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that—importuning?”
    He hesitated, then said, “She seems to be getting rather worse.”
    He was clearly uncomfortable; she looked ahead. “You’ll just have to cling to other ladies until she gets over it.”
    He threw her a sharp glance, but didn’t know her well enough to be sure of her irony. She let him guide her through the house, hiding a smile at the bizarre twist that had a rake of James Glossup’s standing relying on her for, as it were, protection of his virtue.
    She caught his eye as they entered the front hall; he was almost certain she was laughing, but wasn’t sure about what. The drawing room loomed; she faced forward. Simon would have known.
    As they crossed the threshold, she saw him, standing to one side of the fireplace, conversing with Charlie and two bright young things—Lady Hammond’s daughters, Annabelle and Cecily. Lady Hammond herself, a warmhearted matron of sunny charm, was seated on the chaise beside Lady Osbaldestone.
    Across the room, Simon’s eyes met Portia’s. James excused himself and went to talk to his father. After pausing to greet Lady Hammond, a friend of her mother’s, Portia joined Simon and Charlie, Annabelle and Cecily.
    The girls were a breath of fresh air; they were innocents, yet entirely at home in this sphere and determined to be the life—or lives—of the party. Portia had known them for years; they greeted her with typical joy.
    “Splendid! I didn’t know you’d be here!”
    “Oh, it’ll be wonderful—I’m sure we’ll have such fun!”
    Wide eyes, bright smiles—it was impossible not to respond in kind. After the usual inquiries about families and acquaintances, the talk focused on the expected pleasures of the coming days and the amenities afforded by the Hall and its neighborhood.
    “The gardens are extensive, with lots of walks. I read that in a guidebook,” Annabelle confessed.
    “Oh, and there’s a lake—the book said it was not man-made but filled by a natural spring and quite deep.” Cecily grimaced. “Too deep for punting. Imagine!”
    “Well,” Charlie put in, “you wouldn’t want to risk falling in. Deuced cold—I can vouch for it.”
    “Good heavens!” Annabelle turned to Charlie. “Did you? Fall in, I mean?”
    Portia caught the glance Charlie sent Simon, and the answering quirk of Simon’s lips; she judged it more likely Charlie had been thrown in.
    Movement across the room caught her eye; Kitty entered and paused, surveying the company. Henry detached himself from a group and crossed to her side. He spoke to her quietly, head lowered, clearly a private word.
    Kitty stiffened; her head rose. She threw Henry a look of dismissive affront, then replied very shortly, gave him her shoulder, and, with an expression perilously close to a truculent pout, all but flounced off to speak with Ambrose and Drusilla Calvin.
    Henry watched Kitty go. His features were tight, controlled, closed, yet the underlying impression was one of pain.
    Clearly all was not well on that front.
    Portia returned to the conversation still bubbling about her. Annabelle turned to her, eyes eager and wide. “Have you visited there yet?”
    She’d obviously missed something; she glanced at Simon.
    His eyes met hers; his brows quirked, but he consented to save her. “Portia hasn’t visited here before—she’s as new to the delights of the Hall as you both. As for the temple . . .” His gaze returned to Portia’s face. “I must admit I prefer the summerhouse by the lake. Perhaps a touch too private for some, but the quietness over the water’s soothing.”
    “We must be sure to walk that way.” Cecily was busy making plans. “And I hear there’s a lookout, too, somewhere nearby?”
    “I’ve walked there.” Refusing to meet Simon’s eye, Portia did her bit to slake the Hammond girls’ thirst for information.
    That topic absorbed them until dinner was announced. Once seated at the long table, mindful of her vow, Portia turned her attention to