desire.”
Portia inclined her head dutifully; neither of them was deceived. She would tell Lady O what transpired because she needed help and guidance, not because she recognized any responsibility on her ladyship’s part.
Reaching the door, she put her hand to the handle; Lady O pressed the tip of her cane to the door, stopping her from opening it. Portia glanced at her. And met her penetrating gaze.
“One point you didn’t explain—why, after seven long years in the ton, have you suddenly decided you should marry?”
There seemed no need for reservation; it was a normal enough reason, surely. “Children. Through helping at the Foundling House, I realized I liked—truly liked—working with young children. Caring for them, watching them grow, guiding them.” She felt the need rise up inside her simply at the thought. “But I want my own children to care for.
“Returning to the Chase only reinforced that—seeing Amelia and Luc with their brood, and of course Amanda and Martin visit frequently with theirs. It’s a madhouse but . . .”—her lips lifting wistfully, she held Lady O’s gaze—“it’s something I want.”
Perfectly serious, Lady O searched her eyes, then nodded. “Children. That’s all very well as an inciting impulse—the spur that has finally compelled you to lower your nose, see what’s around you, and consider marriage. Understandable, right, and proper. However ”—she fixed Portia with a black stare—“that is not a suitable reason for marriage.”
She blinked. “It’s not?”
Lady O drew back her cane and gestured; Portia opened the door.
“But . . .”
“Don’t worry.” Head rising, Lady O swept down the corridor. “Just follow your plan and consider the eligibles, and the right reason—mark my words—will emerge.”
She lengthened her stride; Portia had to hurry to catch up with her.
“Now come on!” Lady O waved to the stairs. “All this talk of marriage has given me an appetite!”
An appetite for meddling, but then she’d always had that. And she was a past master of the art; it was done so subtly, in between passing the toast and marmalade, Portia was quite sure neither Simon, James, nor Charlie realized that the idea to go riding that morning was not originally theirs.
The invitation ultimately came from them; she dutifully accepted. Lucy did, too. To everyone’s surprise, so did Drusilla. Winifred confessed she was an indifferent rider; she elected to go for a walk. Desmond immediately offered to accompany her.
Ambrose was engaged in a discussion with Mr. Buckstead and merely shook his head. The Hammond girls, their bright eyes fixed on Oswald and Swanston, had already inveigled them into escorting them around the lake. Kitty was not present, but then neither were the other ladies; all had chosen to breakfast in their rooms.
Fifteen minutes after quitting the breakfast table, the riding party convened in the front hall, and James led them out to the stable.
Selecting mounts took some time; garbed in her deep blue riding habit, Portia strolled with James down the long aisle between the boxes, casting her eye over the mounts, asking him about the more elegant beasts. Was this one of those things that was important to her, that a gentleman should ride well and know his horses?
Most did, but not necessarily to her standards.
“Do you drive your own phaeton in town?”
James glanced at her. “Yes. I have a pair of matched greys, very nice steppers.”
“Mr. James . . .” The head stableman called from the door; their horses were ready. James gestured; Portia turned, and they walked back up the aisle.
James’s gaze was on her face, not intent but curious. “The greys are in the other wing of the stable—if you like, I’ll show them to you sometime.”
“That would be nice, if we have time.”
He shrugged. “We can make time.”
She smiled as they emerged into the sunshine. Into the courtyard where the others were milling.
Portia inclined her head dutifully; neither of them was deceived. She would tell Lady O what transpired because she needed help and guidance, not because she recognized any responsibility on her ladyship’s part.
Reaching the door, she put her hand to the handle; Lady O pressed the tip of her cane to the door, stopping her from opening it. Portia glanced at her. And met her penetrating gaze.
“One point you didn’t explain—why, after seven long years in the ton, have you suddenly decided you should marry?”
There seemed no need for reservation; it was a normal enough reason, surely. “Children. Through helping at the Foundling House, I realized I liked—truly liked—working with young children. Caring for them, watching them grow, guiding them.” She felt the need rise up inside her simply at the thought. “But I want my own children to care for.
“Returning to the Chase only reinforced that—seeing Amelia and Luc with their brood, and of course Amanda and Martin visit frequently with theirs. It’s a madhouse but . . .”—her lips lifting wistfully, she held Lady O’s gaze—“it’s something I want.”
Perfectly serious, Lady O searched her eyes, then nodded. “Children. That’s all very well as an inciting impulse—the spur that has finally compelled you to lower your nose, see what’s around you, and consider marriage. Understandable, right, and proper. However ”—she fixed Portia with a black stare—“that is not a suitable reason for marriage.”
She blinked. “It’s not?”
Lady O drew back her cane and gestured; Portia opened the door.
“But . . .”
“Don’t worry.” Head rising, Lady O swept down the corridor. “Just follow your plan and consider the eligibles, and the right reason—mark my words—will emerge.”
She lengthened her stride; Portia had to hurry to catch up with her.
“Now come on!” Lady O waved to the stairs. “All this talk of marriage has given me an appetite!”
An appetite for meddling, but then she’d always had that. And she was a past master of the art; it was done so subtly, in between passing the toast and marmalade, Portia was quite sure neither Simon, James, nor Charlie realized that the idea to go riding that morning was not originally theirs.
The invitation ultimately came from them; she dutifully accepted. Lucy did, too. To everyone’s surprise, so did Drusilla. Winifred confessed she was an indifferent rider; she elected to go for a walk. Desmond immediately offered to accompany her.
Ambrose was engaged in a discussion with Mr. Buckstead and merely shook his head. The Hammond girls, their bright eyes fixed on Oswald and Swanston, had already inveigled them into escorting them around the lake. Kitty was not present, but then neither were the other ladies; all had chosen to breakfast in their rooms.
Fifteen minutes after quitting the breakfast table, the riding party convened in the front hall, and James led them out to the stable.
Selecting mounts took some time; garbed in her deep blue riding habit, Portia strolled with James down the long aisle between the boxes, casting her eye over the mounts, asking him about the more elegant beasts. Was this one of those things that was important to her, that a gentleman should ride well and know his horses?
Most did, but not necessarily to her standards.
“Do you drive your own phaeton in town?”
James glanced at her. “Yes. I have a pair of matched greys, very nice steppers.”
“Mr. James . . .” The head stableman called from the door; their horses were ready. James gestured; Portia turned, and they walked back up the aisle.
James’s gaze was on her face, not intent but curious. “The greys are in the other wing of the stable—if you like, I’ll show them to you sometime.”
“That would be nice, if we have time.”
He shrugged. “We can make time.”
She smiled as they emerged into the sunshine. Into the courtyard where the others were milling.
Similar Books
