A Proper Taming (16 page)

"I am sure she must have," Portia said, recalling the knife-edged glares the other lady had cast her hapless mate. "I also noted no one took any of the cakes and sandwiches when they were offered. Ah, well." She tilted her head to one side and fluttered her lashes at him in perfect imitation of the Misses Darlington. "Perhaps the mice will enjoy them."

Their visit to the vicar's was less eventful, as Portia remained on her best behavior. After listening to a long-winded lecture about the sacred du
ties of a host and hostess, and choking down a cup of weak tea, they were allowed to go on their way. The vicar also extracted a promise from Connor to attend services on a more regular basis, and as they made their way to the squire's house, Portia teased him about his dereliction to his immortal soul.

"Never say I have been residing with an atheist," she teased, laughing at the mulish expression on his face. "For shame, sir, have you no regard at all for the proprieties?"

"I am not an atheist," he denied, tearing his gaze from the road to send her an indignant scowl. "And you are a fine one to talk about disregarding the proprieties, ma'am. You haven't behaved with an iota of propriety since the moment we met."

"Ha! And you have the nerve to say
I
tell clankers!" Portia laughed, too high-spirited to take offense at the accusation. She turned to Gwynnen with a wheedling smile.

"Come, Gwynnen," she coaxed playfully, "tell this blackened sinner that my behavior has remained above reproach. I have been the very model of feminine decorum, have I not?"

"Wouldn't go so far as to say that," the taciturn maid answered in her usual blunt manner. "But you haven't tried to dash out his lordship's brains again, I'll grant you that."

"There, you see?" Portia affected a prim expression, hands folded and gaze demurely lowered. "I have been the very soul of sensibility and moderation. You would do well to follow my pattern, sir."

Connor gave a reluctant chuckle. "Were I to do that, ma'am, my reputation would be even worse than it is," he said, and from this tone Portia could see he did not seem so bitter. "Now mind you
keep a lock on that outrageous tongue of yours for the rest of the day. I would as lief not alienate all of my neighbors in a single afternoon."

Two days later, Portia was sitting in her room going over the last of her lists. The guests had all written back with their acceptances, and in less than a sennight Hawkshurst would be filled to overflowing with people. The countess had promised to see that additional staff would be hired, and that the proper foods would be brought in from London, and left the planning of events to Portia's discretion.

All was going as well as she could have hoped, but instead of satisfaction in a job well done, Portia felt only shame. The countess was still insisting upon secrecy, and that meant his lordship remained ignorant of the coming invasion. She hated the thought of breaking her promise to her ladyship, but she hated more the thought of deceiving the earl. He had a right to know what was going on in his own house, she thought, and decided it was time to inform him of what was about to happen. She knew the countess would be angry, but that was a risk she was prepared to take.

Once she had reached that decision, the rest of the afternoon passed swiftly. In addition to the many teas, soiress, and card games, the house party would end in a grand ball, and in a flash of inspiration Portia had decided to make it a costume ball. She had never been to one, but they sounded like great fun, and she began sketching out various ideas for themes. The matter of costumes was another difficulty, and she decided to seek out the countess's advice. She was so preoccupied with the ball that she completely forgot to knock, but walked into Lady Eliza's rooms unannounced.

"My lady, I was wondering if I might have a word with you," she said, casually glancing up. "I have an idea for—" Her voice broke off, and she stared at the countess in disbelief. "Lady Doncaster!" she gasped, the list fluttering from her hand. "You can walk!"

9

L
ady Eliza turned around, her expression first startled and then resigned as she saw Portia standing in the doorway. "Oh, dear," she said, sighing as she set down the porcelain figurine she had been holding, "it appears you have found me out."

"I . . . I do not understand," Portia stammered, advancing into the room, unable to take her gaze off the amazing sight of the countess standing in front of the fireplace. "Connor . . . Lord Doncaster told me you had been paralyzed in a fall!"

"And so I was," Lady Eliza replied calmly, crossing the room to take Portia's hand. "If you will give me a moment, I promise I will explain everything."

"But you can walk!" Portia said, still not believing the evidence of her own eyes. Her shock was gradually fading, and in its place was a rising sense of indignation. She remembered the expression on the earl's face, the pain in his voice when he had first told her of his mother's condition, and she shook her head.

"My lady, how could you do this to your own son?" she chided, appalled that anyone could be so cruel. "Do you not know what it does to him to see you in that chair, believing himself responsible for your being there?"

Tears gathered in the countess's eyes, but she did not let them fall. "It sounds heartless, I know," she admitted in a quiet voice, "but I assure you I do have a very good reason for what I have done. Let us sit down, and I will tell you the whole of it."

Portia allowed herself to be guided over to the settee, her gaze fixed on the countess as they took their seats. Lady Eliza settled her skirts about her, her eyes lowered to her lap as she began speaking.

"When the accident first happened, I truly was paralyzed," she began without preamble. "I could not move my legs, and the doctors could offer us no hope. I thought I would spend the rest of my days trapped in that blasted chair. And then gradually, feeling began to return. I was afraid to belive it at first, but when it was obvious I was recovering, I cannot tell you how thankful and relieved I was."

"I can understand that," Portia said gently, reaching out to cover the countess's hand with her own, "but why did you fail to share the joyous news with your son? You must have known he would want to know."

Lady Eliza gave a jerky nod. "I . . . I knew he held himself to blame for what happened," she said in a low voice, raising her eyes to meet Portia's gaze, "and I was going to tell him I could walk again, but . . . Oh, this is going to sound so dreadful!"

"What is going to sound so dreadful?" Portia asked as the countess covered her face with her hands.

"But I realized that if Connor thought I was still injured, he would be more amenable to getting married," Lady Eliza concluded in the tone of one confessing to a terrible crime. She dropped her
hands and met Portia's startled gaze. "You think I'm terrible, don't you?" she asked miserably.

"I don't know what I think," Portia answered, too amazed to be anything other than completely candid. She had never heard of such a calculating act in her life, and the worst part was, even as part of her was horrified by the countess's actions, the other part was applauding her ingenuity.

"You think I'm dreadful," Lady Eliza sniffed, her green eyes filling with tears, "and I cannot say that I blame you. You are so honest and forthright, I know you would never dream of doing anything so conniving."

"I would not say that," Portia mumbled, recalling the times she had feigned illness to get out of some task her father had set for her.

"I never meant for the deception to go on so long," Lady Eliza continued in an unhappy voice. "But the weeks became months, and the months somehow turned into a year, and I could not think of any way to end the charade. I was trapped in that Bath chair by my own duplicity, as surely as if I'd been put there by the fall. I was at my wit's end until you came."

"Me?" Portia was startled by the countess's remark. "My lady, what are you saying? What has my coming here to do with anything?"

"Because for the first time since the accident, that stubborn son of mine has finally agreed to participate in the social round. Oh, I know it was but one afternoon," she added when Portia would have spoken, "and there's no denying it ended in disaster, but the important thing is that he participated. Until I saw him laughing and talking with Miss DeCamp, I was beginning to fear he would never marry."

Portia remembered the easy way the earl had conversed with Miss DeCamp, and an unfamiliar
pain pierced her heart. "That is all very well, my lady," she said quickly, her gruff tone hiding her confusion, "but what do you propose we do now? You cannot mean to continue this charade indefinitely."

The countess gave her a hopeful look. "Well, actually . . ."

"No," Portia interrupted, shaking her head. "I cannot allow you to keep deceiving his lordship. It is too cruel."

"But I cannot simply walk up to him and admit the truth!" Lady Eliza protested in alarm. "It would ruin everything, and he would never forgive me!"

As Portia could well imagine the earl's response, she sympathized with the countess's reluctance to confess all. Still, she couldn't allow him to continue blaming himself for something which wasn't even his fault. She tapped her foot thoughtfully, her brows gathering in a frown as she tried to think of a way out of their predicament.

"A month," she said at last, fixing the countess with a stern gaze. "I will give you a month to 'recover,' or I shall be forced to tell Lord Doncaster the truth."

Lady Eliza looked as if she would have liked to argue the point, but at the expression on Portia's face, she gave a defeated sigh. "Very well," she said, "if you are going to be that way about it. I will do as you insist."

Portia refused to feel guilty. "Good," she said coolly. "You may begin by using a regular wheelchair. It will grant you more mobility, and help convince his lordship that your recovery is gradual, and therefore genuine."

"Do you mean I shan't be allowed to miraculously walk?" Lady Eliza asked sweetly. "What a
pity. It would have given our houseguests something to gossip about for years to come."

"And there is another thing," Portia said, ignoring the other lady's sarcasm. "I have never approved of your insistence that we not tell his lordship about our houseguests. I want your permission to apprise him of our plans."

"Tell him!" Lady Eliza protested indignantly. "But—"

"It's either that, or telling him his mama has been deceiving him all this time," Portia said calmly, folding her arms across her chest and meeting the countess's gaze. "It is your choice."

Lady Eliza's bottom lip thrust forward in a mutinous pout. "As you wish," she said petulantly, clearly put out. "But I must say I am disappointed in you. I thought you were my friend."

"I am," Portia said, "but I also count myself your son's friend, and friends do not deceive each other."

"Do they not?" Lady Eliza gave her a crafty smile. "If you say so, my dear, if you say so."

After returning to her own rooms, Portia found she was too restless to resume her work. The sun streaming through the mullioned windows was a sweet temptation, and she decided to go out for a ride. She rang for her maid, and thirty minutes later she was on the mare the earl had selected for her, the warm wind caressing her cheeks as she rode over a rocky rise. She reined in her mount with a joyous laugh, her heart filled with pleasure as she gazed at the pastoral scene spread out beneath her.

Well-fed sheep grazed in green fields neatly enclosed by gray stone fences, and a clear brook tumbled over moss-covered rocks. In the distance she could see the ruins the earl had shown her on
their first ride, and on impulse, she decided to ride over for a closer look. She'd just started down the steep hill when she heard someone call her name. She turned her head and saw Connor riding toward her.

"Good afternoon, Miss Haverall!" he called out, his black stallion rearing as he reined to a halt beside her. "A lovely day, is it not?"

"Very lovely, sir. I was hard at work in my rooms when I happened to look out the window. When I saw all this glorious sunshine, I couldn't remain indoors another moment longer." If any of those haughty London ladies could see him now, she thought, they would rue their cruel words.

His green eyes sparkled at her reply. "Deserted your post, have you?" he drawled, his lips curving in a teasing smile as he leaned over his saddle.

Portia's heart gave an alarming skip at the intimacy of that smile. "So it would appear, my lord," she said, unable to resist teasing him in return. "Will you have me shot?"

"That is the usual punishment for desertion," he reminded her, "but as I have also deserted my post, I suppose I shall have to be lenient."

She fluttered her lashes at him. "Your lordship is too kind," she said, her tone so sweet that he laughed in response.

As if by unspoken agreement they both nudged their horses forward, resuming their ride in silence. "Where were you headed when I first saw you?" he asked after they'd ridden some distance. "Anywhere in particular, or were you just letting your horse take you where she will?"

"I was on my way to the old ruins," Portia answered, deciding now was as good a time as any to inform him of the impending invasion. "I thought our guests would enjoy visiting it, and I wanted to see if I could find it on my own."

As she expected, he was quick to seize upon her words. "What guests?" he demanded.

"The ones who will be arriving next week," she replied as nonchalantly as she could. "You
did
say your mother could invite some friends to stay with her," she added when he frowned at her.

"I am well aware of that," he returned, the mouth that had been smiling only moments before now set in a grim line. "But I had no idea matters had progressed so far." His gaze shot to her face. "How long have you and mother been planning this?"

"Since our conversation the day Lady Alterwaithe's letter arrived," Portia replied, wondering why the duplicitous nature she had once abhorred in herself should choose this moment to desert her. In the past she would have lied and schemed without a twinge, telling herself it was for the earl's own good. Now it was all she could do not to throw herself at his feet, and beg for his forgiveness.