The Perfect Lover (Cynster 10)
Kitty laughed. Her disbelief—or rather her belief that no man, especially not one like James, would not desire her—echoed up the stairwell.
Without further thought, Portia calmly, and firmly, continued down the stairs.
They heard her; both turned. Both faces registered unwelcome surprise, but only James’s registered anything approaching embarrassment; Kitty’s expression was all irritation at being interrupted.
Then James recognized Portia; relief washed over his features. “Good evening, Miss Ashford. Have you lost your way?”
She hadn’t, but Kitty had James backed into an alcove. “Indeed.” She struggled to infuse some degree of helplessness into her expression. “I thought I was certain, yet . . .” She waved vaguely.
James brushed past Kitty. “Allow me—I was just heading for the drawing room. I take it that’s where you wish to go?”
He took her hand and set it on his sleeve; she met his eyes, and saw the plea therein.
“Yes, please. I would be most grateful for your escort.” She smiled easily, then turned to Kitty.
Kitty didn’t smile back; she nodded somewhat curtly.
Portia raised her brows. “Aren’t you joining us, Mrs. Glossup?”
Beside her, James stiffened.
Kitty waved. “I’ll be along shortly. Do go on.” With that, she turned and headed for the stairs.
James relaxed. Portia turned and let him steer her toward the central wing. She glanced at his face; he was frowning, and a trifle pale. “Are you all right, Mr. Glossup?”
He glanced at her, then smiled—charmingly. “Do call me James.” With a backward nod, he added, “Thank you.”
Brows rising, she couldn’t resist asking, “Is she often like that—importuning?”
He hesitated, then said, “She seems to be getting rather worse.”
He was clearly uncomfortable; she looked ahead. “You’ll just have to cling to other ladies until she gets over it.”
He threw her a sharp glance, but didn’t know her well enough to be sure of her irony. She let him guide her through the house, hiding a smile at the bizarre twist that had a rake of James Glossup’s standing relying on her for, as it were, protection of his virtue.
She caught his eye as they entered the front hall; he was almost certain she was laughing, but wasn’t sure about what. The drawing room loomed; she faced forward. Simon would have known.
As they crossed the threshold, she saw him, standing to one side of the fireplace, conversing with Charlie and two bright young things—Lady Hammond’s daughters, Annabelle and Cecily. Lady Hammond herself, a warmhearted matron of sunny charm, was seated on the chaise beside Lady Osbaldestone.
Across the room, Simon’s eyes met Portia’s. James excused himself and went to talk to his father. After pausing to greet Lady Hammond, a friend of her mother’s, Portia joined Simon and Charlie, Annabelle and Cecily.
The girls were a breath of fresh air; they were innocents, yet entirely at home in this sphere and determined to be the life—or lives—of the party. Portia had known them for years; they greeted her with typical joy.
“Splendid! I didn’t know you’d be here!”
“Oh, it’ll be wonderful—I’m sure we’ll have such fun!”
Wide eyes, bright smiles—it was impossible not to respond in kind. After the usual inquiries about families and acquaintances, the talk focused on the expected pleasures of the coming days and the amenities afforded by the Hall and its neighborhood.
“The gardens are extensive, with lots of walks. I read that in a guidebook,” Annabelle confessed.
“Oh, and there’s a lake—the book said it was not man-made but filled by a natural spring and quite deep.” Cecily grimaced. “Too deep for punting. Imagine!”
“Well,” Charlie put in, “you wouldn’t want to risk falling in. Deuced cold—I can vouch for it.”
“Good heavens!” Annabelle turned to Charlie. “Did you? Fall in, I mean?”
Portia caught the glance Charlie sent Simon, and the answering quirk of Simon’s lips; she judged it more likely Charlie had been thrown in.