The Perfect Lover

by Stephanie Laurens

  Kitty had gone ahead with Ambrose and Desmond, conversing animatedly with Lucy Buckstead so that the damsel was forced to accompany the trio rather than hang back and walk with James as had most likely been her aim. Charlie and James escorted the Hammond girls and Winifred; Drusilla had declined to join them, citing an aversion to the evening air, and Henry had been engrossed in a conversation with Mr. Buckstead.

  Reaching the lawns, they stepped out. “Do you have any preference—any sight you wish to see?” He gestured about them.

  “By the fitful moonlight?” Portia tracked Kitty’s small band as they headed away from the house, toward the dark band of huge rhododenrons that bordered the lawn. “What’s that way?”

  He’d been watching her face. “The temple.”

  Her brows rose, faintly supercilious. “Which way is the lake?”

  He waved to where the lawn sloped down and away, forming a broad green path wending through the garden beds. “It’s not close, but not too far for a stroll.”

  They strolled that way. The others ambled after them; the Hammond sisters’ exclamations over the extensive gardens, the huge shrubs and trees, the numerous walks, borders, and well-stocked beds, rippled an appreciative chorus in the soft evening air. The gardens were indeed lush and dense; the combined scents of untold flowers wreathed through the warm dark.

  They walked on, neither fast nor slow, with no vital aim; the moment was goal enough, peaceful, quiet—unexpectedly companionable.

  Behind them, the others dawdled, their voices falling to a murmur. He glanced at Portia. “What are you about?”

  She tensed fractionally. “About?”

  “I heard you in the lookout, remember? Something about learning more, making a decision, and considering all those eligible.”

  She glanced at him, her face shadowed by the trees beneath which they were passing.

  He prompted, “Eligible for what?”

  She blinked, her gaze on his face, then she looked forward. “It’s . . . just a point of interest. Something I’ve been wondering about.”

  “What is ‘it’?”

  After a moment, she replied, “You don’t need to know.”

  “Meaning you don’t wish to tell me.”

  She inclined her head.

  He was tempted to press, but she’d be here, under his eye, for the next several days; he’d have time and more to figure out her latest start simply by watching all she did. He’d seen her taking note of the gentlemen over the dinner table, and when she’d danced with James and Charlie, and Winfield, too, she’d been unusually animated, leading the conversation with questions. He was quite sure those questions hadn’t been about Kitty; she might ask him such things, but that was because they were almost family—with each other, they didn’t even pretend to the social niceties.

  “Very well.”

  His easy acceptance earned him a suspicious look, but it wasn’t in her interests to quibble. He let his lips curve, heard her soft humph as she faced forward once more. They strolled on in easy silence, neither feeling any need to state the obvious—that he would keep watching her until he learned her secret, and that she was now warned that he would.

  As they crossed the last stretch of lawn above the lake, he reviewed her behavior thus far. Had she been any other female, he would have suspected she was husband-hunting, yet she’d never been so inclined. She’d never had much use for the male of the species; he couldn’t imagine any circumstance that might have changed her mind.

  Much more likely was that she was searching for some knowledge—possibly some introduction to or information on some activity not normally open to females. That seemed highly probable—exactly her cup of tea.

  They reached the lip from which the grassed path ran gently down to the lake. They halted, she to sweep the scene before her, the vista of the wide lake, its waters dark and still, a black pit lying in a natural valley with a wooded hill looming beyond, an informal pinetum on rising ground to the right and, just visible in the weak light, the summerhouse on the far left shore, starkly white against a black backdrop of massed rhododendrons.

  The sight held her silent, absorbed, head up as she took in the view.

  He seized the moment to study her face . . . the conviction that she was seeking a gentleman to introduce her to some illicit experience grew, burgeoned, took hold. In an unexpected way.

  “Oh! My goodness!” Annabelle came up, then the others joined them.

  “How lovely! Why—it’s quite Gothic!” Cecily, hands clasped, bobbed with delight.

  “Is it really very deep?” Winifred looked at James.

  “We’ve never found the bottom.”

  The response drew horrifed looks from the Hammond sisters.

  “Shall we go on?” Charlie looked at Portia and Simon. There was a narrow path all the way around the lake, hugging the shore.

  “Oh.” Annabelle exchanged a glance with Cecily. “I don’t think we should. Mama said we must rest well tonight to recover from the rigors of the journey.”

  Winifred, too, demurred. James gallantly offered to escort the three ladies back to the house. With good nights, they parted. Flanked by Charlie and Simon, Portia headed down to the lake.

  They walked and chatted; it was really very easy. They all moved in the same circles; it was a simple matter to fill the time with comments and observations on all that had transpired in the Season just past—the scandals, the marriages, the most scintillating on-dits. Even more surprising, Simon did not, as he usually did, comport himself in unhelpful silence; instead, he helped keep the conversation rolling along the generally accepted paths. As for Charlie, he’d always been a rattlepate; it was easy to tempt him into regaling them with colorful tales of wagers gone wrong, of the exploits of the younger bucks.

  They paused before the summerhouse, admiring the neat wooden structure, a bit bigger than usual because of its distance from the house, then continued on around the lake.

  When they started back up the slope to the house, she felt rather smug. She’d survived a whole evening, and a long night walk with two of the ton’s foremost wolves, quite creditably; conversing with gentlemen—drawing them out—hadn’t been as difficult as she’d supposed.

  They were halfway up the rise when Henry appeared and started down toward them.

  “Have you seen Kitty?” he asked as he neared.

  They shook their heads. Halting, they all looked down at the lake. The path in its entirety was visible from where they stood; Kitty’s aquamarine silk gown would have been easy to spot.

  “We saw her when we started out,” Portia said. “She and some others were heading for the temple.”

  Simon added, “We haven’t seen her, or those others, since.”

  “I’ve already been to the temple,” Henry said.

  A footstep sounded nearby. They all turned, but it was James who came out of the shadows.

  “Have you seen Kitty?” Henry asked. “Her mother wants her.”

  James shook his head. “I’ve just been up to the house and back. I didn’t see anyone en route.”

  Henry sighed. “I’d better keep looking.” With a bow to Portia and a nod to the men, he headed off toward the pinetum.

  They all watched him go until the shadows swallowed him up.

  “It might have been better,” James remarked, “if Mrs. Archer had thought to speak with Kitty earlier. As it is . . . Henry might be better off not finding her.”

  They all comprehended exactly what he meant. The silence lengthened.

  James recollected himself; he glanced at Portia. “Your pardon, my dear. I fear I’m not in the best of moods tonight—no good company. If you’ll excuse me, I’ll go back to the house.”

  He bowed rather stiffly. Portia inclined her head. With brief nods to Simon and Charlie, James turned on his heel and strode back up the lawn.

  The three of them followed
more slowly. In silence; there seemed little to say and indeed, some odd sort of safety in not putting what they were thinking into words.

  They were at an intersection with a path leading toward the temple on one hand, and on the other curving around to the pinetum, when they heard a light footstep.

  As one, they halted and looked down the shadowy path toward the temple.

  A figure emerged from a minor path leading down and away from the house. A man, he started along the cross path toward them; stepping into a patch of moonlight, he looked up—and saw them. With no check in his stride, he stepped sideways, onto another of the myriad paths that riddled the dense shrubberries.

  His shadow vanished. Leaves rustled, and he was gone.

  An instant passed, then they each drew breath, faced forward, and walked on. They didn’t speak, nor did they catch each other’s eye.

  Nevertheless, each knew what the others were thinking.

  The man hadn’t been a guest, nor yet a servant or helper on the estate.

  He’d been a gypsy, lean, dark, and handsome.

  With his unruly black hair wildly disarranged, his coat undone, his shirttails loose and flapping.

  It was difficult to imagine any innocent reason for such a man to have been up at the house, let alone leaving in such a fashion at such a late hour.

  On the main lawn, they met Desmond, Ambrose, and Lucy, like them, heading back to the house.

  Of Kitty, they saw no sign.

  Well, 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.