They ambled on; Simon’s gaze returned to her face. “That wasn’t what you were thinking about.”
She had to smile. “No.” She’d been pondering the basics of marriage—the relationship, what it must mean in fact as distinct from any theory. She gestured. “I can’t imagine—”
She’d been going to say that she couldn’t see how Kitty and Henry could continue in their marriage, but such a statement would be unbelievably naive. Many marriages rolled along quite reasonably with nothing more than respect between the partners.
Drawing breath, she reached for her real meaning. “Kitty’s betrayed Henry’s trust—she seems to think that trust doesn’t matter. What I can’t imagine is a marriage without it. I can’t see how it could work.”
Even as she spoke, she was conscious of the irony; neither of them was married—even more, both had avoided the subject for years.
She glanced at Simon; he was looking down as they walked, but his expression was serious. He was thinking of what she’d said.
After a moment, conscious of her gaze, he looked up, first at her, then ahead, over the manicured lawn. “I think you’re right. Without trust . . . it can’t work. Not for us—people like us. Not with the sort of marriage you—or I—could countenance.”
If anyone had told her, even a week ago, that she would be having such a conversation about marriage with Simon Cynster, she would have laughed herself into stitches. Yet now it seemed nothing more than right. She’d wanted to learn what lay between a man and a woman specifically with respect to marriage; the scope of that study had broadened further than she’d foreseen.
Trust. Marriage really was very much about that.
It was also at the heart of what was growing between her and Simon; that wasn’t trust itself, but whatever it was had only grown—presumably could only grow—because trust, real trust, had already existed between them, nascent, untried.
“She—Kitty—will never find what she wants.” She suddenly knew that beyond doubt. “She’s searching for something, but she wants to be given it first, and then decide whether to be worthy of it—whether to pay the price. But with what she wants, she’s putting the cart before the horse.”
Simon thought about it, not just her words but the ideas behind them; he felt her glance, and nodded. He did understand, not so much Kitty but what Portia was saying; it was she who commanded his thoughts, who inhabited his dreams.
Her view of marriage was vitally important to him. And what she’d said was corrrect—trust did come first. All the rest, all that he wanted of her, all he wanted her to want of him, all of which was only now becoming clear—all that was like a tree that could grow strongly, well rooted and secure, only if solidly planted in trust.
He glanced at her, walking, thinking, by his side. He trusted her completely and absolutely, far more than he trusted any other living soul. It wasn’t just familiarity, being able to rely on her, knowing with unquestioning confidence how she would think, react, behave. Even feel.
It was knowing she’d never intentionally hurt him.
She’d prick his ego without compunction, defy him, irritate, and argue, but she’d never seek to truly harm him—she’d already proved that.
Drawing breath, he looked ahead, suddenly aware of how very precious such a trust was.
Did she trust him? She must to some extent, but exactly how far he wasn’t yet sure.
A moot point. If—when he prevailed on her to trust him far enough, would that trust survive if she later discovered that he hadn’t been completely open, completely honest with her?
Would she understand why? Enough to be lenient?
She was an open book; she was and always had been too direct, too self-confident and assured of her own station, her own abilities, and her indomitable will, to bother with deceit. It was simply not in her nature.
He knew exactly what she was seeking, what she looked to gain through her interaction with him. The one thing he didn’t know was how she would react when she realized that, in addition to giving her all she sought, he was determined and intent on giving her a great deal more.
Would she think he was trying to capture her, saddle her with responsibilities, hem her in—imprison her? And react accordingly?
Despite all he knew of her—indeed, because of all her knew of her—that was impossible to predict.
They reached a long, wisteria-covered walk leading back toward the house. Turning under the wooden arches, they strolled along in easy silence. Then Portia slowed.
“Oh, dear.”
He followed her gaze to the adjoining lawn. Kitty stood at the center of a group of officers and youthful sprigs, a glass in her hand, laughter on her lips. She was talking, gesturing, excessively gay; they couldn’t make out her words but her tone was too high-pitched, as was her laugh.
One of the officers made a comment. Everyone laughed. Kitty gestured wildly and responded; two gentlemen steadied her as she wobbled. Everyone laughed even more.
Simon halted. Portia did, too.
A flash of lavender skirts had them glancing down the lawn. Mrs. Archer came hurrying up.