The Perfect Lover (Cynster 10)

Lips setting, she narrowed her eyes at the horizon, aware of resistance welling inside, of a shying away from the moment—so aggravating yet so instinctive, so powerful she had to fight to override it and push ahead . . . but she was not going to leave without a firm commitment.

Grasping the lookout’s railing, she tipped her chin high and firmly stated, “I will use every opportunity the house party provides to learn all I can and make up my mind once and for all.” That was nowhere near decisive enough; determinedly, she added, “Whoever is present of suitable age and station, I swear I will seriously consider him.”

There—at last! She’d put her next step into words. Into a solemn vow. The positive uplifting feeling that always followed on the heels of decision welled within her—

“Well that’s heartening, I must say, although of suitable age and station for what?”

With a gasp, she whirled. For one instant, her mind boggled. Not with fear—despite the shadows in which he stood and the brightness of the day behind him, she’d recognized his voice, knew whose shoulders blocked the entranc

e arch.

But what in all Hades was he doing here?

His gaze sharpened—a disconcertingly acute blue gaze far too direct for politeness.

“And what haven’t you made up your mind about? That usually takes you all of two seconds.”

Calmness, decisiveness—fearlessness—returned in a rush. She narrowed her eyes. “That is none of your affair.”

He moved, deliberately slowly, taking three prowling steps to join her by the railing. She tensed. The muscles framing her spine grew rigid; her lungs locked as something within her reacted. She knew him so well, yet here, alone in the silence of the fields and sky, he seemed larger, more powerful.

More dangerous in some indefinable way.

Stopping with two feet between them, he gestured to the view. “You seemed to be declaring it to the world at large.”

He met her gaze; amusement at catching her out lurked in the blue, along with watchfulness and a certain disapproval.

His features remained expressionless. “I suppose it’s too much to hope there’s a groom or footman waiting nearby?”

That was a subject she wasn’t about to debate, especially not with him. Facing the view, she coolly inclined her head. “Good afternoon. The views are quite magnificent.” She paused for only an instant. “I hadn’t imagined you an admirer of nature.”

She felt his gaze slide over her profile, then he looked at the view.

“On the contrary.” He slid his hands into his pockets; he seemed to relax. “There are some creations of nature I’m addicted to worshipping.”

It required no thought at all to divine to what he was alluding. In the past, she would have made some tart remark . . . now, all she heard in her mind were the words of her vow . . . “You’re here for the Glossups’ house party.”

It wasn’t a question; he answered with an elegant shrug. “What else?”

He turned as she drew herself up. Their eyes met; he’d heard her vow and was unlikely to forget . . .

She was suddenly sure she needed more space between them.

“I came here for the solitude,” she baldly informed him. “Now that you’ve arrived, I may as well start back.”

She swung toward the exit. He was in her way. Her heartbeat accelerating, she glanced at his face.

In time to see his features harden, to sense him bite back some retort. His gaze touched hers; his restraint was almost palpable. With a calm so deliberate it was itself a warning, he stepped aside and waved her to the door. “As you wish.”

Her senses remained trained on him as she swept past; her skin prickled as if in truth he posed some potential danger. Once past him, head high, she glided out of the archway; with a calm more apparent than real, she set off along the path.

Jaw setting, Simon ruthlessly quelled the urge to stop her, to reach out, catch her hand, reel her back—to what end he wasn’t sure. This, he reminded himself, was what he needed, her on her haughty way back to Glossup Hall.

Drawing a long breath, he held it, then followed her out into the sunshine.

And on down the path. The sooner she got back to civilization and safety, the sooner his own journey would end. He’d driven straight down from London—he was thirsty; a glass of ale would not go astray.

With his longer strides he could easily overtake her; instead, he ambled in her wake, content enough with the view. The current fashion for gowns with waists that actually fell at a woman’s waist suited her, emphasizing the svelte lines of her figure, the slender curves, the very long lines of her legs. The purply blue hue of the light summer walking dress complemented her dramatic coloring—raven black hair, midnight blue eyes, and pale, almost translucent skin. She was taller than the average; her forehead would brush his chin—if they ever got that close.