusiasms both military and personal.

How very amenable gentlemen were, once one learned the knack. Comments made by her elder sisters regarding managing their husbands replayed in her mind.

Not that Lieutenant Campion would do for her; he lacked a certain something. Challenge, perhaps; she was quite sure she could wrap him about her little finger—curiously, that didn’t appeal.

Charlie, who had drifted away, returned, bearing yet another glass of champagne. He offered it with a flourish. “Here you are—you must be parched.”

She took the glass, thanked him, then sipped. The temperature in the ballroom was rising; the room was now crowded, the heat of bodies combining with the sultry heat of the night.

Charlie’s gaze had remained on her face. “That was an excellent set of plays at the Theatre Royale this last season—did you get a chance to see them?”

She smiled. “The first two, yes. The theater’s under new management, I heard.”

“Indeed.” Lieutenant Campion fixed Charlie with a steady gaze. “I understand . . .”

It occurred to Portia that Charlie had hoped to exclude the lieutenant with such a question; he hadn’t known Campion spent part of each Season on leave in town. Her lips twitched; the lieutenant continued, expounding at some length.

Charlie bore the reverse with grace, but seized the opportunity to solicit her hand the instant the musicians resumed playing.

She accepted, and they waltzed, with vigor, verve, and quite a bit of laughter. Charlie’s earlier reticence had flown; although he was still cautious about letting her know much about himself, he was much more intent on learning all he could of her.

And her intention. Her direction.

Well aware of that last, she laughed, gave him her eyes, her attention, but kept her thoughts to herself. Males of Charlie’s and James’s ilk seemed much more interested in learning just where she wished to lead them—what she truly wished to know—presumably wondering if they could assist her in the knowing . . . she smiled and wielded her wits to keep all such answers to herself. She saw no reason unnecessarily to lose what she was starting to suspect was a large part of her newfound allure.

The most engaging aspect of mentally fencing with gentlemen such as Charlie was that they understood the rules. And how to get around them.

When the last chord of the waltz faded, and they whirled to a halt, hot, exhilarated, and laughing, he smiled with dazzling charm. “Let’s recoup on the terrace—it’s far too stuffy in here.”

She kept her smile in place, and wondered if she dared.

Nothing attempted, nothing gained; she’d never know if she didn’t try.

“Very well.” She let her smile deepen, accepting the challenge. “Let’s.”

She turned toward the terrace—and nearly collided with Simon.

Her nerves leapt; for one instant, she couldn’t breathe. His eyes met hers; his expression was hard but she could read none of his usual disapproval therein.

“We were about to adjourn to the terrace.” The pitch of her voice sounded a fraction too high; the champagne, no doubt. “It’s grown rather warm in here.”

She used the excuse to wave a hand before her face. Her temperature had certainly risen.

Simon’s expression didn’t soften. He looked at Charlie. “I’ve just come from Lady Osbaldestone—she’s asking for you.”

Charlie frowned. “Lady Osbaldestone? What the devil does the old tartar want with me?”

“Who knows? She was, however, most insistent. You’ll find her near the refreshment room.”

Charlie glanced at her.

Simon’s hand closed about her elbow.

“I’ll escort Portia out for a stroll—with luck, by the time you’re finished with Lady Osbaldestone, we’ll be back.”