The Perfect Lover (Cynster 10)

Simon returned Lady Osbaldestone’s brimming cup, then glibly excused himself; the old tartar dismissed him with a humph and a wave. Collecting a cup of tea for himself, he joined Charlie and Lucy Buckstead by the windows.

Charlie welcomed him with a grin, but his artful patter didn’t falter; he was well launched on turning Miss Buckstead’s giddy head. Not that he meant anything by it; Charlie simply loved to flirt. With his curling golden hair, dark brown eyes, and even, fashionable drawl, he was an ornament of the ton greatly sought after by ladies of taste and discernment.

The point ladies discerned, usually with exemplary rapidity, was that Charlie was, in most cases, all talk and no action. Not that he didn’t indulge when it suited him; it simply rarely did.

Even Miss Buckstead, naive though she was, seemed quite unconcerned, laughing and parrying Charlie’s almost-but-not-quite-risqué comments.

Simon smiled and sipped his tea. Both he and Charlie knew they were safe with Miss Buckstead; it was James she had her naive eyes set upon.

Under cover of the chatter, he surveyed the company. The purpose of the gathering was clearly to acknowledge ties—with the Archers, Kitty’s family, and the Bucksteads, old friends, and the Calvins and the Hammonds, useful connections. An entirely normal collection of guests, but with Lucy Buckstead present, Simon could appreciate James’s strategy in ensuring a few extra gentlemen attended.

He didn’t begrudge James the days; it was, at base, what friends were for. He did, however, wonder what entertainment he himself might find to fill the time until he could safely leave James and continue on to Somerset.

His gaze came to rest on the trio of ladies standing by the other set of windows. Winifred Archer, Drusilla Calvin, and Portia. The latter were of an age, around twenty-four, a few years younger than Kitty, whose giddy laughter reached him over the hum of more restrained conversations.

Portia glanced at Kitty, then returned to the discussion between Winifred and Drusilla.

Winifred had her back to her sister and gave no sign of having heard her shrill mirth. Winifred was older; Simon judged her to be closer to his own twenty-nine years.

He glanced at the group over which Kitty presided and saw Desmond Winfield glance toward Portia. Or was it toward Winifred? Desmond tensed, as if to approach them.

Kitty laid a hand on his sleeve and directed some question his way; he turned back to her and answered quietly.

Nearer at hand, Charlie laughed; Lucy Buckstead smothered a giggle. With not a clue as to what had been said, Simon smiled at them both, then raised his cup and sipped again.

His gaze returned to Portia.

The sun streamed over her, striking blue-black glints from her raven hair.

Unbidden, the fragrance that had risen from her heavy curls, the warm scent that had teased his senses as he’d carried her down the path, returned, sharply evocative. It pricked his memory, and brought back all the rest—the weight of her in his arms, the supple tension in her body, the all-too-feminine curves. The remembered sensations washed over him, and left him heated.

He’d been crushingly aware of her as a woman, a female—something he’d never imagined could be. He’d been stunned, not least by the discovery that some part of his mind had consciously wished he’d been carrying her somewhere else. Somewhere a great deal more private.

Yet at no time had he confused her with any other—he’d known very well who it was in his arms. He hadn’t forgotten the sharpness of her tongue, the lash of her temper. Nevertheless, he’d wanted . . .

Inwardly frowning, he shifted his gaze back to Lucy Buckstead. If he wanted a wife, surely she was the sort of female he should be considering—well behaved, docile—manageable. He fixed his gaze on her . . . but his mind kept sliding away. . . .

He set down his cup, conjured a smile. “If you’ll excuse me, I should wash off the dust.”

With a brief bow to Lucy and a nod to Charlie, he returned his cup to Lady Glossup, smoothly made his excuses, and escaped.

As he climbed the stairs, Portia, that unexpected moment on the path, and her equally unexpected response reclaimed his mind. Glossup Hall had presented him with unanticipated vistas; he had the time—there was no reason he couldn’t explore them.

Aside from all else, the challenge of discovering just what one supremely well-educated female had yet to learn about life was well-nigh irresistible.

I never would have thought you a coward.”

The words, spoken in a soft, feminine, decidedly provocative drawl, brought Portia to a halt on the landing of the west wing stairs. She’d spent the last half hour with the pianoforte in the music room on the first floor of the west wing; now it was time to gather in the drawing room before dinner—she was on her way there.

By the west wing stairs, not much frequented by the ladies of the party as their rooms were in the east wing.

“But perhaps it’s just a ploy?”

The words clung like a caress; it was Kitty speaking.

“It’s not a ploy!” James spoke through his teeth. “I’m not playing any games—and I never will with you!”

They were out of Portia’s sight in the hall at the bottom of the stairs, but James’s aversion reached her clearly. Along with a hint of desperation.