Resigned, wondering if any good might come of it, Portia ushered her to the chamber she’d been given in the east wing. It was a largish room with a good-sized armoire in which the maid had hung all her gowns. After installing Lady O in the armchair before the hearth, she went to the armoire and set the doors wide.
And hesitated. She hadn’t really thought about what she would wear; she’d never truly bothered about such things. Courtesy of Luc and the family’s excellent finances, she had pretty gowns aplenty, yet until now, she’d taken them, and her appearance in general, for granted.
Lady O snorted. “As I thought—you haven’t the vaguest notion. Well, then, let’s see what you’ve brought with you.”
Dutifully, she paraded the evening gowns she’d packed. Now she thought of it, she favored one in deep green silk, and said so.
Lady O shook her head. “Not at this point. Leave the dramatics for later, once you’re sure of him. That’s when they’ll have the most useful effect. For tonight, you need to appear . . .” She waggled her hand. “Less certain, less sure. Think strategy, gel!”
Portia had never considered the color of gowns in such a light; she resurveyed the gowns she’d left draped on the bed, thinking anew . . .
“How about this one?” She extracted a gown of soft pearl grey silk—an unusual color, especially for an unmarried lady, but with her dark hair and eyes, and her height, she could carry it well.
“Hmm.” Lady O gestured. “Hold it up.”
Portia did so, smoothing the bodice over her bosom, draping it so Lady O could see the clever cut. The underbodice was fitted silk, with very fine silk chiffon of the exact same shade draped loosely over it, disguising the décolleté neckline, making it seem much less daring.
A slow smile spread over Lady O’s face. “Perfect. Not innocent so much as not quite attainable. Have you shoes to go with it?”
She had, along with a fine, dark grey beaded shawl and matching reticule; Lady O nodded her approval. “And I thought I’d wear my pearls.”
“Let me see them.”
She fetched the long strand of creamy pearls from her jewel casket and draped them about her neck. The strand was long enough to reach nearly to her waist. “I’ve drop earrings to match.”
Lady O gestured to the necklace. “Not like that—try it wound once round your throat, then let the rest dangle.”
She raised her brows, but obliged.
“Now hold up the gown again . . .”
She did as she was told, smoothing the bodice into place. Turning to the cheval glass in the corner, she surveyed the unexpected effect. “Oh. I see.”
“Indeed.” Lady O nodded with satisfaction. “Strategy! Now!” She heaved herself out of the armchair; Portia left the gown on the bed and hurried to help. Once upright, Lady O headed for the door. “You may now help me to my room and onto my bed. You will then return here, lie down on your bed, and rest.”
“I’m not tired.” She’d never rested before a ball in her life.
The shrewd look Lady O shot her as she stepped into the corridor said she suspected as much. “Be that as it may, you will please me by returning here and lying down upon your bed until it’s time to dress for dinner and the ball.” When she opened her mouth to argue, Lady O silenced her with an upraised hand. “Aside from the fact that no lady wishful of appearing her best should attend a ball other than well rested, what else, pray tell, had you planned to do?”
There was enough sharpness in the question to give her pause. She considered as they walked down the corridor, then confessed, “A walk in the garden, then maybe a survey of the library.”
“And do you imagine, given the composition of this party, that you will be able to accomplish that while remaining alone?”
She grimaced. “Probably not. Someone’s bound to see me and come to join me—”
“Not someone—some gentleman. All the other ladies will have the wit to rest, of that you may be sure.” Lady O stopped outside her door and set it swinging wide; Portia followed her in, closing the door behind them.
“One or other gentleman—even more likely more than one—will join you.” Lady O set her cane aside, hitched herself up on her bed, and fixed Portia with a sapient eye. “Now think! Is this wise?”
It was like being tutored in an art she had no previous training in; she guessed. “No?”
“Of course it’s not!” Lady O fell back on her pillows, and settled herself comfortably. She squinted at Portia. “You’ve spent all morning and half the afternoon with them. Giving them a steady diet of your company is unlikely to lead to any hunger. Now—the next hours until the ball—is the time to deprive them of sustenance. Then, later, over dinner and at the ball, they’ll come more readily to your hand.”
Portia couldn’t help but laugh; leaning forward, she kissed Lady O’s cheek. “You’re a terrible schemer.”
“Nonsense!” Lady O closed her eyes and composed her features. “I’m an experienced general, and I’ve fought—and won—more battles than you can count.”
Smiling, Portia retreated. She was at the door when, without opening her eyes, Lady O ordered, “Now go and rest.”
Portia grinned. “Yes, sir!” Opening the door, she slipped out.
And, for once, did as she was bid.
Now remember—think strategy!”
With those rousing words, Lady O swept into the drawing room, leaving Portia to follow rather less forcefully in her wake. Head high, she glided in—and was immediately aware of heads turning.
Even more interesting, while the female heads, after the briefest of comprehensive glances, turned back to their conversations, the male heads remained turned her way for significantly longer, some until they were recalled to their surroundings by some comment.
She knew well enough to pretend not to have noticed. With unimpaired serenity, she curtsied to Lady Glossup, who inclined her head with a regal smile, then continued on to join Winifred, who was talking to Desmond and James.
The admiration in both Desmond’s and James’s eyes as they greeted her was marked. She blithely accepted it as her due and slid into the usual social patter.
Inwardly, she frowned. Had she changed? Was she somehow different just because she’d decided to seek a husband—did it show in some way? Or, given that previously she’d never bothered to notice how people, gentlemen especially, reacted to her, had she always excited such responses and never noticed?
As she circulated, exchanging greetings here and there, she became increasingly sure the latter was the case. A lowering thought in some respects; Lady O had been right—she must have had her nose very much in the clouds. Yet the realization boosted her confidence; for the first time she realized she had something—some weapon, some power—she could use to attract and attach a husband.
Now all she had to do was learn how to chose the right gentleman and learn to wield that weapon.
Simon stood chatting with the Hammond sisters and Charlie; she passed by with a cool nod. He’d been watching her consistently since she’d entered the room. His expression was hard, rocklike; she couldn’t tell what he was thinking.
The last thing she wanted was to encourage his protectiveness; she glided on to join Ambrose and Lady Calvin.
Simon watched Portia smile and charm Ambrose. The muscles of his face set even harder, the better to suppress his scowl. Why he felt as he did—what the emotions roiling within him were—he was in no mood to consider. Never in his life had he felt this way—more than driven. Goaded.
The fact he didn’t know why, didn’t understand, only increased the pressure. Something had changed, but he couldn’t free his mind of its overriding obsession long enough to identify what.
This afternoon, he’d lain in wait for Portia to come down after seeing Lady O to her room. He’d wanted to talk to her, to inveigle her into revealing just what she was seeking to learn.
S
he hadn’t appeared—or rather, he hadn’t found her, which raised the question of where she’d gone, and with whom.
He could see her from the corner of his eye, a slender figure in soft pearl grey, her dark hair piled high, higher than he’d seen it before. The style left her nape exposed, drew his attention to the graceful curve of her neck, the fine bones of her shoulders. The pearl necklace she wore . . . one strand circled her throat, the other loop hung low, dangling beneath the gauzy edge of her bodice, disappearing into the shadowy valley between her breasts. Taking his imagination with it. His senses remained riveted even when he looked away; his palms tingled.
She still moved without consciousness or guile; the way she conversed hadn’t altered. Yet something within him recognized beyond doubt that her intent had changed.
Why that should affect him he didn’t know—he only knew it did.
A stir near the door had him glancing that way. Kitty had joined them. She was resplendent in white satin liberally bedecked with silver lace. Her pale hair was intricately dressed; diamonds winked on her breast and in her lobes. Seen by herself, she was an enchanting sight, not least because she was flown with delight—it showed in her face, in her eyes, made her skin glow.
She very correctly spoke to the older members of the company, then took Henry’s arm and started to stroll, stopping by each group to pay and receive compliments.
Simon looked back at Portia. When Kitty paused beside her, the result was as he’d guessed; against Portia’s subtler, more intriguing beauty, Kitty appeared tawdry. She did not linger but moved on, then she was beside him.
They only had time to exchange a few words before the butler entered and announced that dinner was served.
He led Lucy in, hoping against hope . . . but no, the seating was organized, and he suspected Kitty had done the organizing. Lord and Lady Glossup took the chairs at the table’s ends; Kitty had seated herself in the middle along one side with Henry directly opposite, entirely appropriately. Desmond was on her left, Ambrose on her right. Portia was toward one end, between Charlie and James; he, Simon, was at the far end on the opposite side of the table, flanked by Lucy and the all-but-silent Drusilla.
If matters had been different, he would have had no reason to complain—Lucy was bright and cheery, even if her gaze strayed rather too often James’s way, and Drusilla required no more than the occasional polite word to be content. As it was, throughout the meal, he was forced to endure the sight of Portia being artfully regaled by Charlie and James.
Normally, he wouldn’t even have thought to watch her, not in this sphere; prior to today, her attitude to gentlemen had been nothing short of contemptuously dismissive. Neither Charlie nor James would have had the least chance of making any headway with her; the thought of her responding to their practiced wiles wouldn’t have entered his head.
All through the courses, he covertly watched her; at one point, he noticed Lady Osbaldestone’s eye on him and became even more careful. But his eyes had a will of their own; he couldn’t hear anything of their conversation but the way Portia smiled, the quick, alert, interested glances she lavished on both James and Charlie locked his attention on her.
What the devil was she up to?
What did she want to learn?
Even more importantly, did she have any idea what was going through James’s and Charlie’s heads?
He did. It bothered him more than he wanted to admit, far more than he wanted to think about.
Lady O’s head swung his way. Lowering his lashes, he turned to Lucy. “Have you heard of any plans for tomorrow?”
He bided his time; luckily Lucy was as eager as he to head for the ballroom. The instant Lady Glossup rose and shooed them in that direction, he offered Lucy his arm, leaving Drusilla to follow with Mr. Archer.
Having been nearer the doors, Portia, on Charlie’s arm, was some way ahead of them. In the front hall, they had to skirt the local guests who had started to arrive; the houseguests went directly down the hall to the ballroom. It was clear from the throng already in the foyer that the ball would be well attended; Simon swept Lucy straight on, intent on catching up with Portia before the developing crowd engulfed her.
Stepping into the ballroom, they saw James, just ahead of them, surveying those already present, scanning the heads.
Simon knew without question that James was seeking Portia; with Lucy on his arm, he paused.
Kitty swept up to James; she was there before he realized. Placing one hand on his arm, she stepped close—too close. James stepped back but she followed; he was forced to allow her to lean familiarly against him. Her smile was pure seduction; she spoke softly.
She was a small woman; to hear her, James had to lower his head, creating a tableau that suggested a relationship somewhat closer than family ties.
Beside him, Simon felt Lucy stiffen.
James straightened, lifted his head; an expression close to panic flitted over his features. He saw Simon; his eyes widened.
No friend could ignore such a plea.
Simon patted Lucy’s hand. “Come—let’s speak with James.”
From the corner of his eye, he saw Lucy’s chin rise. Determinedly, she stepped out beside him.
Kitty saw them coming; she fell back a step, so her body was not quite touching James’s.
“My dear Kitty!” Lucy spoke before they’d halted; they were now all on first-name terms. “You must be quite thrilled with the turnout. Did you expect so many?”
Kitty took a moment to change mental tracks, then she smiled. “Indeed, it’s very gratifying.”
“I’m surprised you aren’t standing with your mama-in-law to greet them.”
Simon bit his lip, inwardly applauding Lucy’s gumption; her eyes remained wide, her expression innocent, yet she’d swiftly put Kitty in an uncomfortable spot.
Kitty’s smile turned brittle. “Lady Glossup doesn’t require me to assist her. Besides”—she turned her gaze on James—“this is the best moment in which to make one’s arrangements to be sure one enjoys the evening to the fullest.”
“I believe just that was in a certain gentleman’s mind.” Simon lied without compunction. “He was asking after you as we passed—dark-haired, someone up from town.”
“Oh?” Kitty was instantly diverted. “Did you recognize him?”
“Not to name.” Simon glanced at the area inside the doors, now filled with guests streaming in. “Can’t see him at present—perhaps you’d better circulate that way and see if you can come up with him.”
Kitty hesitated for only an instant, then smiled—intently—up at James. “You will save that waltz for me, won’t you?”
James’s face set like stone. “If we happen to be near at the time, and not otherwise engaged . . .” He shrugged. “There are many guests it’s our duty to entertain.”
Kitty’s eyes flashed; her lips pressed tight on an unwise rejoinder. With Lucy and Simon looking on, she was forced to incline her head. She looked at Simon. “Dark-haired, you said?”
He nodded. “Average height, good build. Good hands. Excellent tailor.”
That summed up the attributes one gentleman was likely to notice about another; Kitty swallowed the bait whole—with a brief nod, she left them.
James met Simon’s eyes; his relief was transparent.
Between them, Lucy brightly remarked, “I hadn’t realized you had so many neighbors in the district.” She glanced at James. “Perhaps we could stroll, and you would be good enough to introduce me?”
James hesitated for only an instant, then smiled and offered his arm. “If you wish, I would be honored.”
Simon was not surprised at the glance James, straightening, shot him over Lucy’s head. Another plea—this one not to leave him alone with Lucy. Swallowing his own urgency—Portia was unlikely to do anything rash, after all—he consented to stroll and chat, making them a threesome; he could sympathize wit
h James’s desire not to encourage Lucy to imagine there was anything personal developing between them.
“Thank you.” James clapped him on the shoulder as the first dance commenced, and they stood watching Lucy whirl down the set with the young squire who had earnestly solicited her hand. “Now you can see why I was so keen to have you here.”
Simon humphed. “I wouldn’t worry overmuch about Lucy—she might be enthusiastic, but she knows where the lines are drawn. Kitty, however . . .” He glanced at James. “Do you intend remaining here after the houseguests have left?”
“Good God, no!” James shuddered. “I’m leaving in the same hour you are—I think I’ll go visit old Cromer. Northumberland ought to be far enough to outdistance even Kitty.”
Simon grinned and they parted. While socializing with James and Lucy, he’d surreptiously quartered the room and located Portia. She was presently standing along the opposite wall, near the French doors open to the terrace and the balmy evening outside. Charlie flanked her, along with an officer in dress uniform; both were fully engaged, attentive to the exclusion of all else about them, ignoring the glitter and swirl of the ball.
Understandable, for Portia was sparkling. Her dark eyes were alive, her hands gestured gracefully, her face was alight. Even from a distance, he felt the tug. Her attention was wholly given to whichever man was speaking with her; such devotion was guaranteed to fix—transfix—any healthy male.
In any other woman, he’d have labeled such behavior flirting, and been right, but Portia was, he was still prepared to swear, constitutionally incapable of that art. He circled the room, gauging his approach; his gaze on the three, he studied their faces, and doubted even Charlie and her latest conquest, whoever he was, mistook her behavior for the customary invitation.
It was something else. Just what, the mystery of what she was about, only lent her greater charm, made her attraction even more potent.
He was mere yards from her when a hand descended on his arm and gripped with surprising strength.
The Perfect Lover Page 7
