If she had any sense, she’d refuse him—and run. Fast. Far away.
Yet the notion of running from what might be, what might exist between them, evoked such a strong reaction she knew she’d never do it, turn her back and blithely let it die. If she did, she’d never be able to live with herself; the possibilities along the road he was proposing they follow were endless, exciting—recklessly enticing. Different, unique. Challenging.
All the things she wanted her life to be.
The prospect of marriage to a Cynster without love to ease the way, no longer distant theory but now very real, was like a sword hanging over her head, threatening all she was. Yet despite that, she still did not feel, did not react to him, the man, as if he threatened her at all. He’d been her unwanted and reluctant protector for years; some stubborn part of her adamantly refused to rescript his role.
She sighed. Contraditions assailed her every way she turned; confusion still clouded her mind. The only thing she felt totally confident about was that he, amazingly, was committed to marrying her, while she’d yet to make up her mind.
The magnitude of the change in her life in the past hour left her giddy.
She looked around, forced herself to take slow, steadying breaths. She needed to calm her mind, find her usual even mood in which her intellect normally functioned so incisively.
Her gaze drifted along row upon regimented row of leather-bound spines; she started to circle the room. Forcing herself actually to focus, to note familiar volumes, to think of other things. To connect again with the world she normally inhabited.
She walked around one end of the rectangular room, passing the huge fireplace. The French doors facing the garden stood open; she paced along, admiring the busts set on pedestals between each set of doors, trying not to think of anything else, eventually once again reaching walls covered with shelves.
A desk stood at that end of the room, facing down its length to the main hearth. A smaller fireplace was set in the wall behind it. She glanced at it, her attention caught by the intricate detail of the mantelpiece—
Saw, just visible from where she stood, a small foot clad in a lady’s slipper, lying on the floor behind the desk.
The foot, of course, was attached to a leg.
“Good gracious!” She hurried to the desk and rounded it—
Halted, quivering. Stared.
Grabbed the edge of the desk. Slowly raised her hand to her throat.
She couldn’t drag her gaze from Kitty’s face, suffused, blotched, darkened tongue protruding, blue eyes blankly staring . . . or the silken cord wound tight about her neck, digging deep into the soft flesh . . .
“Simon?”
Her voice was far too weak. It took effort to force her lungs to work, to haul in huge breath. “Simon!”
A moment passed; she could hear the clock on the mantelpiece ticking. She felt too faint to let go of the desk, wondered if she’d have to go and look for help . . .
Footsteps pounded down the corridor, nearing.
The door burst open.
A heartbeat later, Simon was there, hands locking on her arms, eyes searching her face. He followed her gaze, looked, swore—then hauled her to him, away from the dreadful sight, interposing his body between her and the desk.
She locked her fingers in his coat and clung, shaking, buried her face in his shoulder.
“What is it?” Charlie stood in the doorway.
With his head, Simon indicated the area behind the desk. “Kitty . . .”
Simon held Portia close, aware of her trembling, of the shivers coursing her spine. Propriety be damned; he tightened his arms about her, locked her against him, against his warmth, lowered his head, brushed her temple with his jaw. “It’s all right.”
She gulped, clung even tighter; he felt her battle her reaction, and the shock. Eventually felt her spine stiffen even more. She lifted her head, but didn’t step back. Glanced toward the desk.
At Charlie, who’d looked behind the desk and now sat slumped against the front edge, white-faced, tugging at his cravat. He swore, then looked at Simon. “She’s dead, isn’t she?”
Portia answered, her voice wavering. “Her eyes . . .”
Simon looked at the door. No one else had arrived. He glanced at Charlie. “Go and find Blenkinsop. Shut the door on your way out. After you’ve sent Blenkinsop here, you’d better find Henry.”