As for Simon, just because she’d known him all her life, just because they’d spent the last decade irritating each other—just because she would never have thought to put him on her list if she hadn’t made her vow in those precise terms without knowing he’d be present—none of that was reason enough to close her eyes to his marriageable qualities.
Qualities she needed to learn to assess and evaluate.
Indeed, sweeping into the drawing room behind Lady O, it occurred to her that, Cynster that he was, Simon’s marriageable qualities might well provide the benchmarks against which she measured all others.
It was a discomposing thought.
Luckily, as the gentlemen weren’t present, she could put it from her mind and allow herself to be distracted by the chatter of the Hammond girls and Lucy Buckstead.
Later, when the gentlemen returned and conversations became more general, she found herself in a group with Winifred Archer and Desmond Winfield. Both were pleasant, a fraction reserved although neither lacked confidence, yet within five minutes, she would have wagered her best gown that there was some understanding between them, or developing between them, certainly. What Winifred’s attitude was she couldn’t tell, but Desmond, despite his exemplary manners, figuratively had eyes only for Winifred.
Her mental pencil was poised to strike Desmond from her list, but then she paused. Perhaps, given her relative inexperience in this sphere, she should still consider him, not as a potential husband for her, but in defining the gentlemanly attributes ladies like Winifred, who despite her quietness registered as eminently sane, required and approved of.
Learning by observing the successes—and failures—of others was only wise.
The thought had her glancing about. Kitty, in her shimmering aquamarine silk gown, positively sparkled with effervescent charm as she flitted from group to group. No sign of her earlier pout remained; she seemed in her element.
Henry was talking with Simon and James; he no longer seemed concerned or distracted by Kitty.
Perhaps she’d misread their earlier interaction?
Someone loomed at her elbow; Portia turned to find Ambrose Calvin bowing. She bobbed a curtsy.
“Miss Ashford—a pleasure to meet you. I’ve noticed you at several London events, but never had a chance to make your acquaintance.”
“Indeed, sir? Do I take it you spend most of your time in the capital?”
Ambrose had very dark brown eyes and light brown hair; his features were regular, of a patrician cast yet softened by politeness and courtesy enough to be pleasing. He inclined his head. “For the most part.” He hesitated, then added, “It’s my hope to enter Parliament at the next election. Naturally, I spend as much time as I can following current events—to be close to the source, one must be in the cap-ital.”
“Yes, of course.” It hovered on the tip of her tongue to explain that she quite understood, being acquainted with Michael Anstruther-Wetherby, the Member for Godleigh, in West Hampshire but the sharpness she glimpsed in Ambrose’s dark eyes set a guard on her tongue. “I’ve often thought that, in these changing times, serving your constituency in Parliament must be highly rewarding.”
“Indeed.” There was nothing in Ambrose’s tone to suggest he was fired by any reformist zeal. “It’s my thesis that we need the right men in place—those actively interested in governing, in guiding the country down the correct paths.”
That sounded a trifle too pompous for her liking; she changed tack. “Have you decided where you will stand?”
“Not as yet.” Ambrose’s gaze shifted to the group across the room—Lord Glossup, Mr. Buckstead, and Mr. Archer. An instant passed, then he refocused on her, and smiled, somewhat patronizingly. “You are likely not aware, but such matters are usually—and best—arranged within the party. I’m hoping for news of my selection quite soon.”
“I see.” She smiled sweetly in return, the sort of smile Simon would have known not to take at face value. “Then we must hope the news is all you deserve.”
Ambrose accepted the comment in the way he wished to hear it; she felt decidedly patronizing herself as they turned to the others about them and joined the wider conversation.
Five minutes later, Lady Glossup raised her voice, asking for volunteers to provide the company with some music.
Before anyone could react, Kitty stepped forward, her face alight. “Dancing! That’s just what we need.”
Lady Glossup blinked; beside her, Mrs. Archer looked blank.
“Now”—in the center of the room, Kitty twirled, hands lightly clapping—“who will play for us?”
Portia had answered that call so many times over the years, it was all but second nature. “I would be pleased to play for you, if you wish.”
Kitty looked at her with surprise tinged with suspicion, almost instantly overlaid by acceptance. “Capital!” Turning, she waved at the gentlemen. “James, Simon—if you would position the pianoforte? Charlie, Desmond—those chairs can go back against the wall.”
As she took her seat before the keys, Portia glanced again at Kitty; it seemed nothing bar the simple delight of dancing was behind her actions. Infused by such innocent eagerness, she appeared truly attractive; gone was the siren who’d waylaid James on the stairs, the sultry, disaffected lady who’d first entered the drawing room.
Portia ran her fingers experimentally over the keys; the instrument was in tune, thank heavens! As she looked up, a stack of music books thumped down on the piano’s polished top.
Glancing up, she met Simon’s steady blue gaze, then he raised one brow. “Hiding behind your accomplishments as usual, I see.”
She blinked at him in surprise; with an enigmatic look, he turned and joined the throng sorting themselves into pairs.
Shaking aside the odd comment, she set her hands to the keys and let her fingers glide into the introduction to a waltz.
She knew many; music had always come naturally to her, simply flowed from her fingers, which was why she so often offered to play. She didn’t need to think to do it; she enjoyed it, was comfortable sitting at the piano, and could, as she wished, either lose herself in the music or study the company.
It was the latter she elected to do that evening.
What she saw fascinated.
As was customary, the pianoforte stood at the other end of the large room from the fireplace and the chairs and sofas on which the older members of the company sat. The dancers filled the space between; as few imagined the music maker was not watching her fingers, those couples seeking to use the dance for private communication chose to do so while traversing the side of the room farthest from the sharp eyes of their elders. Thus, directly in front of her.
She was quite content to move smoothly from one waltz to the next, mixing in a country dance here and there, giving the dancers only enough time to catch their breath and change partners.
The first thing she noticed was that despite her genuine pleasure in dancing, Kitty was nevertheless pursuing an ulterior aim. Precisely what it was was difficult to discern; Kitty seemed to have more than one gentleman in her sights. She flirted—definitely flirted—with James, her brother-in-law, much to James’s irritation. With Ambrose, she was somewhat less overt, but there was still an inviting glint in her eye and a provocative smile on her lips. Although she watched closely, Portia could not fault Ambrose; he gave Kitty no encouragement at all.
With Desmond, Kitty was coy; she still flirted, but less overtly still, as if modulating her attack for his different character. Desmond seemed to hesitate, to waver; he did not encourage, but neither did he openly dismiss. But when it came to Simon, and Charlie, too, both seemed locked behind positive walls of disapproval. Kitty challenged them, yet her exhibition lacked conviction, as if with them her performance was all for show.
Why she bothered, Portia couldn’t imagine; was there something here she was missing?
Yet when Kitty danced with Henry, her husband, she was unresponsive. She made no effort to hold his attention; indeed, she barely said a word. Henry did his best, but could not quite hide his disappointment and a certain sad, resigned disapproval.
Of the others, it became quickly apparent that Lucy Buckstead had set her cap at James. She laughed and smiled with all the gentlemen, but with James, she hung on his every word, her eyes huge, sparkling, her lips parted.
James would have to watch himself, and not just on the Kitty front, a fact Portia suspected he knew; his behavior remained pleasant but cool.
The Misses Hammond weren’t interested in any liaisons; they were simply there to enjoy themselves and hoped others would enjoy themselves, too. Their youthful exuberance was something of a relief. Drusilla, in contrast, would have sat out the dances at her mother’s side if Lady Calvin had permitted it. Drusilla endured the measures with all the delight of a French aristocrat out for a ride in a tumbril.
As for Desmond and Winifred, there was quite definitely a romance in the air. It was positively instructional to watch the exchanges—Desmond suggesting, never pushing, not diffident yet not overconfident, Winifred quietly responding, lashes falling, eyes downcast, only to raise her gaze again to his face, to his eyes.
Portia looked down to hide a smile as she neared the end of the piece. With the last chord played, she decided the dancers could use a short interval while she searched through the stack of music sheets.
She stood up the better to leaf through them. She was halfway through the pile when she heard the rustle of skirts approaching.
“Miss Ashford, you’ve played for us so beautifully, but it’s unconscionable that in so doing you should be excluded from all the fun.”
Portia turned as Winifred swept up on Simon’s arm. “Oh, no. That is—” She stopped, unsure how to answer.
Winifred smiled. “I’d be grateful if you would allow me to relieve you. I would like to sit out a few dances, and . . . this seems the best way.”
Portia met Winifred’s eyes and realized that was literally true. If Winifred simply sat out, some would speculate as to why. Portia smiled. “If you wish.”
She stepped out from behind the piano stool. Winifred took her place; together they flicked quickly through the sheets, then Winifred made her selection and sat. Portia turned to the room—to Simon, who had, with uncharacteristic patience, waited.
He met her eyes, then offered his arm. “Shall we?”
It was absurd, but she’d never danced with him before. Not ever. The notion of spending ten minutes revolving around the room under his direction without their interaction descending into open warfare had not before seemed a possibility.
His gaze was steady, the challenge therein quite plain.
Remembering her vow—hearing it echo in her brain—she lifted her chin, and smiled. Charmingly. Let him make of it what he would. “Thank you.”
Suspicion flowed behind his eyes but he inclined his head, anchored her hand on his sleeve, and led her to join the others on the floor as Winifred commenced a waltz.
The first jolt to her equanimity came when he drew her into his arms, when she felt the steely strength of him surround her, and recalled—too well, too vividly—how it had felt when he’d carried her. Once again, her lungs seized, her breath caught, then continued more shallowly; the sensation of his hand, large and strong on her back, distracted her—something she fought to hide.
The music caught them, held them, set them revolving; their gazes touched, slid away.
She could barely breathe. She’d waltzed times without number, even with gentlemen of his ilk; never before had the physical sensations even impinged on her awareness, let alone threatened to suborn her wits. But she’d never been this close to him; the shift and sway of their bodies, her awareness of his strength, her suppleness, the harnessed power, all cascaded through her, bright, sharp, disorienting. She blinked, twice, fighting to focus her mind—on anything except the way they were whirling so effortlessly, on the sensation of being swept away, on the tingles of anticipation streaking through her.
Anticipation of what?
She only just stopped herself from shaking her head in a no-doubt-vain attempt to shake her wits into order. Dragging in a breath, she glanced around.
And saw Kitty waltzing with Ambrose. Her performance, with all its subtle variations, was still going on.
“What
is
Kitty up to—do you know?”
The first thought that had popped into her head, but she’d never been missish, especially not with Simon. He’d been watching her intently; she’d been careful not to meet his gaze. Now she glanced up and, to her relief, saw the frown, the exasperated expression she was used to seeing, form in his eyes.
Reassured, she raised her brows.
His lips thinned. “You don’t need to know.”
“Possibly not, but I wish to—for reasons of my own.”
His frown took on another dimension; he couldn’t fathom what “reasons” she meant. She smiled. “If you don’t tell me, I’ll ask Charlie. Or James.”
It was the “Or James” that did it; he sighed through his teeth, looked up, steered them around the end of the room, then said, his voice low, “Kitty has a habit of flirting with any personable gentleman she meets.” After a moment, he added, “How far it goes . . .”
He tensed to shrug, but didn’t. His jaw set. When he didn’t go on and continued not to meet her eyes, she, intrigued that he hadn’t been able to give her the polite lie, evenly supplied, “You know perfectly well how far it goes because she’s made improper advances to you, and Charlie, and she’s still pressing James.”
He looked down at her then, something a great deal more complex than irritation in his face. “How the devil did you discover that?”
She smiled—for once not to irritate but reassure. “You and Charlie exude the most trenchant disapproval whenever you’re at all close to her in even a semiprivate setting—like during a waltz. And James because I came upon him in extremis this evening.” She grinned. “I rescued him—that’s why we came in together.”
She sensed a slight easing of his tension and pressed her advantage; she really did wish to know. “You and Charlie have succeeded in convincing her you”—she gestured with her free hand—“aren’t interested. Why hasn’t James done the same?”