His lips twitched at a mental image of her listless and die-away, lethargic on her bed. She was the most energetic woman he knew, full of restless, seemingly boundless energy, one facet of her that had always attracted him in a flagrantly physical way.
He’d never known her to pretend to a delicacy with which she wasn’t afflicted. Her unflagging zest had always been enough to keep up with him.
Quite possibly in any sphere.
He let his gaze sweep down, over her supple, slender figure, down over the length of her long, long legs. Poised as she was, she vibrated with vitality, with vigorous life.
Definitely a point in her favor.
Currently, however, she was as distracted as he’d ever seen her.
“What’s the matter?”
She glanced at him, searched his face briefly, confirming what she’d heard in his tone—that he wasn’t about to be fobbed off with anything short of the truth.
Her lips twisted; she looked back at the view. “Kitty’s pregnant. This morning, I overheard her telling Winifred—trying to get Winifred to think the baby was Desmond’s.”
He made no effort to mask his distaste. “How very unappealing.”
“The baby isn’t Henry’s.”
“So I would suppose.”
She glanced at him, frowned. “Why?”
He met her gaze. Grimaced. “I gather she and Henry have been estranged for some time.” He hesitated, then continued, “I suspect what we overheard the other night between Henry and James was discussion of a possible divorce.”
“Divorce?”
Portia stared at him. He didn’t need to spell out the implications for her; a divorce would mean scandal, and in this case total ostracism for Kitty.
She looked away. “I wonder if Kitty knows?” She paused, then went on, “Just now, I heard Mrs. Archer and Kitty discussing the matter. What Kitty intends to do.”
It wasn’t his child, yet his gut chilled. “What was she proposing?”
“She doesn’t want the child. She doesn’t want to grow fat and . . . I think she simply doesn’t want anything to get in the way of what she calls excitement—something she considers her due.”
He was out of his depth. With a slew of sisters, older and younger, he’d thought he had at least a passing acquaintance with the female psyche, yet Kitty was beyond his comprehension. Portia turned and headed on; he followed, ambling beside her.
Knowing full well that whatever had been bothering her was still exercising her mind. He let her wrestle with it as they trailed along the crest, and through the next section of the wood. When they emerged onto the final open stretch along the ridge above Ashmore village, and the vertical crease between her brows was still there, he stopped. Waited until she realized and turned to look at him questioningly.
“What is it?”
Her eyes remained steady on his, then her lips twisted, and she looked away. He waited, silent; after a moment, she glanced at him. “You have to promise not to laugh.”
He opened his eyes wide.
She frowned, looked away, started strolling, paused until he joined her, then walked on but slowly, brows drawn down. “I’ve been wondering . . . later . . . after, if . . . well, would I—could I—turn out like Kitty?”
“Like Kitty?” For one instant, he couldn’t imagine what she meant.
She glanced at his face, frowned harder. “Like Kitty, with her addiction to excitement.”
He stopped. She did, too.
He couldn’t help it. He laughed.
Not even her thinning lips, not even the fury flaring in her eyes could stop him.