And not just on the basis of strength.

Being this close, trapped in his arms, made her feel… among other things, light-headed.

He slowed; she refocused.

With a flourish, he set her on the curricle’s seat.

Startled, she grasped the railings, out of habit drawing her skirts close so he could sit beside her-noting the equally startled face of Wilks, his groom.

“Ah… afternoon, Miss Portia.” Wide-eyed, Wilks bobbed as he handed the reins to Simon.

Wilks had to have witnessed the entire performance; he was waiting for her to explode, or at least say something cutting.

And he wasn’t the only one.

She smiled with perfect equanimity. “Good afternoon, Wilks.”

Wilks blinked, nodded warily, then hurried back to his place.

Simon glanced at her as he climbed up beside her. As if expecting her to bite. Or at the very least snarl.

He wouldn’t have believed a sweet smile, so she faced forward, serenely composed, as if her joining him in the curricle had been her idea. His suspicious glance was worth every tithe of the effort such sunny compliance cost her.

The curricle jerked, then rolled forward. The instant he had his bays bowling along, she asked, “How are your parents?”

A pause greeted that, but then he replied.

She nodded and launched into an account of her family, all of whom he knew, describing their health, their whereabouts, their latest interests. As if he’d asked, she continued, “I came down with Lady O.” For years, that had been their shorthand for Lady Osbaldestone, a connection of the Cynsters’ and an old friend of her family’s, an ancient beldame who terrorized half the ton. “She spent the last weeks at the Chase, and then had to travel down here. She’s an old friend of Lord Netherfield, did you know?” Viscount Netherfield was Lord Glossup’s father and was presently visiting at Glossup Hall.