A Proper Taming

by Overfield Joan

  "You are rather quiet, my lord," Olivia chastised him, her hand tightening on his arm as they walked slightly ahead of the rest of the group. "May I ask what you are thinking?"

  Connor glanced down into her face, wondering coolly how long that inviting smile would last if he answered her honestly. For a brief moment he was strongly tempted to do just that, but in the end he called upon the hard control that had stood him in such good stead over the years.

  "I was thinking, my lady, that I ought to make more of an effort to get into town," he prevaricated, his gaze moving away from hers. "This is the first visit I have made to the minster since my father's death some five years ago."

  "Oh." It was obvious his cool reply was not what she expected, and there was a long pause before she made another try. "I hear there is to be an assembly tomorrow night," she said in a bored tone. "Of course, country entertainments can be so tiresome, but if you are going, perhaps I will as well." She shot him a languid look ripe with enticement. "Perhaps we might even keep each other entertained, my lord?" she added, her dimples flashing.

  Connor remembered how the sight of those dimples had once made him weak-kneed. "As I will be acting as host to our guests, I fear I shall have little time to call my own," he said, amused at how the tables had been turned. Where once he would have done anything to win a smile from her, she now seemed equally anxious to fix his interest with her. It might be interesting to play along, and see how far she meant to go, he thought, and reached a swift conclusion.

  "But that is not to say that every moment of my evening will be taken up with duty dances," he added, raising her hand to his lips for a brief kiss. "I am sure I shall find some time for . . . such an old friend."

  For a moment he feared he had overplayed his hand, but then her enchanting smile dawned, and she gave a throaty laugh. "I would rather you refer to me as your dear friend," she corrected, bringing her long lashes into play as she gazed up at him. "Old friend has such an unfortunate connotation, do you not agree?"

  "As if one could ever take you for anything other than a fresh-faced debutante," he riposted, delighting her and surprising himself. He'd never been so glib in his youth, and he was amazed at how easy it was. He remembered all the light and teasing conversations he'd had with Portia, and realized that she was responsible for his newfound confidence.

  Without his being aware of it she'd made him lower the shield he'd always held between himself and the rest of the world. But rather than feeling vulnerable at the sudden lack of protection, he felt oddly free. The realization made him forget all about the woman on his arm, and he longed to return to Hawkshurst to share it with Portia. Unfortunately he first had to think of some way to extract himself from Olivia's coils.

  He was mulling over various possibilities when one of the dandies, Sir Cecil Chessfield, stiffly reminded Olivia they were expected elsewhere for tea. The look Olivia shot the hapless man made it plain he had displeased her, but she was all sweetness and charm when she turned back to Connor.

  "Duty calls," she said, holding her hand out to him. "I shall look forward to seeing you tomorrow night."

  Connor's eyes sparkled as he bent over the offered hand. "As shall I, Lady Duxford," he said suavely. "As shall I."

  They returned to Hawkshurst in far lower spirits than they had set out, and Portia was not surprised when half the guests laid claim to the headache and retired to their rooms. Heaven knew she would like to indulge in a similar malady, but as Lady Duxford had said, duty called. Portia paused only long enough to wash her face and hands, and then hurried down to the parlor where Lady Eliza was impatiently waiting for a report.

  "Well, what happened?" the countess demanded the moment Portia entered the room. "Did Connor single out any particular lady for his attentions?"

  "You might say that," Portia replied with a sigh as she took her chair across from her. "He showed a marked performance for one lady, and I saw him kiss her hand at least twice."

  "Really?" Lady Eliza beamed with delight. "Was it that nice Miss DeCamp? I did say the two of them were well-suited, did I not?"

  "So you did. Unfortunately, Miss DeCamp was not the object of his lordship's attentions."

  "Never say he was making up to one of those tiresome Darlington chits," Lady Eliza demanded with a scowl. "They are sweet enough, but years too young for him. I would not have it bandied about that Connor snatched his bride from the cradle."

  An ironic smile lit Portia's eyes. "Indeed not," she assured the countess in a quiet tone. "The lady in question is of a more mature nature; closer to his lordship's age in fact."

  "Really?" The countess looked puzzled. "I cannot recall any of the ladies being so old as that, unless he was dangling after one of the mamas?" She glanced at Portia in apprehension.

  "No, my lady," Portia said, the image of Connor chasing Lady Langwicke about the cloisters almost enough to lift her spirits.

  "Then blast it all, who was she?" Lady Eliza snapped, losing all patience.

  "Lady Olivia Duxford."

  Lady Eliza gaped at her in horror. "What?" she cried, her hands fluttering to her throat. "No, it cannot be. If you are twigging me, Portia, I vow I shall be quite cross with you!"

  Portia gave a dispirited sigh. "I'm not teasing, my lady," she said, her shoulders slumping in defeat. "I only wish I were." And she proceeded to tell Lady Eliza every detail of the unfortunate encounter.

  "And do you mean to say my son encouraged this hussy?" the countess said once Portia had finished. "I refuse to believe it! He cannot be so lacking in pride as all that!"

  "I told you we should have informed him of the marchioness's arrival," Portia reminded her unhappily. "If he had known she was in the neighborhood he would have had time to prepare himself. As it was, he simply turned around and there she was."

  Lady Eliza scowled at the hint that she was somehow to blame for the contretemps. "I still do not see how it would have mattered one way or another, especially if he is as besotted with the creature as you say he is," she grumbled, clearly furious at the upheaval in her carefully laid plans.

  "I did not say he was besotted," Portia corrected, feeling an odd pain in the region of her heart. Only last night Connor had held her in his arms, his mouth burning hers with his ardor, and today he seemed to have forgotten her very existence. Oh, he'd been polite enough, she supposed, but on the ride back from York he had seemed distracted and moody, and it took very little imagination to know what . . . or rather who occupied his thoughts. The knowledge made her throat ache with unshed tears.

  ". . . going through," the countess concluded with a weary sigh, and Portia realized she had missed something. Rather than admit as much she gave the older lady a puzzled look.

  "What do you mean, ma'am?" she asked with credible calm.

  "Merely that for all he is a man, my son is no fool," Lady Eliza said calmly. "He may think he loves her as he did when he was a youth, but once he sees her for the scheming minx she is, he will soon realize it is nothing more than the last flicker of lost love."

  Portia wished she could believe it was as simple as that. She knew Connor, knew he wasn't a callow youth at the mercy of his emotions. He was a man in every sense of the word, and if he gave his heart to a woman, it would be done in full knowledge of what he was doing, and it would be forever. The thought was depressing enough to make her hands tremble and her cup rattle on the saucer.

  "My word, Portia, are you all right?" Lady Eliza asked, eyeing her with concern. "You aren't feeling faint, are you?"

  "No, my lady, it is nothing like that," she said, setting the cup on the side table with great care. "I have a slight headache, that is all."

  "Then you must go to your rooms at once," Lady Eliza said with alacrity. "You should never have come down in the first place."

  "But the guests . . ."

  "Oh, pooh!" the countess declared with a stern look. "I have been handling guests since you were in leading strings. Not that there will be so many of them, mind,"
she added with a knowing smirk. "Your headache seems to be catching."

  Portia ignored the jibe. "If you are certain it will not be an inconvenience, I would like to retire," she said, rising to her feet. "But if you should have need of me, you have only to send for me and I shall come right down."

  The countess leaned forward to give her hand a loving pat. "You go on up, child," she said softly. "If worse comes to worst, I shall send for Connor. It is about time he started doing his duty by his guests."

  Portia blinked back tears at the older woman's kindness. "You are very good to me, my lady," she said, bending to brush a kiss across the countess's cheek. "Good afternoon."

  Lady Eliza watched Portia leave, her own eyes misting with tears. The moment she was alone she pulled out the miniature of her husband she wore about her neck. "Blast it, Doncaster," she said, addressing her beloved's painted features with a frown, "what are we going to do now?"

  "So this is where you have hidden yourself," Connor teased, smiling as he came upon Portia picking flowers the following afternoon. It was the first time he had seen her since their ill-fated visit to York, and until this moment he hadn't realized he'd been looking for her. She was wearing a simple gown of lavender and cream silk, and he thought she looked as lovely as the blooms in her basket.

  "Good afternoon, my lord," she said, her tone as cool as the gray eyes that peeked up at him from beneath the wide brim of her straw bonnet. "Was there something that you wanted?"

  Her tone as well as her use of his title made him arch his eyebrow in surprise. "To begin with, you may call me Connor, as you have already promised you would," he said, reaching out to pluck from her fingers the rose she had just cut. Holding her gaze with his, he lifted the flower to his nose and inhaled its sweet fragrance. He then kissed the soft petals, and handed it back to her without saying another word.

  To his delight the symbolism of his gesture was not lost on her, for she flushed a bright-pink. "As you wish . . . Connor," she said, turning away and busying herself with the flowers. "Is there anything else you wished? Lady Langwicke is anxious that I get these flowers cut by mid-afternoon so that we can make bouquets for all the ladies."

  Connor was uncertain how to respond. Less than two nights ago they had held each other in a passionate embrace, and now she was treating him as if he was nothing but a chance acquaintance. Her actions made him want to pull her back into his arms and remind her that he was much more than that, but logic told him this was neither the time nor the place. Not that he intended letting the matter pass unchallenged, he decided, removing the clippers from her fingers and cutting a single white rose.

  "Will you be attending the assembly with us?" he asked, the rose dangling from his fingers.

  The question made her frown in confusion. "Of course I am," she replied, tilting her chin up as she met his gaze. "You made me promise to waltz with you, remember?"

  "I do," he answered, his voice husky, "but I thought perhaps you might have forgotten . . . along with a few other things."

  "What other things?"

  He only smiled at the querulous demand. "I will tell you later," he promised. "What color is your ball gown?"

  "My ball gown? It is ruby-colored, but I—"

  "Then wear this," he instructed, handing her the dew-dappled blossom.

  "Why should I?" Portia asked, accepting the rose with a suspicious scowl.

  "Effect, for one thing," he said, trying not to smile at her cross expression. "It will make a stunning contrast."

  "And the other reason?" she pressed when he did not elaborate.

  "It will tell me that you are thinking about me," he answered softly, "as I will be thinking about you." He caught her hand in his and raised it to his lips for a kiss.

  Their gazes met, and in the silvery depths of her eyes he saw a reflection of the same inner turmoil and searing need that were tormenting him. His fingers tightened on hers, and for a briefest moment he wanted to say to the devil with his pride, and pull her into his arms. Only the knowledge that it wasn't just his honor he would be risking prevented him from doing just that, and he reluctantly let her go, feeling more alone and confused than he had ever felt in his life.

  After fleeing from the gardens Portia retired to her rooms to brood over Connor's behavior. She was furious with him for flirting with her, and more furious still with herself for being captivated by his polished charm. Until yesterday he was the last man she would have labeled a rake, but now she was not so certain. Surely only a man of low principles would kiss one woman in the moonlight one night, and then make up to his lost love the next morning, she decided, tears shimmering in her eyes as she gazed out the window.

  Lost love. The term made her wince. When Connor had kissed her, that was precisely what he thought Lady Duxford was to him. Perhaps if he'd known she was in the area and now free from her marriage to another man, he would never have touched her, Portia. And yet, her logical mind argued silently, such reasoning did not explain his actions this afternoon. He'd been well-aware of Lady Duxford, and he'd still kissed her own hand, his eyes filled with desire.

  Did he care for her, she wondered painfully, or was he merely toying with her? She wished she knew, and she wished she knew what the devil she was going to do about it.

  She was no closer to resolving these puzzling matters when Nancy came in to help her change for dinner.

  "Becoming a regular society miss, aren't you?" the maid scolded as she helped arrange Portia's dark hair in a coil at the back of her head. "Taking to your rooms with a headache every afternoon, and then dragging about looking pale and delicate for the rest of the day. You'll take to carrying smelling salts and swooning next, I don't wonder."

  "Don't lecture, Nancy," Portia said wearily, gazing at her reflection with disinterest. She'd been eagerly waiting for the assembly since yesterday, but now she wondered if the countess would let her cry off. She didn't think she could endure watching Connor waltzing with the marchioness.

  "If I didn't lecture you, you would only get worse," Nancy said with a sniff, picking up a necklace of gold filigree inlaid with delicate rubies and clipping it about Portia's neck. "A young woman needs a bit of prompting now and then, and 'tis my duty to see you get it."

  "A duty you seem to perform with a great relish," Portia muttered beneath her breath.

  "Don't be insolent. You know full well what I mean," Nancy reproved, fastening the matching earrings to Portia's ears. When she was finished she stepped back to admire her handiwork. "There," she said, sounding pleased, "you look fine as fivepence, if I say so myself. I heard Lady Langwicke hinted you should wear one of them dreadful turban things, but I'm glad to see you paid her no mind. You've lovely hair, and 'twould be a shame to hide it."

  Portia remembered the conversation with the haughty lady that had taken place over tea that afternoon.

  "Of course, there is nothing quite so sad as a lady who will not accept the inevitability of the years," Lady Langwicke had said, fixing Portia with a pointed look. "Unmarried ladies of a certain age should accept their fate, and wear the caps and turbans society deems proper for a spinster. It is far more dignified than going about in a debutante's curls. Don't you agree, Miss Haverall?"

  Portia had been feeling rather downcast and sorry for herself, but Lady Langwicke's spiteful words had raised her spirits considerably. There was nothing she liked more than deflating such pomposity, and the older woman had provided her with the perfect opportunity to vent some of her temper. She'd picked up her teacup, her lips curved in a sweet smile as she said, "Indeed I do, my lady, and I am glad to see your daughter has the sense to follow your eminently practical advice. That is a lovely cap you are wearing, Lady Margaret," she added, much to that young lady's ire.

  "This is not a cap!" she had cried, indicating her lacy head-covering with indignation. "It is a French chapeau, and it is all the crack in London!"

  "My mistake, then," she had replied in sugary tones, feeling vastly pleased with herself
until she'd turned her head and encountered Connor's gaze.

  His face had been expressionless, but his eyes had been full of silent laughter. He raised his teacup in a mock salute, and she had felt a closeness to him that was stronger than anything they had ever shared. The memory of that closeness made her catch her breath, and as she gazed into the mirror and saw her reflection, she was at last able to admit the truth. She loved Connor.

  "Good evening, Miss Haverall. That is a beautiful gown you are wearing."

  The gentle voice shattered Portia's reverie, and she gazed up from the bench where she had sought sanctuary to find Miss DeCamp standing before her. For a moment she was tempted to ask the young lady, whom she had come to regard as a friend, to go away, but in the end good manners overwhelmed her desire for solitude, and she managed a shaky smile.

  "Thank you, Miss DeCamp," she said quietly, sliding over on the bench so that the other girl could join her. "May I say you are also looking quite lovely?"

  "If you like," Miss DeCamp replied, settling beside her in a rustle of powder-blue silk. When her skirts were arranged to her satisfaction, she turned to Portia with a warm smile.

  "Now that we have been insufferably polite to each other, I wish you would call me Felicity. And your name is Portia, is it not?"

  Portia nodded, touched by the other girl's offer of friendship. "Father named me for Brutus's longsuffering wife," she said, forcing herself to think of anything other than the fact that Connor was standing across the ballroom deep in conversation with Lady Duxford.

  "Indeed?" Felicity sounded intrigued.

  "He was a literature don at Cambridge, and he was teaching Julius Caesar to his students when my mother gave birth to me," Portia explained, her eyes twinkling as she remembered the many times she had heard her father tell the story. "I have often given thanks that he was not teaching the comedies at the time, else I might have been saddled with Titania or Thisbee for a name."