"Miss Felicity DeCamp," another lady answered, popping another biscuit in her mouth as she dispensed gossip. "Only daughter of a well-to-do farmer from Bath. Her paternal grandfather was the Marquess of Cromford, and her mother is the Brextons' cousin. She has two thousand per year, her own maid who travels with her, and she is rumored to be something of a bluestocking."
"Cromford's granddaughter, eh?" Lady Eliza examined Miss DeCamp with considerably more interest. "I was always rather fond of the old fellow; knew his way about horses and had more good sense than a marquess has a right to."
"You do not mean to consider her as a suitable wife for Doncaster?" Mrs. Crowell, the vicar's plump wife, protested, looking properly shocked. "My dear lady, it would never do!"
"And why no?" Lady Eliza demanded, scowling at the woman. "Two thousand per annum may not be a great deal, but as Doncaster is not hanging out for a fortune, it will do quite nicely. And she is a pretty little thing, isn't she? She would look stunning in the Doncaster pearls."
"It was not Miss DeCamp's fortune I was thinking of, Lady Doncaster," Mrs. Crowell said, obviously aware she had overstepped the bounds and eager to make amends. "It is just . . . well . . . I have spoken to her after services, and she is somewhat timid. Surely you would desire a wife with a bit of backbone for your son. He can be rather . . . er . . . that is to say . . ." Her face grew red as she stammered to a halt. Then she raised her cup to her lips for a noisy sip. "My, this is delicious tea! I believe I detect just a touch of Darjeeling in the blend."
For a moment Portia feared Lady Eliza would take up the cudgels on her son's behalf, but in the end she managed a brittle smile. "You are quite right, Fanny. What a clever tongue you have, to be sure."
Mrs. Crowell's face grew even redder, and the other ladies studiously addressed themselves to other topics. Portia listened half-attentively, dutifully contributing to the conversation even as her gaze kept returning to the earl. He was standing in front of the fireplace, gravely conversing with Lydia Brexton, and the sight of him made the breath catch in her throat. He really was a handsome man, she thought, admiring his rugged profile with what she assured herself was cool detachment.
Dressed in his stylish new jacket and elegant cravat, his dark hair cut to a fashionable length, he looked far different than the dark and dangerous man she had encountered in her bedchamber at the Red Dove. Oh, he was every bit as overwhelming, she acknowledged with a slight smile, noting the way he bowed over his lovely companion's hand, but now he didn't seem nearly so reserved. In fact, she mused, he seemed almost approachable. Perhaps there was some hope for the countess's plans after all.
Even as this optimistic thought was forming, she saw an odd look flash across his face. He straightened as if in pain, and took a hesitant step backwards, his face hardening into a mask of ice. Miss Brexton must have sensed something was amiss, for she gave him an apprehensive glance. The expression on his face had her stumbling back, and even as Portia looked on in horror, she picked up her skirts and fled to the other side of the room.
Portia was at his side in a thrice, praying no one else had noticed the little drama. "I cannot believe you!" she raged in a low, tight voice. "I leave you alone for a quarter hour, and you are back to your old tricks! What did you say to Miss Brexton to send her fleeing like that?"
His green eyes flashed with fury, but his posture remained rigid. "I said nothing amiss to the young lady. If she took flight, it has nothing to do with me."
"Oh, don't be so stuffy!" Portia grumbled, so incensed she forgot her manners "And for heaven's sake, will you relax? You look like one of Madame Tussaud's wax figures standing there! Go over to Mrs. Darlington, and pay her your respects."
"I cannot."
She blinked at his blunt response. "What do you mean you can't?" she demanded. "She is sitting right over there!"
"I can see that, but that doesn't change the fact I cannot leave this corner."
"But why?" Portia was so vexed she could have shrieked.
He turned to her with a look that could have frozen fire. "Because, madam," he said through clenched teeth, "I have just split my breeches."
8
Portia could not believe her ears. Her first response was to laugh, but one look at the earl's face persuaded her this would not be wise. However humorous she might find the situation, it was obvious he did not share her amusement.
"What happened?" she asked, biting her lip.
The earl kept his gaze fixed on the opposite wall. "I told that fool of a valet the blasted things were too tight," he said, his cheeks reddening with mortification, "but he insisted 'twas all the fashion."
"And so it is," Portia agreed, her jaw aching as she fought a smile. "However, it might be best if we get you out of here so that you can change into a less . . . er . . . fashionable pair."
He flashed her a suspicious look. "Are you laughing at me?" he demanded, clearly outraged.
"I am trying very hard not to," she admitted, unfurling her painted silk fan to hide her grin. "Hush now, and let me think."
She pondered the matter for several seconds, trying to think of some logical, dignified way out of the contretemps, but not a single solution would come to mind. What did come to mind was a vague memory of a childhood scrape, and she frowned as she struggled to recall the details.
Her papa's sister had been visiting, she remembered, and she'd invited several of the neighboring ladies over for tea. Portia had begged and pleaded, and she'd finally been granted permission to attend on the condition that she behave herself. All had gone well until the small snake she had tucked in her apron pocket escaped, and crawled across the toes of the squire's wife's shoes. The good lady had responded with a screech that had rattled the windowpanes, and the rest of the ladies had rushed screaming from the sitting room. Her aunt had left the following morning, vowing never to return, and she'd spent the rest of the month in her room as punishment.
The memory of that afternoon made her chuckle, but it also made her think. What if a snake were to get loose in this room? she wondered, a plan beginning to form in her mind. The ladies would shriek, the gentlemen would shout, and in the ensuing confusion his lordship could slip quietly from the room, change his clothes, and return before anyone was the wiser. And in the event someone should remark upon his absence, he could always claim he'd gone off to get a gun to dispatch the creature.
Yes, she thought excitedly, it could work. It . . . No, her rational mind suddenly admonished. The very notion was childish. Ridiculous. It was certain to cause a scandal, and what was more she didn't even have a snake, and she could hardly leave the room to go in search of one.
"Why are you just standing there like a moonling?" the earl demanded impatiently, his dark brows meeting over his nose as he glowered at her. "Do something!"
Portia sent him an annoyed look. She could sympathize with him up to a point, but that didn't mean she was willing to let him treat her in so high-handed a manner. "I am endeavoring to think of a solution to your difficulty, my lord," she informed him loftily, "but the only idea I have come up with is certain to cause a dreadful scene."
"It couldn't possibly cause as big a scene as I shall cause if I am forced to leave this corner," he returned grimly, looking desperate.
Portia glanced from him to the crowded room. "If your lordship is certain . . ."
"So long as it doesn't involve setting fire to the drapes, you may do whatever you please!" he interrupted, steeling himself as if for battle. "Just be quick about it!"
"Very well, sir, if that is what you wish." She left his side and made her way over to where the Misses Darlington were holding court. She bent over the eldest girl and whispered in her ear.
"A snake!" the younger woman exclaimed, leaping to her feet and regarding Portia with horror. "In here?"
"Just a tiny one," Portia assured her with a placating smile. "I'm not certain how it slithered under the settee but—"
The rest of her apology was lost in the ca
cophony of screams that followed. The settee was knocked back as the three young ladies leaped to their feet, their skirts raised to show a shocking amount of ankle as they fled screaming from the room. Their mama, seeing her daughters comporting themselves with such a singular lack of decorum but not knowing the cause, also began to shriek, clasping her hand to her bosom and affecting a most dramatic swoon. Several other ladies followed suit, and within seconds what had been a quiet tea party disintegrated into a small riot, the subject of which would provide tidbits of gossip for many years to come.
"I have never been so embarrassed in all my life!" Lady Eliza moaned some thirty minutes later, her head resting on her hand as she gazed about the wrecked drawing room. "Really, Portia, how could you?"
"But, my lady, it is as I have already explained!" Portia cried, genuinely hurt by the countess's criticism. "The situation was a desperate one, and I had to do something! What other choice did I have?"
"But a snake?" the countess wailed. "It will be weeks before I will be able to lift my head in church, and I shall consider myself fortunate if any of my neighbors deign to notice me again. We are ruined!"
The earl, who had been leaning against the mantelpiece, straightened, his expression darkening as he studied his mother. "Come, Mama, surely you are painting the situation blacker than it really is," he said coolly. "No one was hurt, and as for anyone snubbing you, I sincerely doubt that is a possibility. You are the Countess of Doncaster, and I shall have the head of any man who dares to slight you."
"Imbecile!" the countess snapped, transferring her displeasure to her son. "As if it was the men I needed to worry about!"
"If anyone runs the risk of being snubbed, it is me. I was the one who instigated the melee, after all," Portia intervened quietly, hating that she should be the cause of a rift between mother and son. It reminded her too much of the quarrels with her papa, and she ached with guilt.
"Nonsense!" Lord Doncaster gave her a stern look. "No one in this house will be snubbed by anyone. I shall see to that."
"How?" Lady Eliza demanded.
"I shall ride into town tomorrow and pay a call on the vicar," he answered decisively, ignoring her stunned expression. "I shall also call on the squire and the Darlingtons, just to be sure Mrs. Darlington has recovered from her fit of the vapors."
"You will visit our neighbors?" the countess repeated in disbelief. "To pay social calls?"
"I have been known to leave the estate on occasion, ma'am," he said in a cold voice, his eyes flicking to Portia. "Despite what some may say, I am hardly a hermit. I will ride out first thing tomorrow."
The countess opened her mouth as if to say something, and then closed it again. "An excellent plan," she said at last, nodding in approval. "Only mind you do not ride out too early. Although this is York, the Darlingtons will doubtlessly keep town hours. It will be best if you put off your call until after luncheon. Naturally Miss Haverall shall accompany you."
Portia gave a surprised start. "Me, my lady?"
"Well, I cannot go with him," the countess said with obvious impatience, "and it would cause no end of speculation if he were to call upon a bevy of unmarried ladies without some kind of female to lend him countenance. Speaking of which, Gwynnen shall accompany you as well. As you are now a guest in our home, we must take every care that your reputation is protected."
It all sounded nonsensical to Portia, but she bowed to the countess's superior knowledge in such matters. "As you wish, Lady Doncaster," she said, deciding now was as good a time as any to stage a strategic retreat. She was still somewhat overset by the afternoon's events, and the thought of a warm bath and a few hours' privacy in which to regain her equilibrium was sweetly tempting. Even though she knew it was cowardly, she rose to her feet and curtsied to both the countess and her brooding son.
"If you will pardon me, I believe I shall retire to my room for the evening," she said, keeping her face expressionless as she met the earl's watchful gaze. "What time would you like to leave tomorrow, my lord?"
He took so long in answering that Portia wondered if she should repeat the question. "Two o'clock will be fine," he said at last, his gaze thoughtful as he studied her. "In the meanwhile, I will send them notes so that they will expect us. I do not wish to arrive unannounced."
That made sense to Portia, and she murmured her agreement. She walked over to the door, and was surprised when the earl moved away from the fireplace to join her.
"I would like a word with you, if you do not mind," he said, opening the door with one hand, and cupping her elbow with the other. He guided her out into the hall, and after a quick glance about to make sure they were alone, he turned back to her.
"I haven't had a chance to thank you for your quick thinking," he said, his voice low as he took her hand in his. "I am not certain what I would have done had it not been for your . . . creative diversion shall we say. It was most effective."
"You did say I could do whatever I pleased so long as I did not set fire to the drapes," Portia reminded him, her heart racing at the feel of his warm hand cradling hers. She wasn't so green that this was the first time a gentleman had ever held her hand, but it was the first time she had enjoyed it so much. The realization shocked her, and she ruthlessly suppressed it.
The edges of his mouth curved in a wry smile. "So I did," he agreed with a low chuckle. "Now I wonder if a small fire would have proven less dangerous than an imaginary snake. I have never seen a room emptied quite so quickly. It is a miracle no one was injured in the rush for the door."
Despite her conflicting emotions, Portia was unable to hold back a slight smile. "I did see the vicar's wife moving with amazing dexterity," she informed him, eyes sparkling. "And the vicar himself managed to push his way past several of the younger ladies to be among the first out of the room. I was shocked."
"Yes, one would think a man of God would have more courage when confronting a serpent," he agreed, raising her hand to his lips for a brief kiss. "My thanks once again, Portia," he said, his voice unexpectedly grave as he used her given name for the first time. "I am in your debt."
Portia knew she should respond, but for the life of her, the words would not come. A dozen different thoughts and emotions whirled about in her head, and she could not even begin to sort them all out. Finally her pride asserted itself, and she even managed a polite smile as she tugged her hand free from his.
"You are most welcome, sir," she said, her voice coolly polite as she stepped back. "Now if you will excuse me, I really am tired. Good evening, my lord. I shall see you tomorrow afternoon." With that she turned and hurried away, unaware of the dark-green eyes that followed her flight.
Connor spent the next morning tending to his estate, and brooding over the coming afternoon. He was already regretting his impulsive promise to visit the Darlingtons, but having given his word, he could think of no honorable way to cry off. He was well and truly trapped, and the feeling of helplessness added to his growing resentment.
This was all Portia's fault, he decided, grunting as he heaved a bale of hay down from the loft. If she hadn't insisted upon rigging him out like a London dandy, none of this would have happened. He had been content with the way things were, and he could see no reason why he should change to accommodate her.
Less than a moment after these unworthy thoughts popped into his head, he was renouncing them with an angry mutter. If anyone was to blame for yesterday's farce, it was himself. He should have known better than to think the Ox could make it through even so prosaic an event as a tea party without making an ass out of himself. Perhaps that would have made a more fitting nickname, he mused, tossing another bale over the edge, although he supposed it lacked the panache of "the Ox from Oxford."
"'Ere now! Mind where ye be tossin' them bales!" an indignant voice cried out, and Connor glanced down to see the stable hand who had been assisting him glowering up at him.
"Aye, I be down 'ere, me lord," the older man retorted with a singular lack of respect, "
although ye liked to flatten me with that last bale!"
Connor was too accustomed to the man's sharp tongue to take umbrage at such frank speech. "My apologies, McNeil," he called down, wiping his arm across his sweat-dampened forehead. "I fear I wasn't as attentive as I should have been."
"Maybe we need to be tradin' places," the older man suggested with an aggrieved scowl. "A man what can't keep 'is mind on 'is work oughtn't to be tossin' 'ay down from a loft."
As this was patently true, Connor took no offense. He had worked long and hard to be accepted by his men, and he wasn't about to jeopardize that by flying into the boughs because of a well-deserved scold. He apologized once again and went back to work, this time taking greater care.
After tossing down the last bale, Connor climbed down and began raking out the stalls. The work was hard, but he took pleasure in it, easily losing himself in the backbreaking task. If only the rest of life was as simple as mucking out a stall, he thought, indulging in a rare philosophical moment. He could deal with the dirt and the sweat, but the intricacies of society often left him baffled.
He was mulling over the matter when something made him glance up. Miss Haverall was standing in the doorway, her gray eyes wide as they rested on his bare chest. He set his shovel to one side, and reached for the shirt he had discarded earlier.
"Good morning, ma'am," he said, pulling the rough cambric over his head, and doing his best to look nonchalant. "Is there something I can do for you?"
She swallowed nervously, her eyes wide as they rested on his hair-roughened chest. " I . . . Lady Eliza asked that I bring you back to the house," she stammered, her cheeks beginning to grow pink with embarrassment. "She is afraid you will be late if we do not hurry."
"That is very kind of Mother, but unnecessary. I was just about to stop for the day," Connor replied, grabbing his jacket from the hook by the door. He could tell that she was deeply shocked, but decided it was wisest to say nothing. If he apologized, it would draw attention to the fact that she had glimpsed him half-clothed, which would only add to her mortification.
A Proper Taming Page 11