To his mind, Portia Ashford was family, his to protect. That much, at least, was unarguable.
What tortuous logic had prompted the gods to decree that a woman needed a man to conceive?
Portia stifled a disgusted humph. That was the crux of the dilemma now facing her. Unfortunately, there was no point debating the issue—the gods had so decreed, and there was nothing she could do about it.
Other than find a way around the problem.
The thought increased her irritation, largely self-directed. She had never wanted a husband, never imagined that the usual path of a nice, neat, socially approved marriage with all its attendant constraints was for her. Never had she seen her future in such terms.
But there was no other way.
Stiffening her spine, she faced the fact squarely: if she wanted children of her own, she would have to find a husband.
The breeze sidled up, whispering, coolly caressing her cheeks, lightly fingering the heavy waves of her hair. The realization that children—her own children, her own family—were what in her heart she truly yearned for, the challenge she’d been raised, like her mother, to accept and conquer, had come just like the breeze, stealing up on her. For the past five years, she’d worked with her sisters, Penelope and Anne, in caring for foundlings in London. She’d plunged into the project with her usual zeal, convinced their ideals were both proper and right, only to discover her own destiny lay in a direction in which she’d never thought to look.
So now she needed a husband.
Given her birth, her family’s status and connections, and her dowry, gaining such an encumbrance would be easy, even though she was already twenty-four. She wasn’t, however, fool enough to imagine any gentleman would do. Given her character, her temperament, her trenchant independence, it was imperative she choose wisely.
She wrinkled her nose, her gaze fixed unseeing on the distant prospect. Never had she imagined she would come to this—to desiring a husband. Courtesy of their brother Luc’s disinterest in pushing her and her sisters into marriage, they’d been allowed to go their own way; her way had eschewed the ballrooms and salons, Almack’s, and similar gatherings of the ton at which marriageable young ladies found their spouses.
Learning how to find a husband had seemed beneath her—an enterprise well below the more meaty challenges her intellect demanded . . .
Recollections of past arrogance—of all the chances to learn the hows and wherefores of husband selection and subsequent snaring at which she’d turned up her nose—fed her aggravation. How galling to discover that her intellect, widely accepted as superior, had not forseen her present state.
The damning truth was she could recite Horace and quote Virgil by the page, yet she had no real idea how to acquire a husband.
Let alone the right one.
She refocused on the distant sea, on the sunlight winking off the waves, constantly vacillating. Just as she was, had been for the past month. That was so unlike her, so at odds with her character—always decisive, never weak or shy—her indecision grated on her temper. Her character wanted, nay
demanded,
a decision, a firm goal, a plan of action. Her emotions—a side of herself she’d rarely been swayed by—were far less sure. Far less inclined to jump into this latest project with her customary zeal.
She’d revisted the arguments ad infinitum; there were no further aspects to be explored. She’d walked here today determined to use the few hours before the other guests arrived and the house party got under way to formulate a plan.
Lips setting, she narrowed her eyes at the horizon, aware of resistance welling inside, of a shying away from the moment—so aggravating yet so instinctive, so powerful she had to fight to override it and push ahead . . . but she was not going to leave without a firm commitment.
Grasping the lookout’s railing, she tipped her chin high and firmly stated, “I will use every opportunity the house party provides to learn all I can and make up my mind once and for all.” That was nowhere near decisive enough; determinedly, she added, “Whoever is present of suitable age and station, I swear I will seriously consider him.”
There—at last! She’d put her next step into words. Into a solemn vow. The positive uplifting feeling that always followed on the heels of decision welled within her—
“Well that’s heartening, I must say, although of suitable age and station for what?”
With a gasp, she whirled. For one instant, her mind boggled. Not with fear—despite the shadows in which he stood and the brightness of the day behind him, she’d recognized his voice, knew whose shoulders blocked the entrance arch.
But what in all Hades was
he
doing
here
?
His gaze sharpened—a disconcertingly acute blue gaze far too direct for politeness.
“And what haven’t you made up your mind about? That usually takes you all of two seconds.”
Calmness, decisiveness—fearlessness—returned in a rush. She narrowed her eyes. “
That
is none of your affair.”
He moved, deliberately slowly, taking three prowling steps to join her by the railing. She tensed. The muscles framing her spine grew rigid; her lungs locked as something within her reacted. She knew him so well, yet here, alone in the silence of the fields and sky, he seemed larger, more powerful.
More dangerous in some indefinable way.
Stopping with two feet between them, he gestured to the view. “You seemed to be declaring it to the world at large.”
He met her gaze; amusement at catching her out lurked in the blue, along with watchfulness and a certain disapproval.
His features remained expressionless. “I suppose it’s too much to hope there’s a groom or footman waiting nearby?”
That was a subject she wasn’t about to debate, especially not with him. Facing the view, she coolly inclined her head. “Good afternoon. The views are quite magnificent.” She paused for only an instant. “I hadn’t imagined you an admirer of nature.”
She felt his gaze slide over her profile, then he looked at the view.
“On the contrary.” He slid his hands into his pockets; he seemed to relax. “There are some creations of nature I’m addicted to worshipping.”
It required no thought at all to divine to what he was alluding. In the past, she would have made some tart remark . . . now, all she heard in her mind were the words of her vow . . . “You’re here for the Glossups’ house party.”
It wasn’t a question; he answered with an elegant shrug. “What else?”
He turned as she drew herself up. Their eyes met; he’d heard her vow and was unlikely to forget . . .
She was suddenly sure she needed more space between them.
“I came here for the solitude,” she baldly informed him. “Now that you’ve arrived, I may as well start back.”
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.