W
ell, then, miss!” Lady Osbaldestone sank into the armchair before the hearth in her bedchamber and fixed Portia with a knowing eye. “You may now confess to me what you’re about.”
“About?” Portia stared. She’d come to assist Lady O down to breakfast; standing in the middle of the room with the light from the window full on her, she found herself transfixed by her ladyship’s sharp gaze. She opened her lips to say she wasn’t about anything, then closed them.
Lady O snorted. “Indeed. We’ll save a lot of time if you just give it to me without any roundaboutation. You usually have your nose so high you don’t even notice the gentlemen about, yet yesterday you were not only studying them, you actually deigned to converse with them.” Folding her hands on the head of her cane, she leaned forward. “Why?”
Shrewd speculation gleamed in Lady O’s ink black eyes. She was old and very wise, steeped in the ton, the relationships and families; the number of marriages she’d seen and assisted in had to be legion. She was the perfect mentor for Portia’s new tack. If she chose to help.
If Portia had the courage to ask.
Clasping her hands, she drew breath and chose her words carefully. “I’ve decided it’s time I looked for a husband.”
Lady O blinked. “And you’re considering those here?”
“No! Well . . . yes.” She grimaced. “I haven’t any experience in this sort of thing—as you know.”
Lady O humphed. “I know you’ve wasted the last seven years, at least on that front.”
“I
thought
,” she continued as if she hadn’t heard, “that while I’m here, as I’ve decided I do want a husband, then it would be sensible to use the opportunity to learn how to go about selecting one. How to gather the information and understanding I will need to make an informed choice—indeed, to gauge what sort of attributes I should look for. What in a gentleman is most important to me.” She frowned, refocusing on Lady O’s face. “I assume different types of ladies would have different requirements?”
Lady O waggled a hand. “
Comme çi, comme ça.
I would say rather that some attributes are central, while others are more superficial. The central ones—the core of what most women seek—is not that different, woman to woman.”
“Oh. Well”—Portia lifted her head—“that’s what I hoped to clarify while here.”
Lady O’s gaze remained on her face for some moments, then she relaxed back in her chair.
“I saw you assessing the gentlemen last evening—which have you decided to consider?”
The moment of decision. She would need help, at the very least some other lady with whom to discuss things, a lady she could trust. “I’d thought Simon, James, and Charlie. They seem obvious candidates. And although I suspect Desmond’s interest is fixed on Winifred, I thought I’d consider him, too, purely as an exercise in defining suitability.”
“Noticed that, did you? How do you read Winifred’s reaction?”
“Undecided. I thought I could learn something by watching her make up her mind.”
“Except that she’s thirty and still unwed.” Lady O’s brows rose. “I wonder why?”
“Maybe she simply hadn’t thought of it before . . .” Portia caught Lady O’s eyes and grimaced. “She seems perfectly sensible, from all I’ve seen.”
“Indeed, which begs the question. But what of Ambrose? He’s the one eligible you haven’t mentioned.”
Portia shrugged. “He may be worth considering, but . . .” She wrinkled her nose, searching for words to describe her impression. “He’s ambitious, and set on a career in Parliament.”
“That should hardly count against him—just think of Michael Anstruther-Wetherby.”
“It’s not that, exactly.” She frowned. “It’s the form of ambition, I think. With Michael, he’s ambitious to serve, to govern well. To manage because he’s good at it, like his sister.”
Lady O nodded. “Very perceptive. I take it Ambrose is not driven by such a noble motive? I haven’t had a chance to speak much with him yet.”
“I think he wants the position purely for itself. Either for the power, or for whatever else it will give him. I didn’t sense any deeper reason.” She looked at Lady O. “But I might be maligning him—I haven’t probed at all.”
“Well, you’ll have plenty of time while we’re here—and yes, I agree, this is a most suitable venue to hone your skills.”
Lady O started to rise; Portia went to help her.
“Mind you”—Lady O straightened—“I daresay you’ll have your hands full
considering
Simon, James, and Charlie. You likely won’t have time to widen your field.”
The ghost of a superior smile hung about Lady O’s lips as she turned to the door; Portia wasn’t sure how to interpret it.
“You may report to me every evening, or every morning if you prefer. While here, you’re in my care, no matter how much your brother and you may think the reverse.” Lady O slanted a glance at her as they crossed to the door. “It’ll be interesting to learn, in this day and age, what you decide are the manly attributes you most desire.”
Portia inclined her head dutifully; neither of them was deceived. She would tell Lady O what transpired because she needed help and guidance, not because she recognized any responsibility on her ladyship’s part.
Reaching the door, she put her hand to the handle; Lady O pressed the tip of her cane to the door, stopping her from opening it. Portia glanced at her. And met her penetrating gaze.
“One point you didn’t explain—why, after seven long years in the ton, have you suddenly decided you should marry?”
There seemed no need for reservation; it was a normal enough reason, surely. “Children. Through helping at the Foundling House, I realized I liked—truly liked—working with young children. Caring for them, watching them grow, guiding them.” She felt the need rise up inside her simply at the thought. “But I want my own children to care for.
“Returning to the Chase only reinforced that—seeing Amelia and Luc with their brood, and of course Amanda and Martin visit frequently with theirs. It’s a madhouse but . . .”—her lips lifting wistfully, she held Lady O’s gaze—“it’s something I want.”
Perfectly serious, Lady O searched her eyes, then nodded. “Children. That’s all very well as an inciting impulse—the spur that has finally compelled you to lower your nose, see what’s around you, and consider marriage. Understandable, right, and proper.
However
”—she fixed Portia with a black stare—“that is
not
a suitable reason for marriage.”
She blinked. “It’s not?”
Lady O drew back her cane and gestured; Portia opened the door.
“But . . .”
“Don’t worry.” Head rising, Lady O swept down the corridor. “Just follow your plan and consider the eligibles, and the right reason—mark my words—will emerge.”
She lengthened her stride; Portia had to hurry to catch up with her.
“Now come on!” Lady O waved to the stairs. “All this talk of marriage has given me an appetite!”
An appetite for meddling, but then she’d always had that. And she was a past master of the art; it was done so subtly, in between passing the toast and marmalade, Portia was quite sure neither Simon, James, nor Charlie realized that the idea to go riding that morning was not originally theirs.
The invitation ultimately came from them; she dutifully accepted. Lucy did, too. To everyone’s surprise, so did Drusilla. Winifred confessed she was an indifferent rider; she elected to go for a walk. Desmond immediately offered to accompany her.
Ambrose was engaged in a discussion with Mr. Buckstead and merely shook his head. The Hammond girls, their bright eyes fixed on Oswald and Swanston, had already inveigled them into escorting them around the lake. Kitty was not present, but then neither were the other ladies; all had chosen to breakfast in their rooms.
Fifteen minutes after quitting the breakfast table, the riding party convened in the front hall, and James led them out to the stable.
Selecting mounts took some time; garbed in her deep blue riding habit, Portia strolled with James down the long aisle between the boxes, casting her eye over the mounts, asking him about the more elegant beasts. Was this one of those things that was important to her, that a gentleman should ride well and know his horses?
Most did, but not necessarily to her standards.
“Do you drive your own phaeton in town?”
James glanced at her. “Yes. I have a pair of matched greys, very nice steppers.”
“Mr. James . . .” The head stableman called from the door; their horses were ready. James gestured; Portia turned, and they walked back up the aisle.
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.