Portia glanced at Simon. He looked down at her, then waved her on. The path they were on was lawn, as were most of the paths in the garden, perfect for moving along silently.

They rounded the corner they'd been making for; Simon opened a door and ushered her into a small garden hall. The instant he shut the door, she asked, "Why do you think the gardener's boy's out there?"

Simon looked at her, then grimaced. "He's not a local-he's one of the gypsies. Apparently he knows his plants-he often works here through the summers, helping with the beds."

Portia frowned. "But if he was keeping watch for Arturo, why is he still there?"

"Your guess is as good as mine." Taking her arm, Simon propelled her to the door. "Let's get upstairs."

They emerged into one of the minor corridors. No one was around. They strolled nonchalantly, but silently along. Both were used to country houses, to the subtle signs of where people were, the hum of distant conversation; all were presently lacking.

They came upon a candle left burning on a side table. Simon stopped. "Keep watch."

He swiftly retied his cravat into something that, in the dim corridors, would pass muster if they met anyone.

They went on, but didn't. When they reached the front hall, she murmured, "It really does look like everyone's gone up."

Which seemed odd; a clock they'd passed had given the time as not quite midnight.

Simon shrugged and steered her to the main stairs. They were halfway up when voices reached them.

"It'll cause a scandal, of course."

They both stopped, exchanged a glance. It was Henry who had spoken.

Simon moved to the balustrade and looked over; she moved to his side and did the same.

The library door was ajar; inside the room, they could see the back of an armchair, the back of James's head, and his hand, resting on the chair's arm, gently swirling a crystal glass holding amber liquid.

"The way it's shaping, you'll risk a far greater scandal if you don't."

Henry humphed. After a moment, he replied, "You're right, of course. I just wish you weren't, that there was some other way . . ."

His tone told them what-or rather who-was being discussed; as one, she and Simon turned and silently continued up the stairs.

In the gallery, he kissed her fingertips and they parted-no need for words.

Reaching her room without encountering anyone, she wondered what they'd missed. What Kitty had done to send everyone to bed early, and leave Henry and James discussing the relative merits of scandals.

She really didn't want to know. Portia had too much on her own plate; she felt no need to burden herself with knowledge of Kitty's shortcomings. Each to their own-live and let live.

For herself, she was fired with a zeal to live-to the fullest. To a degree, a level, she hadn't before realized was possible. The events of the previous evening should have left her scandalized. They hadn't. Not in the least. She felt exhilarated, eager, very ready to learn more, to sip from the cup of passion once more, to taste desire again, and this time drain the chalice.

The questions consuming her were when and where?

With whom didn't rate a thought.

She tacked through the crowds thronging the lawns; Kitty's luncheon party was in full swing. From the alacrity with which the surrounding families had attended, she deduced the Glossups had not entertained much in recent times.

Purposely eschewing the other houseguests, she wandered, stopping to chat with those to whom she'd been introduced at the ball, meeting others. Accustomed to the role of young lady of a great country house-her brother Luc's principal seat in Rutlandshire-she was entirely at ease chatting with those who would, were they in London, be her social inferiors. She'd always been interested in hearing of others' lives; only via that avenue had she come to appreciate the comfort of her own, something that, like most ladies of her station, she would otherwise have taken for granted.

To give her her due, Kitty, too, did not hold aloof; she was very much in evidence, weaving among her guests. While searching for possibilities-for some inkling of an opportunity through which to pursue her fell aim-Portia noted that, along with Kitty's mood du jour, a joie de vivre that was, she would have sworn, quite genuine. Smiling, laughing gaily, flown on excitement, Kitty might have been, perhaps not a new bride, but one of short standing thrilling to her first social success.

Watching her greet a buxom matron with transparent good humor, and exchange comments with the woman's daughter and gangling son, Portia inwardly shook her head.

"Amazing, ain't it?"

She whirled and met Charlie's cynical gaze.

He nodded toward Kitty. "If you can explain that, I'll be in your debt."

Portia glanced again at Kitty. "It's too hard for me." Looping an arm through Charlie's, she turned him about; with a quirk of his lips, he accepted her decree and fell in by her side. "Perhaps it's like charades-she behaves as she thinks she should-no! don't state the obvious!-I mean that she has a mental image of how she should be, and acts like that. That image may not, in every situation, be what we, or others like us, would think right. We don't know what Kitty's view of things might be."

Steering Charlie on, she frowned. "Simon wondered if she was naive-I'm starting to think he may be right."

"Surely her mother would set her straight? Isn't that what mothers are for?"

Portia thought of her own mother, then thought of Mrs. Archer. "Yes, but . . . do you think Mrs. Archer . . . ?" She left the question hanging, not quite sure how to phrase her reading of Kitty's mother.

Charlie humphed. "Perhaps you're right. We're used to our own ways-to people like us and how they behave. We expect them to know what's acceptable. Perhaps it really is something along those lines."

He glanced around. "Now, minx, where are you taking me?"

Portia looked ahead, then stood on her toes to see past various people. "Somewhere over there is a lady who knows your mother-she was eager to speak with you."

"What?" Charlie stared at her. "Thunder and turf, woman! I don't want to spend my time doing the pretty with some old harridan-"

"You do, you know." Having sighted their goal, Portia towed him on. "Just think-if you speak with her now, in the midst of all this crowd, it'll be easy to exchange a few words, then move on. That'll be quite enough to satisfy her. But if you leave it until later and she catches you, with the crowd more dispersed, you might find yourself trapped for half an hour." She glanced at him, raised her brows. "Which would you prefer?"

Charlie narrowed his eyes at her. "Simon was right-you're dangerous."

She smiled, patted his arm, then delivered him up to his doom.

That good deed done, she returned to her consuming passion-identifying somewhere and somehow to legitimately, or at least without drawing any untoward attention, get Simon to herself for an hour or two. Or perhaps three? She had no real idea how long the next stage along her path to understanding would take.

Skirting a group of officers resplendent in their scarlet with an easy but distant smile, she considered the point. At her age, the accepted strictures deemed twenty minutes in private to be no great scandal, but more than half an hour to be beyond redemption; presumably half an hour was sufficient. However, from what she'd heard, Simon was an accredited expert, and experts never liked to be hurried.

Three hours would probably be wise.

She surveyed the crowd. Until she came up with a plan there was no sense seeking Simon out, no sense spending too much time in public by his side. It wasn't as if they were courting.

She chatted to a major, then to a couple who had driven over from Blandford Forum. Leaving them, she circled the gathering, strolling along a high hedge. She was about to plunge into the throng again when, to her left, she saw Desmond with Winifred on his arm.

They were standing where an alcove in the hedge hosted a statue on a pedestal. Neither was looking at the statue, nor at the guests. Desmond held Winifred's hand; he was looking down at her face, speaking quietly, earnestly.

Winifred's eyes were cast down, but a slight, very gentle smile was just curving her lips.

Suddenly, Kitty was there. Like a small whirlwind she erupted from the crowd and latched on to Desmond's arm. The look she cast Winifred as her older sister looked up in surprise was frankly triumphant. Then Kitty turned her eyes on Desmond.

Even from fifteen yards away, Portia could feel the brightness of the smile Kitty beamed on Desmond. She artfully pleaded, fully expecting to lead him away.

She'd misjudged; that much was obvious from the abrupt, curt dismissal Desmond, his face set like stone, handed her.

As surprised as Kitty, Winifred looked at him, Portia thought with new eyes.

For one instant, Kitty's face was a study in surprise, then she laughed, set herself to cajole.

Desmond stepped between Winifred and Kitty, forcing Kitty to step back; winding Winifred's arm in his, he spoke again-brutally short. With a brusque nod to Kitty, he walked off, taking an amazed Winifred with him.

Portia lost sight of them as they merged with the crowd; her attention returned to Kitty, to the stunned, somewhat lost expression that showed briefly on her face. Then Kitty blinked, and her smile returned. With a light laugh, she turned back to the crowd.

Curious, Portia headed in the same direction, but was distracted by a friend of Lord Netherfield's. It was twenty minutes later before she again sighted Kitty.

In her bright yellow gown, she stood like a stamen in the center of a poppy-a circle of scarlet coats and gold braid. Her bright, breezy charm and tinkling laugh were very much in evidence, yet to Portia, standing a few yards away chatting with a group of older ladies, Kitty's performance now contained a brittle note.

Increasingly obviously, Kitty encouraged the officers. They, as such men were wont to do, returned the favor in jocular and correspondingly audible vein.

Portia noted the glances directed Kitty's way, the swift exchanges between local ladies.

Lady Glossup and Mrs. Buckstead were some yards distant; they'd noticed, too. They excused themselves from the couple with whom they'd been conversing; arm in arm, they bore down on Kitty.

Portia didn't need to watch to know the outcome; three minutes later, Kitty left the officers and was swept away by her mama-in-law and friend.

Relaxing, feeling as if some disaster had been averted, Portia focused on the short, sweet-faced older woman beside her.

"I understand you're staying here, my dear." The old lady's eyes twinkled up at her. "Are you Mr. James's young lady?"

Portia quelled her surprise, smiled, and disabused the lady of that notion. A few minutes later, she wandered on; the crowd was now partaking of delicate sandwiches and pastries served by a small army of helpers. Taking a glass of cordial from a footman, she sipped, and strolled on.

Was there any chance of her and Simon slipping away?

Deciding to gauge how dispersed the crowd had become, she headed for the far side of the lawn. If guests had ambled as far as the temple . . .

Nearing the crowd's edge, she looked toward the entrance to the path. It was blocked. By James.

Kitty stood before him.

Still within the crowd, Portia stopped.

One glance at James's face was enough to gauge his state; his jaw was clenched, as were his fists, but his eyes kept flicking to the crowd. He was furious with Kitty; words were burning his tongue, but he was too well-bred to create a scene, not with half the county looking on.

Portia suddenly wondered if Kitty realized that that was why James didn't repulse her advances outright, that his reluctance to tell her to go to the devil was not an indication of susceptibility.

Whatever the case, James needed rescuing. She drew herself up- Lucy appeared from the opposite direction; smiling sweetly, she walked up and spoke to Kitty, then James.

Kitty's reply was polite, but dismissive. Even a touch contemptuous. She turned back to James.

Faint color rose in Lucy's cheeks, but she lifted her head, held her ground, and at the first break in Kitty's words spoke again to James-asking about something.

With an impatience no true hostess would ever own to, Kitty swung around to point- James drew breath, smiled at Lucy, and offered to show her. Offered her his arm.

Portia grinned.

Lucy accepted with a pretty smile.

The look on Kitty's face was . . . stunned. Disbelieving.

Almost childlike in its disappointment.

Portia's levity faded. She shifted in the crowd, not wanting to get trapped in any conversation. There was something very wrong with Kitty's view of things-her perceptions, her expectations, her aspirations.

She'd thought she was moving away from Kitty, but Kitty must have swung on her heel and stormed off. She was still storming when Portia nearly ran into her; she saw her just in time and changed tack.

There was too much color in Kitty's cheeks; her blue eyes glittered. Her soft, pouty lips grimly set, she strode on with unladylike vigor.

Looking away, Portia saw Henry leave a group of gentlemen and move to intercept his wife. Feeling like someone about to witness an accident and incapable of preventing it, compelled, she moved to the edge of the crowd.

Twenty feet away, Kitty all but walked into Henry. There were others near, but all were engrossed in their conversations; Henry grasped Kitty's arm, firmly but not with anger, as if both to steady her and to recall her to her surroundings.

Face set, Kitty looked up at him. Her eyes flashed, she spoke-even without hearing the words, Portia knew they were vicious, cutting, intended to hurt. Henry stiffened. Slowly, he released Kitty. He bowed, speaking low, then he straightened. A moment passed; Kitty said nothing. Henry inclined his head, then stiffly moved away.

Fury-the anger of a child denied-roiled in Kitty's face, then, as if donning a mask, she composed her features. Drawing in a breath, she swung to face her guests, called up a smile, and moved into the crush.

"Hardly an edifying spectacle."

The drawled words came from behind her.

She looked up and back, over her shoulder. "There you are."

Simon looked down, read her eyes. "Indeed. Where were you going?"

He must have seen her earlier, heading doggedly this way, one drawback of being rather taller than the average.

She smiled, turned, and linked her arm with his. "I wasn't going anywhere, but now you're here, I would like to stroll through the gardens. I've been talking for the past two hours."

Others, likewise, were starting to amble, taking advantage of the extensive walks. Rather than head for the lake, as most were, she and Simon turned toward the yews and the formal gardens beyond.

They'd reached the open lawn beyond the first row of trees when he offered, "A guinea for your thoughts."

He'd been watching her, studying her face. She flicked him a glance. "Do you think they're worth that much?"

They paused; he held her gaze, then his attention shifted to the black curl that had come loose and now bobbed by her ear. Lifting a hand, he caught it, tucked it back behind her ear; his fingertips lightly brushed her cheek.

Their eyes met.

He'd touched her much more intimately, yet there was a quality in the simple caress that conveyed so much more.

"I want to know your thoughts that much." His gaze didn't waver.