A Proper Taming

by Overfield Joan

  "Certainly you have a choice." She scowled at him, annoyed by his obtuse behavior. "If Wednesday does not suit you, we can send out the invitations for Thursday."

  Connor's lips twitched, but he was too wise to grin. "Wednesday is fine," he said, his voice as impassive as his expression. "Any particular time on Wednesday? I will need to know so that I might plan my day accordingly," he added innocently when she gave him a suspicious frown.

  "Two o'clock," she said decisively, thinking that would be as good a time as any. "And I would also appreciate it if you would make yourself available for the next few afternoons."

  "I should be delighted." He inclined his head with mock gravity. "Do you wish me to escort you into town?"

  "Certainly not!" Portia laughed at the notion that she should require escort anywhere. "It is just that I wish you to be free."

  "Free for what?" he wanted to know.

  "Your fittings, of course," she said, as if to a child. "The moment we learn the name of Mr. McLean's tailor I mean to send the man a note asking him to come to Hawkshurst at once. The sooner you are fitted for your new wardrobe, the better."

  6

  Two days later, Portia was hard at work in the study Lady Eliza had set aside for her use. The tea party had somehow become a garden party, and to her dismay the guest list had grown to include some thirty persons, and it showed no sign of stopping. She had tried mentioning her concerns to the countess, but the older woman had waved aside her objections.

  "Nonsense, child, what is one person more or less?" she asked with a merry laugh. "Besides, as my mama-in-law use to say, ' 'Tis better to invite everybody than to risk offending anybody.' Just see to it, my dear, and I am sure all will be fine."

  Portia was glad her ladyship was so optimistic, for she was beginning to experience serious trepidation regarding her ability to pull everything together in time. The staff was wonderful, thankfully, and even seemed to welcome the challenge of putting the house to rights. Even his lordship was cooperating . . . for him. Rather than wasting time with a letter, he'd ridden into York to visit his friend and returned with not only the name of Mr. McLean's tailor, but also a new valet, a small, delicately built man who went by the name of Samuels. He'd recently left the employ of a renowned dandy, and he had solemnly assured Portia he would make it his personal mission to bring his lordship "up to snuff," as he put it.

  The weather was also cooperating, the cool, damp days giving way to warm sunlight and soft, summer breezes. The garden was a veritable riot of roses and pinks, and gazing out the window at the lavishly colored blossoms, Portia was forced to admit that everything was going remarkably well. The worries she were experiencing had little to do with the house, the guests, or even Lord Doncaster himself. The fault, as Shakespeare had so aptly put it, lay deep within herself.

  She had been at Hawkshurst almost a fortnight, and with the exception of a few sharp exchanges with the earl, she had managed to behave with propriety. Lady Eliza was constantly praising her manners, and yesterday she had heard Mrs. Lester, the countess's housekeeper, remarking to one of the maids that she had never seen a sweeter young lady. But what would happen once there were other people about? she brooded, laying her forehead against the cool windowpane. Would she succeed in conducting herself with decorum and grace, or would she fall back on her old ways and shock everyone with her sharp tongue and unbecoming frankness?

  It wasn't that she meant to misbehave, she assured herself anxiously; it was just that she'd never been able to twist herself into the mold society deemed proper for an unmarried young lady. Her father had taught her as he would have taught a son, and it wasn't until she was in her late teens that she discovered most people found her manner objectionable. Learning she was regarded as a quiz had stung her girlish pride, and she'd responded by behaving even more outrageously, delighting in her well-deserved reputation as a termagant.

  But in the end she had paid a dear price for her defiance. Invitations had grown fewer and fewer in that last year, and with the exception of Lady Catherine DeClaire and Thomasina Perryvale, the new Duchess of Tilton, she had no true friends. Even her papa had turned against her, condemning her for the very traits he had instilled in her, and that had hurt more than anything she had ever deemed possible. She could not bear it if the same thing were to happen here.

  She was standing at the window, still lost in her unhappy thoughts, when the sound of shouting gradually pierced her awareness. At first she thought the noise was coming from outside, and then she realized it was coming from the floor above her. What on earth . . . ? she thought, brows gathering in a frown as she started toward the door. She had just opened it and was peeking out into the hall when she saw the earl's newly hired tailor rushing down the stairs, his face flushed with temper.

  "Never have I have been so insulted!" she heard him rage, his words ringing with indignation. "The townsfolk are right, the man is a monster! A barbarian! He is a philistine, and I refuse to squander my abilities on such as him!"

  It took Portia less than a second to realize the significance of his dramatic statement, and she rushed out to stop him. "Monsieur André! Monsieur André! Please wait!" she called out, picking up her skirts and giving chase. "Do not go!"

  The tailor turned at the bottom of the stairs, his cheeks pink with paint and fury. "I have sewn for kings!" he announced, shaking his tape at Portia. "For emperors! I have survived revolutions, wars, a dreadful winter in London that does not bear discussing, but I will not survive another moment in that man's company! I am going. Do not try to stop me!"

  "But monsieur, what has happened?" Portia interposed herself between the irate man and the door. "I am sure this is all a silly misunderstanding, and—"

  "I will tell you what happened," the earl's voice boomed out, and Portia looked up to see him leaning over the rail of the staircase. "That manmilliner wants to put me in stays!"

  "They are not stays!" Monsieur André denied, tossing back his dark curls with a grace a girl might envy. "They are a device of my own design to hide the imperfections of my clients." He turned to Portia, who was trying not to laugh at the image of a scowling Lord Doncaster being laced into a corset.

  "His lordship is too . . . how shall I say . . . masculine to wear my clothes," he said earnestly, his ebony eyes shining with fervor. "He is too broad here—" He patted his meager chest "—and too big here—" he indicated his slender shoulders "—to wear the jacket I have designed. I would have to sacrifice the lapels to ensure a proper fit, and that, mademoiselle, I refuse to do!"

  Portia bit the inside of her cheek to keep from bursting into laughter. "I see," she said carefully, her voice shaking as she tried to compose herself. Lord Doncaster had come down the stairs, and if the wrathful scowl on his face was any indication, his mood was every bit as recalcitrant as monsieur's. Clearly a compromise of sorts was in order if she hoped to salvage the situation, and she forced herself to think logically.

  "Perhaps you might design another jacket for his lordship," she suggested, giving the irate tailor a hopeful smile. "One with narrower lapels, or—"

  "My jackets are known for their lapels!" Monsieur André interrupted, all but bristling with indignation. "To cut them by even a centimeter would be a desecration! I will not do it."

  "Then perhaps a modified version of your . . . er . . . device," she suggested, trying another tactic, praying Lord Doncaster would cooperate—a hope that was quickly dashed by his furious response.

  "I'm not wearing stays like an old woman!" he snapped, crossing his arms as he glared at both Portia and the tailor. He was wearing a white shirt of fine lawn, and the sight of his broad chest brought a flush to her cheeks.

  "You see?" monsieur demanded of her, waving his tape like a battle pennant. "The man is an imbecile, with no sense of fashion. I wash my hands of him and this house!" And he turned toward the door.

  "But monsieur, what of the earl's wardrobe?" Portia was desperate enough to plead. "We are having a garden party in
a few days. What shall we do for clothes?"

  The tailor whirled around and gave her a supercilious smirk. "Perhaps as mademoiselle presumes to tell André how to cut his jackets, she would prefer to design them herself?" he suggested with a sniff. "If so, you will need this." He tossed her the tape measure and stalked away, his beaked nose held high in the air.

  "Of all the impudence . . . " Lord Doncaster started forward, his jaw clenched with anger. Portia reached out and snagged him by the sleeve.

  "Never mind, my lord," she said, her voice heavy with resignation. "It is no use trying to stop him. I fear he has already gone."

  "Stop him?" he echoed, sending her an incredulous look. "I was going to help him on his way, preferably with my boot to his backside! If he ever dares set foot on Hawkshurst again, I shall have him shot!"

  Although this was a sentiment Portia more than shared, she felt obliged to venture a gentle scold. "You shouldn't be so hard on the poor man, your lordship," she began in a firm voice. "He was but attempting to do his duty, and—" Her resolve and her voice both wavered. "Stays?" she asked, her eyes dancing with the laughter she could no longer suppress.

  "They were sewn into the front of the jacket," he said, his lips beginning to twitch as well. "An ingenious device, I grant you, but dashed uncomfortable. When I put the wretched thing on I couldn't so much as draw a breath." He grinned down at her, his tone provocative as he added, "Now I know what you poor ladies endure in the name of fashion. You have my undying sympathy, I promise you."

  His warm tone and the gleam in his eyes brought Portia to a sudden awareness of their positions. Her hand was resting on his muscled forearm, and he was standing so close to her she could feel his warm breath against her cheek. She dropped her hand and took a discreet step away from him.

  "Well, it seems we are right back where we started," she said, her light tone hiding her inner turmoil. "The garden party is in less than a week, and you've not so much as a decent shirt to your name."

  Connor gave her a thoughtful look, taking in the delightful flush on her cheeks and the way her eyes would not quite meet his. He knew he should follow her example and excuse himself, but he was oddly averse to do so. Standing so near to her, he could catch the soft scent of her perfume, and he allowed himself the luxury of inhaling her sweet fragrance before moving reluctantly away.

  "Come, ma'am, you are being unconscionably hard on my wardrobe," he teased, matching his tone to hers. "Things are not quite so bleak as that."

  "As good as," she said, and then gave him a considering look, as if only now noticing he was in his shirtsleeves. "Although that shirt you are wearing seems adequate enough."

  "Than I shall wear it, and nothing else," he said, some imp of mischief goading him on. "Perhaps I shall set a new fashion amongst the gentlemen."

  The color in her cheeks intensified. "A shortlived fashion, if the ladies have anything to do with it!" she snapped, furious with herself for being affected by his boldness. "The thought of unclothed gentlemen in the parlor is not to be borne!"

  "Unclothed gentlemen?" he repeated, his eyes round with mock incredulity. "You shock me, Miss Haverall, indeed you do. I was but suggesting I do without my jacket. Whatever did you think I meant?" He added this last with such patent innocence that Portia gave a soft laugh.

  "Wretch!" she accused, the harsh word belied by the smile on her lips. "I am serious, you know. You need new clothes."

  "I do not see why," he said, taking her arm and guiding her into the parlor. "I have a wardrobe full of clothes I've not worn in years. Won't they do?"

  "Only if you want people to take you for a quiz." Portia sighed, shaking her head at the foibles of men. "Ah, well, I suppose we've really no choice; they will have to suffice until we can find you another tailor."

  "If he is anything like the last one, you may spare yourself the effort," he said firmly, all but cringing in repugnance. "I refuse to have another tulip like that fluttering about me."

  "Then what do you suggest we do?" Portia queried, annoyance beginning to affect her usual enjoyment of the ridiculous. She and Lady Eliza were both going to a great deal of effort on the earl's behalf, and it seemed to her the least he could do was to take some effort with his appearance.

  Her sharp tone made Connor's eyebrows arch. He'd been about to suggest they send to York for another tailor and pay him double to stitch something up, but now he was hanged if he would say a single word. Instead he lounged against the mantel, his manner indifferent as he sent her a cool look. "I haven't the slightest idea, Miss Haverall," he challenged, neatly returning the ball to her court. "What do you suggest?"

  Portia's hands clenched, and for a moment she was wildly tempted to tell him he could take his blasted jackets and feed them to the pigs. The words even formed on her lips, but she bit them back with herculean effort. Her days of saying whatever she pleased were behind her, she told herself sternly, and regardless of the temptation, she would control her tongue.

  Very well, she thought, her foot tapping out an impatient tattoo as she considered the matter of the earl's wardrobe. What would she do? Since the garden party was looming, a proper day coat and breeches were clearly the most pressing priority; everything else could wait. She weighed all the options available to her, arriving at what she considered the best solution for all.

  "I suggest we have Samuels look through your wardrobe and choose the least offensive items," she said slowly, working out the matter as she spoke. "Then we can have your mother's modiste perform whatever alterations are necessary to bring them up to current fashions." She folded her arms, and gave him a look as if daring him to object. "What do you say, my lord?"

  Her cleverness impressed Connor, and he had to concede her plan was a good one. Not that he was about to admit as much, of course. Instead he pretended to consider the notion, his mouth pursing in a thoughtful frown as he regarded her.

  "I am not certain I care for the idea of that any more than I liked having that French fop flitting about me," he said at last, moving his shoulders in a dismissive shrug. "You shall have to think of something else."

  Portia, who had expected him to accept her idea with suitable gratitude, scowled in annoyance. "Why should I want to do that?" she demanded. " 'Tis the perfect solution, and you know it!"

  He decided to grant her that much, although he still feigned obstinacy. "I am not having that henwitted female take my measurements," he stated, chin firming as he gave her his coldest look. That look had been known to make grown men quake with fright, but he was pleased to see it had no discernible effect on her. Indeed, she looked as if she'd like nothing better than to hit him over the head with another bed warmer.

  "All right then, perhaps Samuels could—"

  "No," he interrupted, enjoying himself to the hilt. "He is nice enough, but he puts me too much in mind of Monsieur André."

  She shot him a look fairly dripping with scorn. "Then who do you suggest, my lord?" she snapped caustically. "Williams?"

  The idea of the rigidly proper butler performing what he would surely deem a menial task almost made Connor laugh aloud. He knew he had teased her long enough, and was about to agree to whatever she wished when he noticed she was still holding the measuring tape Monsieur André had hurled at her. He stared at it for a moment, a roguish plan forming in his mind. He raised his gaze to find her watching him, and gave her a slow smile.

  "If you are so determined to rig me out like some simpering dandy," he drawled, his eyes full of challenge, "you may do the honors."

  To his amusement she turned a rosy hue. "Lord Doncaster!"

  "You object?" he asked, as if surprised.

  "Certainly I object," she sputtered. " Tis the most improper thing I have ever heard!"

  "And you, of course, would never dream of doing anything improper," he returned, nodding his head as if in agreement. "Very well, Miss Haverall, as I have no desire to put you to the blush we shall forget this entire conversation took place. Now if you will excuse m
e, I shall return to my room." He pushed himself away from the mantel as if to go.

  "But what about your wardrobe?" she asked, chewing her lip and regarding him with marked suspicion.

  "What about it?" he asked, shrugging his shoulders indifferently. "I am not the one who finds it so objectionable. If you are not prepared to remedy the situation, then there is nothing left to say."

  Portia stared at him, torn between disbelief and sheer temper. The wretch! He had no intention of having her measure him for a new wardrobe; he was only using her refusal as an excuse not to cooperate! Well, she decided, her lips thinning as she saw the smug satisfaction in his green eyes, they would see about that!

  "As you wish, my lord," she said calmly, lifting her eyes to meet his. "If you would be so good as to hold your arms out at your sides, I shall begin."

  Her boldness shocked Connor almost as much as it delighted him. He'd expected her either to blush and stammer in embarrassment, or to toss the tape in his face and tell him to go to the devil. That she had done neither intrigued him, and he decided it would be interesting to see how far she was prepared to go. Hiding a smile, he crossed the room to stand before her.

  "Like this, do you mean?" he drawled, holding his arms out as she had bade him.

  The sight of his massive chest and muscled arms inches from her nose made the breath catch in Portia's throat. The only other man she'd seen in his shirtsleeves was her father, and he had looked nothing like his lordship. Indeed, she thought, swallowing self-consciously, she found it difficult to believe any man could look half so vital as the earl. She clutched the measuring tape, drawing a deep breath for comfort before meeting his gaze with as much equanimity as she could muster.

  "I will need pen and paper so that I can write down your measurements," she said, her voice wooden as she ordered herself not to blush.