The Perfect Lover (Cynster 10)

The Hall was a sprawling country house built in Elizabethan times. Its typical redbrick facade faced south and boasted three stories with east and west wings set perpendicular to it. The central wing housing the ballroom and conservatory made up the middle stroke of the E. As they neared, sunlight glanced off the rows of mullioned windows and glowed on the tall chimneys with their ornate pots.

By the time he swung the bays into the circular forecourt, Simon felt thoroughly disconcerted. Not a common feeling, not for him; there wasn’t much in tonnish life that could throw him off-balance.

Other than Portia.

If she’d railed at him, used her sharp tongue to its usual effect, all would have been normal. He wouldn’t have enjoyed the encounter, but neither would he have felt this sudden disorientation.

Rack his brains though he might, he couldn’t recall her ever behaving toward him with such . . . feminine softness was the description that sprang to mind. She was usually well armored and prickly; today, she’d apparently left her shield and spears behind.

The result was . . .

He reined in the bays, pulled on the brake, tossed the ribbons to Wilks, and stepped down.

Portia waited for him to come around the carriage and hand her down; he watched, expecting her to leap down in her usual, independent, don’t-need-you way. Instead, when he offered his hand, she placed her slim fingers across his palm and let him assist her to alight with stunning grace.

She looked up and smiled when he released her. “Thank you.” Her smile deepened; her eyes held his. “You were right. My foot is in an unquestionably better state than it otherwise would have been.”

Her expression one of ineffable sweetness, she inclined her head and turned away. Her eyes were so dark he hadn’t been able to tell if the twinkle he’d thought he’d seen in them was real, or merely a trick of the light.

He stood in the forecourt, grooms and footmen darting around him, and watched as she glided into the house. Without a single glance back, she disappeared into the shadows beyond the open front door.

The sound of gravel crunching as his curricle and pair were led away jerked him out of his abstraction. Outwardly impassive, inwardly a trifle grim, he strode to the door of Glossup Hall. And followed her in.

“Simon! Capital.” Smiling broadly, James Glossup shut the library door and came forward.

Leaving his greatcoat in the butler’s hands, Simon turned to greet James.

Relief shone in James’s eyes as he shook his hand. “You’ve arrived just in time to stand shoulder to shoulder with Charlie and me.” With a nod, he indicated the drawing room; through the closed doors, the unmistakable hubbub of male and female voices engaged in social discourse reached them. “Charlie went in to reconnoiter.”

Blenkinsop, the butler, paused at James’s elbow. “I’ll have Mr. Cynster’s bags put in his usual room, sir.”

James nodded. “Thank you, Blenkinsop. We’ll join the others—no need to announce us.”

An ex–sergeant major, tall, tending toward portly but with a rigidly upright stance, Blenkinsop bowed and departed. James glanced at Simon, then waved to the drawing room. “Come—let’s have at them!”

They entered together, pausing to close one door each. Simon met James’s gaze as the lock clicked; watching from across the room, Portia suspected both were well aware of the image they presented, strolling in side by side.

Two wolves of the ton; no one with eyes would mistake them for anything else, and seen together, the effect was compounded. They were both tall, lean, broad-shouldered, and loose-limbed, neither overly heavy. Where James’s brown hair curled lightly, Simon’s once-fair locks, darkened with age to a burnished light brown that still held the promise of hidden gold, lay in silk waves about his head. Simon was blue-eyed and fairer of skin; James had soulful brown eyes he used to good effect.

Both were dressed in the first style, their coats perfectly fitted, the cut bearing the unmistakable stamp of the ton’s foremost tailor. Their cravats were pristine white, precisely tied; their waistcoats were exercises in subdued elegance.

They wore the mantle of tonnish grace as if they’d been born to it, as, indeed, they had. They were brothers beneath the skin—rakes of the ton; as James performed the introductions, that was clear beyond doubt.

They were joined by Charlie Hastings, the third member of their crew, a slightly shorter, fair-haired gentleman of the same handsome, devil-may-care ilk.

Portia surveyed the rest of the company, scattered about the large drawing room, grouped about chairs and sofas, teacups in hand. The only guests still to arrive were Lady Hammond and her two daughters, expected later that afternoon.

James led Simon first to their host, his father, Harold, Lord Glossup, a well-built gentleman of middle age, who had made all his guests heartily welcome. Beside him stood George Buckstead, a solid country sort, an old friend of Harold’s and in much the same vein. Also of the group was Ambrose Calvin, a gentleman of somewhat different stamp. Ambrose was in his midthirties, and apparently determined on a political career, hence, Portia suspected, his presence here.

Precisely what he hoped to gain she wasn’t sure, but she had experience of his type; he was sure to have some goal in mind.

Charlie, already introduced, had hung back; when James and Simon turned, they discovered Miss Lucy Buckstead had captured their friend. Bright, breezy, just twenty, pretty, and dark-haired, Miss Buckstead was delighted to give Simon her hand, but her eyes too quickly returned to James’s face.

With an elegant apology, James drew Simon away to continue the introductions; Charlie stepped in to distract Miss Buckstead. Portia noted the glance James and Simon exchanged as they approached the next group.

That contained James’s mother, their hostess, Catherine, Lady Glossup. A faded matron with pale fair hair and washed-out blue eyes, she still retained a degree of reserve, a faint echo of a superiority she didn’t in fact possess. She was not an unkind woman, but one, perhaps, whose dreams had passed her by. Beside her sat Mrs. Buckstead—Helen—a large, matronly lady whose calm cheeriness declared her quite content with her lot.

Both ladies smiled graciously as Simon bowed; he exchanged a few words, then turned to shake hands with the gentleman standing beside them. Mr. Moreton Archer was a banker, wealthy and influ