The explanation shocked Portia enough to make her forget her own troubling emotions. "What do you mean, once it is determined he is dead?" she asked, wondering if she had missed something. "I should think there would be little to debate. A person is either dead, or he is not. How could there be any doubt?"
"Because the son—Adrian was his name—was reported lost at sea when his ship was sunk off the Indies," Lady Langwicke explained with a marked degree of condescension. "Which only goes to show you why an only son ought not to be allowed to gallivant about the globe. It was most thoughtless of the boy to put his own selfish needs above his duty to his title and his family. Do you not agree, my lord?" She turned to the earl with a fatuous smile.
Connor remembered the intense young man who had been the Viscount Comeraugh. Adrian had been two years behind him at Oxford, but he had impressed Connor with both his intelligence and his determination to restore his family fortune. He'd been engaged in the tea trade when his ship had sunk in a storm, and it angered Connor to have the marchioness denigrate his memory.
"Actually, it was his devotion to both which led to his death," he said, fixing Lady Langwicke with an icy stare. "The earl was two steps from financial ruin before Adrian began 'gallivanting about,' as you called it.
The marchioness flushed an angry red, but the arrival of the tea cart kept the conversation from deteriorating any further. Talk became general after that, and when calm had been restored Portia decided it was time to take her leave. There was much she needed to do if all was to be ready for the last of the guests, and in any case, she wanted to get away from Connor's disturbing presence. His nearness was having a marked effect on her usual good sense, and she was anxious to leave before she did or said something that would make her love obvious to all.
She waited until he was deep in conversation with one of the younger men before taking the opportunity to slip quietly from the room. She thought she had made it until a firm hand closed about her elbow, pulling her to a halt on the other side of the door.
"Where are you going?" Connor asked, his voice soft as he gazed down at her.
She thought quickly, her mind seizing on her conversation with the marchioness. "I . . . I need to speak with the housekeeper," she replied, furious with herself for stammering. "If Mr. Granger is indeed the heir to an earldom, he really ought to have his own room. We shall have to reassign the rooms, and that will take some doing."
"I shouldn't bother." He dismissed the matter with an indifferent shrug. "If Granger doesn't care for his present quarters, he is free to bunk with the horses. Besides, I wouldn't be so quick to write off Adrian if I were you. If there was any way possible to have survived that shipwreck, he will have found it."
Portia did not bother with an answer. Rearranging Mr. Granger's accommodations had been a mere ploy, and having been deprived of that, she quickly thought of something else.
"As you say, my lord." She inclined her head politely, wishing he would take the hint and release her arm. "In that case, I will need to go up to the attic and check on the costumes I have arranged for some of our guests."
Her use of his title as well as her obvious determination to escape his company flicked his pride on the raw, and for a moment he was strongly tempted to pull her into his arms and kiss her senseless. Only the knowledge that such an action would stain her reputation beyond repair stayed him, and he reluctantly released her arm.
"Very well," he said, his jaw clenching as he fought for control. "Perhaps I will see you later then? There is another assembly this evening, and Mother insists that we all attend. Will you ride in our carriage?"
Until this moment Portia had fully intended to attend the local dance. But suddenly the thought of watching Connor waltzing with Lady Duxford was more than she could endure, and she knew she would have to cry off. "I am afraid not, your lordship," she said, her chin coming up as she faced him. "With the guests arriving on the morrow, there is much I need to do. But I hope that you and the others will have a wonderful time."
Her words, spoken in that cool, precise tone, made Connor flinch, and abruptly, he was reminded of his Season in London. It seemed that once again his attentions were unwanted. This time the knowledge shattered more than his pride. It shattered his heart.
He stared down at Portia, wanting to scream a denial of the pain clawing at him. He loved her, he realized dazedly, a love so great it reduced the emotions he had felt for Olivia to mere boyish infatuation. He wanted to marry Portia, and then carry her off to his room and make love to her until she admitted she was his. Her rejection of him was not so cruel as Olivia's, he thought bitterly, but it was just as painful . . . and as final. Knowing she did not return his love, he knew he had no choice but to keep his distance from her. Somehow, he would have to keep his love to himself.
Over the next sennight Portia kept too busy to brood over the sad state of her heart. In between the dinner parties, picnics, and endless hands of whist and Pope Joan, she saw little of Connor, a situation helped by the fact that he seemed equally determined to avoid her. She tried telling herself it was for the best, but she would remember the closeness they had once shared, and she would mourn for what had been and what would never be.
Complicating matters was the letter she had received from her great-aunt, inviting her to join her in Scotland. The countess, it seemed, had decided to forgive her black-sheep niece her many failings, and was now demanding her presence at her side. Portia had told no one of the missive, but she knew the letter provided her with the perfect excuse to leave Hawkshurst should it prove necessary. Another deception, she thought with an unhappy sigh, wondering if the duplicity would ever end.
The afternoon prior to masquerade ball was surprisingly peaceful. While the guests rested for the festivities, Portia decided to go for a ride. It was a pleasure she had denied herself since the ill-fated trip into York, and as she rode over the green, rock-strewn hills, she knew she saying good-bye to the land she had come to love as much as she loved its owner.
She drew her horse up on the rise, tears filling her eyes as she gazed slowly about her. She would always carry the memory of the place and the man in her heart, and she knew she would never be able to look at the moors without remembering him. The thought brought a bitter smile to her lips. Finally, she mused, she was behaving like a true lady, starry-eyed and hopeless with love.
On impulse she decided to visit the old ruins, and nudged her horse in that direction. She'd almost reached her destination when she saw Connor and Lady Duxford standing by the stones. Even as she was absorbing this painful sight, the marchioness flung her arms about Connor and drew him down to her for a passionate kiss. Unable to bear the agony of it, Portia spun her mount around and galloped off, her eyes streaming with tears, and her heart shattering in her chest.
"Really, Connor, you disappoint me," Lady Duxford chided, her expression reproachful as she drew back from Connor. "I thought we understood each other."
"As did I, my lady," Connor answered coolly, his gaze hard as he studied her beautiful and calculating face. He had brought her to the ruins on purpose, determined to put his painful past behind him at last. It was a test of sorts, and he realized with satisfaction that he had passed with flying colors.
"I cannot believe you are still holding my rejection of you against me," Lady Duxford continued, a note of desperation stealing into her voice. "I told you, the choice was not mine! My parents insisted I marry Duxford. What else could I do?"
"Nothing."
The blunt reply made her blink. "I wanted to accept you," she insisted, laying her hand on his arm and gazing up at him with ardent longing. "You cannot imagine how painful it was to send you away. My poor heart was breaking, but Mama was adamant."
"Now it is you who disappoint me, Lady Duxford," he interrupted, his mouth twisting in a rueful smile. "But you are wrong to think I hold your refusal of my suit against you."
"Do you mean you do not?" From her expression Connor gathered she did n
ot know whether to be relieved or offended.
"No. In fact, I feel quite the opposite," he said, smiling with cold pleasure. "Since meeting you again, I have been on my knees thanking the Almighty for my deliverance."
Lady Duxford's face turned an unbecoming shade of red, and she lashed out with her gloved hand. "Bastard!" she exclaimed, her eyes bright with fury. "You are as beastly and uncivilized as you always were!"
"Thank you, my lady." Connor gave her a mocking bow. "Fortunately for me, there is a certain lady who prefers beastly and uncivilized men. Now, if you have finished attempting to seduce me, it is time we were riding back. I've much to do."
"Well, you look a sight, I must say," Nancy muttered, hands on her hips as she studied Portia. "Did the ladies really wear them queer things?"
"According to Lady Eliza, they were all the crack some sixty years ago, although heaven knows how the poor creatures managed to get through the doorways." Portia's expression was dubious as she studied her reflection in the glass. "I look like a table that's decided to go exploring on its own."
Designed in rich red brocade and lavishly embroidered with gold and silver threads, the gown was a far cry from the modest and fashionable dresses Portia had always worn. Rather than the straight, graceful skirts she was accustomed to, the skirts on the ball gown extended a full sixteen inches on either side of her, making walking difficult and the thought of dancing laughable. The gown was also cut scandalously low, and Portia was trying to decide whether or not she should stuff another lace fichu in the neckline when Nancy spoke.
"Mayhap it wouldn't look so odd if you was to wear one of them powdered wigs," she suggested, looking thoughtful. "I remember a grand lady from my village used to wear one, and I thought she looked like a queen."
Portia remembered the graying, vermin-invested wig she had found along with the gown, and repressed a shudder. "No, thank you, Nancy," she said, giving in to the desire for modesty and tucking a lacy fichu in the tight bodice. "I shall be uncomfortable enough as it is, and I much doubt Great-aunt will thank me if I arrive at her home infested with fleas."
The mention of the countess and the pending move to Scotland made Nancy sniff with disapproval. "Don't know why we need to go tearing off to her ladyship's," she grumbled, moving behind Portia to finish arranging her hair. "What's wrong with this place, I'd like to know?"
Portia closed her eyes, remembering the sight of Connor kissing Lady Duxford. "Nothing," she said at last, her tone bleak as she opened her eyes to gaze in the mirror. "Only that it is not our home, and we mustn't impose on his lordship's kindness any further. Now that Lady Doncaster has recovered from her injury, there's no reason to remain."
"Isn't there?" A secretive look stole across Nancy's face. "If you say so, Miss Portia. But I do wish you would reconsider; only remember what happened last time you went calling on your great-aunt."
Portia did, and it was all she could do not to burst into tears. "It is different this time," she insisted, swallowing the urge to cry at the memory of Connor towering over her. "Great-aunt Georgianne has invited me, and you needn't make it sound as if we are making off into the night like a group of sneak thieves. I fully intend to inform Lady Doncaster of my decision tomorrow morning."
"And when it is you wish to leave?" Nancy pressed.
"By week's end," Portia said, giving her reflection one final look before turning away. "That will give you enough time to pack, won't it?"
Nancy handed her the ornate fan that completed the ensemble. "Oh, more than enough time, miss," she informed her with a cheeky grin. "More than enough time."
The grand ballroom of Hawkshurst had been transformed into a fairy woodland. After making her cautious way down the stairs, Portia paused to admire the result of her weeks of hard work. Baskets of white roses and bushy ferns from the countess's greenhouse were interspersed about the room with delicate gilt chairs and tables. She had to admit the effect was pleasing.
"There you are." A familiar voice sounded in her ears, and she turned to find Connor standing behind her. The sight of him dressed in the clothing of a Roman centurion drove the breath from her lungs. She gazed at him in amazement.
The expression on her face made Connor flush with embarrassment. He'd felt like a damned fool rigging himself out like this, but his mother had insisted he wear a costume. Given his only other choice was to don a toga and a headdress of olive leaves, he'd thought he'd chosen wisely, but now he wasn't so certain. When Portia continued staring at him, he shifted uneasily from one sandled foot to another.
"I wish you would say something, Portia," he said, striving for a light tone. "These things are dashed uncomfortable, you know."
"No more uncomfortable than this," Portia replied, deciding that if he could act so nonchalant then so could she. "At least you can move without knocking over everything in sight."
He took in the elaborate dress with its massive side skirts and repressed a grin. "Actually, I think you look charming," he drawled, his eyes coming to rest on the neckline of the gown where she had arranged the fichus. "Although I think you could dispose of one of these," he added, running the tip of his finger across the rich lace. "Afraid of catching a chill?"
Her cheeks grew warm, and she rapped her fan against his hand. "It is interesting, don't you agree, how many of our guests have chosen costumes which resemble their true selves?" she asked, refusing to comment on his audacious behavior. "Look at your friend Mr. McLean, rigged out like a brigand, and there is Lady Langwicke dressed as Queen Bess. I always thought her far too regal for a mere marchioness."
Connor heard the nervousness beneath her chatter, and wondered what was troubling her. Now that he had at last made peace with his past he was ready to face his future, and he prayed he would be able to convince her to be a part of it. Taking a deep breath for courage, he reached out to take her hand. "Portia, there is something I wish to ask—"
"Speaking of marchionesses, will Lady Duxford be coming?" Portia asked, her smile falsely bright as she turned to him. "I am sure her costume will be most interesting."
"Olivia?" Connor's brow gathered in a frown at the interruption. "What makes you think she is coming tonight?"
"I . . ." Portia's voice trailed off at his question and she stared at him for a brief moment. "I assumed you had invited her, my lord," she said, ruthlessly smothering the small flame of hope that had flickered to life in her. "You have been seeing a great deal of her of late and—"
"There the two of you are," Lady Eliza exclaimed, limping heavily as she crossed the floor to join them. "I have been looking for you everywhere." She fixed Portia with a pointed glare. "And what is this I hear about you going to Edinburgh?" she demanded. "A fine notion of gratitude you have, to go sneaking off the moment my back is turned."
Portia felt the blood drain from her face, and then return so quickly her cheeks stung. She realized Nancy must have confided in Gwynnen, and Gwynnen, of course, had gone straight to her mistress with the tale. The private word she had hoped to have with the countess was now impossible, and aware that they were the object of several interested stares, she did her best to strive for something approaching dignity.
"I hadn't meant to abuse your hospitality, my lady," she said, thinking in a detached manner that she was conducting herself with all the grace and decorum her father might have wished for. "But my great-aunt has written requesting that I join her in Scotland and I—"
"Scotland!" Connor's roar threatened to shatter the panes of the wide French doors opened to let in a cooling breeze. "If you think you are going to Scotland, you are out of your bloody mind!"
The harsh words brought an immediate hush to the room, and the expression on his glowering countenance caused several young ladies to succumb to the vapors. Above the cacophony Connor could hear someone muttering something about "the Beast," but he was too furious to pay the words any mind. Instead he advanced on Portia, his hands clenched into fists.
"I have been patient long enough," he an
nounced between clenched teeth, noting with pride that she didn't retreat so much as an inch. "I told myself I would respect your tender feelings, that I would not offer for you while I was uncertain of what you felt for me, but this is enough. You are going to marry me, Portia, and that is the end of it."
There were more gasps, and the sounds of even more ladies swooning, but Portia ignored them. She could not think clearly, and a terrible sense of panic began welling up inside her. She wanted so much to believe he meant the blunt declaration, but she was afraid. If he was offering for her because he was piqued with Lady Duxford, it would destroy her, and she would rather reject his offer out of hand than risk such a terrible pain. She flung back her head and sent him a furious scowl.
"As if I would marry an egotistical, overbearing tyrant like you!" she declared, infusing as much scorn as she could into the words. "And even if I was so foolish as to overlook your barbaric manners, I would never countenance your rakish ways!"
Connor had been accused of being many things, but never a rake, and he was temporarily at a loss how to defend himself. When he could think of no response, he impatiently brushed her heated charge aside. "Rake, or nay, I will marry you!" he said, reaching out to grab her hand. "Now stop complaining and come with me. We have a wedding to plan." And before she could protest any further, he began dragging her unceremoniously from the ballroom.
Portia fought, but between her cumbersome skirts and Connor's fierce strength it was a useless struggle. The moment they were on the balcony he released her hand. She wasted little time in swinging her fist at his face. He dodged the blow easily, grabbing her hand and pulling her against him. His mouth closed over hers in a burning kiss, and at a touch of his lips the fight drained out of her. Her hands came up to his shoulders, clenching in the soft wool of his cape and pulling him closer.
"Portia." His voice was low and urgent as he plundered her mouth and the slender column of her throat. "I love you. How could you even think of leaving me?"
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