A Proper Taming (17 page)

"And you never thought to inform me of these plans?" he asked, pulling his horse to a halt. "You and my mother invited guests to my home without so much as a by-your-leave?"

The sharp edge in his voice brought Portia's chin up. As guilty as she might feel for deceiving him, she wasn't about to let him question her like a common criminal. "You had already given your leave, sir," she reminded him in a clipped voice. "And as for keeping you
informed
, we simply saw no need to bother you with such trifling matters as what food to serve, and what room to assign to what guest. However, if you prefer, I should be more than happy to turn the entire thing over to your capable hands. I am sure you will be able to do a much better job. Good day." She would have
ridden off, but he anticipated her move and reached out to grab her horse's reins.

Their eyes met, and for the briefest moment Portia felt a small frisson of alarm. For the first time since their unorthodox meeting, Connor's size seemed threatening. But even as her heart was beginning to race, he released the bridle and leaned back in his saddle.

"You ought to do something about that temper of yours, Miss Haverall," he advised, his expression remote. "It is regrettably short."

Despite that her palms were still damp with fear, Portia refused to cower before him. "As is yours, my lord," she returned, her tone matching his for coolness.

He regarded her for a long moment. "Perhaps," he agreed at last, the ice melting in his jewel-colored eyes. "But as I have already explained, I am said to resemble my late grandfather, the Beast of Hawkshurst Hall."

Portia remembered the conversation, and the portrait of the formidable Fourth Earl of Doncaster. "Then you admit your actions were beastly?" she challenged, praying he would take the words as the jest she intended, and not fly into the boughs.

To her relief he gave a reluctant smile. "I ought to have known better than to cross verbal swords with you," he said with a soft chuckle. "You have proven yourself a past master of the game. Very well, then, when may we expect the invading hordes to descend upon us?"

His easy acceptance of the prospect of guests made Portia blink, and it took her a few seconds to recover enough to answer him. "The first will be arriving at the end of next week," she said, mentally reviewing the preparations. "And the rest will arrive the week after that."

"The rest? How many guests are you expecting?"

"Fifteen, not counting servants and the like."

"Fifteen?" Connor frowned in displeasure at the thought of his domain being overrun by so many strangers. "Who are they?"

Portia dutifully rattled off everyone on the guest list she said she could remember, and by the time she was finished Connor was feeling positively grim.

"I see," he said, as they continued riding. "So that is why she is doing it."

"Why who is doing what?" Portia asked.

Connor wasn't fooled by her feigned innocence. "Come now, Portia," he reproved with a weary laugh, "it ill becomes you to play the fool. You know perfectly well that my mother engineered this house party for the sole purpose of throwing me together with prospective brides."

"Well, of course she did!" Portia replied. "You told me weeks ago that she was anxious to see you wed. What else would you have the poor lady do?"

Her sharp retort surprised Connor. "Allow me to pick my own bride in my own time?" he suggested hopefully.

She shot him a scornful look. "Don't be ridiculous," she said with a sniff. "If it was left to men to decide such things, marriage as an institution would have expired years ago! You are over thirty, and it is past time you were taking a wife."

Connor thought of the lady to whom he had once offered his title, and her brutal rejection of that title and him. The memory had long since lost its sting, but he was vaguely surprised to realize that in addition to indifference, he also felt a strong sense of relief. The realization was decid
edly disconcerting, and to hide his confusion he began to tease his companion.

"And what of you, Portia?" he asked, deliberately using her Christian name to provoke her. "You are in your late twenties; should
you
not be taking a husband?"

"I am but twenty-five!" she retorted. "And as for my taking a husband, why ever should I want to do such a harebrained thing? Husbands are nothing but bother to an intelligent female like me, and even if I was so foolish as to desire one of the tiresome creatures, what man would want to legshackle himself to a plain-faced, managing bluestocking?"

Her vehemence made Connor stare. "You are not in the least plain!" he exclaimed, angry that she should describe herself in such insulting terms.

"We are not talking about me," Portia snapped, annoyed with herself for the revealing remark. "We are talking about
you
. You are the Earl of Doncaster, and it is your duty to marry and produce an heir. If your mother must resort to machinations to see you wed, it is only because you have been so behindhand in seeing to the matter yourself."

They had reached the ruins, and Connor dismounted in silence before turning to help Portia. His gloved hands easily encompassed her waist, and he lifted her down as if she weighed no more than a child. Without speaking, he led her over to the ruined chapel, and while Portia seated herself on one of the fallen stones, he rested one booted foot beside her, his expression bleak as he gazed off at the horizon.

"I know I should take a wife," he said in a heavy tone, "and better than you, I know where
my duty lies. But knowing one's duty and acting on it are not always as easy as they sound."

Portia saw the anguish on his face, and wondered if she should tell him she was aware of his past. She debated the matter for several seconds before reaching her decision.

"Your mother told me about Lady Duxford," she said, biting her lip when she saw him flinch, "and while it is regrettable your first love should have proved to be a heartless flirt, you must not allow her memory to dictate the rest of your life. There are many other ladies in the world who would consider it a great honor to be your wife."

"Are there?" His lips twisted in a bitter smile. "If there are, these mysterious ladies have taken their own sweet time in making their presence known."

Portia's first instinct was to comfort him, but she knew he would regard her actions as being pity, motivated by an emotion he would most certainly abhor. "Well, what can you expect, keeping yourself hidden on your estate?" she asked in a gruff voice. "Your mama tells me it has been years since you last attended so much as an assembly."

That drew his gaze to her. "Did she tell you what happened the last time I attended one of those wretched things?" he asked in a tight voice. "I asked two ladies to stand up with me for a quadrille.
Two
, and they both fainted."

Portia thought of how intimidating he could be, but decided that did not excuse the silly chits. "Well then, all I can say is that you obviously asked the wrong ladies," she continued in the same curt manner. "Can you imagine either Miss DeCamp or myself behaving in such a singularly foolish manner?"

He dropped his arm and rose slowly to his full height, his expression shuttered as he stared down
at her. "Are you saying that you would dance with me?" he challenged, holding her in his steady gaze.

"Of course I would," she said, thinking of all those years in Chipping Campden when she sat with the dowagers, sniffing in derision at the dancers even as she silently prayed to be asked.

"All right."

The non sequitur made her frown. "All right what?"

"All right," he repeated calmly, "I will attend the next assembly, but only on the condition that you attend, and that you dance with me."

Portia's jaw dropped, and had it not been for the expression on his face, she would have laughed outright. "But my lord," she began with a nervous laugh, "I am your mother's companion—"

"No," he interrupted, "you're not. You are our guest, and no one would think it odd if I were to ask you to dance; quite the opposite, in fact. I would look like the worst host in all of Christendom were I not to stand up with you."

Portia knew he was right, and that there would be even more scandal attached to his name if he slighted her in such a public way. "Yes, there is that, I suppose," she admitted reluctantly, "but I would still prefer that you ask one of the other ladies. Miss DeCamp, perhaps, or one of the Misses Darlington. And of course, once your mama's guests arrive, you will have any number of females to choose as your partner. I—" She broke off abruptly as a sudden thought occurred to her.

"You do dance?" she asked, bending a suspicious frown on him.

Connor clenched his fist at the querulous demand. "Yes, I dance," he replied in a cold voice.

"What of waltzing?"

He frowned. "What of it?"

She sighed heavily, wondering if he was being deliberately obtuse. "Do you waltz?" she asked, struggling for control.

"As it was not the fashion when I was in London, I fear I do not," Connor replied, as if hating to admit such a deficiency to her. "However, I doubt it will be much of a problem at the assembly. York is not London, and such wanton behavior is frowned upon. I would be surprised if the master of ceremonies would allow a single waltz, if that."

"Perhaps," Portia said, recalling how scandalized the locals were the first time the waltz was performed in Chipping Campden, "but your mother's guests will be slightly more cosmopolitan in their views, and they
will
expect the waltz to be played at the costume ball."

Connor wanted to ask what costume ball, but he decided the question could wait. Instead, a delightful scheme was forming in his mind. He crossed his arms and gave her a cool smile.

"Again, I see no great difficulty," he said, his voice consciously pitched to its most seductive level. "If you wish me to waltz, then you have only to teach me."

The riot of color that flooded Portia's face delighted Connor. "I cannot teach you to waltz!" she exclaimed, looking thoroughly vexed.

"Why not?" he asked, opening his eyes wide and feigning shock. "Are you saying that
you
do not waltz?"

"Of course I waltz!" she snapped. "That is to say, I have learned the dance, but I have never actually performed it."

He gave a pleased nod. "Then we shall learn from each other. When would you like to start?"

Portia opened her mouth to continue arguing,
but realized the wretch had outmaneuvered her. There was no way she could insist he learn to dance if she did not follow suit. "You are enjoying this, aren't you?" she accused, shooting him a sour look.

The grin he gave her was patently self-satisfied. "Not yet, my dear," he drawled, his green eyes dancing. "But I will."

Over the next few days Portia was kept busy as she rushed about making sure all was in readiness for the guests' arrival. The rooms were all cleaned and awaiting their occupants, and plans for the many entertainments were continuing apace. There were to be several picnics, excursions into York to visit the famous minster, and, of course, any number of card and dancing parties to keep their jaded guests from becoming bored.

After discussing the matter with the countess, she decided to hold the costume ball. They were seldom held these days, Lady Eliza told her, and that would make it the perfect cap for the house party. People would talk about it for months, and it would be the social event of the neighborhood. Hurried notes were sent out advising their guests of the need for a costume, and one of the footmen was sent into York to make sure costumes would be made available for those who did not bring their own.

The day before the first guest was to arrive, Portia was in the wine cellars completing one last inventory. She and the butler had already marked several bottles of port and brandy for use, but she wanted to make sure there would be some light wine and sherry available for the ladies. She was examining a bottle of Spanish sherry when she heard the earl calling out her name. She answered, and he came clattering noisily down the steps.

"There you are," he said, hands on his narrow hips as he glared down at her. "What the devil are you doing here? I have been looking for you everywhere!"

"Williams and I are making sure the cellars are adequately stocked," Portia replied, handing the bottle to the silent butler. "Is there something amiss?" She wondered if he had come to ask about his mother, and prayed he had not. So far the countess had yet to begin her "recovery," and Portia was wondering if the older woman was going to call her bluff.

"Never mind that now," he said, ignoring her question and reaching out to capture her hand. "I want you to come with me."

Before she could say another word he was leading her up the steps, his warm hand holding hers in a firm grip.

"Where are we going?" she demanded, holding up her skirts as she struggled to keep up with his longer strides.

"To the ballroom," he replied, not bothering to turn around. "There is something I want to show you."

The chandelier, she thought miserably, recalling she hadn't had time to have the thing cleaned. She was trying to think of some plausible excuse to offer when they walked into the huge, sunlit room, and the sight of a small, bespectacled lady sitting at the pianoforte brought her up short.

"This is Miss Bixley," he said, nodding at the white-haired lady. "She teaches music at one of local ladies' seminaries, and she has kindly consented to play for us so that we might learn the waltz. Have you not, Miss Bixley?"

His warm smile set the older lady to blushing like a debutante. "Oh, yes, my lord," she gushed
in a soft voice. "I shall be only too happy to oblige you."

"Good." He turned to Portia, the gleam in his eyes daring her to object. "Now, although I have never performed the waltz I'm not quite such a savage that I am completely unfamiliar with it. I believe I am to hold my partner . . . so." He slipped his arm about her waist and drew her against him. "Is this correct?"

Portia's cheeks grew as flushed as Miss Bixley's at the feel of his hard, muscled chest brushing against her. "I . . . yes, my lord, only perhaps not so tightly," she suggested, thinking he felt a great deal different from the shy, diffident young man she had bullied into teaching her the scandalous dance.