"He does seem quite competent," Miss Haverall agreed, turning to give him a commiserating smile. "What will your lordship do once the animals and crops have all been tended to?" she asked with every indication of interest. "Will you go to London?"
Connor grimaced at the mere notion. "Lord, no," he muttered, recalling his last visit to the teeming metropolis. "The only reason any sane man would wish to visit that pestilent place would be to attend Parliament, and as the present session will be ending next week, I see no reason why I should bother. Besides," he added as the thought suddenly struck him, "with the Season ending everyone will have returned home to the country."
His mother and Miss Haverall exchanged looks, and his mother picked up her teacup. "How interesting you should mention that," she began in a bright tone that made Connor immediately wary. "You'll never guess who has written me . . . Henrietta!"
"Henrietta who?" he prevaricated, wondering what his devious mama was up to this time.
"Now, Connor, don't be obtuse." She gave him a reproving frown. "You know perfectly well I am referring to my dear friend Lady Alterwaithe."
"Ah, yes," He managed not to shudder at the thought of his hen-witted neighbor. "How is the marchioness these days?"
"As well as can be expected, considering her advanced years," his mother answered, conveniently forgetting Lady Alterwaithe was but three years her senior. "She arrives home next week, and I thought it would be nice to have her over for tea. With your permission, of course."
"Mother—" Connor set his cup to one side, and reached out to cover her hand with his own "—you must know you may invite anyone you please. This is your home, after all."
"Of course I know that, dearest," Lady Eliza said, returning the pressure of his hand, "but I also know the last time I had guests you were so cool to them that they left highly insulted. Henrietta is one of my oldest friends, and I don't wish to subject either her or her guests to similar treatment. I should prefer having you admit outright that you've no use for company, rather than risk offending a caller. That is why I wished to have your permission before inviting anyone to tea."
Connor felt his face flush with color at the gentle rebuke. He remembered the incident only too well, and it was not precisely as his mother said. He'd gone out of his way to be pleasant to the young ladies who had descended upon them, but rather than being pleased with his attentions, they had acted as if he'd meant to ravish them on the spot. Indeed, one of them had actually swooned when he dutifully offered to show her his mother's prized orangery.
The unpleasant episode was the final straw that convinced him he was anathema to the fairer sex, and the thought of enduring another such experience was almost more than he could bear. It was on the tip of his tongue to ask her to refrain from issuing any further invitations, but at the hopeful look on her face he relented. What sort of son would he be to deny his mother the one source of pleasure she had in the world? he asked himself bleakly.
"Invite whomever you like, Mama," he said softly, carrying her hand to his lips. "I promise I shall be the soul of charm and courtesy to your guests. All right?"
His mother lowered her eyelashes, the edges of her mouth curving in a smile. "Very well," she said meekly, withdrawing her hand from his. "If you are certain you do not mind."
"Not at all," he lied, resolved. "In fact, I rather relish the thought of guests, and I am sure Miss Haverall would welcome company." He cast his mother's companion a polite look, and was puzzled by the bemused expression on her face.
"Company is always a welcome diversion, your lordship," she said, her eyes dancing despite her prosaic tones.
"Well, now that that is settled, I believe I shall go right up to my rooms and write dearest Henrietta at once!" His mother clapped her hands together like an eager child. "Portia, would you be so good as to ring for the footman for me?"
"Certainly, my lady." Miss Haverall's actions matched her words. "Would you like me to accompany you?" she asked as they waited for the footman to appear.
His mother gave a nervous start. "Heavens, no!" she exclaimed with a bright laugh. "You must know I can not compose so much as a single word with someone hovering about me. You may remain here with his lordship. I am sure the two of you must have a great deal to discuss with each other."
Connor slid Miss Haverall a considering look, noting that she seemed surprisingly unperturbed at the prospect of being left alone with him. The unmarried females he knew were seldom granted such a shocking degree of freedom, and he wondered that she did not insist upon accompanying his mother when she left. Perhaps she thought her age and dubious position gave her greater latitude, he mused, his brows gathering in a thoughtful frown. It also struck him as suspicious that his mama, usually a dragon of propriety, would even consider leaving them unchaperoned. His eyes gleamed as he contemplated the possible explanations.
They continued chatting until John, the sturdy footman who'd been hired to carry her ladyship about when she was not in her chair, arrived to take her upstairs. Miss Haverall made one final offer to attend his mother, but she refused even to hear of it. The moment the door was closed Connor turned to Miss Haverall.
"Subtlety was never Mama's forte," he drawled, slanting her a teasing grin. "I hope you do not mind?"
Portia returned the smile, relieved he had seen through his mother's ruse and wasn't offended. She couldn't abide humorless people, and she would have been disappointed with the earl had he been hipped. "Not at all, sir," she replied, inclining her head graciously. "I only hope that you are not offended. As you say, her ladyship was rather obvious in her desire to leave us alone."
"Yes," he agreed, "and as Mama is usually a stickler about such matters I can only conclude she is up to something devious." His gaze met hers in unmistakable challenge. "Have you any idea what that something might be?"
Portia set her teacup aside, accepting the challenge with alacrity. "As a matter of fact, I believe I do," she said. "Lady Eliza is looking forward to Lady Alterwaithe's visit, but she feels the prospect of company is not to your liking. Is that true?"
Connor was taken aback by the cool demand. "What nonsense," he retorted, scowling as he glance away. "You heard what I said to my mother, Miss Haverall. I have no objections to visitors. She may invite whomever she pleases."
"Having no objections is hardly a glowing testament, my lord," Portia said, trying not to wince with guilt as she delivered the speech she and the countess had spent the afternoon rehearsing. "Your mother is afraid you'll be miserable with the house filled with guests, and she is willing to sacrifice her happiness to guarantee your own."
"But that is ridiculous!" Connor protested, clearly appalled at the news. "I have told her a dozen times that I . . ." His voice trailed off and he gave her a suspicious look. "House filled with guests?" he repeated. "I thought we were talking about having Lady Alterwaithe over for tea."
"And so we were," she answered with a nod. "But your mother was saying she was longing to see her old friends again. Since she is no longer able to travel, it makes more sense for them to come to her, do you not agree?"
Connor rose to his feet to restlessly pace the room. "Of course I agree," he said with a heavy sigh, thrusting a hand through his dark hair. "It is just . . ."
"Just what, my lord?" Portia pressed when he did not continue.
Connor paused in front of the gilded mirror hanging above the mantel, his expression grim as he studied his reflection. The exertions of the day had caused his hair to come loose from its queue and it flowed past his collar in dark disarray, making him look even more like an unprincipled savage than ever. The rough-spun jacket he wore when working the fields added to the illusion, and his lips twisted in a bitter smile as he thought of what his mother's guests would say if they were to see him. The Ox from Oxford, he thought jeeringly, and turned away from the mirror in disgust.
"It is just that both you and my mother are right," he said at last, his gaze fixed on the toes of his mud-splattered boots
. "I am uncomfortable with other people about, but that does not mean she should suffer for my faults." He raised his eyes and met Miss Haverall's gaze a second time. "Please assure her I want her to invite as many people as she pleases. I will manage somehow."
As the invitations had already been sent out, Portia considered his word most provident, and she turned her attention to the next part of her performance. "I can tell her anything you wish, sir," she said, shrugging her shoulders, "but I much doubt it will do any good. Unless your mother sees you act as if you are sincere in what you say, she is unlikely to invite anyone to Hawkshurst."
Connor frowned. "What do you mean?"
"I mean that, to quote Plutarch, 'Words are but the shadows of action,' " she returned with feigned coolness. "If you truly wish the countess to believe you are indifferent to whether or not she invites guests, then you must do everything within your power to convince her of that indifference."
"And how might I go about accomplishing that?" Connor demanded, silently cursing himself as he realized she was right. They hadn't had any houseguests since his mother's accident, and he was horrified to realize it had been because of him.
Portia busied herself refilling both their cups, unable to bear the silent anguish she could see shimmering in his forest-green eyes. Whatever the reasons for his misanthropy she knew they were far from frivolous, and for the first time since agreeing to help Lady Eliza, she knew a deep sense of shame. For a brief moment she was tempted to confess all and beg his forgiveness, but the thought of disappointing the countess was equally painful. Knowing she had no other choice, she pinned a thoughtful expression on her face as she handed him cup.
"Lady Alterwaithe will be arriving home within a sennight," she began carefully, as if she was only now considering the matter. "I would suggest that between now and then you make more of an effort to get out. Perhaps you might ride into town, or have a few of your friends over for a ride. You do have friends?" she asked quickly, paling at the horrifying possibility that he did not.
Despite his bleak thoughts, the expression on her face made Connor smile. "I am not such an ogre as to be a complete anathema to society," he assured her dryly. "I have several good friends, as it happens, although most of them are still in London attending Parliament."
"What of your neighbors?" she asked, thinking that if only he would smile more often the house would be filled to overflowing with ladies eager to catch his interest. "Surely there are a few of them you could invite over to tea?"
Connor thought of the local vicar and his plump, simpering wife. He usually invited them to visit a few times each year, knowing it was more or less expected of him. He'd had them in only last month, but he supposed he could tolerate their presence again if it would help convince his mother of his sincerity.
"The vicar and his good wife, I suppose," he provided with a marked lack of enthusiasm. "And while we're about it, we might as well invite Squire Hampson and his lady. There is a section of his land adjoining mine I have been meaning to discuss with him. It is perfect for raising sheep, but he has allowed it to lie fallow. Perhaps I could—"
"No," Portia interrupted with a firm shake of her head. "The taking of tea is a social occasion, and if your mama thinks you have invited the squire over to discuss farming we shall be right back where we started. Now, who else can we ask?"
"How many people do we need?" Connor demanded, annoyed to realize she was right. His mother was forever telling him he cared more for his land than anything else, and he was not about to risk proving her correct.
"More than four, certainly," she replied with a sniff, remembering the few times she had taken tea with members of the local gentry. "And we shall need some unattached young ladies and gentlemen to round out our numbers as well. Have you any suggestions?"
He wanted to suggest that they forget the whole bloody thing, but since he knew that would not do, Connor forced himself to consider the matter logically. "The Darlingtons on the next estate are nice enough," he said at last. "They have a half dozen daughters who are said to be stunners, and I know they stayed home this Season because they have only just come out of mourning for Mrs. Darlington's mother."
"Who else? We shall need several charming men if we are going to have a bevy of stunners in the parlor," Portia reminded him, wondering if anyone had ever referred to her as "a stunner." She doubted it. Usually people were too busy whispering about her hoydenish behavior to remark upon her looks.
Connor was about to snap that he was hardly a matchmaking mama who knew the name and location of every eligible man in the neighborhood when he suddenly remembered something.
"Keegan!" he exclaimed, his eyes shining at the thought of one of his oldest friends.
"Who?"
"The Honorable Keegan McLean, the younger son of the Earl of Camden," Connor said, beginning to look forward to the coming invasion of his home. "He lives in York when not in London, and I recall he mentioned he would be returning early. If he is in York he would be more than happy to attend, and I know we could count upon him to bring some friends with him. He is well-liked by everyone, and there is always a gaggle of young bucks hanging about him and clinging to his coattails. Shall I write him?"
"If you would, my lord," Portia said, stirring uneasily. His mentioning of coattails reminded her of the other part of her and the countess's plot, and she wondered how she would broach the subject. The matter was taken out of her hands a few moments later when the earl gave her a questioning look.
"Is there anything else, Miss Haverall?" he asked, his green gaze sharp. "Do you wish me to see to the refreshments as well?"
She tossed her head back, annoyed at his acuity. "The countess and I shall see to the food, your lordship," she retorted tartly. "All we require from you is that you put in an appearance."
"There must be more," Connor insisted, gauging from her reaction that he had struck a nerve. "Come, Miss Haverall," he urged when she remained stubbornly silent, "just say whatever it is you wish to say. I promise I shan't fly up into the boughs."
"It is your clothing," Portia blurted out, deciding to take him at his word. "You will forgive me, I am sure, but I could not help but notice that you . . . that you . . ." Her voice trailed off, her cheeks flushing with embarrassed color.
"That I what?" Connor asked, his tone deadly as he set his cup to one side and crossed his arms over his chest. "Pray do not stop now, ma'am. I am finding this most illuminating. What precisely about my wardrobe do you find so offensive that it renders you speechless? The color, perhaps? Or mayhap it is the cut you find so objectionable? Please enlighten me."
"It is everything, if you must know!" Portia shot back, deciding the arrogant beast didn't deserve her sympathy. "The first thing I noticed about you was that your clothes were poorly made and years out of fashion. Indeed, the only thing I have seen you wear that is even half way fashionable is your riding clothes, and you can hardly wear them to tea!"
"Indeed?" Connor's voice was frosty with fury. "Then perhaps you are not as au courant with fashion as you would like to believe. According to the last issue of Le Beau Monde, wearing one's riding togs in the drawing room is the latest thing!"
"Perhaps, but only if the jackets are cut to fit, and don't look as if they are about to burst at the seams!" Portia retorted, and then covered her mouth with her hand. She hadn't meant to say that, and the look of pain that flashed across the earl's face made her want to crawl off in shame.
"Oh, dear," she said, lowering her hand to her lap and sending his lordship an apologetic look. "What a dreadful cat you must think me. I am sorry, my lord. I assure you it was not my intention to be so offensive."
Connor's anger faded at her obvious regret. "It is I who ought to apologize to you, Miss Haverall," he said quietly. "I promised you I wouldn't fly up in the boughs and then I all but bit off your nose when you but expressed your opinion. An opinion I myself solicited."
"Yes, but I didn't need to be so cutting," Portia insisted, stil
l burning with remorse. "I hate it when other people snipe at me, regardless if I asked for their opinion or not. May I hope I haven't offended you beyond all bearing?" she asked tipping her head to one side and sending him a penitent look.
There was no way Connor could withstand so pretty an appeal, and he gave her a reluctant smile. "I am not offended," he said, retrieving his teacup from the side table and raising it to his lips. "Annoyed, perhaps, because you are right," he added with a flash of rueful honesty, "but I am not offended."
"Good." She gave a grateful sigh and turned her attention to her tea.
"What are you going to do about it?"
"Sir?" The non sequitur made her frown.
"My wardrobe," Connor reminded her, enjoying her look of confusion. "After castigating it as you did, I can only assume you were about to offer a solution. You were, weren't you?" he added when she continued staring at him blankly.
"Not precisely, my lord," she said, and then blushed furiously at the smug expression on his face. "That is, I was going to suggest you ask Mr. McLean for the name of his tailor, but that is all. If he lives in London, I am sure he must know what is all the crack."
"Oh, yes, Keegan is quite the dandy," Connor drawled, thinking of his elegant friend's fastidious nature. "But I hardly think a London tailor would do us any good."
"Perhaps not, but surely he must know the name of a local tailor? Someone in York, perhaps," Portia insisted, wishing she knew more of such matters. "We shall have to move fast if we hope to have you rigged out by next week."
"Next week?"
"The tea," she reminded him, eager to begin implementing her and the countess's careful scheme. "I was thinking Wednesday afternoon would be best. If that is all right with you?" She gave him an inquiring look.
He raised an eyebrow mockingly. "Do you mean I actually have a say in any of this?" he teased, amused at the efficient way she was taking command. She was rather like a filly who, with the bit firmly between her teeth, was determined to race headlong in whatever direction she chose.
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