Authors: Joan Overfield
"If you will pardon me, I believe I shall retire to my room for the evening," she said, keeping her face expressionless as she met the earl's watchful gaze. "What time would you like to leave tomorrow, my lord?"
He took so long in answering that Portia wondered if she should repeat the question. "Two o'clock will be fine," he said at last, his gaze thoughtful as he studied her. "In the meanwhile, I will send them notes so that they will expect us. I do not wish to arrive unannounced."
That made sense to Portia, and she murmured her agreement. She walked over to the door, and was surprised when the earl moved away from the fireplace to join her.
"I would like a word with you, if you do not mind," he said, opening the door with one hand, and cupping her elbow with the other. He guided her out into the hall, and after a quick glance about to make sure they were alone, he turned back to her.
"I haven't had a chance to thank you for your quick thinking," he said, his voice low as he took her hand in his. "I am not certain what I would have done had it not been for your . . . creative diversion shall we say. It was most effective."
"You did say I could do whatever I pleased so long as I did not set fire to the drapes," Portia reminded him, her heart racing at the feel of his warm hand cradling hers. She wasn't so green that this was the first time a gentleman had ever held her hand, but it was the first time she had enjoyed it so much. The realization shocked her, and she ruthlessly suppressed it.
The edges of his mouth curved in a wry smile. "So I did," he agreed with a low chuckle. "Now I
wonder if a small fire would have proven less dangerous than an imaginary snake. I have never seen a room emptied quite so quickly. It is a miracle no one was injured in the rush for the door."
Despite her conflicting emotions, Portia was unable to hold back a slight smile. "I did see the vicar's wife moving with amazing dexterity," she informed him, eyes sparkling. "And the vicar himself managed to push his way past several of the younger ladies to be among the first out of the room. I was shocked."
"Yes, one would think a man of God would have more courage when confronting a serpent," he agreed, raising her hand to his lips for a brief kiss. "My thanks once again, Portia," he said, his voice unexpectedly grave as he used her given name for the first time. "I am in your debt."
Portia knew she should respond, but for the life of her, the words would not come. A dozen different thoughts and emotions whirled about in her head, and she could not even begin to sort them all out. Finally her pride asserted itself, and she even managed a polite smile as she tugged her hand free from his.
"You are most welcome, sir," she said, her voice coolly polite as she stepped back. "Now if you will excuse me, I really am tired. Good evening, my lord. I shall see you tomorrow afternoon." With that she turned and hurried away, unaware of the dark-green eyes that followed her flight.
Connor spent the next morning tending to his estate, and brooding over the coming afternoon. He was already regretting his impulsive promise to visit the Darlingtons, but having given his word, he could think of no honorable way to cry off. He was well and truly trapped, and the feeling of helplessness added to his growing resentment.
This was all Portia's fault, he decided, grunting as he heaved a bale of hay down from the loft. If she hadn't insisted upon rigging him out like a London dandy, none of this would have happened. He had been content with the way things were, and he could see no reason why he should change to accommodate her.
Less than a moment after these unworthy thoughts popped into his head, he was renouncing them with an angry mutter. If anyone was to blame for yesterday's farce, it was himself. He should have known better than to think the Ox could make it through even so prosaic an event as a tea party without making an ass out of himself. Perhaps that would have made a more fitting nickname, he mused, tossing another bale over the edge, although he supposed it lacked the panache of "the Ox from Oxford."
"'Ere now! Mind where ye be tossin' them bales!" an indignant voice cried out, and Connor glanced down to see the stable hand who had been assisting him glowering up at him.
"Aye, I be down 'ere, me lord," the older man retorted with a singular lack of respect, "although ye liked to flatten me with that last bale!"
Connor was too accustomed to the man's sharp tongue to take umbrage at such frank speech. "My apologies, McNeil," he called down, wiping his arm across his sweat-dampened forehead. "I fear I wasn't as attentive as I should have been."
"Maybe we need to be tradin' places," the older man suggested with an aggrieved scowl. "A man what can't keep 'is mind on 'is work oughtn't to be tossin' 'ay down from a loft."
As this was patently true, Connor took no offense. He had worked long and hard to be accepted by his men, and he wasn't about to jeopardize that by flying into the boughs because
of a well-deserved scold. He apologized once again and went back to work, this time taking greater care.
After tossing down the last bale, Connor climbed down and began raking out the stalls. The work was hard, but he took pleasure in it, easily losing himself in the backbreaking task. If only the rest of life was as simple as mucking out a stall, he thought, indulging in a rare philosophical moment. He could deal with the dirt and the sweat, but the intricacies of society often left him baffled.
He was mulling over the matter when something made him glance up. Miss Haverall was standing in the doorway, her gray eyes wide as they rested on his bare chest. He set his shovel to one side, and reached for the shirt he had discarded earlier.
"Good morning, ma'am," he said, pulling the rough cambric over his head, and doing his best to look nonchalant. "Is there something I can do for you?"
She swallowed nervously, her eyes wide as they rested on his hair-roughened chest. " I . . . Lady Eliza asked that I bring you back to the house," she stammered, her cheeks beginning to grow pink with embarrassment. "She is afraid you will be late if we do not hurry."
"That is very kind of Mother, but unnecessary. I was just about to stop for the day," Connor replied, grabbing his jacket from the hook by the door. He could tell that she was deeply shocked, but decided it was wisest to say nothing. If he apologized, it would draw attention to the fact that she had glimpsed him half-clothed, which would only add to her mortification.
They walked back toward the house in silence. Portia was slightly ahead of him, and if the stiff
way she held herself was any indication, it was obvious she was doing her best to recover her composure. He decided he had remained silent long enough, and lengthened his stride until he was beside her.
"And how did you spend your morning, ma'am?" he asked in what he hoped was a casual manner. "I trust you and Mama have been keeping yourselves busy?"
"Indeed we have, sir," she replied, her gaze set firmly in front of her. "We have finished all of our correspondence, and are looking over menus for the next fortnight."
"I trust you remembered to tell Cook not to prepare any more oysters," Connor remarked, determined to set her at her ease. "I cannot imagine what made her serve them in the first place. She must know I can not abide shellfish."
"I will have a word with her," she replied, keeping her eyes fixed firmly ahead of her as she continued up the path.
Connor decided he'd had enough, and stopped walking. "Blast it, Portia," he exclaimed, reaching out to snag her arm and pull her to a halt. "Will you stop acting so missish? I am sorry you saw me without my shirt, but I always take it off when I am working with the hay. How was I to know you would be in the stables!"
To his annoyance she took instant umbrage to his words. "I am not behaving missishly!" she denied, jerking her elbow free and glaring at him through narrowed eyes. "And as for my being in the stables, I told you your mother sent me to fetch you!"
"I don't care why you were there, I am only saying that I didn't mean to shock you," Connor said through clenched teeth, determined not to lose his
temper. He couldn't remember the last time a female had affected him so strongly, but he did know he was growing weary of it.
"I wasn't shocked . . . precisely," she replied, relaxing enough to offer him a tentative smile. "Now, let us say no more of the matter. I am sure you will agree the less said, the better."
Connor did not agree, but as a gentleman he must do as she requested. They resumed walking, and this time it was Portia who broke the silence.
"I must say I am looking forward to seeing a bit more of the countryside today," she remarked as they skirted a hay cart. "Is it as lovely as they say it is?"
"Better," he said, feeling a twinge of guilt as he realized he had been derelict in his duties as a host. It should have occurred to him that Portia would want the chance to explore the neighborhood. "Perhaps if we have time I shall drive you into York so that you can see the minster," he offered, anxious to correct his negligence. "It is huge, and, to my mind, every bit as grand as the cathedral in Canterbury."
"Spoken like a true Yorkshireman, my lord," Portia said, and Connor relaxed at the teasing note in her voice. He'd grown accustomed to speaking freely with her, and it troubled him to have the slightest onmity between them.
"Perhaps that is because we have so much to be proud of," he suggested, noting with regret that they had almost reached the house. He was enjoying their talk so much, he would not have objected if they kept walking for the rest of the afternoon. Ah, well, he consoled himself with a sigh, there was still the drive to the Darlingtons'. The thought made him smile, and suddenly he could not wait for the afternoon to arrive.
Portia and Connor, accompanied by Gwynnen, set out for their journey in high spirits. The Darlingtons' home lay between Hawkshurst and York, and they reached it in less than half an hour. Portia was not surprised to find the entire family assembled in the drawing room awaiting their arrival. Mrs. Darlington had indeed recovered her nerves, and if her greeting to Portia was less cordial than it might have been, there was no faulting the warmth with which she welcomed the earl.
"
Dear
Lord Doncaster," she fairly gushed, thrusting out her hand to Connor so that he might kiss it. "Such a delight to see you again! And pray how is your mama this morning?"
"She is well, ma'am," Connor answered, and the twinkle in his eyes told Portia he was doing his best not to laugh at the lady's effusive greeting. "I shall be certain to mention that you asked after her."
"I was going to call upon her myself," Mrs. Darlington continued in her ebullient manner, "for I have so many questions to ask her. There is the matter of clothes to be considered, of course, and the parties to be planned. My, but we shall be gay this summer! My girls and I are quite looking forward to it, aren't we, lambkins?" She turned a fond maternal eye on her three daughters sitting in blonde perfection on the opposite settee.
"Yes, Mama," they chorused, fluttering their lashes at Connor and sending him dimpled smiles.
"Naturally, one may hope the house will be cleansed of reptiles before the festivities begin," Mrs. Darlington added with a sniff, addressing Portia for the first time.
Portia, who had begun to grow bored with the pedestrian nature of the conversation, brightened at the display of poor manners. "Oh, there is no need to fear on that account, Mrs. Darlington," she
answered with a dimpled smile of her own. "I have had a new cage built for Prinny, and I assure you he shan't escape again. The poor thing was quite upset by all the excitement, you know. I was hours calming him down."
A stunned silence filled the room as the Darlingtons exchanged horrified looks. "You . . . you have a pet snake?" Mrs. Darlington asked, her voice shaking so much Portia wondered if they were about to be treated to another dramatic swoon.
"Just a tiny garden snake," Portia said, enjoying herself more than she had in months. "He is very colorful, however, which is why I named him for the Regent. His lordship gave him to me," she added, a sudden imp of mischief making her include the earl in her deception. To her delight he picked up the reins at once, his expression solemn as he took the cup of tea that a visibly shaken Mrs. Darlington offered him.
"Yes, I read a fascinating article in one of my farming journals suggesting that snakes are far better than cats at keeping the mice down," he said coolly, raising his cup to his lips. "It worked astonishingly well in the stables, and so I decided to try them in the house. We haven't heard a single squeak or rustle in weeks."
"Snakes, eh?" Mr. Darlington spoke for the first time, the expression on his florid face thoughtful. "Worth a try, I suppose. Only last week Cook was complaining about the vermin in our larder—"
"Edgar!"
"Papa!"
A chorus of outraged female voices drowned out the rest of Mr. Darlington's observation. The rest of the visit was conducted with stiff civility, and at the end the Darlingtons seemed almost re
lieved to be shed of their highborn guest and his outrageous companion.
"You are a menace," Connor remarked with a chuckle as they rolled down the road toward their next stop. He had eschewed his elaborate carriage and its driver in favor of his light phaeton, and he took obvious pleasure in handling the ribbons himself.
"Snakes in the house," he continued, shaking his head in mock despair. "I don't know what compelled me to support such an outrageous clanker. Now it will be all over the neighborhood that Hawkshurst is overrun with vipers."
"Better to be overrun with snakes than to lay claim to mice in the larder," Portia retorted with a smug laugh, reveling in the havoc she had caused. After so many months of determinedly minding her every word, it felt wonderful to be her old, contentious self again. Mayhap she would allow herself an outrageous remark or two a week, she decided with a secretive smile. She had forgotten how much fun it could be.
"That is true," Connor agreed with a grin. "Did you see the expression on our hostess's face when her husband blurted out his artless confession? I daresay she read him a thundering scold before the door had even closed behind us."