A Proper Taming

by Overfield Joan

  "You are very kind, sir," Miss DeCamp said, her frosty voice belying her polite words, "but it is unnecessary, I assure you. Mrs. Thorn and I managed to drive here without being attacked, and one may only assume we shall be able to make the return trip also unmolested."

  "Then perhaps it is I who should seek protection from you," Mr. McLean returned, his eyes filled with lazy provocation as he grinned at her. "Besides, as we are both returning along the same road, it only makes sense that we travel together. Unless you object to my company?" He raised a mocking eyebrow at her.

  Faced with so direct a challenge there was nothing Miss DeCamp could do but acquiesce, and after bidding her hosts and Portia a stiff good night, she left the room in a flurry of satin skirts. Portia stared at her, wondering what ailed the usually well-behaved young woman. Unfortunately, the squire and the Darlingtons were also busy taking their leave, and she was unable to satisfy her curiosity. Finally they were alone, and the countess collapsed against her chair with a sigh.

  "Thank heavens that is over," she said, fanning herself and looking harried. "I cannot think what I was about to invite so many people here, and this is only half of them!"

  "Are you all right, ma'am?" Connor asked, studying his mother with worry.

  Lady Eliza took instant umbrage to his words. "Of course I am!" she snapped, drawing herself upright in her chair. "I am not so aged that a dinner party is enough to put me in my grave! Now, are you going into York tomorrow, or was that all talk to appease the ladies?"

  Connor looked as if he were trying not to laugh at the sharp words. "I was planning a trip to York, although not necessarily tomorrow," he answered.

  "Why not tomorrow?" the countess demanded. "Wasn't it that impertinent Franklin fellow who said that we should never leave until tomorrow that which we should do today? If it is good enough for an American, it ought to be good enough for you."

  He accepted his defeat with a good-natured bow. "As you say, my lady. I will see what I can do."

  "Good." The countess next turned her sharp gaze on Portia. "Will you be going with them?"

  "I'd thought to, yes," Portia replied, enjoying the sight of Connor being bear-led by his mama. "But if I am needed here—"

  "Of course you are needed," the countess interrupted, "which is precisely why you must go. You've been working like a Trojan this past week, and a bit of exercise is just what you need to put some color back in your cheeks. Besides," she added as if in afterthought, "you can help act as duenna for the younger ladies."

  Connor's indulgent smile became a frown. "Miss Haverall is our guest, Mother," he said in a reproving tone. "It hardly seems proper we should expect her to sing for her supper. I am sure Lady Langwicke and the other mamas will provide adequate protection."

  Lady Eliza lifted her gaze heavenward as if in exasperation. "As you wish," she said in a weary voice. "I am sure you know what is best."

  They spent the next quarter hour chatting idly, and the countess kept them entertained as she ruthlessly dissected each guest's foibles. Even Connor joined in, and his wry observations had Portia chuckling in delight. They continued talking even after the countess had taken her leave, and time slid silently away without either of them being aware of it. Portia was only gradually becoming aware of its passage when Connor startled her by suddenly leaning forward to capture her hand in his.

  "I wish you would do me the honor of addressing me by my Christian name," he said, his tone serious as he met her gaze. "We have long since passed the need for such stuffy formalities."

  Portia's heart leaped at his words and the feel of his hand cradling hers. "I . . . I would like that . . . Connor," she stammered, savoring the sound of his name on her lips. "And I also give you leave to make use of my given name, if you wish."

  "I wish," he said, giving her hand a parting squeeze before leaning back in his chair. "And now that we are on such intimate terms, perhaps you will tell me what you and Miss DeCamp were really discussing at the dinner table. And don't attempt to feed me that fustian about York," he added at her incredulous look. "I saw your face, my dear, and I know you weren't discussing anything as prosaic as Roman ruins."

  Portia did not know what disconcerted her more, his casual use of the endearment or his acuity in gauging her expression. Evidently he was even more sharp-eyed than she knew, she decided, shooting him a resentful look from beneath her lashes.

  "Actually, my lord," she began, making deliberate use of his title to indicate her displeasure, "we were discussing something even more prosaic than antiquities."

  "And what might that have been?" he drawled, his eyes gleaming with amusement.

  "Fashion," Portia said, supplying the half-truth with a satisfied smile. "Miss DeCamp was afraid her toilet was inadequate for the occasion, and I was but reassuring her. Does that satisfy your curiosity, sir?"

  "For the moment," he said, wondering what she would do if he were to kiss that defiant pout from her sweet mouth. The thought was one that had occupied his mind for more days than he could count, and suddenly he knew he could not live another day without learning the truth for himself. Setting aside the scruples he had spent a lifetime acquiring, he leaned forward, taking her hand and drawing her against him as he rose slowly to his feet.

  "Connor!" Portia gasped, her hands fluttering to his massive shoulders. "What on earth do you think you are doing?"

  "Do you mean you do not know?" Her breathless question amused him. "Come, Portia, you cannot be that green."

  Portia glanced up at him, a storm of emotion raging inside her as his arms slowly slid about her. She wasn't afraid, she told herself, and certainly desire could not account for the weakness threatening her to turn her knees to water. Fearing he was making a game of her, she pushed against his broad chest in an effort to secure her freedom.

  "If you are trying to intimidate me into confessing, then you may think again!" she said, hiding her confusion behind a dark scowl. "I am not a school-miss to swoon at the sight of you!"

  "I am glad to hear that." He laughed, ignoring her struggles and bending his head to catch the softness of her perfume. He could sense she was confused rather than genuinely afraid, and he breathed a silent sigh of relief. The last thing he wanted was to frighten her.

  Portia heard the amusement in his voice, and it made her burn with humiliation. She wanted to believe his desire for her was as real as hers was for him, and the realization made her weak with longing. To want him this badly and have him reject her would be as devastating as her father's final rejection, and she did not know if she could bear it.

  "I mean it, Connor," she said, her voice trembling as she met his lambent gaze. "If you are trying to bully me . . ."

  He gave a soft chuckle, his arms tightening about her slender waist and lifting her against him. "I am not trying to bully you," he denied, his lips hovering inches from hers. "I am trying to kiss you." And with that he bent his head, closing the distance from his mouth to hers.

  The first taste of her lips was all that he thought it would be. Sweet, so unbearably sweet, and ripe with the promise of the rapture yet to come. His body clenched with passion, and he longed to pull her even closer and allow his desires full rein. He had never wanted a woman more, and the thought of letting her go was enough to make him groan with frustration. Only the thought of his honor and her reputation kept him from deepening the kiss, and he was shaking with the need for control as he slowly drew back.

  "I have been wanting to do that since I first awakened to find you standing over me with that bed warmer in your hand," he murmured in a rueful voice, brushing back a stray curl from her forehead. "You are a dangerous temptation, my sweet."

  His soft words of praise made Portia's cheeks warm with delight. She supposed she should slap his face for such presumption, but she was too bemused to make the attempt. And too honest, she admitted, her color deepening as she remembered her response. She glanced away from him uncertainly, suddenly unable to hold his gaze.

 
"Connor, I—"

  "No," he interrupted, resting his thumb on the underside of her jaw as he tipped her face up to his. "I know this should not have happened," he said, his thumb moving in a small circle against the heated flesh, "but I am not going to pretend that I regret it. I only hope you feel the same way. Do you?" He surveyed her anxiously.

  Touched by his concern, she reached up and covered his hand with her own, pressing it to her cheek. "I regret nothing," she said softly, meeting his gaze with quiet conviction.

  He let out the breath he had been holding. "Good," she said, his thumb moving over her soft lips. "I couldn't bear it if you regretted anything that happened between us." He replaced his thumb with his mouth, indulging in a quick kiss before stepping back again.

  "Perhaps it would be best if we said good night," he said, his eyes burning in his face as he gave her one last look. "So will you be accompanying us tomorrow?"

  It took a moment for his words to penetrate the sensual fog filling Portia's mind. "I . . . I was going to, yes," she said, praying he wouldn't ask her to stay home. She had to see him again, even if they were surrounded by a dozen people.

  He gave a curt nod, his hands clenched at his sides. "I shall see you then," he said, his voice still rough with passion. "Good night, Portia."

  Portia spent a restless night reliving the kiss, and dreaming of Connor. She remembered the taste of his warm mouth on hers, and the feel of his hard, muscular body pressed so intimately against her own, and she trembled with thwarted passion. Thank heavens he had been gentleman enough to end the embrace when he had, she mused, turning onto her back with a sigh. She shuddered to think of what might have happened had he not been so noble.

  It wasn't as if she'd never been kissed before, she fretted, frowning at the ceiling. She wasn't a wanton by any means, but neither was she a complete innocent. There had been a few stolen kisses here and there throughout her girlhood, but this was the first time a simple kiss had ever made her forget everything but the man holding her. Connor had made her feel things she had never felt before, and she greatly feared she had been on the verge of surrendering more than her honor to him. She feared she had been about to offer him her heart as well.

  She awoke late the next morning, bleary-eyed and edgy from lack of sleep. Since they weren't leaving for York until after luncheon, she was able to avoid the other guests by staying in her study and pretending to go over the plans for the costume ball. She heard from Nancy that Connor had gone about his morning chores as usual, but that he was expected to return by noon. The information made her breathe a silent sigh of relief, and she prayed she would have her errant emotions in hand before she must face him again.

  They set out for York after luncheon, traveling in three separate coaches. In honor of the occasion Portia wore one of her new gowns of cherry-red muslin, a chip straw bonnet with a matching ribbon perched on her curls. A striped parasol and a pair of crocheted mitts completed the ensemble, and she felt confident she could hold her own amongst the well-dressed beauties. That she should care about such paltry concerns shamed her, but she took comfort in the fact that she was finally behaving like a true lady. Her father, she reflected with a grim smile, would doubtlessly be gratified.

  In York they went first to the spectacular cathedral where they had arranged to meet Miss De-Camp and Mr. McLean. Despite her own troubling thoughts, Portia noted that Miss DeCamp seemed somewhat distressed, and while the others were admiring the stained-glass window, she drew her off for a private coze.

  "Is everything all right, Miss DeCamp?" she asked, studying the other woman with concern. "You seem a trifle quiet today."

  Miss DeCamp flushed guiltily. "I am sorry to be such poor company," she said, her gaze sliding toward Mr. McLean, "but that wretch has been plaguing me all morning, and I vow, I have reached the end of my endurance!"

  The vehemence in her voice startled Portia. "Indeed?" she asked, her own gaze shifting in the man's direction. "Has he been making untoward advances? If so, I am sure Lord Doncaster would be more than happy to have a word with him."

  Miss DeCamp gave a nervous start. "It's nothing like that," she said, her color deepening. "It's simply that Mr. McLean is laboring under the misconception that I find his attentions flattering, and he has been making something of a pest of himself. But it is nothing I cannot handle on my own," she added, her chin lifting.

  "Well, if you are certain," Portia said, smiling as she recalled her first impression of the other lady. "But if he gives you any further trouble, do not hesitate to inform his lordship. He will soon set the wretch straight."

  "If the wretch gives me further trouble I shall push him off Clifford's Tower!" Miss DeCamp muttered with such feeling that Portia feared for the handsome rascal's safety.

  While Portia talked to Miss DeCamp, Connor stood listening to Lady Langwicke rhapsodizing over the Rose Window, his hooded gaze never leaving Portia's face. He had always thought her lovely, but looking at her now, standing in the stone nave while a rainbow of colors from the soaring windows washed over her, he thought her the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. As if sensing his perusal she suddenly glanced up, her silver-gray eyes meeting his. For a brief moment time and place faded away, and he gazed at her with all the hunger he could no longer deny.

  The memory of their brief kiss had stayed with him all night and through the long morning. Even as he went about his daily chores he could still taste the honey of her lips, and it had taken all of his considerable control to push the image from his mind. He thought he had succeeded, but gazing at her soft lips now, it was all he could do to keep from closing the distance between them and helping himself to another sweet taste.

  Even as the tempting thought was forming in his mind, Portia's cheeks grew pink, and she dropped her gaze and turned away. He was wondering if he should go to her when another group of people came into the cloister, tour books in hand. He started moving to one side when one of the ladies gave a startled gasp.

  "My heavens, Lord Doncaster, is that you?" she exclaimed, her indigo eyes wide as she gazed up at him. "Do you not recognize me?" she asked, her lips curving in a reproving smile. "It is me, Olivia! What are you doing here?"

  11

  At first Connor could not believe the evidence of his own senses. In the years since Olivia's cruel rejection he'd often dreamed of meeting her again. He had wiled away many a lonely night imagining what he would say, and how he would behave should they ever meet. But now that the moment had actually arrived, he was too numb to do anything other than stare at her. Aware he was becoming the object of everyone's attention, he quickly shook off his shock.

  "Good afternoon, Lady Duxford," he said coolly, managing a polite bow. "I had no idea you and your husband were in town. I trust you are well?"

  The eyes he had once thought bluer than the most costly of sapphires sparkled with amusement. "Oh, dear," she said, her pink lips curving in a moue, "I am really not certain how I should answer. I am quite well, but I fear my poor husband is not. He died well over a year ago."

  Connor's cheeks reddened in embarrassment, and he felt as gauche and awkward as he had felt at twenty. "My apologies, my lady, I had not heard," he said, his new cravat suddenly seeming much too tight. "Pray accept my condolences for your sad loss."

  "You are too kind," the marchioness responded, unfolding her fan in a languid gesture. "But as I say, it has been over a year, and I have had time to accept that I am all alone in the world. But what of you? Whatever brings you to York, and in the company of so many lovely ladies? I heard you had become something of a recluse, and never left your estate."

  "His lordship is kindly showing us about the town," Portia answered for him, deciding she'd had enough of the pretty blonde and her simpering ways. She remembered the countess saying Lady Duxford was a beauty, but that in no way prepared for the stunning lady in her perfectly matched silks and velvets.

  Lady Duxford's eyes narrowed on Portia. "Is he indeed?"' she purred, her soft voi
ce reminding Portia of a coiled snake about to strike. "In that case, perhaps you will allow my friends and me to join you? So far it has been a dreadfully dull day."

  It was obvious this observation did not sit well with the three young dandies escorting the marchioness. Nor did the mamas in the group seem eager to welcome the widow and her entourage in their little group. However, there was no graceful way they could refuse, and when Lady Duxford twined her arm through the earl's, there seemed nothing left to do.

  "Forward creature," Portia heard Lady Langwicke whisper to one of the other mamas. "It would seem those rumors one hears are the truth. Indeed," she added, bristling as the marchioness threw back her head and gave a merry laugh, "it would seem they do not even begin to do her justice."

  "One dislikes speaking ill of the dead," Mrs. Darlington said, the smug note in her voice belying the prim words, "but I heard her husband actually encouraged her outrageous behavior. My husband says he even vetted her lovers, and that he . . ." She lowered her voice, apparently wishing to spare any innocent ears from the juicy details she was imparting with such relish.

  Portia could have shrieked with frustration. She had never been one to engage in idle gossip, but something about the marchioness made her want to learn all she could. Perhaps it was the way she seemed discontent to have but one man's attention, and was brazenly flirting with Mr. McLean even as she clung possessively to the earl's arm. The sight made Portia clench her teeth in anger, and she wondered if anyone would object were she to bash the other woman over the head with her reticule.

  While Portia was busy plotting, Connor was wrestling with his own troubling thoughts. Now that he'd recovered from his initial shock, he was beginning to sort out his turbulent emotions. He realized that rather than being filled with bitter anger or wild joy, he felt only indifference, and a vague sense of relief. He was no longer blindly infatuated with Olivia's beauty, and without that infatuation he could see her for what she was, and he thanked God she had had the good sense to refuse him. He shuddered to think what his life might have been like married to such a cold and calculating little jade.