Authors: Joan Overfield
"Than I shall wear it, and nothing else," he said, some imp of mischief goading him on. "Perhaps I shall set a new fashion amongst the gentlemen."
The color in her cheeks intensified. "A shortlived fashion, if the ladies have anything to do with it!" she snapped, furious with herself for being affected by his boldness. "The thought of unclothed gentlemen in the parlor is not to be borne!"
"Unclothed gentlemen?" he repeated, his eyes round with mock incredulity. "You shock me, Miss Haverall, indeed you do.
I
was but suggesting I do without my jacket. Whatever did you think I meant?" He added this last with such patent innocence that Portia gave a soft laugh.
"Wretch!" she accused, the harsh word belied by the smile on her lips. "I am serious, you know. You need new clothes."
"I do not see why," he said, taking her arm and guiding her into the parlor. "I have a wardrobe full of clothes I've not worn in years. Won't they do?"
"Only if you want people to take you for a quiz." Portia sighed, shaking her head at the foibles of men. "Ah, well, I suppose we've really no choice; they will have to suffice until we can find you another tailor."
"If he is anything like the last one, you may
spare yourself the effort," he said firmly, all but cringing in repugnance. "I refuse to have another tulip like that fluttering about me."
"Then what do you suggest we do?" Portia queried, annoyance beginning to affect her usual enjoyment of the ridiculous. She and Lady Eliza were both going to a great deal of effort on the earl's behalf, and it seemed to her the least he could do was to take some effort with his appearance.
Her sharp tone made Connor's eyebrows arch. He'd been about to suggest they send to York for another tailor and pay him double to stitch something up, but now he was hanged if he would say a single word. Instead he lounged against the mantel, his manner indifferent as he sent her a cool look. "I haven't the slightest idea, Miss Haverall," he challenged, neatly returning the ball to her court. "What do
you
suggest?"
Portia's hands clenched, and for a moment she was wildly tempted to tell him he could take his blasted jackets and feed them to the pigs. The words even formed on her lips, but she bit them back with herculean effort. Her days of saying whatever she pleased were behind her, she told herself sternly, and regardless of the temptation, she would control her tongue.
Very well, she thought, her foot tapping out an impatient tattoo as she considered the matter of the earl's wardrobe. What would she do? Since the garden party was looming, a proper day coat and breeches were clearly the most pressing priority; everything else could wait. She weighed all the options available to her, arriving at what she considered the best solution for all.
"I suggest we have Samuels look through your wardrobe and choose the least offensive items," she said slowly, working out the matter as she
spoke. "Then we can have your mother's modiste perform whatever alterations are necessary to bring them up to current fashions." She folded her arms, and gave him a look as if daring him to object. "What do you say, my lord?"
Her cleverness impressed Connor, and he had to concede her plan was a good one. Not that he was about to admit as much, of course. Instead he pretended to consider the notion, his mouth pursing in a thoughtful frown as he regarded her.
"I am not certain I care for the idea of that any more than I liked having that French fop flitting about me," he said at last, moving his shoulders in a dismissive shrug. "You shall have to think of something else."
Portia, who had expected him to accept her idea with suitable gratitude, scowled in annoyance. "Why should I want to do that?" she demanded. " 'Tis the perfect solution, and you know it!"
He decided to grant her that much, although he still feigned obstinacy. "I am not having that henwitted female take my measurements," he stated, chin firming as he gave her his coldest look. That look had been known to make grown men quake with fright, but he was pleased to see it had no discernible effect on her. Indeed, she looked as if she'd like nothing better than to hit him over the head with another bed warmer.
"All right then, perhaps Samuels could—"
"No," he interrupted, enjoying himself to the hilt. "He is nice enough, but he puts me too much in mind of Monsieur André."
She shot him a look fairly dripping with scorn. "Then who do you suggest, my lord?" she snapped caustically. "Williams?"
The idea of the rigidly proper butler performing what he would surely deem a menial task almost made Connor laugh aloud. He knew he had
teased her long enough, and was about to agree to whatever she wished when he noticed she was still holding the measuring tape Monsieur André had hurled at her. He stared at it for a moment, a roguish plan forming in his mind. He raised his gaze to find her watching him, and gave her a slow smile.
"If you are so determined to rig me out like some simpering dandy," he drawled, his eyes full of challenge, "
you
may do the honors."
To his amusement she turned a rosy hue. "Lord Doncaster!"
"You object?" he asked, as if surprised.
"Certainly I object," she sputtered. " Tis the most improper thing I have ever heard!"
"And you, of course, would never dream of doing anything improper," he returned, nodding his head as if in agreement. "Very well, Miss Haverall, as I have no desire to put you to the blush we shall forget this entire conversation took place. Now if you will excuse me, I shall return to my room." He pushed himself away from the mantel as if to go.
"But what about your wardrobe?" she asked, chewing her lip and regarding him with marked suspicion.
"What about it?" he asked, shrugging his shoulders indifferently. "
I
am not the one who finds it so objectionable. If you are not prepared to remedy the situation, then there is nothing left to say."
Portia stared at him, torn between disbelief and sheer temper. The wretch! He had no intention of having her measure him for a new wardrobe; he was only using her refusal as an excuse not to cooperate! Well, she decided, her lips thinning as she saw the smug satisfaction in his green eyes, they would see about that!
"As you wish, my lord," she said calmly, lifting
her eyes to meet his. "If you would be so good as to hold your arms out at your sides, I shall begin."
Her boldness shocked Connor almost as much as it delighted him. He'd expected her either to blush and stammer in embarrassment, or to toss the tape in his face and tell him to go to the devil. That she had done neither intrigued him, and he decided it would be interesting to see how far she was prepared to go. Hiding a smile, he crossed the room to stand before her.
"Like this, do you mean?" he drawled, holding his arms out as she had bade him.
The sight of his massive chest and muscled arms inches from her nose made the breath catch in Portia's throat. The only other man she'd seen in his shirtsleeves was her father, and he had looked nothing like his lordship. Indeed, she thought, swallowing self-consciously, she found it difficult to believe any man could look half so vital as the earl. She clutched the measuring tape, drawing a deep breath for comfort before meeting his gaze with as much equanimity as she could muster.
"I will need pen and paper so that I can write down your measurements," she said, her voice wooden as she ordered herself not to blush.
"Top drawer," he said, nodding at the elegant writing desk in front of the narrow windows. "Mother usually keeps her stationery there."
Grateful for the chance to leave his disturbing presence, she hurried across the room to retrieve the needed items. When she returned, the earl was regarding her with such a look of innocence that she was instantly suspicious.
"Where do you wish to start?" he asked, his deep voice rich with laughter and challenge.
She glared at him, wishing the tape was a garrote so that she could have the pleasure of throt
tling him. "The neck, I suppose," she said with a singular lack of enthusiasm, stepping closer and raising her arms to loop the tape about his tanned throat.
He was so tall she had to stand on her toes to put the pieces of tape together, and the action brought her even closer to his muscular body. She could feel the warmth of his skin, and smell the crisp, masculine scent of the cologne he favored, and the sensations made her concentration waver. Unbidden, she found herself wondering what it would be like if those strong arms hanging loosely at his side were to close about her and . . .
"Not so tight, if you please," he protested, wincing slightly as she tightened her hold on the tape. "I have no wish to be strangled."
"A tempting thought," she muttered darkly, gritting her teeth when he gave a rich chuckle in response.
"What next?" he asked, his gaze resting on her as she stepped back to jot down the numbers.
Portia's fingers tightened on the quill. "Your . . . your chest," she said, unable to meet his eyes. This was proving even harder than she imagined, and she was strongly tempted to admit defeat. Only the knowledge that such cowardice would doubtlessly delight him kept her from doing just that, and she mentally stiffened her spine as she turned back to him.
She kept her manner brisk and her face blank as she reached around him, ignoring the racing of her heart. The rising and falling of his chest was almost as big a distraction as the cloud of dark hair she could see beneath the thin fabric of his shirt, but she stoically paid them no mind. Finally it was over, and she uttered a silent prayer as she wrote down the last figure.
"Here you are, my lord," she said, eyes averted
as she handed him the piece of paper. "You may present these to the modiste."
"Do you mean to say we are finished?" he asked, eyes mocking as his fingers closed around the paper. "What of the rest of my clothing? As you have already pointed out, I can hardly appear in society dressed only in a shirt."
Portia took his meaning at once. "I am sure your valet is far more capable of finishing the task, my lord," she muttered, willing herself not to blush.
He gave her a wicked grin. "More capable, perhaps," he conceded in that low, mocking voice she was coming to recognize, "but I doubt I would enjoy the experience nearly as much."
Her face flamed red, and she threw the tape in his face. "You may go the devil!" she exclaimed, almost hating him in that moment. The sound of his laughter followed her as she fled from the room, and she vowed furiously that if it was the last thing she did, she would make him pay for his mockery.
The day of the garden party dawned cool and gray, the heretofore blue skies leaden with the promise of rain. Portia stood in front of the French doors leading out into the gardens, her expression as stormy as the weather as she stared out at the tables and chairs she and the staff had spent most of yesterday arranging. The thought that all of their efforts were for naught was most disheartening, but she brushed her disappointment aside and began formulating alternate plans should the worst occur. She was weighing the possibility of moving the festivities to the orangery when she heard the countess's Bath chair behind her. She turned just as the countess, pushed by a footman, entered the room.
"Never say it is raining!" Lady Eliza exclaimed in disgust, dismissing the footman.
"Not yet, but I fear it may before the afternoon is over," Portia said with a sigh, moving away from the window. "Ah, well, I suppose it was too much to expect the good weather to hold."
"What nonsense. We often have beautiful weather this time of year. This is all your fault!" Lady Eliza retorted, fixing Portia with a dark scowl.
"My fault?" Portia repeated, stung by the accusation.
"Certainly. If you had invited the vicar, as Connor suggested, this would never have happened. It never does to insult God, you know."
The waspish reply made Portia laugh. "You are the one who said the man was an unmitigated bore," she reminded the countess, moving to sit at her desk. "And for your information, my lady, I did invite the good vicar. He and his wife will be here along with the rest of your neighbors."
"Hmmmph. So we will be preached to death as well as rained upon," Lady Eliza grumbled, drumming her fingers on the handle of her chair. "I must say this is vexing; nothing is going as I had hoped it would."
The surprising observation made Portia glance up from the list she had been perusing. "Whatever do you mean?" she asked, puzzled and more than a little hurt by the countess's words. She'd worked very hard on the party, and she thought everything had been going remarkably well.
The countess saw the hurt on Portia's face and gave a self-deprecatory shrug. "Oh, dear, I hadn't meant to sound quite so critical," she apologized. "You have done an excellent job of arranging this party, and I am quite sure it will be a wonderful success. It is just that I am worried about Connor."
Portia stiffened at the sound of the earl's name. In the days since the incident in the parlor she had gone out of her way to avoid him, and when she could not, she treated him with stilted civility. He seemed to find her efforts most amusing, and more than once she had longed to slap the knowing smile from his lips. Arrogant devil, she brooded resentfully. Whatever had made her think him a cold fish? He was a teasing, provoking beast, and she was still determined to exact her revenge on him. All that remained was deciding where and how she would do it.
Realizing the countess was waiting for her reply, Portia bestirred herself and gave the older woman a look of polite inquiry. "What of his lordship?" she asked, pleased with her cool tone. "There isn't a problem with his wardrobe, is there?"
"No, thank heaven," the countess said with a relieved sigh. "In fact, the lad has seldom looked better. That valet of his is a wonder with a thread and needle, and he has brought several of Connor's jackets up to crack. No, 'tis not the clothes themselves that bother me; rather 'tis the man inside those clothes."
Portia gaped at Lady Eliza in amazement. However angry she might be at his lordship, she still admired him, and she found it difficult to imagine him doing anything to bring disgrace on himself or his family name.