Suddenly, Kitty was there. Like a small whirlwind she erupted from the crowd and latched on to Desmond’s arm. The look she cast Winifred as her older sister looked up in surprise was frankly triumphant. Then Kitty turned her eyes on Desmond.
Even from fifteen yards away, Portia could feel the brightness of the smile Kitty beamed on Desmond. She artfully pleaded, fully expecting to lead him away.
She’d misjudged; that much was obvious from the abrupt, curt dismissal Desmond, his face set like stone, handed her.
As surprised as Kitty, Winifred looked at him, Portia thought with new eyes.
For one instant, Kitty’s face was a study in surprise, then she laughed, set herself to cajole.
Desmond stepped between Winifred and Kitty, forcing Kitty to step back; winding Winifred’s arm in his, he spoke again—brutally short. With a brusque nod to Kitty, he walked off, taking an amazed Winifred with him.
Portia lost sight of them as they merged with the crowd; her attention returned to Kitty, to the stunned, somewhat lost expression that showed briefly on her face. Then Kitty blinked, and her smile returned. With a light laugh, she turned back to the crowd.
Curious, Portia headed in the same direction, but was distracted by a friend of Lord Netherfield’s. It was twenty minutes later before she again sighted Kitty.
In her bright yellow gown, she stood like a stamen in the center of a poppy—a circle of scarlet coats and gold braid. Her bright, breezy charm and tinkling laugh were very much in evidence, yet to Portia, standing a few yards away chatting with a group of older ladies, Kitty’s performance now contained a brittle note.
Increasingly obviously, Kitty encouraged the officers. They, as such men were wont to do, returned the favor in jocular and correspondingly audible vein.
Portia noted the glances directed Kitty’s way, the swift exchanges between local ladies.
Lady Glossup and Mrs. Buckstead were some yards distant; they’d noticed, too. They excused themselves from the couple with whom they’d been conversing; arm in arm, they bore down on Kitty.
Portia didn’t need to watch to know the outcome; three minutes later, Kitty left the officers and was swept away by her mama-in-law and friend.
Relaxing, feeling as if some disaster had been averted, Portia focused on the short, sweet-faced older woman beside her.
“I understand you’re staying here, my dear.” The old lady’s eyes twinkled up at her. “Are you Mr. James’s young lady?”
Portia quelled her surprise, smiled, and disabused the lady of that notion. A few minutes later, she wandered on; the crowd was now partaking of delicate sandwiches and pastries served by a small army of helpers. Taking a glass of cordial from a footman, she sipped, and strolled on.
Was there any chance of her and Simon slipping away?
Deciding to gauge how dispersed the crowd had become, she headed for the far side of the lawn. If guests had ambled as far as the temple . . .
Nearing the crowd’s edge, she looked toward the entrance to the path. It was blocked. By James.
Kitty stood before him.
Still within the crowd, Portia stopped.
One glance at James’s face was enough to gauge his state; his jaw was clenched, as were his fists, but his eyes kept flicking to the crowd. He was furious with Kitty; words were burning his tongue, but he was too well-bred to create a scene, not with half the county looking on.
Portia suddenly wondered if Kitty realized that
that
was why James didn’t repulse her advances outright, that his reluctance to tell her to go to the devil was not an indication of susceptibility.
Whatever the case, James needed rescuing. She drew herself up—
Lucy appeared from the opposite direction; smiling sweetly, she walked up and spoke to Kitty, then James.
Kitty’s reply was polite, but dismissive. Even a touch contemptuous. She turned back to James.
Faint color rose in Lucy’s cheeks, but she lifted her head, held her ground, and at the first break in Kitty’s words spoke again to James—asking about something.
With an impatience no true hostess would ever own to, Kitty swung around to point—
James drew breath, smiled at Lucy, and offered to show her. Offered her his arm.
Portia grinned.
Lucy accepted with a pretty smile.
The look on Kitty’s face was . . . stunned. Disbelieving.
Almost childlike in its disappointment.
Portia’s levity faded. She shifted in the crowd, not wanting to get trapped in any conversation. There was something very wrong with Kitty’s view of things—her perceptions, her expectations, her aspirations.
She’d thought she was moving away from Kitty, but Kitty must have swung on her heel and stormed off. She was still storming when Portia nearly ran into her; she saw her just in time and changed tack.
There was too much color in Kitty’s cheeks; her blue eyes glittered. Her soft, pouty lips grimly set, she strode on with unladylike vigor.
Looking away, Portia saw Henry leave a group of gentlemen and move to intercept his wife. Feeling like someone about to witness an accident and incapable of preventing it, compelled, she moved to the edge of the crowd.
Twenty feet away, Kitty all but walked into Henry. There were others near, but all were engrossed in their conversations; Henry grasped Kitty’s arm, firmly but not with anger, as if both to steady her and to recall her to her surroundings.
Face set, Kitty looked up at him. Her eyes flashed, she spoke—even without hearing the words, Portia knew they were vicious, cutting, intended to hurt. Henry stiffened. Slowly, he released Kitty. He bowed, speaking low, then he straightened. A moment passed; Kitty said nothing. Henry inclined his head, then stiffly moved away.
Fury—the anger of a child denied—roiled in Kitty’s face, then, as if donning a mask, she composed her features. Drawing in a breath, she swung to face her guests, called up a smile, and moved into the crush.
“Hardly an edifying spectacle.”
The drawled words came from behind her.
She looked up and back, over her shoulder. “There you are.”
Simon looked down, read her eyes. “Indeed. Where were you going?”
He must have seen her earlier, heading doggedly this way, one drawback of being rather taller than the average.
She smiled, turned, and linked her arm with his. “I wasn’t going anywhere, but now you’re here, I would like to stroll through the gardens. I’ve been talking for the past two hours.”
Others, likewise, were starting to amble, taking advantage of the extensive walks. Rather than head for the lake, as most were, she and Simon turned toward the yews and the formal gardens beyond.
They’d reached the open lawn beyond the first row of trees when he offered, “A guinea for your thoughts.”
He’d been watching her, studying her face. She flicked him a glance. “Do you think they’re worth that much?”
They paused; he held her gaze, then his attention shifted to the black curl that had come loose and now bobbed by her ear. Lifting a hand, he caught it, tucked it back behind her ear; his fingertips lightly brushed her cheek.
Their eyes met.
He’d touched her much more intimately, yet there was a quality in the simple caress that conveyed so much more.
“I want to know your thoughts that much.” His gaze didn’t waver.
Studying his eyes, she felt something inside her quiver. It was an admission of sorts, one she hadn’t expected. One she wasn’t sure she was reading correctly. Yet . . . letting her lips curve, she inclined her head.
Arm in arm, they walked slowly on.
“I intended to avoid Kitty and all her doings—instead, I’ve been tripping over her at every turn.” She sighed, looked ahead. “She’s betrayed Henry, hasn’t she?”
She felt him tense to shrug, knew when he stopped, reconsidered.
He nodded curtly. “That seems fairly certain.”
She would have wagered her best bonnet they were both thinking of Arturo and his nocturnal visits to the house.
They ambled on; Simon’s gaze returned to her face. “That wasn’t what you were thinking about.”
She had to smile. “No.” She’d been pondering the basics of marriage—the relationship, what it must mean in fact as distinct from any theory. She gestured. “I can’t imagine—”
She’d been going to say that she couldn’t see how Kitty and Henry could continue in their marriage, but such a statement would be unbelievably naive. Many marriages rolled along quite reasonably with nothing more than respect between the partners.
Drawing breath, she reached for her real meaning. “Kitty’s betrayed Henry’s
trust
—she seems to think that trust doesn’t matter. What I can’t imagine is a marriage without it. I can’t see how it could work.”
Even as she spoke, she was conscious of the irony; neither of them was married—even more, both had avoided the subject for years.
She glanced at Simon; he was looking down as they walked, but his expression was serious. He was thinking of what she’d said.
After a moment, conscious of her gaze, he looked up, first at her, then ahead, over the manicured lawn. “I think you’re right. Without trust . . . it can’t work. Not for us—people like us. Not with the sort of marriage you—or I—could countenance.”
If anyone had told her, even a week ago, that she would be having such a conversation about marriage with Simon Cynster, she would have laughed herself into stitches. Yet now it seemed nothing more than right. She’d wanted to learn what lay between a man and a woman specifically with respect to marriage; the scope of that study had broadened further than she’d foreseen.
Trust. Marriage really was very much about that.
It was also at the heart of what was growing between her and Simon; that wasn’t trust itself, but whatever it was had only grown—presumably could only grow—because trust, real trust, had already existed between them, nascent, untried.
“She—Kitty—will never find what she wants.” She suddenly knew that beyond doubt. “She’s searching for something, but she wants to be given it first, and then decide whether to be worthy of it—whether to pay the price. But with what she wants, she’s putting the cart before the horse.”
Simon thought about it, not just her words but the ideas behind them; he felt her glance, and nodded. He did understand, not so much Kitty but what Portia was saying; it was she who commanded his thoughts, who inhabited his dreams.
Her view of marriage was vitally important to him. And what she’d said was corrrect—trust did come first. All the rest, all that he wanted of her, all he wanted her to want of him, all of which was only now becoming clear—all that was like a tree that could grow strongly, well rooted and secure, only if solidly planted in trust.
He glanced at her, walking, thinking, by his side. He trusted her completely and absolutely, far more than he trusted any other living soul. It wasn’t just familiarity, being able to rely on her, knowing with unquestioning confidence how she would think, react, behave. Even feel.
It was knowing she’d never intentionally hurt him.
She’d prick his ego without compunction, defy him, irritate, and argue, but she’d never seek to truly harm him—she’d already proved that.
Drawing breath, he looked ahead, suddenly aware of how very precious such a trust was.
Did she trust him? She must to some extent, but exactly how far he wasn’t yet sure.
A moot point. If—
when
he prevailed on her to trust him far enough, would that trust survive if she later discovered that he hadn’t been completely open, completely honest with her?
Would she understand why? Enough to be lenient?
She was an open book; she was and always had been too direct, too self-confident and assured of her own station, her own abilities, and her indomitable will, to bother with deceit. It was simply not in her nature.
He knew exactly what she was seeking, what she looked to gain through her interaction with him. The one thing he didn’t know was how she would react when she realized that, in addition to giving her all she sought, he was determined and intent on giving her a great deal more.
Would she think he was trying to capture her, saddle her with responsibilities, hem her in—imprison her? And react accordingly?
Despite all he knew of her—indeed,
because
of all her knew of her—that was impossible to predict.
They reached a long, wisteria-covered walk leading back toward the house. Turning under the wooden arches, they strolled along in easy silence. Then Portia slowed.
“Oh, dear.”
He followed her gaze to the adjoining lawn. Kitty stood at the center of a group of officers and youthful sprigs, a glass in her hand, laughter on her lips. She was talking, gesturing, excessively gay; they couldn’t make out her words but her tone was too high-pitched, as was her laugh.
One of the officers made a comment. Everyone laughed. Kitty gestured wildly and responded; two gentlemen steadied her as she wobbled. Everyone laughed even more.
Simon halted. Portia did, too.
A flash of lavender skirts had them glancing down the lawn. Mrs. Archer came hurrying up.
They watched as, with some argument and many weak smiles, she succeeded in extricating her daughter. Arm in arm, she marched Kitty back to the main lawn, where the majority of guests had remained.
The officers and gentlemen re-formed into groups and continued to talk. Simon led Portia on.
They met and conversed with a number of other couples strolling in the opposite direction. Finally regaining the main lawn, they stepped into the still-considerable throng, and immediately heard Kitty.
“Oh,
thank
you! That’s exactly what I need.” She hiccupped. “I’m so
very
thirsty!”
To their right, the young gardener, roped in to help as a waiter, stood by the hedge bearing a salver with glasses of champagne. In his borrowed black clothes, tall and rather gangly, with his shock of black hair and dark eyes, he possessed a certain dramatic handsomeness.
Kitty certainly thought so; standing before him, she ogled him blatantly over the rim of the glass she was draining.
Portia had seen, and heard, enough; her hand on Simon’s arm, she pushed—he moved as she wished and they strolled away into the crowd.