A Proper Taming (24 page)

"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 announced 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?"

The husky words made Portia's legs go weak, and had Connor not been holding her so possessively, she would have collapsed at his feet. "You . . . you love me?" she echoed, her eyes wide as she studied his face. "Are you certain?"

"Of course I am certain," he replied with a husky laugh, the joy and disbelief in her voice telling him all that he needed to know. Not that he was satisfied, of course. He gave her another kiss, his tongue briefly tasting her sweetness before he raised his head again.

"And now don't you think it is time you told me you loved me?" he asked, his hands disposing of her fichu so that he could stroke the creamy flesh revealed by the gown's neckline.

She sighed under his daring touch, surrendering the last of her fears and doubts. "I do love you," she agreed, and then spoiled her act of sweet submission by adding, "Although heaven knows why. You are a beast, you know."

He grinned, barely able to recall the time when similar words had caused him pain. "So I am," he drawled, "and you are the furthest thing from a lady I have yet to encounter. Can you think of two people who deserve each other more?"

Portia thought about that for a moment, and then gave a low laugh. "No, I cannot," she said, linking her arms around his neck as she smiled up at him. "Now stop chattering like a foolish schoolboy and tell me what the devil you meant by kissing Lady Duxford this afternoon. If you think I'll tolerate such behavior once we are married, you may think again."

Connor laughed at her threat, bending to kiss her sulky mouth. He explained his need to put his childish infatuation with Olivia behind him once and for all, and he was not in the least surprised that she understood at once.

"I only wish I might have made a similar peace with my father," she said, leaning her head against his shoulder, her eyes misting as she thought of the past. "He was always berating me for my lack of ladylike qualities, but I think perhaps he would be proud of me now."

"I am sure he was always proud of you," Connor said. "I think it is the way with parents and children to squabble. Besides—" He slipped his hand beneath her chin and raised her face to his "—had you been a lady, you would never have hit me over the head with a bed warmer, and then we might never have found ourselves standing out here."

"That is so." Portia was delighted to think he approved of her hoydenish ways. She gave him another grin, but when he would have kissed her she drew her head back with a jerk.

"Just let that be a warning to you," she cautioned with a scowl. "Chase another pretty blonde into a bedchamber, and I'll do more than dent a bed warmer over your hard head. I trust I have made myself clear?"

"Quite clear, love," Connor said solemnly, then tried to gather her close. Her side skirts interfered,
and he gave them an angry scowl. "Now I know why the damned things went out of style," he said. "The gentlemen of my grandfather's time wouldn't have tolerated such nonsense."

They continued kissing and making plans for their life together when the countess interrupted them. "If you have quite finished causing the scandal of the Season, do you think you might return to the ballroom to announce your engagement?" she asked in a sour tone, her eyes shining with satisfaction as she took in their mussed condition. "And kindly straighten your clothing; I'll not have people counting on their fingers when your son makes his appearance."

Both Connor and Portia blushed at such frank talk, but quickly followed her instructions. They were almost to the ballroom when Connor suddenly chuckled and pulled Portia to a halt.

"What is it?" she asked, gazing up into his face, her heart so filled with love it was a wonder it did not burst.

"I have just been thinking about your remark about costumes," he said, nodding at his mother's retreating back. "Do you not see how Mother is dressed?"

"Like a Grecian lady, I suppose," she said, unable to see his point. "But I—"

"Like the Oracle at Delphi," he corrected, laughing as he finally understood the way his mother had neatly been managing him. "All-knowing, and all-seeing, and very, very clever. Don't you see, my love? The wise old witch has outsmarted us all."

"And you do not mind?" Portia asked, thinking of the countess's cruel deception.

"So long as I have you, no." He bent and pressed a kiss to her mouth. "Although I do mean to have a word with her about the rig she has been
running for this past year. That damned Bath chair cost a fortune."

Portia gave him a startled look, and then abruptly she too was laughing. They were still laughing when they entered the ballroom, much to the astonishment of those present. The Beast and the hoyden, it would be whispered for several generations to come, had tamed each other.

About the Author

A winner of The Romance Writers of America's Golden Heart Award for Best Regency for her very first novel, Joan Overfield has written 23 Regency Historical Romances. In addition, she has also written two time travel romances: the ground-breaking THE DOOR AJAR and its sequel, TIME'S TAPESTRY. In 2000 Romantic Times Magazine voted THE DOOR AJAR one of the top 100 Romances of all time. Joan has made several bestsellers lists and won numerous awards for her work, including A Career Achievement Award in Regency Romance from Romantic Times magazine.

A life-long Anglophile, Joan uses her degrees in History and English to conduct research in the fascinating and colorful Regency period and has compiled an impressive library. She has also taught numerous workshops on the period and the craft of writing, is a member of the Beau Monde writers group, and is currently working on her newest novel.