James’s gaze was on her face, not intent but curious. “The greys are in the other wing of the stable—if you like, I’ll show them to you sometime.”
“That would be nice, if we have time.”
He shrugged. “We can make time.”
She smiled as they emerged into the sunshine. Into the courtyard where the others were milling. Charlie and the stableman were assisting Lucy and Drusilla into their saddles at the mounting block. Portia headed to where a stableboy held the chestnut mare she’d selected—with James’s and Simon’s help. Reaching the horse’s side, she turned. Waited.
James had paused to pat his own mount, then he looked at the group about the mounting block.
Portia focused her gaze on him, waiting for him to realize and lift her to her saddle.
“Here—let me.”
She turned as Simon appeared at her shoulder.
He frowned; his hands fastened about her waist. “We haven’t got all day to stand around staring.”
He hefted her up with ridiculous ease; once again she lost her breath. He set her safely in the saddle, then released her, pushed her skirts aside, and held the lower stirrup. Gathering her scattered wits, she settled her boots into position, then rearranged her skirts. “Thank you,” she said, but he was already moving away.
She watched as he took the reins of his mount from a groom and swung up to the animal’s back with lithe ease. Why was he frowning? It wasn’t so much a lowering of his brows as a hardness in his blue eyes. Mentally shaking her head, she retrieved her reins from the stableboy and nudged the mare into a walk.
James saw she was ready, mounted his gelding, and joined her under the stable arch. Simon shepherded Lucy and Drusilla along, his gaze raking their postures, assessing their abilities. Charlie scrambled into his saddle and followed.
With Portia beside him, James led the way out, at a walk, then a trot. Rutlandshire-born and -bred, she’d ridden with the hunt in earlier years; while she was no longer quite so wild, she still loved to ride. The little mare was skittish and playful; she indulged her just so far, drawing her patiently back into line until she settled.
James had wanted to give her a docile grey mare; she’d opened her mouth to protest, and would certainly have done so, but Simon had intervened and suggested the chestnut instead. James had accepted Simon’s assessment of her abilities with a raised brow but no comment; she’d bitten her tongue and thanked both of them with a smile.
Now James was watching her, gauging, assessing; Simon, she realized, wasn’t. A quick glance around showed him, still with that frown in his eyes, watching Lucy and Drusilla. Charlie, his mount trotting easily beside Drusilla’s, was chatting with his usual facility. Drusilla, as always, was quiet, but she seemed to be listening, or making an effort to listen . . . Portia wondered if it was at her mother’s insistence that she’d joined them.
Lucy kept darting glances ahead—at her and James. Facing forward, recognizing that in all kindness she should yield her position to Lucy shortly, she smiled at James. “I love to ride—is there much hunting in these parts?”
As they rode down the leafy lanes, he answered her questions readily; she gradually steered them in the direction she wished—to what his life was like, his preferred activities, his dislikes, his aspirations. All subtly, of course.
Despite her best efforts, or perhaps because of them, by the time they reached the outliers of Cranborne Chase, the ancient royal hunting forest, a puzzled, curious, but somewhat cautious look had taken up residence in James’s brown eyes.
She smiled airily. They reined in and waited for the others to come up before venturing into the rides between the towering oaks. Seizing the moment to yield her position to Lucy, she set her mare to trot smartly beside Charlie’s grey.
Charlie brightened; he turned to her, leaving Drusilla to Simon. “I say—meant to ask. Did you hear about the scandal with Lord Fortinbras at Ascot?”
He rattled on happily; somewhat to her surprise, despite his readiness to talk, she found it difficult to direct his attention to himself. At first, she thought it was simply his natural, outward-looking character, but when he time and again slid around her carefully posed questions, when she caught a flicker of his lashes, and a sharp, far-from-innocent glance, she realized his patter was a shield of sorts—a defense he deployed, all but instinctively, against women who wanted to get to know him.
James was more sure of himself, therefore less defensive. Charlie . . . in the end, she smiled at him, perfectly genuinely, and dropped her inquiries. They were little more than a game—a practice; it would be unkind to set him on edge, to spoil his enjoyment of the house party, purely to sharpen her skills.
She looked around. “We’ve been terribly restrained so far—dare we gallop a little, do you think?”
Charlie’s eyes widened. “If you like . . . I can’t see why not.” He looked forward and whooped. James looked back. Charlie signaled they were going to ride on; James slowed, nudging his and Lucy’s mounts to the side of the path.
Portia sprang the mare. She passed James and Lucy with the mare stretching into a gallop. The ride was wide, more than enough space for two horses abreast, but she was well in the lead as she reached the first bend. A long stretch of turf lay ahead; she let the mare have her head and raced, the thud of hooves behind drowned beneath the relentless beat of the chestnut’s stride. The steady pounding, the reaching rhythm, slid through her, echoed in her heart, in the flash tide of blood through her veins, the giddy rush of exhilaration.
The end of the turf drew near; she glanced back. Charlie was some yards back, unable to overtake her. Behind him, the other four were coming along, galloping, but not racing.
With a grin, she faced forward, and swept down the track as it constricted; twenty yards on, it opened onto another glade. Joy in her heart, she flung the mare into it, but halfway along started to rein in.
The thud of hooves behind was growing fainter. No matter how much she enjoyed the speed, she wasn’t fool enough to race ahead along rides she didn’t know. Still, she’d had her moment; it was enough to tide her over. As the trees drew closer and the track once more narrowed, she eased the mare to a jog, then a walk.
Finally, at the very end of the glade, she halted. And waited.
Charlie was the first to join her. “You ride like a demon!”
She met his gaze, ready to defend herself—only to realize he wasn’t scandalized. The look in his eyes was quite different, as if her being able to ride so well had started some line of thought he hadn’t previously considered.
Before she had a chance to ponder that, James and Lucy rode up. Lucy was laughing, chattering, eyes radiant; James exchanged a glance with Charlie. With his usual smooth smile and easy address, he displaced his friend at Lucy’s side.
Simon and Drusilla joined them. They all stood milling for some moments, regaining their breath, letting the horses settle, then James spoke to Drusilla and they moved off, leading the way back to the Hall.
Lucy followed immediately, but was forced by Charlie’s gentle persistence to give him her attention. By the simple strategy of holding his horse back, he kept Lucy safely away from James.
Portia hid a grin, and fell in in their wake; she barely registered Simon’s presence beside her. Not outwardly. Her senses, however, were perfectly aware of his looming nearness, of the controlled strength with which he sat his mount as it ambled beside hers. She expected to feel something of her usual haughty resistance, precursor to irritation, yet . . . the faint prickling of her skin, the tightening of her lungs—these were not familiar.
“Still a hoyden at heart, I see.”
There was a hardness in his voice she hadn’t heard before.
She turned her head, met his gaze, held it for a pregnant moment, then smiled and looked away. “You don’t disapprove.”
Simon grunted. What could he say? She was right. He should dis
approve, yet there was something in him that responded—too readily—to the challenge of a woman who could ride like the wind. And with her, knowing she was nearly as assured in the saddle as he, there was no niggling concern to dim the moment.
He was irritated because he hadn’t been able to ride with her, not because she’d ridden as she had.
Their mounts ambled on; he glanced at her face—she was smiling lightly, clearly thinking, about what he had no idea. He waited for her to question him, talk to him, as she had with James and Charlie.
The horses plodded on.
She remained silent, distant. Elsewhere.
Finally, he accepted she had no intention of pursuing whatever she was after with him. The suspicion he’d been harboring darkened and grew. Her reticence with him seemed to confirm it; if she was set on gaining some illicit experience, the last man she’d apply to was him.
The realization—the flood of emotions it unleashed—made him catch his breath. A sharp stab of regret, the sense of something lost—something he hadn’t even realized he might hold dear. . . .
Mentally shaking his head, he dragged in a breath, glanced again at her face.
He wanted to ask, to demand, but didn’t know the question.
And didn’t know if she would answer, anyway.
After exchanging her riding habit for a gown of green-and-white twill and re-dressing her hair, Portia descended the stairs as the clang of the luncheon gong reverberated through the house.
Blenkinsop was crossing the front hall. He bowed. “Luncheon is served on the terrace, miss.”
“Thank you.” Portia headed for the drawing room. The ride had gone well; she’d acquitted herself quite creditably in the “chatting with gentlemen” stakes. She was learning, gaining confidence, exactly as she’d hoped.
Of course, the morning had been free of the distraction of Kitty and her antics. The first thing she heard on emerging through the French doors onto the terrace flags was Kitty’s seductive purr.
“I’ve always had a great regard for you.”
It wasn’t James but Desmond Kitty had backed against the balustrade. The woman was incorrigible! The pair were to her left; turning right, Portia pretended she hadn’t noticed. She continued to where a long table was set with serving platters, glasses, and plates. The rest of the company were gathered around, some already seated at wrought-iron tables on the terrace, others descending to the lawns where more tables were set in the shade of some trees.
Portia smiled at Lady Hammond, seated beside Lady Osbaldestone.
Lady O gestured to the cold salmon on her plate. “Wonderful! Be sure to try some.”
“I will.” Portia turned to the buffet and picked up a plate. The salmon was displayed on a large platter set at the back; she would have to stretch.
“Would you like some?”
She glanced up, smiling at Simon, suddenly beside her. She’d known it was him in the instant before he spoke; she wasn’t entirely sure how. “Thank you.”
He could reach the platter easily; she held out her plate and he laid a thick slice of the succulent fish upon it, then helped himself to two. He followed her along the table as she made her selections, doing the same.
When she paused at the end of the buffet and looked around, wondering where to sit, he stopped again at her shoulder and waved toward the lawn. “We could join Winifred.”
Winifred was sitting alone at a table for four. Portia nodded. “Yes, let’s.”
They crossed the lawn; she was conscious of Simon beside her, as if he were shepherding her, although from what he might think to protect her she couldn’t fathom. Winifred looked up as they neared; she smiled in welcome. Simon held out the chair opposite and Portia sat, then he took one of the seats between them.
Within minutes, Desmond joined them, taking the last chair. Winifred, who had smiled up at him, looked at his plate, and frowned. “Aren’t you hungry?”
Desmond glanced at the plate on which resided one slice of salmon and two lettuce leaves. He hesitated for only an instant, then replied, “First course. I’ll go back once I’ve finished this.”
Portia bit her lip and looked down. From the corner of her eye, she could see Kitty standing on the terrace at the end of the buffet, staring their way. Portia shot a glance at Simon; he met it—even though his expression remained utterly bland, she knew he’d noticed, too.
Clearly James was not the only gentleman running from Kitty’s embrace.
Mrs. Archer waved and called Kitty to her—to the table where she and Henry and Kitty’s father were seated. Kitty’s reluctance was transparent, but there was little she could do to avoid joining them. To everyone’s relief, she did so with some semblance of grace.
Everyone relaxed and started to talk. The only one who showed no sign of relief was Winifred—indeed, she’d given no sign of being aware of her sister’s behavior at all.
Yet as they chatted and ate, Portia, surreptitiously studying Winifred, found it hard to believe she was ignorant of Kitty’s designs. Winifred spoke softly; she was naturally quiet but not at all shy or hesitant—she declared her views calmly, always courteous but never submissive. Portia’s respect for Kitty’s older sister grew.
Sherbet and ices ended the meal, then they all rose and mingled on the lawn, in the shade of the large trees.
“It’s the ball tonight—I’m so looking forward to it!” Cecily Hammond all but bounced with excitement.
“Indeed, I think every house party should have one. It’s the perfect opportunity, after all.” Annabelle Hammond turned to Kitty as she joined them. “Lady Glossup told me the ball was your idea, Mrs. Glossup, and that you’ve done most of the organizing. I think we must all thank you for your foresight and industry on our behalfs.”
The perhaps naive but glowingly sincere praise had Kitty smiling. “I’m so glad you think it will be diverting—I truly believe it’ll be a delightful night. I do so love dancing, and felt sure most of you would feel the same.”
Kitty glanced around; a general murmur of agreement ensued. For the first time, Portia glimpsed a real eagerness, something almost naive in Kitty—a real wish for the glitter and glamor of the ball, a belief that in it she would find . . . something.
“Who will be attending?” Lucy Buckstead asked.
“All the surrounding families. It’s been over a year since there was a major ball here, so we’re assured of a good turnout.” Kitty paused, then added, “And there’s the officers stationed at Blandford Forum—I’m sure they’ll come.”
“Officers!” Cecily’s eyes were round. “Will there be many?”
Kitty named some of those she expected. While the news that military uniforms would grace the dance floor that evening was met with interest by the ladies, Portia noted the gentlemen were not so enthused.
“Dashed bounders and half-pay officers, I’ll be bound,” Charlie muttered in an aside to Simon.
It was on the tip of Portia’s tongue to retort that such guests would doubtless keep them on their toes, but she swallowed the words. No sense doing anything more to trigger Simon’s usual protectiveness; it would doubtless surface tonight without any further prodding. She would have to beware, perhaps try to avoid him. The last thing she’d need tonight was a chaperon.
A major country ball promised to be an excellent venue at which to further polish her, not to put too fine a point on it, husband-hunting skills. Many of the gentlemen she would meet she would assuredly never meet again; they were perfect examples on which to practice.
All young unmarried ladies fell over themselves to attend balls; she supposed she’d have to develop the habit. For now, as they stood in loose groupings and conversed beneath the trees, she listened and took note of the reactions of the other ladies—of Winifred’s quiet enthusiasm, Drusilla’s reserved acceptance, the Hammond girls’ thrilled excitement, Lucy’s romantic expectations.
And Kitt
y’s genuinely keen anticipation of delight. For a lady who’d been married for some years, who had presumably attended her fair quota of balls, the fervor with which she looked forward to the evening was unexpected. It made her appear younger, even naive.
Odd, given her other recent actions.
Mentally shaking aside the confusion that was Kitty, determined to make the most of the ball, Portia carefully noted all that the other ladies let fall of their preparations and gowns.
She shifted from group to group, intent, absorbed; it was some time before she registered that Simon was either hovering close by or else watching her.
He was presently standing with Charlie and James, a little beyond the group she was engaged with. Lifting her head, she looked directly at him, expecting to see an expression of bored irritation, his customary expression when he was watching over her because of his compulsive protectiveness.
Instead, when her eyes met his, she could detect no hint of irritation. Something, yes, but something much harder, more steely; his whole expression reflected it, the austere angles of cheek and brow, the squared and determined jaw.
Their gazes locked for only mere moments, yet it was enough for her to see and know. To react.
Hauling in a breath, she turned back to Winifred, nodding as if she’d heard what had been said; her only clear thought was that whatever impulse was driving Simon to watch her, it wasn’t protection he had in mind.
The younger ladies were not the only ones enthused by the prospect of the ball. Lady Hammond, Lady Osbaldestone, even Lady Calvin were very ready to allow themselves to be thus entertained.
It was summer; there were precious few other events at which they might exercise their talents.
Portia did not immediately preceive the source of their interest; when, however, in midafternoon, Lady O demanded her assistance in going upstairs and settling for her nap—only to insist they go via Portia’s room—understanding dawned.
“Don’t stand around gawping, gel!” With her cane, Lady O thumped the gallery floor. “Show me the gown you intend wearing tonight.”