Authors: Joan Overfield
"Indeed?" Connor's voice was frosty with fury. "Then perhaps you are not as
au courant
with fashion as you would like to believe. According to the last issue of
Le Beau Monde
, wearing one's riding togs in the drawing room is the latest thing!"
"Perhaps, but only if the jackets are cut to fit, and don't look as if they are about to burst at the seams!" Portia retorted, and then covered her mouth with her hand. She hadn't meant to say that, and the look of pain that flashed across the earl's face made her want to crawl off in shame.
"Oh, dear," she said, lowering her hand to her lap and sending his lordship an apologetic look. "What a dreadful cat you must think me. I am sorry, my lord. I assure you it was not my intention to be so offensive."
Connor's anger faded at her obvious regret. "It is I who ought to apologize to you, Miss Haverall," he said quietly. "I promised you I wouldn't
fly up in the boughs and then I all but bit off your nose when you but expressed your opinion. An opinion I myself solicited."
"Yes, but I didn't need to be so cutting," Portia insisted, still burning with remorse. "I hate it when other people snipe at me, regardless if I asked for their opinion or not. May I hope I haven't offended you beyond all bearing?" she asked tipping her head to one side and sending him a penitent look.
There was no way Connor could withstand so pretty an appeal, and he gave her a reluctant smile. "I am not offended," he said, retrieving his teacup from the side table and raising it to his lips. "Annoyed, perhaps, because you are right," he added with a flash of rueful honesty, "but I am not offended."
"Good." She gave a grateful sigh and turned her attention to her tea.
"What are you going to do about it?"
"Sir?" The non sequitur made her frown.
"My wardrobe," Connor reminded her, enjoying her look of confusion. "After castigating it as you did, I can only assume you were about to offer a solution. You were, weren't you?" he added when she continued staring at him blankly.
"Not precisely, my lord," she said, and then blushed furiously at the smug expression on his face. "That is, I was going to suggest you ask Mr. McLean for the name of his tailor, but that is all. If he lives in London, I am sure he must know what is all the crack."
"Oh, yes, Keegan is quite the dandy," Connor drawled, thinking of his elegant friend's fastidious nature. "But I hardly think a London tailor would do us any good."
"Perhaps not, but surely he must know the name of a local tailor? Someone in York, perhaps,"
Portia insisted, wishing she knew more of such matters. "We shall have to move fast if we hope to have you rigged out by next week."
"Next week?"
"The tea," she reminded him, eager to begin implementing her and the countess's careful scheme. "I was thinking Wednesday afternoon would be best. If that is all right with you?" She gave him an inquiring look.
He raised an eyebrow mockingly. "Do you mean I actually have a say in any of this?" he teased, amused at the efficient way she was taking command. She was rather like a filly who, with the bit firmly between her teeth, was determined to race headlong in whatever direction she chose.
"Certainly you have a choice." She scowled at him, annoyed by his obtuse behavior. "If Wednesday does not suit you, we can send out the invitations for Thursday."
Connor's lips twitched, but he was too wise to grin. "Wednesday is fine," he said, his voice as impassive as his expression. "Any particular time on Wednesday? I will need to know so that I might plan my day accordingly," he added innocently when she gave him a suspicious frown.
"Two o'clock," she said decisively, thinking that would be as good a time as any. "And I would also appreciate it if you would make yourself available for the next few afternoons."
"I should be delighted." He inclined his head with mock gravity. "Do you wish me to escort you into town?"
"Certainly not!" Portia laughed at the notion that she should require escort anywhere. "It is just that I wish you to be free."
"Free for what?" he wanted to know.
"Your fittings, of course," she said, as if to a
child. "The moment we learn the name of Mr. McLean's tailor I mean to send the man a note asking him to come to Hawkshurst at once. The sooner you are fitted for your new wardrobe, the better."
6
T
wo days later, Portia was hard at work in the study Lady Eliza had set aside for her use. The tea party had somehow become a garden party, and to her dismay the guest list had grown to include some thirty persons, and it showed no sign of stopping. She had tried mentioning her concerns to the countess, but the older woman had waved aside her objections.
"Nonsense, child, what is one person more or less?" she asked with a merry laugh. "Besides, as my mama-in-law use to say, ' 'Tis better to invite everybody than to risk offending anybody.' Just see to it, my dear, and I am sure all will be fine."
Portia was glad her ladyship was so optimistic, for she was beginning to experience serious trepidation regarding her ability to pull everything together in time. The staff was wonderful, thankfully, and even seemed to welcome the challenge of putting the house to rights. Even his lordship was cooperating . . . for him. Rather than wasting time with a letter, he'd ridden into York to visit his friend and returned with not only the name of Mr. McLean's tailor, but also a new valet, a small, delicately built man who went by the name of Samuels. He'd recently left the employ of a renowned dandy, and he had solemnly assured Portia he
would make it his personal mission to bring his lordship "up to snuff," as he put it.
The weather was also cooperating, the cool, damp days giving way to warm sunlight and soft, summer breezes. The garden was a veritable riot of roses and pinks, and gazing out the window at the lavishly colored blossoms, Portia was forced to admit that everything was going remarkably well. The worries she were experiencing had little to do with the house, the guests, or even Lord Doncaster himself. The fault, as Shakespeare had so aptly put it, lay deep within herself.
She had been at Hawkshurst almost a fortnight, and with the exception of a few sharp exchanges with the earl, she had managed to behave with propriety. Lady Eliza was constantly praising her manners, and yesterday she had heard Mrs. Lester, the countess's housekeeper, remarking to one of the maids that she had never seen a sweeter young lady. But what would happen once there were other people about? she brooded, laying her forehead against the cool windowpane. Would she succeed in conducting herself with decorum and grace, or would she fall back on her old ways and shock everyone with her sharp tongue and unbecoming frankness?
It wasn't that she meant to misbehave, she assured herself anxiously; it was just that she'd never been able to twist herself into the mold society deemed proper for an unmarried young lady. Her father had taught her as he would have taught a son, and it wasn't until she was in her late teens that she discovered most people found her manner objectionable. Learning she was regarded as a quiz had stung her girlish pride, and she'd responded by behaving even more outrageously, delighting in her well-deserved reputation as a termagant.
But in the end she had paid a dear price for her defiance. Invitations had grown fewer and fewer in that last year, and with the exception of Lady Catherine DeClaire and Thomasina Perryvale, the new Duchess of Tilton, she had no true friends. Even her papa had turned against her, condemning her for the very traits he had instilled in her, and that had hurt more than anything she had ever deemed possible. She could not bear it if the same thing were to happen here.
She was standing at the window, still lost in her unhappy thoughts, when the sound of shouting gradually pierced her awareness. At first she thought the noise was coming from outside, and then she realized it was coming from the floor above her. What on earth . . . ? she thought, brows gathering in a frown as she started toward the door. She had just opened it and was peeking out into the hall when she saw the earl's newly hired tailor rushing down the stairs, his face flushed with temper.
"Never have I have been so insulted!" she heard him rage, his words ringing with indignation. "The townsfolk are right, the man is a monster! A barbarian! He is a philistine, and I refuse to squander my abilities on such as him!"
It took Portia less than a second to realize the significance of his dramatic statement, and she rushed out to stop him. "Monsieur André! Monsieur André! Please wait!" she called out, picking up her skirts and giving chase. "Do not go!"
The tailor turned at the bottom of the stairs, his cheeks pink with paint and fury. "I have sewn for kings!" he announced, shaking his tape at Portia. "For emperors! I have survived revolutions, wars, a dreadful winter in London that does not bear discussing, but I will not survive another moment
in that man's company! I am going. Do not try to stop me!"
"But monsieur, what has happened?" Portia interposed herself between the irate man and the door. "I am sure this is all a silly misunderstanding, and—"
"I will tell you what happened," the earl's voice boomed out, and Portia looked up to see him leaning over the rail of the staircase. "That manmilliner wants to put me in stays!"
"They are not stays!" Monsieur André denied, tossing back his dark curls with a grace a girl might envy. "They are a device of my own design to hide the imperfections of my clients." He turned to Portia, who was trying not to laugh at the image of a scowling Lord Doncaster being laced into a corset.
"His lordship is too . . . how shall I say . . .
masculine
to wear my clothes," he said earnestly, his ebony eyes shining with fervor. "He is too broad here—" He patted his meager chest "—and too big here—" he indicated his slender shoulders "—to wear the jacket I have designed. I would have to sacrifice the lapels to ensure a proper fit, and that, mademoiselle, I refuse to do!"
Portia bit the inside of her cheek to keep from bursting into laughter. "I see," she said carefully, her voice shaking as she tried to compose herself. Lord Doncaster had come down the stairs, and if the wrathful scowl on his face was any indication, his mood was every bit as recalcitrant as monsieur's. Clearly a compromise of sorts was in order if she hoped to salvage the situation, and she forced herself to think logically.
"Perhaps you might design another jacket for his lordship," she suggested, giving the irate tailor a hopeful smile. "One with narrower lapels, or—"
"My jackets are known for their lapels!" Mon
sieur André interrupted, all but bristling with indignation. "To cut them by even a centimeter would be a desecration! I will not do it."
"Then perhaps a modified version of your . . . er . . . device," she suggested, trying another tactic, praying Lord Doncaster would cooperate—a hope that was quickly dashed by his furious response.
"I'm not wearing stays like an old woman!" he snapped, crossing his arms as he glared at both Portia and the tailor. He was wearing a white shirt of fine lawn, and the sight of his broad chest brought a flush to her cheeks.
"You see?" monsieur demanded of her, waving his tape like a battle pennant. "The man is an imbecile, with no sense of fashion. I wash my hands of him and this house!" And he turned toward the door.
"But monsieur, what of the earl's wardrobe?" Portia was desperate enough to plead. "We are having a garden party in a few days. What shall we do for clothes?"
The tailor whirled around and gave her a supercilious smirk. "Perhaps as mademoiselle presumes to tell André how to cut his jackets, she would prefer to design them herself?" he suggested with a sniff. "If so, you will need this." He tossed her the tape measure and stalked away, his beaked nose held high in the air.
"Of all the impudence . . . " Lord Doncaster started forward, his jaw clenched with anger. Portia reached out and snagged him by the sleeve.
"Never mind, my lord," she said, her voice heavy with resignation. "It is no use trying to stop him. I fear he has already gone."
"Stop him?" he echoed, sending her an incredulous look. "I was going to help him on his way, preferably with my boot to his backside! If he ever
dares set foot on Hawkshurst again, I shall have him shot!"
Although this was a sentiment Portia more than shared, she felt obliged to venture a gentle scold. "You shouldn't be so hard on the poor man, your lordship," she began in a firm voice. "He was but attempting to do his duty, and—" Her resolve and her voice both wavered. "Stays?" she asked, her eyes dancing with the laughter she could no longer suppress.
"They were sewn into the front of the jacket," he said, his lips beginning to twitch as well. "An ingenious device, I grant you, but dashed uncomfortable. When I put the wretched thing on I couldn't so much as draw a breath." He grinned down at her, his tone provocative as he added, "Now I know what you poor ladies endure in the name of fashion. You have my undying sympathy, I promise you."
His warm tone and the gleam in his eyes brought Portia to a sudden awareness of their positions. Her hand was resting on his muscled forearm, and he was standing so close to her she could feel his warm breath against her cheek. She dropped her hand and took a discreet step away from him.
"Well, it seems we are right back where we started," she said, her light tone hiding her inner turmoil. "The garden party is in less than a week, and you've not so much as a decent shirt to your name."
Connor gave her a thoughtful look, taking in the delightful flush on her cheeks and the way her eyes would not quite meet his. He knew he should follow her example and excuse himself, but he was oddly averse to do so. Standing so near to her, he could catch the soft scent of her perfume, and
he allowed himself the luxury of inhaling her sweet fragrance before moving reluctantly away.
"Come, ma'am, you are being unconscionably hard on my wardrobe," he teased, matching his tone to hers. "Things are not quite so bleak as
that
."
"As good as," she said, and then gave him a considering look, as if only now noticing he was in his shirtsleeves. "Although that shirt you are wearing seems adequate enough."