A Proper Taming

by Overfield Joan

  "I'm not sure," Portia admitted, frowning as she realized she hadn't given Miss Montgomery more than a passing thought since she'd smashed the earl over the head. Somehow in the middle of all the commotion Miss Montgomery had managed to slip away.

  "Ah, well, doubtlessly she'll turn up for breakfast." Nancy dismissed the unknown woman with an indifferent shrug. "You just close your eyes, sweeting, and try to get some rest. You'll be wanting to look your best when you face his lordship again."

  Portia smiled sleepily at the maid's endearment. "You haven't called me that in years," she said, exhaustion pulling at her.

  "Haven't I?" Nancy tugged the covers up to Portia's chin.

  "Maybe it's because I haven't been particularly sweet," Portia mumbled around a yawn, her eyes drifting closed as she snuggled against the pillow. "Good night, Nancy."

  "What do you mean she isn't here?" Connor roared, then winced as his head began throbbing anew. He cursed roundly beneath his breath, and then spoke again, his voice carefully modulated. "How did she get away?" he asked, fixing the maid with a baleful glare. "I thought I brought you along to keep an eye on her."

  "And so you did," the maid, Gwynnen, replied calmly, apparently unperturbed by her employer's black displeasure. "But even maids must rest, and the little minx stole out while I was sleeping. Took her bags as well, so I reckon we needn't bother looking for her. She's probably halfway back to Cambridge by now."

  Connor felt a stab of guilt at the maid's words. "I didn't mean to imply you'd been neglectful," he muttered, his eyes closing as he pinched the bridge of his nose. His head was still pounding like the wrath of God, although that was no doubt due more to the vile potion the physician had forced upon him than to the blow. He hadn't felt so wretched since his early days at Oxford, and he prayed it was another dozen years before he felt so poorly again.

  "This is all my mother's fault," he announced, his hand dropping to his side as he met the maid's gaze. "Why couldn't she just send for this companion like she did all the rest? Why must I come fetch her?"

  Gwynnen's eyes took on a knowing gleam, which would have alerted Connor had he been in any shape to take note. "Miss Montgomery's the great-niece to a viscount," she said, her mouth pursing in a disapproving line. "Can't expect her to take the mail coach like a parlor maid."

  "I don't see why not," Connor complained, not yet ready to forgive his mother for the trouble he had endured. He'd been in the middle of the lambing season when his mother had insisted he travel southward to meet her newly hired companion. He'd refused at first, citing his many responsibilities, but his mother had looked so downcast and alone that he'd finally given in with ill grace. Now it appeared his efforts were all for naught.

  "I suppose I shall have to return to Cambridge and hire some other female for Mother," he grumbled, feeling decidedly put out at the prospect. "Unless you think we might find someone suitable here?" His dark spirits lifted in hope.

  Gwynnen hesitated. "I reckon we could ask about," she said, the doubt in her voice making it plain she thought it unlikely. "Her ladyship's particular in her notions, and you can't hire just anyone. Although . . ."

  "Although what?"

  "That young lady, Miss Haverall, is a pretty thing, don't you think?"

  Connor's brows met in a scowl at the mention of the hell cat who had floored him last night. "How the devil am I to know?" he snarled, although he remembered a pair of rain-gray eyes lavishly trimmed with thick, black lashes and a riot of dark curls cascading from beneath a nightcap. "The blasted female smashed a bed warmer over my head before I had a chance to say hello."

  "Shows she's a quick thinker." Gwynnen defended the other woman's actions with an approving nod. "The countess would like that. She don't like empty-headed females."

  "Then she would have been sorely disappointed with Miss Montgomery," Connor observed with a singular lack of charity. "The chit was a peagoose."

  "But so pretty." Gwynnen gave a heavy sigh. "Just like a little doll, she was."

  Connor said nothing, although the maid had confirmed what he had long suspected. He'd noted that his mother's main requirement in her companions was physical beauty, and he'd surmised she was hoping he'd take one look at one of them and fall head over heels in love. His lips twisted in a sneer at the possibility. At least a companion would be suitably grateful should he offer, he thought, bitterly recalling his one Season in London. God knew not even the temptation of his wealth and title had been enough to convince a lady of his own class to accept him.

  "My lord!" The impatience in Gwynnen's voice made it obvious she'd been attempting to get his attention without success.

  "I'm sorry, Gwynnen," Connor apologized, pushing the unhappy memories from his mind. "What is it?"

  "I was saying that you might at least speak with Miss Haverall," the maid said with the bluntness of a long-time servant. "Mayhap she would consider the position."

  "The niece of the Dowager Countess of Lowton?" Connor asked, recalling Miss Haverall's haughty boast. "I shouldn't think it likely. Besides, I don't want to give her another opportunity to dash in my brains. She did enough damage last night." He fingered the lump on his head.

  "Provided she is the countess's niece," Gwynnen said, ignoring the rest of Connor's complaint.

  Connor raised his head. "Do you think she is not?" he asked, frowning.

  Gwynnen shrugged. "The innkeeper told me the countess has a town house in the village. Stands to reason that if Miss Haverall was related to her, she'd be staying there."

  He considered the possibility and decided Gwynnen was probably right; a countess was highly unlikely to allow her niece to stay in a public inn. On the other hand, there was something in Miss Haverall's regal bearing that made him believe she was telling the truth.

  Perhaps it was her carriage, he mused, remembering the slim, delicate body that had managed to look inviting despite the prim robe covering her from head to foot. And then there was the arrogant way she had tilted her chin up at him, as if inviting him to do his worst. He smiled as he recalled her fiery defiance, and the way she had ripped up at him. Yes, he thought with a cool nod, she was just the sort of companion his mother would like.

  "I suppose I could have a word with her," he said coming to an abrupt decision. "What harm could it do?"

  Portia spent most of the morning preparing herself for her confrontation with the earl. After a great deal of thought she decided it would be best if she were to appear coolly penitent and remorseful, but not fearful. She would apologize to his lordship for what was really no more than a slight misunderstanding, and as a gentleman, he would have no choice but to accept. After all, as Nancy had wisely pointed out, he was the one who had barged into her room, and not refining too nicely on the point, he would ultimately be the one who would have far more explaining to do to the authorities than she did.

  Mrs. Quincy had made good her threat, departing in high dudgeon on the southbound mail coach. Miss Montgomery had fled on the same coach, and Portia wished them joy of each other.

  When the inn's saucy maid came to her rooms to inform her that " 'is lor'ship" was waiting for her in the private parlor, Portia hid her trepidation behind a demure expression. She was wearing a dress of dove-gray merino, trimmed with lavender and black ribbons at the hem and throat, and she was cynically aware that the modestly cut gown showed her to her best advantage. If the earl should tumble to the fact that she was in mourning and decide to take pity on her . . . Well, she assured herself with a last look in the cheval glass, that would hardly be her fault.

  The first thing she noted when she stepped into the cramped parlor which had been set aside for the earl's use was the extravagant fire blazing in the sooty grate. When she'd bespoken the same room last night, it had taken a hefty bribe to obtain even an indifferent fire of wet coal. Evidently the toadying innkeeper considered only an earl to be worthy of a fire of seasoned wood, she mused, sniffing in disapproval.

  "Kindly close the door, Miss Have
rall, unless you relish having the entire town made privy to our conversation," a cold voice sounded from her right, and Portia turned as the earl rose to his feet.

  The apologetic greeting she had been about to utter withered on Portia's lips, and her jaw dropped as the earl advanced toward her. Good heavens! she thought in disbelief. The man was a veritable Goliath!

  Dressed in an unfashionably cut jacket of blue velvet that seemed scarce able to contain his broad shoulders, his jet-black hair caught back in an equally unfashionable queue, the earl was quite unlike any other man Portia had ever seen. His height she remembered from last night, but in all the excitement she had somehow overlooked his powerful, muscular physique. An obvious error on her part, she thought, swallowing nervously as he towered over her. For a moment she gave careful consideration to turning tail and fleeing from him as Miss Montgomery had done last night, but she quickly squelched the impulse. She desired to conduct herself as a lady, not a simpering water pot, she reminded herself sternly, her mouth firming as she stood her ground.

  "As I do not have my companion with me, your lordship, I believe it would be best if I left the door slightly open," she said, pleased with the cool note in her voice. "I would not wish to give the locals any more to gossip about."

  He raised a slashing eyebrow as if in amusement. "Are you afraid I may harm you?" he asked, his deep voice mocking. "If I may remind you, Miss Haverall, 'tis you who assaulted me, and without provocation, I might add."

  She flushed at his taunting words, her decision to act the proper lady forgotten. "There are some who would consider pushing one's way into a lady's bedchamber sufficient provocation to warrant a bullet!" she retorted, deciding the odious creature wasn't worthy of her efforts. "How did I know you weren't a criminal? You certainly don't look like any earl I've ever seen!" She added this last with a defiant toss of her head.

  The earl's mouth lost its easy smile. "So I have been told," he said, his jade-green eyes meeting hers in a frosty stare. "But make no mistake, ma'am, I am an earl, and it is a crime to attack a member of the House of Lords. Would you care to know the punishment?"

  Portia fought back her fear, determined not to show this menacing bully the slightest weakness. "I am aware of the punishment, my lord."

  "It is transportation to a penal colony," he continued as if she hadn't spoken. "And do not think your sex will protect you. I am acquainted with the magistrate hereabouts, and he does not hold with criminals, regardless of their gender."

  "I am not a criminal!"

  "Nor am I, and I do not appreciate being treated like one merely because I do not look as you think an earl should look. Now please shut the door and be seated. You have my word as a gentleman that I won't harm you."

  Portia gave in with a frustrated sigh. "I was only trying to observe the proprieties," she muttered, missing the amusement in his eyes as she closed the door with a slam. "You must know it is unseemly for us to be alone without benefit of a chaperone."

  "And do you always do what is seemly?" he asked, his expression enigmatic as he studied her.

  "I have been trying, although heaven knows why I make the effort." Portia admitted, settling in the chair he indicated. "It doesn't seem to have done me the slightest bit of good."

  "Indeed?"

  At the drawled word Portia glanced up, frowning at the smile softening his harsh features. "It is of no moment, sir," she said, thinking he wasn't nearly so fearsome-looking when he smiled. "What is it you wished to discuss?"

  "A great deal, actually." He took his seat, leaning back in his chair and crossed his feet in an indolent manner that made it plain he was in no hurry to end their conversation. "However, if it will soothe your sensibilities, my mother's maid will soon be joining us. She would be here now except I sent her to fetch us some tea."

  "Your mother is with you?" Portia was surprised.

  "Unfortunately not, else I would not find myself in this contretemps," he replied, his deep voice suddenly rueful. "She would never have allowed Miss Montgomery to give her the slip as I did. A rather determined lady, my mother. You would like her, I think."

  "I am sure I would," Portia replied dutifully, wondering what his lordship was about. Before she could give the matter another thought the door opened and a plump maid came bustling in, a tray balanced in her large, competent hands.

  "I've seen better food in a pig's trough, I have," she grumbled, setting the tray down in front of Portia. "Such stale bread and cakes as to make a beggar say, 'no, thank you.' I had to threaten the cook with me fists before she'd do a proper tea."

  "Thank you, Gwynnen. We appreciate your herculean efforts." The earl took the maid's complaining chatter in stride. "Now kindly sit down and be quiet. I haven't finished talking to Miss Haverall as yet."

  "You can talk while you're eating." The maid ignored him as she filled a plate with sandwiches and small cakes and handed it to Portia. "And you can listen and eat, Miss Haverall. Your maid says you but pecked at your breakfast."

  Portia hid a quick smile, thinking Nancy had found a formidable ally in the earl's blunt maid. "Thank you," she said, accepting the plate with a gracious nod. "You are very kind."

  It took several minutes before Gwynnen was satisfied with the amount of food on their plates and retired to a chair in the corner. The earl looked somewhat ill at ease trying to balance the cup and plate in his big hands, and Portia took malicious pleasure in his discomfort. He looked like a bear at a garden party, she thought, wondering how long it would be before he managed to crush the teacup he was handling so roughly.

  "You said last night that you were related to the Countess of Lowton," he said without preamble, making Portia start with surprise. She looked up from her plate to find him studying her through narrowed green eyes.

  "Yes, your lordship," she replied, bristling slightly at the implied doubt in his voice. "She is my great-aunt."

  He eyed her with patent skepticism. "If that is so, perhaps you can explain your presence here. One would hardly expect a countess to allow an unmarried member of her family to put up at an inn when she must have several rooms available in her town house."

  The mockery in his words caused Portia's hands to tighten about her cup. She longed to toss the dregs of her tea in his sneering face, but his taunt about the local magistrate made her cautious. She didn't truly believe he would have her taken up, but she thought it prudent not to press him too far.

  "Apparently her ladyship did not receive the note informing her of my arrival," she said instead, shooting him a resentful glare. "She has gone to Scotland to visit her son, and as the staff is not well-acquainted with me, they could not permit me to stay. I have sent her a letter, however, and I am sure she will send for me once she knows I am here." She added this last somewhat defiantly.

  If he noted her insolence he did not remark upon it. "And what of your family in . . . Where did you say you were from?" He took a lazy sip of tea, his eyes never leaving her face.

  "Chipping Campden," she snapped, knowing full well she hadn't told him a single thing about herself.

  He inclined his head in mocking politeness. "Chipping Campden, then. Would your family in Chipping Campden not worry about your staying at an inn? Surely they would prefer you return to them, rather than wait here for word from her ladyship."

  Portia's face burned as she remembered her plans to use her father's death to soften his lordship's anger. "I have no family, my lord," she said, studying his face for any reaction. "My father died last year, and my mother passed on when I was but a girl. I have no siblings."

  To her relief she saw a flicker of sympathy in his eyes as they rested briefly on the front of her gown. "I am sorry, Miss Haverall. I should have known by your dress that you are in mourning." He added softly. "You have my condolences. I know it hurts to lose one's parent."

  The compassion in his voice made Portia squirm with guilt. "May I ask why you are interested in my parents?" she queried, lowering her eyes to her cup as she struggle
d to control her errant emotions. She decided she preferred the earl's arrogance to his empathy. It was rather difficult deceiving someone who was being genuinely kind.

  "It is not important." The earl's cool reply brought her head back up, and the hard look on his face made her swallow uneasily. "However, learning you are somewhat at loose ends does make things a great deal easier for me."

  "What things?" Portia demanded, visions of herself dragged off to Australia in chains filling her head.

  'Things such as your returning to York with me to act as my mother's companion." he said calmly, setting down his teacup and meeting her stunned look with a cool smile. "You have deprived me of one companion, Miss Haverall. Does it not seem only fair that you should be the one to replace her?"

  3

  Had he been in the mood, the incredulous expression on Miss Haverall's eloquent face would have made Connor chuckle with delight. She looked, he mused, like a child about to snatch a particularly choice sweet from the tray, only to have the nanny catch her in the act and rap her knuckles.

  She blinked in obvious confusion. "I beg your pardon, my lord?"

  He crossed his feet, and leaned back in his chair. "I wish you to act as my mother's companion," he repeated, relishing the heady sense of victory as he neatly closed the trap he had been laying since the moment she'd walked into the room. "She is an invalid, unable to travel, and she needs a young lady to bear her company. Miss Montgomery was to have served in that capacity, but thanks to your interference, she has escaped. Now Mother shall have to do without."

  Miss Haverall set her cup down with a loud clatter. "Oh, for pity's sake!" she exclaimed, her brows meeting in an impatient scowl. "You make it sound as if the poor creature was your prisoner or some such thing! And for your information, sir, I did not 'interfere' in anything. Miss Montgomery came to me. I did not seek her out."

  "Perhaps not." Connor conceded the point with a cool nod. "But there is no denying that had you not . . . assisted her, shall we say, I would not now find myself without a companion for my mother. I love my mother, Miss Haverall, and I dislike intensely the thought that I may have failed her."