The Perfect Lover (Cynster 10)

“What—?”

Without breaking his stride, he juggled her until he had her cradled, carrying her as if she weighed no more than a child.

Her lungs had seized, along with her senses; it took serious effort to draw breath. “What do you think you’re doing?”

Her total incomprehension invested every word. Never before had he shown the slightest sign of reacting to her gibes in any physical way.

She was . . . what? Shocked? Or . . . ?

Thrusting her confusion side, she met his gaze as he briefly glanced her way.

“Your shoe’s pinching—we wouldn’t want your delicate little foot to suffer unnecessary damage.”

His tone was bland, his expression guileless; the look in his eyes would even pass for innocent.

She blinked. They both looked ahead. She considered protesting—and discarded the notion in the next thought. He was perfectly capable of arguing until they reached the curricle.

As for struggling, she was intensely aware—far more than she liked to be—that she was physically much weaker than he. The arms supporting her felt like steel; his stride never faltered, powerful and assured. The hand clasping her thigh just above her knee—decently protected by her full skirts—grasped like a vise; the width of his chest and its muscled hardness locked her in. She’d never regarded his strength as anything she needed to consider or weigh, yet if he was going to bring physical contact into their equation, she would need to think again.

And not just on the basis of strength.

Being this close, trapped in his arms, made her feel . . . among other things, light-headed.

He slowed; she refocused.

With a flourish, he set her on the curricle’s seat.

Startled, she grasped the railings, out of habit drawing her skirts close so he could sit beside her—noting the equally startled face of Wilks, his groom.

“Ah . . . afternoon, Miss Portia.” Wide-eyed, Wilks bobbed as he handed the reins to Simon.

Wilks had to have witnessed the entire performance; he was waiting for her to explode, or at least say something cutting.

And he wasn’t the only one.

She smiled with perfect equanimity. “Good afternoon, Wilks.”

Wilks blinked, nodded warily, then hurried back to his place.

Simon glanced at her as he climbed up beside her. As if expecting her to bite. Or at the very le

ast snarl.

He wouldn’t have believed a sweet smile, so she faced forward, serenely composed, as if her joining him in the curricle had been her idea. His suspicious glance was worth every tithe of the effort such sunny compliance cost her.

The curricle jerked, then rolled forward. The instant he had his bays bowling along, she asked, “How are your parents?”

A pause greeted that, but then he replied.

She nodded and launched into an account of her family, all of whom he knew, describing their health, their whereabouts, their latest interests. As if he’d asked, she continued, “I came down with Lady O.” For years, that had been their shorthand for Lady Osbaldestone, a connection of the Cynsters’ and an old friend of her family’s, an ancient beldame who terrorized half the ton. “She spent the last weeks at the Chase, and then had to travel down here. She’s an old friend of Lord Netherfield, did you know?” Viscount Netherfield was Lord Glossup’s father and was presently visiting at Glossup Hall.

Simon was frowning. “No.”

Portia smiled quite genuinely; she was fond of Lady O, but Simon, in company with most gentlemen of his ilk, found her perspicaciousness somewhat scarifying. “Luc insisted she shouldn’t cross half the country alone, so I offered to come, too. The others who’ve arrived so far . . .” She rattled on, acquainting him with those present and those yet to arrive, precisely as any friendly, well-bred young lady might.

The suspicion in his eyes grew more and more pronounced.

Then the gates of Glossup Hall appeared, set wide in welcome. Simon turned the bays in and set them pacing up the drive.