And Then She Fell(123)

It wasn’t a question; he answered with an elegant shrug. “What else?”

He turned as she drew herself up. Their eyes met; he’d heard her vow and was unlikely to forget . . .

She was suddenly sure she needed more space between them.

“I came here for the solitude,” she baldly informed him. “Now that you’ve arrived, I may as well start back.”

She swung toward the exit. He was in her way. Her heartbeat accelerating, she glanced at his face.

In time to see his features harden, to sense him bite back some retort. His gaze touched hers; his restraint was almost palpable. With a calm so deliberate it was itself a warning, he stepped aside and waved her to the door. “As you wish.”

Her senses remained trained on him as she swept past; her skin prickled as if in truth he posed some potential danger. Once past him, head high, she glided out of the archway; with a calm more apparent than real, she set off along the path.

Jaw setting, Simon ruthlessly quelled the urge to stop her, to reach out, catch her hand, reel her back—to what end he wasn’t sure. This, he reminded himself, was what he needed, her on her haughty way back to Glossup Hall.

Drawing a long breath, he held it, then followed her out into the sunshine.

And on down the path. The sooner she got back to civilization and safety, the sooner his own journey would end. He’d driven straight down from London—he was thirsty; a glass of ale would not go astray.

With his longer strides he could easily overtake her; instead, he ambled in her wake, content enough with the view. The current fashion for gowns with waists that actually fell at a woman’s waist suited her, emphasizing the svelte lines of her figure, the slender curves, the very long lines of her legs. The purply blue hue of the light summer walking dress complemented her dramatic coloring—raven black hair, midnight blue eyes, and pale, almost translucent skin. She was taller than the average; her forehead would brush his chin—if they ever got that close.

The thought of that happening made him inwardly, grimly, laugh.

Reaching the crest of the rise, she continued over and on—and only then realized he was following her. She threw him a black glance, then stopped and waited, swinging to face him as he halted before her.

Her eyes like shards of dark flint, she glared at him. “You are not going to follow me all the way back to the Hall.”

Portia didn’t ask what he thought he was doing; they both knew. They’d last seen each other at Christmas, seven months before, but only distantly, surrounded by the combined hordes of their families. He hadn’t had a chance then to get on her nerves, something that, ever since she’d turned fourteen, he’d seemed absolutely devoted to doing, if possible every time they met.

His gaze locked on hers. Something—temper? decision?—flashed behind the deceptively soft blue of his eyes. Then his lips firmed; he stepped around her with his usual fluid grace, unnerving in a man so large, and continued on down the path.

She whirled, watched. He didn’t go far but stopped a step beyond the fork where the footpath to the village led down to the lane below.

Turning, he met her gaze. “You’re right. I’m not.” He waved down the path.

She looked in that direction. A curricle—his curricle—stood in the lane.

“Your carriage awaits.”

Lifting her gaze, she met his. Directly. He was blocking the path to the Hall—quite deliberately.

“I was intending to walk back.”

His gaze didn’t waver. “Change your mind.”

His tone—sheer male arrogance laced with a challenge she hadn’t previously encountered and couldn’t place—sent a peculiar shiver through her. There was no overt aggression in his stance, yet she didn’t for a moment doubt he could, and would, stop her if she tried to get past him.

Temper, wild willfulness—her customary response to intimidatory tactics, especially from him—flooded her, yet this time there were other, powerful and distracting emotions in the mix. She stood perfectly still, her gaze level and locked in silent combat with his, the familiar struggle for supremacy, yet . . .

Something had changed.

In him.

And in her.

Was it simply age—how long had it been since they’d last crossed wills like this? Three years? More? Regardless, the field had altered; the battle was no longer the same. Something was fundamentally different; she sensed in him a bolder, more blatantly predatory streak, a flash of steel beneath his elegance, as if with the years his mask was wearing thin.