James saw she was ready, mounted his gelding, and joined her under the stable arch. Simon shepherded Lucy and Drusilla along, his gaze raking their postures, assessing their abilities. Charlie scrambled into his saddle and followed.

With Portia beside him, James led the way out, at a walk, then a trot. Rutlandshire-born and -bred, she’d ridden with the hunt in earlier years; while she was no longer quite so wild, she still loved to ride. The little mare was skittish and playful; she indulged her just so far, drawing her patiently back into line until she settled.

James had wanted to give her a docile grey mare; she’d opened her mouth to protest, and would certainly have done so, but Simon had intervened and suggested the chestnut instead. James had accepted Simon’s assessment of her abilities with a raised brow but no comment; she’d bitten her tongue and thanked both of them with a smile.

Now James was watching her, gauging, assessing; Simon, she realized, wasn’t. A quick glance around showed him, still with that frown in his eyes, watching Lucy and Drusilla. Charlie, his mount trotting easily beside Drusilla’s, was chatting with his usual facility. Drusilla, as always, was quiet, but she seemed to be listening, or making an effort to listen… Portia wondered if it was at her mother’s insistence that she’d joined them.

Lucy kept darting glances ahead-at her and James. Facing forward, recognizing that in all kindness she should yield her position to Lucy shortly, she smiled at James. “I love to ride-is there much hunting in these parts?”

As they rode down the leafy lanes, he answered her questions readily; she gradually steered them in the direction she wished-to what his life was like, his preferred activities, his dislikes, his aspirations. All subtly, of course.

Despite her best efforts, or perhaps because of them, by the time they reached the outliers of Cranborne Chase, the ancient royal hunting forest, a puzzled, curious, but somewhat cautious look had taken up residence in James’s brown eyes.

She smiled airily. They reined in and waited for the others to come up before venturing into the rides between the towering oaks. Seizing the moment to yield her position to Lucy, she set her mare to trot smartly beside Charlie’s grey.

Charlie brightened; he turned to her, leaving Drusilla to Simon. “I say-meant to ask. Did you hear about the scandal with Lord Fortinbras at Ascot?”

He rattled on happily; somewhat to her surprise, despite his readiness to talk, she found it difficult to direct his attention to himself. At first, she thought it was simply his natural, outward-looking character, but when he time and again slid around her carefully posed questions, when she caught a flicker of his lashes, and a sharp, far-from-innocent glance, she realized his patter was a shield of sorts-a defense he deployed, all but instinctively, against women who wanted to get to know him.

James was more sure of himself, therefore less defensive. Charlie… in the end, she smiled at him, perfectly genuinely, and dropped her inquiries. They were little more than a game-a practice; it would be unkind to set him on edge, to spoil his enjoyment of the house party, purely to sharpen her skills.

She looked around. “We’ve been terribly restrained so far-dare we gallop a little, do you think?”

Charlie’s eyes widened. “If you like… I can’t see why not.” He looked forward and whooped. James looked back. Charlie signaled they were going to ride on; James slowed, nudging his and Lucy’s mounts to the side of the path.

Portia sprang the mare. She passed James and Lucy with the mare stretching into a gallop. The ride was wide, more than enough space for two horses abreast, but she was well in the lead as she reached the first bend. A long stretch of turf lay ahead; she let the mare have her head and raced, the thud of hooves behind drowned beneath the relentless beat of the chestnut’s stride. The steady pounding, the reaching rhythm, slid through her, echoed in her heart, in the flash tide of blood through her veins, the giddy rush of exhilaration.

The end of the turf drew near; she glanced back. Charlie was some yards back, unable to overtake her. Behind him, the other four were coming along, galloping, but not racing.

With a grin, she faced forward, and swept down the track as it constricted; twenty yards on, it opened onto another glade. Joy in her heart, she flung the mare into it, but halfway along started to rein in.

The thud of hooves behind was growing fainter. No matter how much she enjoyed the speed, she wasn’t fool enough to race ahead along rides she didn’t know. Still, she’d had her moment; it was enough to tide her over. As the trees drew closer and the track once more narrowed, she eased the mare to a jog, then a walk.

Finally, at the very end of the glade, she halted. And waited.

Charlie was the first to join her. “You ride like a demon!”

She met his gaze, ready to defend herself-only to realize he wasn’t scandalized. The look in his eyes was quite different, as if her being able to ride so well had started some line of thought he hadn’t previously considered.

Before she had a chance to ponder that, James and Lucy rode up. Lucy was laughing, chattering, eyes radiant; James exchanged a glance with Charlie. With his usual smooth smile and easy address, he displaced his friend at Lucy’s side.

Simon and Drusilla joined them. They all stood milling for some moments, regaining their breath, letting the horses settle, then James spoke to Drusilla and they moved off, leading the way back to the Hall.

Lucy followed immediately, but was forced by Charlie’s gentle persistence to give him her attention. By the simple strategy of holding his horse back, he kept Lucy safely away from James.

Portia hid a grin, and fell in in their wake; she barely registered Simon’s presence beside her. Not outwardly. Her senses, however, were perfectly aware of his looming nearness, of the controlled strength with which he sat his mount as it ambled beside hers. She expected to feel something of her usual haughty resistance, precursor to irritation, yet… the faint prickling of her skin, the tightening of her lungs-these were not familiar.

“Still a hoyden at heart, I see.”

There was a hardness in his voice she hadn’t heard before.

She turned her head, met his gaze, held it for a pregnant moment, then smiled and looked away. “You don’t disapprove.”

Simon grunted. What could he say? She was right. He should disapprove, yet there was something in him that responded-too readily-to the challenge of a woman who could ride like the wind. And with her, knowing she was nearly as assured in the saddle as he, there was no niggling concern to dim the moment.

He was irritated because he hadn’t been able to ride with her, not because she’d ridden as she had.

Their mounts ambled on; he glanced at her face-she was smiling lightly, clearly thinking, about what he had no idea. He waited for her to question him, talk to him, as she had with James and Charlie.

The horses plodded on.

She remained silent, distant. Elsewhere.

Finally, he accepted she had no intention of pursuing whatever she was after with him. The suspicion he’d been harboring darkened and grew. Her reticence with him seemed to confirm it; if she was set on gaining some illicit experience, the last man she’d apply to was him.

The realization-the flood of emotions it unleashed-made him catch his breath. A sharp stab of regret, the sense of something lost-something he hadn’t even realized he might hold dear…

Mentally shaking his head, he dragged in a breath, glanced again at her face.

He wanted to ask, to demand, but didn’t know the question.

And didn’t know if she would answer, anyway.

After exchanging her riding habit for a gown of green-and-white twill and re-dressing her hair, Portia descended the stairs as the clang of the luncheon gong reverberated through the house.

Blenkinsop was crossing the front hall. He bowed. “Luncheon is served on the terrace, miss.”

“Thank you.” Portia headed for the drawing room. The ride had gone well; she’d acquitted herself quite creditably in the “chatting with gentlemen” stakes. She was learning, gaining confidence, exactly as she’d hoped.

Of course, the morning had been free of the distraction of Kitty and her antics. The first thing she heard on emerging through the French doors onto the terrace flags was Kitty’s seductive purr.

“I’ve always had a great regard for you.”

It wasn’t James but Desmond Kitty had backed against the balustrade. The woman was incorrigible! The pair were to her left; turning right, Portia pretended she hadn’t noticed. She continued to where a long table was set with serving platters, glasses, and plates. The rest of the company were gathered around, some already seated at wrought-iron tables on the terrace, others descending to the lawns where more tables were set in the shade of some trees.

Portia smiled at Lady Hammond, seated beside Lady Osbaldestone.

Lady O gestured to the cold salmon on her plate. “Wonderful! Be sure to try some.”

“I will.” Portia turned to the buffet and picked up a plate. The salmon was displayed on a large platter set at the back; she would have to stretch.

“Would you like some?”

She glanced up, smiling at Simon, suddenly beside her. She’d known it was him in the instant before he spoke; she wasn’t entirely sure how. “Thank you.”

He could reach the platter easily; she held out her plate and he laid a thick slice of the succulent fish upon it, then helped himself to two. He followed her along the table as she made her selections, doing the same.

When she paused at the end of the buffet and looked around, wondering where to sit, he stopped again at her shoulder and waved toward the lawn. “We could join Winifred.”