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posed questions, when she caught a flicker of his lashes, and a sharp, far-from-innocent glance, she realized his patter was a shield of sorts—a defense he deployed, all but instinctively, against women who wanted to get to know him.
    James was more sure of himself, therefore less defensive. Charlie . . . in the end, she smiled at him, perfectly genuinely, and dropped her inquiries. They were little more than a game—a practice; it would be unkind to set him on edge, to spoil his enjoyment of the house party, purely to sharpen her skills.
    She looked around. “We’ve been terribly restrained so far—dare we gallop a little, do you think?”
    Charlie’s eyes widened. “If you like . . . I can’t see why not.” He looked forward and whooped. James looked back. Charlie signaled they were going to ride on; James slowed, nudging his and Lucy’s mounts to the side of the path.
    Portia sprang the mare. She passed James and Lucy with the mare stretching into a gallop. The ride was wide, more than enough space for two horses abreast, but she was well in the lead as she reached the first bend. A long stretch of turf lay ahead; she let the mare have her head and raced, the thud of hooves behind drowned beneath the relentless beat of the chestnut’s stride. The steady pounding, the reaching rhythm, slid through her, echoed in her heart, in the flash tide of blood through her veins, the giddy rush of exhilaration.
    The end of the turf drew near; she glanced back. Charlie was some yards back, unable to overtake her. Behind him, the other four were coming along, galloping, but not racing.
    With a grin, she faced forward, and swept down the track as it constricted; twenty yards on, it opened onto another glade. Joy in her heart, she flung the mare into it, but halfway along started to rein in.
    The thud of hooves behind was growing fainter. No matter how much she enjoyed the speed, she wasn’t fool enough to race ahead along rides she didn’t know. Still, she’d had her moment; it was enough to tide her over. As the trees drew closer and the track once more narrowed, she eased the mare to a jog, then a walk.
    Finally, at the very end of the glade, she halted. And waited.
    Charlie was the first to join her. “You ride like a demon!”
    She met his gaze, ready to defend herself—only to realize he wasn’t scandalized. The look in his eyes was quite different, as if her being able to ride so well had started some line of thought he hadn’t previously considered.
    Before she had a chance to ponder that, James and Lucy rode up. Lucy was laughing, chattering, eyes radiant; James exchanged a glance with Charlie. With his usual smooth smile and easy address, he displaced his friend at Lucy’s side.
    Simon and Drusilla joined them. They all stood milling for some moments, regaining their breath, letting the horses settle, then James spoke to Drusilla and they moved off, leading the way back to the Hall.
    Lucy followed immediately, but was forced by Charlie’s gentle persistence to give him her attention. By the simple strategy of holding his horse back, he kept Lucy safely away from James.
    Portia hid a grin, and fell in in their wake; she barely registered Simon’s presence beside her. Not outwardly. Her senses, however, were perfectly aware of his looming nearness, of the controlled strength with which he sat his mount as it ambled beside hers. She expected to feel something of her usual haughty resistance, precursor to irritation, yet . . . the faint prickling of her skin, the tightening of her lungs—these were not familiar.
    “Still a hoyden at heart, I see.”
    There was a hardness in his voice she hadn’t heard before.
    She turned her head, met his gaze, held it for a pregnant moment, then smiled and looked away. “You don’t disapprove.”
    Simon grunted. What could he say? She was right. He should disapprove, yet there was something in him that responded—too readily—to the challenge of a woman who could