Was he right? Could a marriage between them work?
There seemed little point examining the past; now she knew he’d been thinking of marriage all along, his behavior made perfect sense. Even the fact he’d not mentioned marriage until Kitty had made it unavoidable; given all he knew of her, in his shoes, she’d have done the same.
She’d never been one to cut off her nose to spite her face; their past was behind them—it was the future she now had to deal with. The future he’d set so forcefully before her.
Yet she felt as if her horses had bolted and her life was running away with her—out of her control. She’d been so focused on the emotional connection between them, she hadn’t spared much thought for the state that connection might lead them to—eventually, perhaps. He’d obviously been thinking of the state, but had he considered the emotion?
While she’d been investigating that connection step by logical step, he’d impulsively leapt far ahead to one possible conclusion—and was convinced that conclusion was right. Meant to be.
She was usually the impulsive one; he was the stoic male. Yet in this, he was convinced while she was still uncertain, searching for proof, for reassurance.
Grimacing, she pushed away from the door. Doubtless, her caution was a reflection of the fact that she had most at stake; it was she who would take the risk in giving him her hand. Giving him all rights over her—whichever rights he chose to exercise.
He said it would work; he understood her fears—said he wanted her as she was. Again, her decision hinged on trust. Did she trust him to live by that creed, day by day for the rest of their lives?
That was the question to which she would need to find the answer.
One thing, however, was clear. Their connectedness—the emotional link she’d been working to understand—born of their past, immeasurably strengthened by their recent interactions, was very real, all but tangible now between them.
It was still growing, still strengthening.
And he knew it, felt it, recognized it as she did; he was now capitalizing on it, using it. Adding his will to it—something she’d never expected—deliberately pushing it in the direction he, apparently, now wished.
Which led her to the most pertinent question. Was what she sensed between them real or, given his expertise combined with his ruthless will, was it a fabrication to beguile her into marrying him?
The way she’d reacted to his concern that morning replayed in her mind; was he ruthless enough to have fabricated that? She knew the answer: yes.
But had he?
She could sense the emotions—the passions, the desires—he kept reined, held back but insufficiently disguised. Still felt in response an instinctive skittering, an impulse to draw back, from him, from them, from their power and the inherent threat they posed to her, yet that impulse was countered by curiosity, by a potent fascination with what evoked those same desires—with what lay between them, and the promise of all that could.
He could read her thoughts and feelings well—in general, she’d never bothered to conceal either from him. That he should have guessed the single truth she’d always thought she’d kept well hidden simply confirmed that he’d been more attuned to her than she’d guessed. More aware of her than she’d been of him.
Until now, her thoughts of marriage had been abstract, although definitely not with him or any like him. Circumstances had conspired to entrap her, through her curiosity to draw her into his web; he’d now made the prospect of marriage to a tyrant very real.
If she had any sense, she’d refuse him—and run. Fast. Far away.
Yet the notion of running from what might be, what might exist between them, evoked such a strong reaction she knew she’d never do it, turn her back and blithely let it die. If she did, she’d never be able to live with herself; the possibilities along the road he was proposing they follow were endless, exciting—recklessly enticing. Different, unique. Challenging.
All the things she wanted her life to be.
The prospect of marriage to a Cynster without love to ease the way, no longer distant theory but now very real, was like a sword hanging over her head, threatening all she was. Yet despite that, she still did not feel, did not react to him, the man, as if he threatened her at all. He’d been her unwanted and reluctant protector for years; some stubborn part of her adamantly refused to rescript his role.
She sighed. Contraditions assailed her every way she turned; confusion still clouded her mind. The only thing she felt totally confident about was that he, amazingly, was committed to marrying her, while she’d yet to make up her mind.
The magnitude of the change in her life in the past hour left her giddy.
She looked around, forced herself to take slow, steadying breaths. She needed to calm her mind, find her usual even mood in which her intellect normally functioned so incisively.
Her gaze drifted along row upon regimented row of leather-bound spines; she started to circle the room. Forcing herself actually to focus, to note familiar volumes, to think of other things. To connect again with the world she normally inhabited.
She walked around one end of the rectangular room, passing the huge fireplace. The French doors facing the garden stood open; she paced along, admiring the busts set on pedestals between each set of doors, trying not to think of anything else, eventually once again reaching walls covered with shelves.
A desk stood at that end of the room, facing down its length to the main hearth. A smaller fireplace was set in the wall behind it. She glanced at it, her attention caught by the intricate detail of the mantelpiece—
Saw, just visible from where she stood, a small foot clad in a lady’s slipper, lying on the floor behind the desk.
The foot, of course, was attached to a leg.
“Good gracious!” She hurried to the desk and rounded it—
Halted, quivering. Stared.
Grabbed the edge of the desk. Slowly raised her hand to her throat.
She couldn’t drag her gaze from Kitty’s face, suffused, blotched, darkened tongue protruding, blue eyes blankly staring . . . or the silken cord wound tight about her neck, digging deep into the soft flesh . . .
“Simon?”
Her voice was far too weak. It took effort to force her lungs to work, to haul in huge breath. “Simon!”
A moment passed; she could hear the clock on the mantelpiece ticking. She felt too faint to let go of the desk, wondered if she’d have to go and look for help . . .
Footsteps pounded down the corridor, nearing.
The door burst open.
A heartbeat later, Simon was there, hands locking on her arms, eyes searching her face. He followed her gaze, looked, swore—then hauled her to him, away from the dreadful sight, interposing his body between her and the desk.
She locked her fingers in his coat and clung, shaking, buried her face in his shoulder.
“What is it?” Charlie stood in the doorway.
With his head, Simon indicated the area behind the desk. “Kitty . . .”
Simon held Portia close, aware of her trembling, of the shivers coursing her spine. Propriety be damned; he tightened his arms about her, locked her against him, against his warmth, lowered his head, brushed her temple with his jaw. “It’s all right.”
She gulped, clung even tighter; he felt her battle her reaction, and the shock. Eventually felt her spine stiffen even more. She lifted her head, but didn’t step back. Glanced toward the desk.
At Charlie, who’d looked behind the desk and now sat slumped against the front edge, white-faced, tugging at his cravat. He swore, then looked at Simon. “She’s dead, isn’t she?”
Portia answered, her voice wavering. “Her eyes . . .”
Simon looked at the door. No one else had arrived. He glanced at Charlie. “Go and find Blenkinsop. Shut the door on your way out. After you’ve sent Blenkinsop here, you’d better find Henry.”
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Charlie blinked, then nodded. He got to his feet, drew in a huge breath, tugged his waistcoat down, then headed for the door.
Portia’s shivering was growing worse. The instant the door shut, Simon bent and swung her into his arms. She clutched his coat, but didn’t protest. He carried her to the chairs grouped before the main hearth, set her down in one.
“Wait here.” Visually quartering the room, he located the tantalus, crossed to it, poured a large measure of brandy into a crystal glass. Returning to Portia, he hunkered down beside the chair. Searched her pale face. “Here. Drink this.”
She tried to take the glass from him, in the end had to use both hands. He helped her guide the tumbler to her lips, steadied it so she could sip.
He sat there and helped her drink; eventually, a trace of color returned to her cheeks, a hint of her customary strength returned to her dark eyes.
Easing back, he met them. “Wait here. I’m going to look around before chaos descends.”
She swallowed, but nodded.
He rose, swiftly crossed the room, stood and looked down at Kitty’s crumpled form. She lay on her back, hands high, level with her shoulders—as if she’d struggled to the very last with her murderer.
For the first time, he felt real pity for her; she might have been a social disaster, but that didn’t give anyone the right to end her life. There was anger, too, not far beneath his surface, but that was more complex, not solely on Kitty’s account; he reined it in, mentally cataloging all he could see.
The murderer had stood behind Kitty and strangled her with—he turned and checked—a curtain cord taken from the nearest French doors. Kitty had been the smallest woman present, only a little over five feet tall; it wouldn’t have been all that hard. He looked around the body, looked at her hands, but saw nothing unusual, except that her gown was not the one she’d worn to lunch. That had been a morning gown, relatively plain; this was prettier, a tea gown cut to showcase her voluptuous curves, yet still perfectly acceptable for a married lady.
He looked at the desk, but there was nothing out of place, no half-finished letter, no scratches on the blotter; the pens lay neatly in their tray, the inkstand closed.
Not that he imagined Kitty had repaired to the library to write letters.
Returning to Portia, he shook his head in answer to her questioning look. “No clues.”
He took the glass she held out to him. It was still half-full. He drained it in one gulp, grateful for the warmth the brandy sent spreading through him. He’d been on edge before, thinking of the possible ramifications of his and Portia’s discussion. Now this.
He dragged in a breath and looked down at her.
She looked up, met his eyes.
A moment passed, then she raised a hand, held it up.
He closed his hand about it, felt her fingers lock tight.
She looked toward the door; it burst open—Henry and Blenkinsop rushed in, Ambrose and a footman on their heels.
The following hours ranked among the most ghastly Simon could recall. Shock was far too mild a word to describe how Kitty’s death struck them all. Everyone was stunned, unable to take it in. Despite all that had been going on under their noses throughout the past days, no one had dreamed it would end like this.
“I might at times have thought of strangling her,” James said. “I never dreamed anyone would.”
But someone had.
Of the ladies, most were distraught. Even Lady O; she forgot to lean heavily on her cane, and forgot entirely to thump it on the floor. Drusilla was the most composed, yet even she shook, paled, and sank into a chair when she heard. In death, Kitty garnered far more sympathy than she ever had in life.
Among the men, once the first shock wore off, confusion was the most prevalent emotion. That, and increasing concern over what was to come, how the situation would develop.
Simon’s attention, his awareness, remained fixed on Portia. Hours later, she was still in shock, racked by occasional shivers. Her eyes were huge, her hands still clammy. He wanted to sweep her up, take her away, far away, but that simply wasn’t possible.
Lord Willoughby, the local magistrate, had been sent for; he arrived and, after saying the right things and viewing the body, still sprawled behind the library desk, he repaired to Lord Glossup’s study. After talking to each of the gentlemen in turn, he summoned Portia to tell him her tale.
Simon accompanied her as if by right. She didn’t ask him, he didn’t ask her, but since taking his hand in the library, she’d released it only when absolutely necessary. Ensconced in an armchair by a hastily lit fire in the study, with him sitting beside her on the chair’s arm, she haltingly recounted the details of her gruesome discovery.
Lord Willoughby, pince-nez perched on his nose, took notes. “So you weren’t in the library for more than, shall we say five minutes, before you found Mrs. Glossup?”
Portia thought, then nodded.
“And you didn’t see, or hear, anyone leaving the room, either when you entered the front hall or when you entered the library—is that right?”
She nodded again.
“No one at all?”
Simon stirred, but Willoughby was only doing his job, and as gently as he could. He was an elderly, fatherly sort, but his gaze was sharp; he seemed to realize Portia’s lack of response wasn’t because she was hiding something.
She cleared her throat. “No one.”
“I understand the terrace doors were open. Did you look out?”
“No. I didn’t even go up to the doors—just walked past.”
Willoughby smiled encouragingly. “And then you saw her, and called for Mr. Cynster. You didn’t touch anything?”
Portia shook her head. Willoughby turned to Simon.
“I didn’t see anything—I did look, but there seemed to be nothing unusual in any way, nothing out of place.”
Willoughby nodded and made another note. “Well, then. I believe I needn’t trouble you further.” He smiled gently and rose.
Portia, her hand still in Simon’s, rose, too. “What will happen now?”
Willoughby glanced at Simon, then back at her. “I’m afraid I must summon one of the gentlemen from Bow Street. I’ll send my report off tonight. With luck, an officer will be here by tomorrow afternoon.” He smiled again, this time reassuringly. “They are a great deal better than they used to be, my dear, and in such a case . . .” He shrugged.
“What do you mean—such a case?”
Again Willoughby glanced at Simon, then grimaced. “Unfortunately, it appears that other than Mr. Cynster here, and Mr. Hastings, none of the gentlemen can account for the time during which Mrs. Glossup was killed. Of course, there are gypsies in the neighborhood, but these days, it’s best to follow proper procedures.”
Portia stared at him; Simon could read her thoughts with ease. She wanted the murderer caught, whoever he was.
Simon turned to Willoughby, and with a nod, he led Portia out.
Willoughby spoke to Lord Glossup, then took his leave.
Dinner, a cold collation, was served early. Everyone retired to their rooms before the sun set.
Sitting on the window seat, arms folded on the sill, chin propped upon them, Portia watched the golden light of the sun slowly fade from the sky.
And thought of Kitty. The Kitty—the many Kittys—she’d glimpsed in recent days. She’d been beautiful, capable of vivacity, of being pleasant and charming, but she’d also been vindictive, shallow, knowingly hurtful to others. Demanding—that, perhaps, had been her greatest crime, perhaps her ultimate folly. She’d demanded that life, all life around her, center on her and her alone.
In all the time Portia had watched, she’d never seen Kitty truly think of anyone else.
A shiver racked her. One point she couldn’t get out of her head. Kitty had trusted someone—she’d gone to meet someone in the library, a place to whi
ch she never would have gone for any other purpose. She’d changed her gown; the expectation that had fired her through lunch returned to Portia’s mind.
Kitty had trusted unwisely. And fatally.
But there was more than one way in which to lose your life.
She paused, mentally halted, testing to see if she was yet ready to set Kitty’s death aside and move on to the questions facing her. The evolving, emotionally escalating questions affecting her future, her life, and Simon’s—the lives they had to live regardless of Kitty’s demise.
She’d always known there were deaths that, if a lady wasn’t careful, she might find herself living. How long she’d known the notion applied to her . . . she honestly couldn’t remember. Perhaps, at base, deep down inside, that had been the reason she’d so determinedly eschewed men—and marriage—for so long.
Marriage, for her, was always going to be a risk, hence her search for the right husband, one who would provide all she required, and allow her to manage him, dictate their interaction, and otherwise go her own way. Her temper would never let her live within a relationship that sought to confine her; she would either break it, or it would break her.
And now here she was, facing the prospect of marriage to a man more than strong enough to bend her to his will. A man she didn’t have it in her to break, but who, if she gave him her hand, could break her if he wished.
She’d always known what Simon was; never, not even at fourteen, had she mistaken his caliber, not seen him for the tyrant he was. But never had she dreamed he would take it into his head to marry her—certainly not before she had thought of marrying him. Yet he had, and she, with her curiosity about marriage born of her wish for a husband—something, thankfully, he still didn’t know—had, quite literally, played into his hands.
And he’d let her.
Hardly surprising; that rang so very true to his nature.
Staring out at the darkening gardens, she thought again of him, of all they’d shared. All she still did not know.
All she still wished to learn.
Was it love that was growing between them? Or something he’d concocted to draw her to him?
The Perfect Lover Page 22
