The Perfect Lover (Cynster 10)
He looked away but she caught the quick lift of his lips.
“How was it”—she waved back at the house—“in there?”
“Ghastly. Kitty’s skating on thin ice. She seems bent on attaching Winfield, despite the fact he’s running the other way. After the earlier fracas, Henry’s retreated, pretending not to notice. Mrs. Archer’s horrified but impotent; Lord and Lady Glossup are increasingly distracted. The only light relief was provided by Lord Netherfield. He told Kitty to grow up.”
Portia smothered an unladylike snort; she’d been consorting with Lady O for too long.
After a moment, Simon looked at her. “We’d better go back.”
The thought didn’t entice. “Why?” She glanced at him. “It’s too early to retire. Do you really want to go back in there and have to smile through Kitty’s performance?”
His look of haughty distaste was answer enough.
“Come on—let’s go down to the lake.” She intended to look in at the summerhouse, but didn’t feel obliged to mention it.
He hesitated, looking not at the lake, but at the summerhouse glimmering faintly at its end. He did, indeed, know her well. She set her chin and looped her arm in his. “The walk will clear your head.”
She had to tug once, but, reluctantly, he went with her, eventually settling to stroll by her side as they turned onto the path around the lake’s rim. He steered her toward the pinetum, away from the summerhouse; head high, she glided along, and said not a word.
The path circumnavigated the lake; to return to the house without retracing their steps, they would have to pass the summerhouse.
Lady O had, as usual, been right; there was a great deal she had yet to learn, to explore, and not over many days in which to do it. In other circumstances, three lessons in one day might be rushing things; in these circumstances, she could see no reason not to grasp this opportunity to pursue her aim.
And to ease her curiosity.
Simon knew what she was thinking. Her airy demeanor deceived him not at all; she was fantasizing about the next stage.
So was he.
But, unlike her, he knew a great deal more; his attitude to the subject was equivocal. It didn’t surprise him that she would seek to rush ahead—indeed, he was counting on her reckless enthusiasm to carry her far further. However . . .
He could have used a little time to come to grips with what he’d glimpsed that afternoon.
A little time to reorient himself.
And to think of some way to reinforce his control against her temptation—a temptation all the more potent because he knew she wasn’t even aware she possessed it.
He was certainly not fool enough to tell her; the last thing he needed was for her to set out deliberately to wield it.
“You know, I can’t understand what Kitty’s thinking. It’s as if she doesn’t consider others, or their feelings, at all.”
He thought of Henry, of what he had to be feeling. “Is she really that naive?”
After a moment, Portia answered, “I’m not sure it’s a question of naïveté so much as true selfishness—an inability to think of how others feel. She acts as if she’s the only one who’s truly real, as if the rest of us are”—she gestured—“figures on a carousel, twirling about her.”
He grunted. “She doesn’t seem close to even Winifred.”
Portia shook her head. “They aren’t close—indeed, I think Winifred would rather they were even more distant. Especially given Desmond.”
“Is there an understanding there, do you know?”
“There would be if Kitty would let be.”
They walked on in silence. Eventually, he murmured, “It must get very lonely at the center of her carousel.”
A few seconds passed, then Portia tightened her hold on his arm briefly, inclined her head.
They’d strolled around most of the lake; the summerhouse loomed out of the darkness. He allowed her to steer him across the lawn to the steps; he made no demur when she let go of his arm, picked up her skirts, and went up. He cast a quick glance around the lake path, then followed her.