With his longer strides he could easily overtake her; instead, he ambled in her wake, content enough with the view. The current fashion for gowns with waists that actually fell at a woman’s waist suited her, emphasizing the svelte lines of her figure, the slender curves, the very long lines of her legs. The purply blue hue of the light summer walking dress complemented her dramatic coloring-raven black hair, midnight blue eyes, and pale, almost translucent skin. She was taller than the average; her forehead would brush his chin-if they ever got that close.

The thought of that happening made him inwardly, grimly, laugh.

Reaching the crest of the rise, she continued over and on-and only then realized he was following her. She threw him a black glance, then stopped and waited, swinging to face him as he halted before her.

Her eyes like shards of dark flint, she glared at him. “You are not going to follow me all the way back to the Hall.”

Portia didn’t ask what he thought he was doing; they both knew. They’d last seen each other at Christmas, seven months before, but only distantly, surrounded by the combined hordes of their families. He hadn’t had a chance then to get on her nerves, something that, ever since she’d turned fourteen, he’d seemed absolutely devoted to doing, if possible every time they met.

His gaze locked on hers. Something-temper? decision?-flashed behind the deceptively soft blue of his eyes. Then his lips firmed; he stepped around her with his usual fluid grace, unnerving in a man so large, and continued on down the path.

She whirled, watched. He didn’t go far but stopped a step beyond the fork where the footpath to the village led down to the lane below.

Turning, he met her gaze. “You’re right. I’m not.” He waved down the path.

She looked in that direction. A curricle-his curricle-stood in the lane.

“Your carriage awaits.”

Lifting her gaze, she met his. Directly. He was blocking the path to the Hall-quite deliberately.