The words, spoken in a soft, feminine, decidedly provocative drawl, brought Portia to a halt on the landing of the west wing stairs. She’d spent the last half hour with the pianoforte in the music room on the first floor of the west wing; now it was time to gather in the drawing room before dinner-she was on her way there.

By the west wing stairs, not much frequented by the ladies of the party as their rooms were in the east wing.

“But perhaps it’s just a ploy?”

The words clung like a caress; it was Kitty speaking.

“It’s not a ploy!” James spoke through his teeth. “I’m not playing any games-and I never will with you!”

They were out of Portia’s sight in the hall at the bottom of the stairs, but James’s aversion reached her clearly. Along with a hint of desperation.

Kitty laughed. Her disbelief-or rather her belief that no man, especially not one like James, would not desire her-echoed up the stairwell.

Without further thought, Portia calmly, and firmly, continued down the stairs.

They heard her; both turned. Both faces registered unwelcome surprise, but only James’s registered anything approaching embarrassment; Kitty’s expression was all irritation at being interrupted.

Then James recognized Portia; relief washed over his features. “Good evening, Miss Ashford. Have you lost your way?”

She hadn’t, but Kitty had James backed into an alcove. “Indeed.” She struggled to infuse some degree of helplessness into her expression. “I thought I was certain, yet…” She waved vaguely.

James brushed past Kitty. “Allow me-I was just heading for the drawing room. I take it that’s where you wish to go?”

He took her hand and set it on his sleeve; she met his eyes, and saw the plea therein.

“Yes, please. I would be most grateful for your escort.” She smiled easily, then turned to Kitty.

Kitty didn’t smile back; she nodded somewhat curtly.

Portia raised her brows. “Aren’t you joining us, Mrs. Glossup?”

Beside her, James stiffened.

Kitty waved. “I’ll be along shortly. Do go on.” With that, she turned and headed for the stairs.

James relaxed. Portia turned and let him steer her toward the central wing. She glanced at his face; he was frowning, and a trifle pale. “Are you all right, Mr. Glossup?”

He glanced at her, then smiled-charmingly. “Do call me James.” With a backward nod, he added, “Thank you.”

Brows rising, she couldn’t resist asking, “Is she often like 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 reconnoitering the field.

Whoever is present of suitable age and station, I swear I will seriously consider him.

So whom was she considering? All the males about the table were, at least theoretically, of suitable station, else they wouldn’t be present. Some were married and thus easily eliminated; of those left, some she knew better than others.

As they ate and talked, while she attended this discussion, then that, she let her gaze roam, noting each head, acknowledging each possibility.

Her gaze came to rest on Simon, seated across the table two places down. He was struggling to make conversation with Drusilla, who seemed peculiarly reserved, severe, but uncomfortable too. Portia inwardly frowned; regardless of their frequent disagreements, she knew Simon’s manners were polished to a high gloss and would never be at fault in a social situation. Whatever the problem, it lay with Drusilla.

There was a lull in the chatter around her; her gaze remained on Simon, noting the glimmer of gold in his hair, his long, elegant fingers curving about his wineglass, the resigned set of his lips as he sat back, leaving Drusilla to herself.

She’d been staring too long; he felt her gaze.

In the instant before he looked her way, she looked down, calmly helping herself to more vegetables, then turning to Mr. Buckstead beside her.

Only when she felt Simon’s gaze shift from her did she breathe freely again.

Only then realized how odd was her reaction.

Whoever is present of suitable age and station …

By the time the ladies rose and departed for the drawing room, leaving the gentlemen to their port, she’d mentally inked three names onto her list. The house party was clearly destined to be a trial, a testing ground on which she could develop her husband-selection skills; none of the gentlemen present were the sort she could imagine entrusting with her hand, but as specimens on which to practice, they would do very well.

James Glossup and Charlie Hastings were exactly the sort of gentlemen whose attributes she needed to learn to weigh.

As for Simon, just because she’d known him all her life, just because they’d spent the last decade irritating each other-just because she would never have thought to put him on her list if she hadn’t made her vow in those precise terms without knowing he’d be present-none of that was reason enough to close her eyes to his marriageable qualities.

Qualities she needed to learn to assess and evaluate.

Indeed, sweeping into the drawing room behind Lady O, it occurred to her that, Cynster that he was, Simon’s marriageable qualities might well provide the benchmarks against which she measured all others.

It was a discomposing thought.

Luckily, as the gentlemen weren’t present, she could put it from her mind and allow herself to be distracted by the chatter of the Hammond girls and Lucy Buckstead.

Later, when the gentlemen returned and conversations became more general, she found herself in a group with Winifred Archer and Desmond Winfield. Both were pleasant, a fraction reserved although neither lacked confidence, yet within five minutes, she would have wagered her best gown that there was some understanding between them, or developing between them, certainly. What Winifred’s attitude was she couldn’t tell, but Desmond, despite his exemplary manners, figuratively had eyes only for Winifred.

Her mental pencil was poised to strike Desmond from her list, but then she paused. Perhaps, given her relative inexperience in this sphere, she should still consider him, not as a potential husband for her, but in defining the gentlemanly attributes ladies like Winifred, who despite her quietness registered as eminently sane, required and approved of.

Learning by observing the successes-and failures-of others was only wise.

The thought had her glancing about. Kitty, in her shimmering aquamarine silk gown, positively sparkled with effervescent charm as she flitted from group to group. No sign of her earlier pout remained; she seemed in her element.

Henry was talking with Simon and James; he no longer seemed concerned or distracted by Kitty.

Perhaps she’d misread their earlier interaction?

Someone loomed at her elbow; Portia turned to find Ambrose Calvin bowing. She bobbed a curtsy.

“Miss Ashford-a pleasure to meet you. I’ve noticed you at several London events, but never had a chance to make your acquaintance.”

“Indeed, sir? Do I take it you spend most of your time in the capital?”

Ambrose had very dark brown eyes and light brown hair; his features were regular, of a patrician cast yet softened by politeness and courtesy enough to be pleasing. He inclined his head. “For the most part.” He hesitated, then added, “It’s my hope to enter Parliament at the next election. Naturally, I spend as much time as I can following current events-to be close to the source, one must be in the cap-ital.”

“Yes, of course.” It hovered on the tip of her tongue to explain that she quite understood, being acquainted with Michael Anstruther-Wetherby, the Member for Godleigh, in West Hampshire but the sharpness she glimpsed in Ambrose’s dark eyes set a guard on her tongue. “I’ve often thought that, in these changing times, serving your constituency in Parliament must be highly rewarding.”

“Indeed.” There was nothing in Ambrose’s tone to suggest he was fired by any reformist zeal. “It’s my thesis that we need the right men in place-those actively interested in governing, in guiding the country down the correct paths.”

That sounded a trifle too pompous for her liking; she changed tack. “Have you decided where you will stand?”

“Not as yet.” Ambrose’s gaze shifted to the group across the room-Lord Glossup, Mr. Buckstead, and Mr. Archer. An instant passed, then he refocused on her, and smiled, somewhat patronizingly. “You are likely not aware, but such matters are usually-and best-arranged within the party. I’m hoping for news of my selection quite soon.”

“I see.” She smiled sweetly in return, the sort of smile Simon would have known not to take at face value. “Then we must hope the news is all you deserve.”

Ambrose accepted the comment in the way he wished to hear it; she felt decidedly patronizing herself as they turned to the others about them and joined the wider conversation.