Charlie came, too. They found James and asked him if he wanted to join them, but he uncharacteristically demurred. The awkwardness he felt, knowing he was suspect, was patently clear; he was uncomfortable, which meant so were they. Reluctantly, they left him in the billiard room, idly potting balls.
They found the other ladies sitting silently in the back parlor. Lucy Buckstead and the Hammond girls jumped at the invitation; their mothers encouraged them, looking relieved.
Once they’d all changed, crossed to the stables, and found mounts, the afternoon was well advanced. Once again atop the frisky chestnut mare, Portia led the way out; Simon followed close behind.
He watched her; she seemed distant. However, she managed the mare with her usual assured ease; it wasn’t long before they’d left the others behind. Reaching the leafy rides of Cranborne Chase, in unspoken accord they let their mounts stretch their legs . . . until they were galloping, thundering down the rides, hard, fast, side by side.
Suddenly, so suddenly he shot straight past her, Portia wrenched the mare aside. Startled, he reined in, wheeled and came about—saw her fling herself from the saddle, leaving the chestnut quivering, reins dangling. She rushed up a small rise, her boots shushing through the old fallen leaves; at the top, she halted, spine rigid, head erect, looking out through the trees.
Mystified, he halted his gelding beside the mare, tied both sets of reins to a nearby branch, then strode after Portia.
Seriously concerned. To have wrenched her horse about like that, then dropped the reins . . . it was so unlike her.
He slowed as he neared. Halted a few feet away. “What is it?”
She didn’t look at him, just shook her head. “Nothing. It’s—” She broke off, waved one hand, her voice choked with tears, the gesture helpless.
He closed the distance, reached for her, drew her close; ignoring her token resistance, he wrapped her in his arms.
Held her while she cried.
“It’s so awful!” She sobbed. “They’re both dead. Gone! And he—he was so young. Younger than us.”
He said nothing, just touched his lips to her hair, then rested his cheek against the black silk. Let all he felt for her well within him, rise up and surround them.
Let it soothe her.
Her hand clenched tighter in his coat, then, very slowly, relaxed.
Eventually her sobs eased; the tension drained from her.
“I’ve wet your coat.”
“Don’t worry about it.”
She sniffed. “Do you have a handkerchief?”
He eased his hold on her, found it, handed it over.
She patted his coat with the linen, then mopped her eyes and blew her nose. Stuffed the crumpled item into her pocket and glanced up at him.
Her lashes were still wet, her dark blue eyes still glistening. The expression in them . . .
He bent his head and kissed her, gently at first, but gradually drawing her to him, gradually deepening the caress until she was caught.
Until she stopped thinking.
Thinking that crying in his arms was infinitely more revealing—between them perhaps an even greater intimacy than lying naked together. Emotionally, for her, it was, but he didn’t want her dwelling on that.
Or dwelling on how he might feel about it, how he might exult that she would allow him that close, to see her with her defenses completely down. See her as she really was, behind her shields, a woman with a kind and inherently soft heart.
One she habitually guarded very well.
A heart he wanted.
More than anything else in life.
Evening came, and with it an uneasy, watchful tension. As he had foreseen, Stokes had uncovered nothing of any value; a sense of foreboding hung over the house.