She swung toward the exit. He was in her way. Her heartbeat accelerating, she glanced at his face.
In time to see his features harden, to sense him bite back some retort. His gaze touched hers; his restraint was almost palpable. With a calm so deliberate it was itself a warning, he stepped aside and waved her to the door. “As you wish.”
Her senses remained trained on him as she swept past; her skin prickled as if in truth he posed some potential danger. Once past him, head high, she glided out of the archway; with a calm more apparent than real, she set off along the path.
Jaw setting, Simon ruthlessly quelled the urge to stop her, to reach out, catch her hand, reel her back—to what end he wasn’t sure. This, he reminded himself, was what he needed, her on her haughty way back to Glossup Hall.
Drawing a long breath, he held it, then followed her out into the sunshine.
And on down the path. The sooner she got back to civilization and safety, the sooner his own journey would end. He’d driven straight down from London—he was thirsty; a glass of ale would not go astray.
With his longer strides he could easily overtake her; instead, he ambled in her wake, content enough with the view. The current fashion for gowns with waists that actually fell at a woman’s waist suited her, emphasizing the svelte lines of her figure, the slender curves, the very long lines of her legs. The purply blue hue of the light summer walking dress complemented her dramatic coloring—raven black hair, midnight blue eyes, and pale, almost translucent skin. She was taller than the average; her forehead would brush his chin—if they ever got that close.
The thought of that happening made him inwardly, grimly, laugh.
Reaching the crest of the rise, she continued over and on—and only then realized he was following her. She threw him a black glance, then stopped and waited, swinging to face him as he halted before her.
Her eyes like shards of dark flint, she glared at him. “You are not going to follow me all the way back to the Hall.”
Portia didn’t ask what he thought he was doing; they both knew. They’d last seen each other at Christmas, seven months before, but only distantly, surrounded by the combined hordes of their families. He hadn’t had a chance then to get on her nerves, something that, ever since she’d turned fourteen, he’d seemed absolutely devoted to doing, if possible every time they met.
His gaze locked on hers. Something—temper? decision?—flashed behind the deceptively soft blue of his eyes. Then his lips firmed; he stepped around her with his usual fluid grace, unnerving in a man so large, and continued on down the path.
She whirled, watched. He didn’t go far but stopped a step beyond the fork where the footpath to the village led down to the lane below.
Turning, he met her gaze. “You’re right. I’m not.” He waved down the path.
She looked in that direction. A curricle—his curricle—stood in the lane.
“Your carriage awaits.”
Lifting her gaze, she met his. Directly. He was blocking the path to the Hall—quite deliberately.
“I was intending to walk back.”
His gaze didn’t waver. “Change your mind.”
His tone—sheer male arrogance laced with a challenge she hadn’t previously encountered and couldn’t place—sent a peculiar shiver through her. There was no overt aggression in his stance, yet she didn’t for a moment doubt he could, and would, stop her if she tried to get past him.
Temper, wild willfulness—her customary response to intimidatory tactics, especially from him—flooded her, yet this time there were other, powerful and distracting emotions in the mix. She stood perfectly still, her gaze level and locked in silent combat with his, the familiar struggle for supremacy, yet . . .
Something had changed.
In him.
And in her.
Was it simply age—how long had it been since they’d last crossed wills like this? Three years? More? Regardless, the field had altered; the battle was no longer the same. Something was fundamentally different; she sensed in him a bolder, more blatantly predatory streak, a flash of steel beneath his elegance, as if with the years his mask was wearing thin.
She’d always known him for what he was . . .
Her vow echoed in her head. She mentally shook aside the distraction, yet still she heard . . . recognized the challenge.
Couldn’t resist.
Head rising, she walked forward, every bit as deliberate as he.
The watchfulness in his eyes condensed, until his attention was focused exclusively on her. Another tingle of sensation slithered down her spine. Halting before him, she held his gaze.
What did he see? Now she was looking, trying to see past his guard only to discover she could not—odd, for they’d never sought to hide their mutual dismissiveness—what was it he was hiding? What was the reason behind the veiled threat emanating from him?
To her surprise, she wanted to know.
She drew a deliberate breath, evenly stated, “Very well.”
Surprise lit his eyes, swiftly superceded by suspicion; she pivoted and looked down, stepping onto the path to the village, hiding her smile. Just so he wouldn’t imagine he’d won, she coolly added, “As it happens, one of my shoes is pinching.”
She’d taken only one more step when she sensed him shift, then he was sweeping down on her, moving far too fast.
Her senses leapt. Uncertain, she slowed—
He didn’t halt; he bent, and scooped her up in his arms.
“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.
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
ential; the second son of a second son, he’d had to make his way in the world, and had succeeded. The confidence that gave sat like a patina over his person, over the expensive clothes and precise grooming.
Of Lord and Lady Glossup’s generation, Mr. Archer was the father of another Catherine, known to all as Kitty, who had married Lord Glossup’s eldest son, Henry. It was clear to all that Mr. Archer viewed that circumstance as affording entry into the social circles to which he aspired.
Being introduced to Simon made his gaze sharpen; he would have liked to speak for longer, but James artfully guided Simon on.
The next group included Kitty Glossup, in some respects their secondary hostess. Blond, petite but slightly plump, Kitty had a porcelain pink-and-white complexion and glowing blue eyes; her small hands flitted, her lightly rouged lips were forever in motion, either smiling or pouting or talking. She was never happier than when holding center stage; she was vain, flighty—Portia had found they had little in common, but Kitty was not so different from many others in the ton.
Kitty had been conversing with Lady Calvin and Mr. Desmond Winfield. Cynthia, Lady Calvin, was a severe but well-connected widow, a cool, levelheaded lady carefully guiding her two children—Ambrose and her daughter, Drusilla—through life. An earl’s daughter, she moved in the same circles as the Cynsters and Ashfords; she smiled regally on Simon and gave him her hand.
Mr. Winfield had arrived only a few hours before; Portia had yet to learn much of him. His outward appearance declared him a gentleman of independent means, sober and rather thoughtful. She’d gathered he’d been invited through the Archers; she wondered if he was intended for their older, as yet unmarried daughter, Winifred.
Winifred herself was in the next group James conducted Simon toward, as were Henry Glossup, James’s elder brother, Alfreda Archer, Winifred and Kitty’s mother and thus Henry’s mother-in-law, and Drusilla Calvin.
As a longtime friend of James’s, Simon had visited Glossup Hall frequently and knew Henry well; they shook hands as old acquaintances. Henry was an older, quieter, and more solid version of James, a likable sort on whose shoulders responsibility for the estate had devolved.