Studying his eyes, she felt something inside her quiver. It was an admission of sorts, one she hadn't expected. One she wasn't sure she was reading correctly. Yet . . . letting her lips curve, she inclined her head.

Arm in arm, they walked slowly on.

"I intended to avoid Kitty and all her doings-instead, I've been tripping over her at every turn." She sighed, looked ahead. "She's betrayed Henry, hasn't she?"

She felt him tense to shrug, knew when he stopped, reconsidered.

He nodded curtly. "That seems fairly certain."

She would have wagered her best bonnet they were both thinking of Arturo and his nocturnal visits to the house.

They ambled on; Simon's gaze returned to her face. "That wasn't what you were thinking about."

She had to smile. "No." She'd been pondering the basics of marriage-the relationship, what it must mean in fact as distinct from any theory. She gestured. "I can't imagine-"

She'd been going to say that she couldn't see how Kitty and Henry could continue in their marriage, but such a statement would be unbelievably naive. Many marriages rolled along quite reasonably with nothing more than respect between the partners.

Drawing breath, she reached for her real meaning. "Kitty's betrayed Henry's trust-she seems to think that trust doesn't matter. What I can't imagine is a marriage without it. I can't see how it could work."

Even as she spoke, she was conscious of the irony; neither of them was married-even more, both had avoided the subject for years.

She glanced at Simon; he was looking down as they walked, but his expression was serious. He was thinking of what she'd said.

After a moment, conscious of her gaze, he looked up, first at her, then ahead, over the manicured lawn. "I think you're right. Without trust . . . it can't work. Not for us-people like us. Not with the sort of marriage you-or I-could countenance."

If anyone had told her, even a week ago, that she would be having such a conversation about marriage with Simon Cynster, she would have laughed herself into stitches. Yet now it seemed nothing more than right. She'd wanted to learn what lay between a man and a woman specifically with respect to marriage; the scope of that study had broadened further than she'd foreseen.

Trust. Marriage really was very much about that.

It was also at the heart of what was growing between her and Simon; that wasn't trust itself, but whatever it was had only grown-presumably could only grow-because trust, real trust, had already existed between them, nascent, untried.

"She-Kitty-will never find what she wants." She suddenly knew that beyond doubt. "She's searching for something, but she wants to be given it first, and then decide whether to be worthy of it-whether to pay the price. But with what she wants, she's putting the cart before the horse."

Simon thought about it, not just her words but the ideas behind them; he felt her glance, and nodded. He did understand, not so much Kitty but what Portia was saying; it was she who commanded his thoughts, who inhabited his dreams.

Her view of marriage was vitally important to him. And what she'd said was corrrect-trust did come first. All the rest, all that he wanted of her, all he wanted her to want of him, all of which was only now becoming clear-all that was like a tree that could grow strongly, well rooted and secure, only if solidly planted in trust.

He glanced at her, walking, thinking, by his side. He trusted her completely and absolutely, far more than he trusted any other living soul. It wasn't just familiarity, being able to rely on her, knowing with unquestioning confidence how she would think, react, behave. Even feel.

It was knowing she'd never intentionally hurt him.

She'd prick his ego without compunction, defy him, irritate, and argue, but she'd never seek to truly harm him-she'd already proved that.

Drawing breath, he looked ahead, suddenly aware of how very precious such a trust was.

Did she trust him? She must to some extent, but exactly how far he wasn't yet sure.

A moot point. If-when he prevailed on her to trust him far enough, would that trust survive if she later discovered that he hadn't been completely open, completely honest with her?

Would she understand why? Enough to be lenient?

She was an open book; she was and always had been too direct, too self-confident and assured of her own station, her own abilities, and her indomitable will, to bother with deceit. It was simply not in her nature.

He knew exactly what she was seeking, what she looked to gain through her interaction with him. The one thing he didn't know was how she would react when she realized that, in addition to giving her all she sought, he was determined and intent on giving her a great deal more.

Would she think he was trying to capture her, saddle her with responsibilities, hem her in-imprison her? And react accordingly?

Despite all he knew of her-indeed, because of all her knew of her-that was impossible to predict.

They reached a long, wisteria-covered walk leading back toward the house. Turning under the wooden arches, they strolled along in easy silence. Then Portia slowed.

"Oh, dear."

He followed her gaze to the adjoining lawn. Kitty stood at the center of a group of officers and youthful sprigs, a glass in her hand, laughter on her lips. She was talking, gesturing, excessively gay; they couldn't make out her words but her tone was too high-pitched, as was her laugh.

One of the officers made a comment. Everyone laughed. Kitty gestured wildly and responded; two gentlemen steadied her as she wobbled. Everyone laughed even more.

Simon halted. Portia did, too.

A flash of lavender skirts had them glancing down the lawn. Mrs. Archer came hurrying up.

They watched as, with some argument and many weak smiles, she succeeded in extricating her daughter. Arm in arm, she marched Kitty back to the main lawn, where the majority of guests had remained.

The officers and gentlemen re-formed into groups and continued to talk. Simon led Portia on.

They met and conversed with a number of other couples strolling in the opposite direction. Finally regaining the main lawn, they stepped into the still-considerable throng, and immediately heard Kitty.

"Oh, thank you! That's exactly what I need." She hiccupped. "I'm so very thirsty!"

To their right, the young gardener, roped in to help as a waiter, stood by the hedge bearing a salver with glasses of champagne. In his borrowed black clothes, tall and rather gangly, with his shock of black hair and dark eyes, he possessed a certain dramatic handsomeness.

Kitty certainly thought so; standing before him, she ogled him blatantly over the rim of the glass she was draining.

Portia had seen, and heard, enough; her hand on Simon's arm, she pushed-he moved as she wished and they strolled away into the crowd.

They spent the next twenty minutes in blissfully pleasant conversation, meeting with Charlie, then later the Hammond girls, both flown with success and happiness over the youthful swains they'd met. Chattering, teasing, they'd all relaxed, imbued with good feelings, when a stir by the terrace steps had them turning, looking.

Along with all about them.

What they saw transfixed them.

At the bottom of the steps, Ambrose Calvin stood with Kitty draped upon him. She'd wound her arms about his neck; her face, uptilted to his, was filled with laughing, openly sensual delight.

No one could make out what she was saying-she was attempting to whisper, yet the words were loud, slurred, her tongue tripping.

She dragged heavily on Ambrose while he, rigid and pale, fought to put her from him.

All talking stopped. Everyone simply stared.

Absolute silence descended. All movement ceased.

Then a guffaw, quickly smothered, shattered the frozen tableau. Drusilla Calvin left the crowd; coming up behind Kitty, a much smaller woman, she reached around and grabbed her arms, aiding her brother to free himself.

The instant he did, Lady Hammond and Mrs. Buckstead swooped on the trio; all sight of Kitty was lost in the ensuing melee. There were calls for cold water and orders flung at the staff; it quickly became clear they were saying Kitty was ill and had been taken faint.

Portia met Simon's eyes, then turned her back on the fracas and engaged the Hammond sisters, picking up their comments where they'd broken off. The girls, although momentarily distracted, were too well-bred not to follow her lead. Simon and Charlie did the same.

Everyone tried not to look at the group by the terrace, now swollen by Lord and Lady Glossup, Henry, and Lady Osbaldestone and Lord Netherfield. Lady Calvin had sailed up, too. Heads turned again as Kitty, a drooping little figure, was helped inside, supported by Lady Glossup and Mrs. Buckstead with Mrs. Archer, fluttering ineffectually, bringing up the rear.

At the base of the steps, those who hadn't gone in exchanged glances, then turned and, easy smiles on their faces, returned to their conversations in the crowd.

There was no denying the awkwardness, no dispelling the questions raised, ones of impropriety if not outright scandal. Nevertheless . . .

Lady O stumped up, her lined face relaxed, no hint in her eyes or her bearing that anything untoward had occurred.

Cecily Hammond, greatly daring, asked, "Is Kitty all right?"

"Silly female's taken ill-no doubt extended herself too far organizing today. Excitement, too, I don't doubt. Had a dizzy spell-the heat wouldn't have helped. No doubt she'll recover, just needs to lie down for a spell. Young married lady, after all. She ought to have more sense."

Lady O smiled brightly into Portia's eyes, then her gaze passed on to both Simon and Charlie.

They all understood-that was the tale they were to spread.

The Hammond sisters didn't need to have it explained. When Portia suggested they should part and mingle, Cecily and Annabelle were perfectly ready to flutter off like butterfiles and spread the word. Charlie went one way, Portia and Simon another. They exchanged a glance, then dutifully set themselves to do what they could to help smooth things over.

The other houseguests were doing the same; Lady Glossup took charge of the arrangements and sent the footmen into the crowd bearing ices, sorbets, and cakes.

All in all, they were moderately successful. The rest of the afternoon-the following hour or so-passed in reasonably comfortable style. That, however, was all on the surface, in the faces people showed to the world. Underneath . . . significant glances were exchanged between friends, although no one was so outre as to put their thoughts into words.

As soon as it was possible to do so without giving offense, people started leaving. By late afternoon, the last guests were wending their way down the drive.

Lady O clomped up to where Simon and Portia stood. She poked Simon's leg with her cane. "You may give me your arm upstairs." She turned her black gaze on Portia. "You can come, too."

Simon obeyed; they turned to the house. Portia walked on Lady O's other side, taking her other arm when they reached the main stairs. Lady O was not young; for all her ferocity, they were both deeply fond of her.

She was breathing stertorously when they reached her room; she pointed to the bed and they helped her to it. They'd barely got her settled, sitting propped high on her pillows as she'd commanded, when there came a knock on the door.

"Come!" Lady O called.

The door opened; Lord Netherfield looked in, then entered. "Good-a confabulation. Just what we need."

Portia quelled a grin. Simon met her gaze briefly, then turned to set an armchair for his lordship close by the bed. Lord Netherfield accepted Simon's help into the chair; like Lady O, he, too, walked with a cane.

They were cousins, Portia had been informed, although several times removed, much of an age, and very old friends.

"Right, then!" Lady O said, the instant he was settled. "What are we to do about this nonsense? Horrible mess, but there's no sense in the whole company suffering."

"How did Ambrose take it?" his lordship asked. "Will he prove difficult, do you think?"

Lady O snorted. "I should think he'll be glad if nothing more is ever said. Shocked to his toes-he went white as a sheet. Couldn't get a word out. Never seen a would-be politician so lost for words."

"I should think," Simon said, propping a shoulder against the bedpost, "that this would be a case of least said, soonest mended."

Portia perched on the edge of the bed as Lord Netherfield nodded.

"Aye, you're most likely right. Poor Calvin-no wonder he was in such a state. Last thing in the world he'd want at present, to take up an intrigue with a female like Kitty. Here he is, trying to get her father's support for his cause, and there she is, flinging herself at his head!"

Lady O looked from one face to the other, then nodded. "We're in agreement, then. Nothing of any great moment occurred, nothing need be said-all is perfectly normal. No doubt if we stick to that line, the others will, too. No reason Catherine should have to weather having a disaster of a house party just because her daughter-in-law's lost her wits. Hopefully, that mother of hers will straighten her out."

Decision made and judgment delivered, Lady O sank back on her pillows. She waved at his lordship and Simon. "You two may take yourselves off. You"-she pointed at Portia-"wait here. I want to talk to you."

Simon and Lord Netherfield left. When the door was once more closed, Portia turned to Lady O, only to discover she had shut her eyes. "What did you want to talk to me about?"

One lid rose; one black eye glinted. "I believe I've already advised you against spending all your time in any man's pocket?"

Portia blushed.

Lady O humphed and closed her eyes. "The music room should be safe enough. Go and practice your scales."

An imperious wave accompanied the order. Portia considered, then obeyed.

Their plan to keep the house party on an even keel should have worked. Would have worked if Kitty had behaved as they'd all expected. However, instead of being sunk in mortification, quiet, careful of her manners, especially careful to toe every social line and transgress no more, she swept into the drawing room and proceeded to give a command performance in the role of "the injured party."

She didn't utter a single word about the afternoon's debacle; it was the set of her face, the tilt of her chin, the extraordinary elevation of her nose that communicated her feelings. Her reaction.

Sweeping up to Lucy and Mrs. Buckstead, she placed her hand on Lucy's arm, and inquired solicitously, "I do hope you met some entertaining gentlemen this afternoon, my dear?"

Lucy blinked, then stammered a vague answer. Mrs. Buckstead, made of sterner stuff, inquired after Kitty's health.

Kitty waved, limpidly dismissive. "Of course, I did feel let down. However, I do think one should not let such wounding behavior on the part of others overwhelm one, don't you?"

Even Mrs. Buckstead didn't know how to answer that. With a smile and glittering eyes, Kitty moved on.

Her high-handed, arrogant behavior overset everyone, left them off-balance, totally unsure what to do. No one could understand what was going on. What were they witnessing? Nothing made any kind of social sense.

Dinner, far from being the agreeable, soothing if quiet affair they'd all hoped for, was subdued to the point of discomfort, all laughter in abeyance, talk suppressed. No one knew what to say.

When the ladies removed to the drawing room, Cecily and Annabelle, along with Lucy, encouraged by their mothers, retired early, claiming tiredness after the long day. Portia would have liked to leave, too, but felt compelled to remain in support of Lady O.

The conversation remained stilted. Kitty continued to play the martyr; Lady Glossup was at a loss to know how to deal with her, and Mrs. Archer, all but visibly wringing her hands, starting every time anyone directed a remark her way, was no use at all.

It soon became apparent that, far from coming to rescue them, the gentlemen had decided to leave them to their fate. And Kitty.

It was difficult to blame them; if the ladies-including Lady O, who sat openly frowning at Kitty-could not fathom what was going on, the men must be completely at sea.

Accepting the inevitable with true grace, Lady Glossup called for the tea trolley. They all remained just long enough to do justice to one cup, then rose and retired.

After seeing Lady O to her room, Portia retreated to her own chamber, high in the east wing. The window overlooked the gardens; she paced before it, frowning at the floor, oblivious of the silvered view.