Lucy accepted with a pretty smile.
The look on Kitty’s face was . . . stunned. Disbelieving.
Almost childlike in its disappointment.
Portia’s levity faded. She shifted in the crowd, not wanting to get trapped in any conversation. There was something very wrong with Kitty’s view of things—her perceptions, her expectations, her aspirations.
She’d thought she was moving away from Kitty, but Kitty must have swung on her heel and stormed off. She was still storming when Portia nearly ran into her; she saw her just in time and changed tack.
There was too much color in Kitty’s cheeks; her blue eyes glittered. Her soft, pouty lips grimly set, she strode on with unladylike vigor.
Looking away, Portia saw Henry leave a group of gentlemen and move to intercept his wife. Feeling like someone about to witness an accident and incapable of preventing it, compelled, she moved to the edge of the crowd.
Twenty feet away, Kitty all but walked into Henry. There were others near, but all were engrossed in their conversations; Henry grasped Kitty’s arm, firmly but not with anger, as if both to steady her and to recall her to her surroundings.
Face set, Kitty looked up at him. Her eyes flashed, she spoke—even without hearing the words, Portia knew they were vicious, cutting, intended to hurt. Henry stiffened. Slowly, he released Kitty. He bowed, speaking low, then he straightened. A moment passed; Kitty said nothing. Henry inclined his head, then stiffly moved away.
Fury—the anger of a child denied—roiled in Kitty’s face, then, as if donning a mask, she composed her features. Drawing in a breath, she swung to face her guests, called up a smile, and moved into the crush.
“Hardly an edifying spectacle.”
The drawled words came from behind her.
She looked up and back, over her shoulder. “There you are.”
Simon looked down, read her eyes. “Indeed. Where were you going?”
He must have seen her earlier, heading doggedly this way, one drawback of being rather taller than the average.
She smiled, turned, and linked her arm with his. “I wasn’t going anywhere, but now you’re here, I would like to stroll through the gardens. I’ve been talking for the past two hours.”
Others, likewise, were starting to amble, taking advantage of the extensive walks. Rather than head for the lake, as most were, she and Simon turned toward the yews and the formal gardens beyond.
They’d reached the open lawn beyond the first row of trees when he offered, “A guinea for your thoughts.”
He’d been watching her, studying her face. She flicked him a glance. “Do you think they’re worth that much?”
They paused; he held her gaze, then his attention shifted to the black curl that had come loose and now bobbed by her ear. Lifting a hand, he caught it, tucked it back b
ehind her ear; his fingertips lightly brushed her cheek.
Their eyes met.
He’d touched her much more intimately, yet there was a quality in the simple caress that conveyed so much more.
“I want to know your thoughts that much.” His gaze didn’t waver.
Studying his eyes, she felt something inside her quiver. It was an admission of sorts, one she hadn’t expected. One she wasn’t sure she was reading correctly. Yet . . . letting her lips curve, she inclined her head.
Arm in arm, they walked slowly on.
“I intended to avoid Kitty and all her doings—instead, I’ve been tripping over her at every turn.” She sighed, looked ahead. “She’s betrayed Henry, hasn’t she?”
She felt him tense to shrug, knew when he stopped, reconsidered.
He nodded curtly. “That seems fairly certain.”
She would have wagered her best bonnet they were both thinking of Arturo and his nocturnal visits to the house.