A Proper Taming (18 page)

"Is this better?" He loosened his hold slightly.

She moved back a pace. "Yes, my lord," she replied, heaving a silent sigh of relief.

If he noticed she sounded a trifle breathless, he was too much of a gentleman to comment. Instead he took her right hand in his, his fingers curling about hers intimately. "And if I recall correctly, I am to hold your hand," he said, his breath stirring the hair on top of her head.

The way her heart was racing was almost as disconcerting as his touch, and Portia stoically ignored both sensations. She had the sneaking suspicion Connor was purposefully attempting to rattle her, and she refused to let him know he was succeeding. Drawing a deep breath to steady her pulse, she turned to the schoolteacher, who was watching the unfolding drama with avid interest. "If you would start playing, Miss Bixley, we shall begin," she said coolly, and then turned back to Connor.

"Listen to the music," she instructed, her gaze fixed on the cravat inches from her nose. "If
you've ever danced the minuet you will recognize the cadence. Do you hear it?"

He listened intently. "I believe so," he said at last, smiling down at her. "My tutors told me I was gifted musically, and I'm sure I shall be able to whirl you about a dance floor without disgracing either of us."

Portia ignored the provocation in his deep voice and concentrated instead on the front of his shirt. "The important thing to remember is that your partner will look to you for guidance," she continued stonily, struggling to hear the music over the wild pounding of her heart. "She will follow your lead, and it is important that you learn to signal your intention without speaking."

"And how do I do that?" he asked, his mocking tone making it evident that he was amused by the pedantic way she was describing the "wanton" waltz.

Portia gritted her teeth at the taunting words. Had it not been for the presence of Miss Bixley, she would have relieved her anger by kicking his shins, or by trodding on his toes. Since those particular reprisals were denied her, she decided to think of something else.

She raised her eyes to his face, her lips curving in a smile that was far too innocent to be credible. "You give her waist a slight squeeze, my lord," she said sweetly, her fingers digging into his muscular shoulder, "like this."

He didn't so much as flinch, although she knew it must hurt like the very devil. In fact, the mischief in his eyes grew even more pronounced as his eyes met hers in silent battle. "Let me be certain that I understand you, ma'am," he drawled. "When I wish my lady to turn, I do this." His hand slipped forward to boldly cup her waist.

Portia did her best not to gasp and pull away.
He wasn't hurting her, but he did apply enough pressure to make her aware of his strength. Conceding temporary defeat, she yielded the field to him with a resentful glare.

"Yes, Lord Doncaster, that is correct," she said, determined to make it through the demonstration with as much dignity as possible. "Shall we begin? One, two, three. One, two, three . . ."

To her surprise the earl was an adept pupil, and after only a few missteps he was soon whirling her about the room with all the grace of a French dancing master. By the time they had completed their third rotation about the dance floor, she was breathless with laughter, her ill humor completely forgotten.

"Fie on you, sir!" she charged teasingly, her eyes sparkling as she tilted back her head to smile at him. "I thought you said you did not waltz!"

"I didn't think I did," he replied, his lips curving in an answering smile. Their gazes met, and in that moment all of time seemed to come to a halt. She could feel the caress of his breath on her cheeks, and the strong beat of the heart that was pressed against her own.

Portia saw his eyes darken to purest emerald, and the passion in their jewel-like depths made her burn with answering fire. Her fingers tightened on his shoulder, her eyes fluttering closed as he began to lower his head toward her.

"Ah, there you are!" A voice from the door shattered the fragile spell, and they broke apart as Lady Eliza, sitting in a new wheelchair, wheeled herself into the room. Connor was the first to recover, and he gave Portia one last burning look before turning toward the door.

"Mother, what are you doing in that thing?" he demanded, hurrying to her side. "Where is your Bath chair?"

"In the attic, where it belongs," the countess retorted, her jaw set in a mutinous line. "Those things are for old ladies in their dotage. Do you think I wish our guests to think me a step away from the grave?"

"Certainly not," he denied, "but—"

"Good." Lady Eliza turned to Portia with a set smile. "There you are, my dear," she said coolly. "Lady Alterwaithe will be here shortly, and you did ask me to remind you so that you could change your gown."

Portia had asked no such thing, but she was too grateful for the distraction to quibble. "Thank you, my lady, I will go and change at once," she said, forcing herself to turn to the earl. "Will you be joining us, sir?"

Connor's gaze remained hooded as he studied her averted face. "I wouldn't dream of missing it," he assured her, his voice rough with an effort to control his emotions.

She gave a jerky nod. "Then if you will excuse me, I shall go to my rooms," she said, and then turned and fled as if all the hounds in hell were pursuing her.

10

L
ord and Lady Langwicke and their daughter, Lady Margaret, were among the first guests to arrive. The marchioness was an old friend of the countess's, and they greeted each other like long-lost sisters. The two ladies retreated to the far corner of the drawing room to renew their acquaintance, and since Connor had been called away by an emergency, it fell to Portia to entertain the marquess and his beautiful daughter. Lord Langwicke accepted the earl's absence with a mutter and a shrug, but his daughter was more vocal in her displeasure.

"I must say I am disappointed." Lady Margaret sighed, her cupid's-bow mouth set in a pretty pout as she accepted the glass of lemonade Portia offered her. "I have heard so much of his lordship, and I was quite looking forward to meeting him."

"Lord Doncaster should be home shortly, my lady," Portia replied politely, wondering what it was about the lively brunette that set her back up. "One of the tenants was trampled by a horse, and he has gone to check on him."

"All of my friends are quite beside themselves with envy," Lady Margaret prattled on, ignoring Portia's explanation. "He has not been in town
forever
, and one hears the most delicious stories." She leaned forward, brown eyes sparkling with mali
cious curiosity. "Tell me, Miss Haverall, is the earl really as savage as they say he is?"

Portia's hands clenched about her own glass, and she wondered how its contents would look streaming down Lady Margaret's lovely gown. "Lord Doncaster is not in the least a savage," she replied stiffly, setting the lemonade down before she acted on her impulses. "He is no town fop, I grant you, but he is hardly a barbarian. In fact—" She fixed Lady Margaret with a challenging look "—he is an excellent dancer. I have never waltzed with another man half so graceful."

Lady Margaret blinked as if in surprise. "But how can this be?" she asked in the tones of a child just learning there was no Father Christmas. "One hears—"

"One may hear a great many foolish things," Portia interrupted, deciding she'd had about enough of the girl's nonsense, "but it does not necessarily follow that one must believe them. His lordship is your host, and I am sure you are too much of a lady to engage in idle gossip about him."

Lady Margaret's cheeks turned almost as pink as her ruffled muslin gown, and she set her glass down with a bang. "If you will have one of the servants show me to my rooms, I believe I shall retire," she said, rising to her feet with all the dignity an eighteen-year-old could muster. "I have the headache!"

Portia dutifully rang for a maid, but Lady Margaret had no sooner flounced out of the room than a second barouche rolled up in front of the house, and Portia found herself repeating the conversation with another group of giggling, wide-eyed debutantes. By the time these annoying creatures had been put firmly in their place and escorted to
their rooms, Portia's temper was beginning to show signs of strain.

"Upon my word, Lady Doncaster," she said, turning to the countess the moment they were alone, "whatever did you write these ladies? They seem to look upon your son as if he was an exhibit in the royal menagerie!"

Lady Eliza's lips twitched at Portia's descriptive imagery. "Well, the dolt has only himself to blame," she said, leaning back in her new wheelchair with a self-satisfied smile. "He is the one who chose to turn up his nose at society, and we really cannot blame them if they have formed their own opinions of him. Besides, ladies like a bit of mystery in a man. Makes 'em seem more dashing than they really are."

"A bit of mystery is one thing. Being regarded as one step removed from a cage is another," Portia retorted, scowling as she recalled one young lady, Miss Anne Derwynn, shivering in ecstatic horror at the thought of meeting the Black Earl.

"Nonsense, child, you refine too much on society's tattle," Lady Eliza assured her with a patronizing smile. "Now, if these chits were yawning at the mention of Connor's name,
then
we would have cause for alarm. As it is . . ." She shrugged her shoulders expressively.

Portia said no more, although she vowed to have a discreet word with Connor so that he would know what to expect. If the younger ladies began swooning and acting as if they expected to be ravished on the spot, she would never get him to venture out again. He would doubtlessly retreat into one of his dark silences, and the entire house party would end in disaster.

The traitorous thought came to her that this might be all to her advantage, but she ruthlessly refused to acknowledge it. The objective of this lit
tle gathering was to help Connor establish himself in society, and she was determined to do just that. The only difficulty would be in convincing him not to fly into the boughs the first time one of the chits called him "The Black Earl" to his face. But how? The problem kept her mind occupied as she braced herself to receive the next wave of visitors.

Connor's shoulders were slumping with weariness as he walked down the back hallway from the kitchens. It had been a hellish day, and he longed for the privacy of his room and an hour or two of blessed silence. Unfortunately, with a house filled with guests, this was a luxury he would have to do without, and even as he was cursing this fact the door to one of the parlors opened, and a woman stepped out, almost colliding with him. He opened his mouth to utter an automatic apology when he recognized Portia.

"Have a care, madam," he warned, reaching out to steady her. "This isn't a racetrack, you know."

"Connor!" she exclaimed, and the sound of his name on her lips pleased him more than he dared admit.

"And a good thing for you, too," he said, making no move to stand aside so that she could pass. "If I had been one of our guests, you may have sent me tumbling. For once, 'twould seem my size has its advantages."

She smiled slightly, but instead of responding with an answering quip as he expected, she laid her hand on his arm. "Is everything all right?" she asked in a quiet voice, her misty gray eyes searching his face. "How is the man who was injured?"

Rather than prevaricating or sheltering her from the grim reality, Connor answered truthfully, knowing she would understand. "Alive, thank God, although it will be months yet before he can
walk," he replied, some of his weariness vanishing at her comforting touch. He'd spent the morning helping hold down the man while his shattered leg was set, and he could still hear the man's agonized groans. He pushed the grisly scene from his mind and gazed down at Portia, noting her appearance with pleasure.

She had stopped wearing her mourning clothes some weeks ago, but this was the first time he'd seen her so fashionably dressed, and he thought her yellow gown of striped muslin enchanting. "How is everything here? Have the guests arrived?" he asked, noting a dark curl had come undone from her chignon, and wishing he could tuck it back into place.

The mention of the guests seemed to recall Portia to the proprieties, and she dropped her hand from his arm, taking a hasty step back from him. "I am glad you mentioned the guests," she said, her eyes fixed on the front of his jacket. "I feel I really ought to warn you."

"Warn me?" he repeated, frowning in confusion. "What on earth are you talking about?"

She remained silent for so long, he wondered if she meant to ignore him. He was about to press for an explanation when she gave an uneasy laugh. "It would seem that the clergy was right, my lord, and that reading Byron does have a most lamentable effect on female minds," she said, her falsely light tone making his eyes narrow in suspicion.

"Meaning?" he asked, certain he would not care for whatever she was about to say.

"Meaning that you, sir, have been cast in our younger guests' minds as the very epitome of some of the baron's more interesting heroic characters."

"
What?
"

"Come, now." She gave another laugh, still managing to avoid his gaze. "You must know the ladies regard you as a dark and mysterious lord. To them you are the stuff of legends, and they are completely in awe of you. I . . . I merely thought you would wish to know."

Connor felt his cheeks heat with embarrassment. He'd dreaded being stared at as if he was some sort of freak, but the last thing he expected was that he should be regarded as some sort of dashing, romantic figure. The thought was so startling that a reluctant smile began to spread across his face.

"Byron?" he asked, his lips twitching as he gazed down at her.

"Undoubtedly. His lordship's epic poems are the rage amongst the young ladies," she said, finally raising her eyes to his. "If you want my opinion, they are already half in love with you. Your mother tells me there is nothing like a dark and mysterious reputation to make a lady go weak in the knees. We shall doubtlessly have to send to York for an entire vat of smelling salts if we mean to make it through the next fortnight."