The Perfect Lover (Cynster 10)

The emotion—the hope—she glimpsed in Winifred’s eyes before she looked away made her feel unexpectedly good. Presumably that was what Lady O felt when she meddled to good effect; for the first time in her life, Portia could see the attraction.

They walked on. She glanced up; the sight of the two male figures coming toward them abruptly recalled her to her own situation.

Simon and James strolled up. With their usual polished charm, they greeted both her and Winifred. Surreptitiously, Portia studied Simon, but could detect no change in his demeanor, sense nothing specific in his attitude toward her—no hint of what he thought about their kiss.

“We’ve been dispatched to fetch you,” James said. “There’s a p

icnic on. It’s been decided luncheon will taste much better in the ruins of the old priory.”

“Where is this priory?” Winifred asked.

“To the north of the village, not far. It’s a pretty place.” James gestured expansively. “A perfect place to eat, drink, and relax in the bosom of the countryside.”

James’s words proved prophetic; the priory was every bit as accommodating as he’d intimated. Located on an escarpment, the ruins were extensive; while the views were not as good as those from the lookout, they were nonetheless very pleasant.

The stretch of ancient, overgrown lawn where the picnic was set out afforded a pleasant vista over valley and fields merging into a blue-grey distance. The day was warm, but the sun remained hidden by light cloud; a wafting breeze stirred the leaves and set the wildflowers nodding.

Once the food and wine were consumed, the older members of the party were content to sit back and swap tales and opinions on society and the world. Everyone else dispersed to explore the ruins.

They were as romantic as any young lady might wish, the tumbled stones well settled, not dangerous, in parts overgrown with creepers. Here and there an arch remained, framing a view; in other places walls still stood. A portion of the cloisters provided a sunny nook in which to take one’s ease.

Since seeing her walking in the gardens that morning, Simon had been unable to shift his attention from Portia. Even when she was not directly in view, he was aware of her, like the caress of silk across naked skin—her presence now affected him in precisely the same way. He watched her, helpless not to, even though he knew she was aware of it. He wanted to know—had to know—couldn’t let go of the possibilities that unlooked-for kiss on the terrace had raised.

He hadn’t intended it; he knew she hadn’t either, yet it had happened. Why such an interaction, so minor in the scheme of such things, should so grip his interest was a riddle he wasn’t sure he needed solved.

Yet he couldn’t leave it, couldn’t shake aside the insane idea that had rushed into his mind on a torrent of conviction and taken up implacable, immovable residence. The idea that had kept him awake half the night.

Regardless of his impluses, he knew better than to crowd her or to make their awareness of each other public knowledge. When, with the others, she happily rose and set out to explore, he ambled along some distance behind, with Charlie and James supposedly keeping a general eye on proceedings.

The Hammond girls went quickly ahead, hallooing and giggling. Oswald and Swanston, clinging to spurious superiority, followed, but not too fast. Desmond walked beside Winifred; they parted from the other ladies, taking a different route into the ruins. Drusilla, Lucy, and Portia strolled on, Portia swinging her hat by its ribbons.

Henry and Kitty had remained with the elders—Mrs. Archer, Lady Glossup, and Lady O had all felt the need to engage Kitty in conversation. James, therefore, was relaxed and smiling as they walked through the arch into what had once been the church’s nave.

Simon, too, smiled.

It took him fifteen minutes to lose James to Drusilla Calvin. When she paused to rest on a fallen stone, urging Lucy and Portia to go on, Simon paused, too, frowning, communicating his thoughts to James without words; James felt obliged to remain with Drusilla, entertaining her as best he could.

Charlie was a more difficult proposition, not least because he, too, had his eye on Portia—quite why, and with what aim, Simon was certain Charlie himself didn’t know. Considering his tactics, with Charlie beside him he lengthened his stride, closing the distance to Lucy and Portia, eventually joining them.

Both turned and smiled.

He addressed himself to Lucy. “So are the ruins all you’d hoped for?”

“Indeed, yes!” Face alight, eyes shining, Lucy spread her arms wide. “It’s quite wonderfully atmospheric. Why, one could easily imagine a ghost or two, even a sepulchral company of monks slowly making their way up the nave, censers swinging. Or perhaps a chant, emanating through the mists when there’s no one there.”

Portia laughed. Simon looked at her, caught her eye; distracted, she didn’t utter the response she’d been about to make.

Leaving Charlie to say, “Oh, there’s many more possibilities than that.” He flashed Lucy his most engaging smile. “What about the crypt? Now there’s a place for imaginings. The tombs are still there, guaranteed to send a shiver down your spine.”

Lucy’s eyes had grown round. “Where?” She swiveled, looking around. “Is it near?”

Her gaze returned to Charlie, eager and appreciative; as usual, he responded in his customary way.

“It’s on the other side of the church.” With a flourish, he offered his arm, totally distracted from his earlier aim by the giddy enthusiasm in Lucy’s eyes. “Come—I’ll escort you there. If you’re a lover of atmosphere, you won’t want to miss it.”

Lucy happily slipped her hand in his arm. Over her head, Charlie arched a brow at Simon and Portia. “Coming?”

Simon waved him on. “We’ll stroll on a little way. We’ll meet you in the cloisters.”