She took the seat beside Charlie, and instantly engaged him in a laughing conversation centering on shared acquaintances in town.
Simon sat back, watched, his expression hard, unforgiving.
James glanced at him, then followed his gaze to Charlie and Portia. After a moment, he cleared his throat and asked Simon about his horses.
The day was theirs, but it would definitely be the last—they had to make the most of it. Throughout the morning, their barbs became progressively more pointed, the brittleness between them escalating step by deliberate step.
James tried to intervene, to draw Charlie off; they all understood, appreciated the gesture—couldn’t afford to humor it.
Realizing the difficulty both Simon and Charlie faced in rejecting James’s help, Portia put her nose in the air and haughtily snubbed him—inwardly apologizing, praying their ruse worked and she’d be able, later, to explain.
She might as well have slapped him. His face like stone, James inclined his head and left them.
Their eyes met, briefly, then they drew in a collective breath, and carried on.
It was increasingly hurtful. By the time she went in to luncheon, Portia felt physically unwell. A headache threatened, but she refused to let the others down.
Stokes was playing least-in-sight; in all ways, the day was perfect for their purpose. With a death in the house, no one was expecting to be entertained, or even to ride or play cards. The entire company was a captive audience for their little drama; if they played it well, there was no reason their plan wouldn’t work.
Again, she sat beside Charlie; blithely gay, she openly courted his attention, repaying him with her best smile.
From across the table, Simon, unusually silent, watched with a burgeoning, brooding, increasingly malevolent air.
More than anything else, that air of suppressed reaction, of reined unhappy passion, infused the atmosphere and sank into everyone. Once, when Portia laughed at a quip of Charlie’s, Lady O opened her mouth—then shut it. Looked down at her plate and poked at her peas. Shot a sharp black glance up the table, but in the end said nothing.
Letting out the breath she’d held, Portia met Charlie’s eye, gave an infinitesimal nod, and they continued.
When they rose from the table, Portia’s temples were throbbing. Lord Netherfield stumped up, fixed Charlie with a straight glance, and asked to have a private word.
Charlie looked at her, panic in his eyes. They hadn’t expected direct interference, had no contingency plan.
She forced her smile to grow even brighter. “Oh, dear—Mr. Hastings was going to accompany me for a walk in the gardens.” She clung to Charlie’s arm, inwardly hating her role.
Lord Netherfield glanced at her; his gaze was condemnatory. “I daresay you could find someone else to guide you—one of the other young ladies, perhaps?”
Charlie tightened his hold on her arm.
Her smile felt sickly as she replied, “Well, they are rather young, if you take my meaning?”
Lord Netherfield blinked. Before he could respond, Lady O stumped up and poked him in the ribs. “Leave them be.” Her tone was curt, and uncharactertistically low. “Use the brains you were born with, Granny. They’re up to something.” Her black eyes narrowed, but there was a hint of approval in the darkness. “They’re playing a very close hand, but if that’s what’s needed, then the least we can do is stand aside and let them try.”
“Oh.” Lord Netherfield’s expression underwent a series of changes—as if, as his brain digested Lady O’s news, he had to shuffle to find the most appropriate face. He blinked. “I see.”
“Indeed.” Lady O rapped his arm. “You may give me your arm and lead me onto the terrace. The lame leading the lame, perhaps, but le
t’s leave the field to these youngsters”—something of her usual evil gleam shone through—“and watch to see what they make of it.”
Both Portia and Charlie stood back; relief flooding them, they let their elders precede them onto the terrace, then followed, aware Simon had seen the exchange from the other side of the room. Even from that distance, something of his tension reached them; exchanging glances, they went down the terrace steps and out onto the lawn.
They ambled, but it quickly became apparent Charlie was seriously flagging. When he countered one of her teasing sallies completely at random, Portia looped her arm in his and pressed even more brazenly near, conscious that, despite the physical closeness, there was nothing at all between them, except, perhaps, a burgeoning friendship and the trust of a shared endeavor. Luckily, that was enough to allow them to behave sufficiently intimately to carry off their charade. Providing neither of them stumbled.
Leaning close, she murmured, “Let’s go down by the lake—if there’s no one about, we can duck into the pinetum and rest for a while. After all our hard work, if we fall at the last hurdle and give ourselves away, we’ll never forgive ourselves.”
Charlie straightened. “Good idea.” He redirected their footsteps toward the lake path. Surreptitiously wriggled his shoulders. “Simon’s watching—I can feel it.”
She glanced at him; she wouldn’t have marked him as a particularly sensitive soul. “I’m assuming he’ll follow.”
“I think we can count on it.”