He glanced at the group over which Kitty presided and saw Desmond Winfield glance toward Portia. Or was it toward Winifred? Desmond tensed, as if to approach them.

Kitty laid a hand on his sleeve and directed some question his way; he turned back to her and answered quietly.

Nearer at hand, Charlie laughed; Lucy Buckstead smothered a giggle. With not a clue as to what had been said, Simon smiled at them both, then raised his cup and sipped again.

His gaze returned to Portia.

The sun streamed over her, striking blue-black glints from her raven hair.

Unbidden, the fragrance that had risen from her heavy curls, the warm scent that had teased his senses as he’d carried her down the path, returned, sharply evocative. It pricked his memory, and brought back all the rest-the weight of her in his arms, the supple tension in her body, the all-too-feminine curves. The remembered sensations washed over him, and left him heated.

He’d been crushingly aware of her as a woman, a female-something he’d never imagined could be. He’d been stunned, not least by the discovery that some part of his mind had consciously wished he’d been carrying her somewhere else. Somewhere a great deal more private.

Yet at no time had he confused her with any other-he’d known very well who it was in his arms. He hadn’t forgotten the sharpness of her tongue, the lash of her temper. Nevertheless, he’d wanted…

Inwardly frowning, he shifted his gaze back to Lucy Buckstead. If he wanted a wife, surely she was the sort of female he should be considering-well behaved, docile-manageable. He fixed his gaze on her… but his mind kept sliding away…

He set down his cup, conjured a smile. “If you’ll excuse me, I should wash off the dust.”

With a brief bow to Lucy and a nod to Charlie, he returned his cup to Lady Glossup, smoothly made his excuses, and escaped.