Authors: Joan Overfield
Secretly, Portia thought that it did. She also recalled her papa saying the same thing to her, but looking back she wondered if her father was condemning her independent and willful ways, rather than praising them. Toward the end he had chastised her for what he termed her "unfeminine nature," and had begun urging her to consider her cousin Reginald's offer of marriage. At the time she'd thought he was simply trying to provoke her. Now she wasn't so sure.
"'Tis your nerves, that's what," Nancy decided, giving Portia's hand a brisk pat and bustling her under the covers. "And after the year you've had, 'tis no small wonder. First your poor father dying so sudden-like, and then that awful court battle to have his will overturned. I shouldn't doubt but that you're all out of curl. You just rest for a bit, and you'll soon be feeling your old self again. You'll see."
Portia dutifully closed her eyes, but as soon as
she heard the door closing behind Nancy, she opened them again.
My old self
, she thought bitterly, turning on her side. A fat lot of good her old self had ever done anyone.
She had barreled through life, behaving as outrageously as she pleased with no thought to the consequences. Even her squabbles with Papa, which had resulted in her being disinherited, had seemed a game. She'd loved provoking him, and she'd have sworn he'd enjoyed their spats with equal relish. Hadn't he been the one to teach her to use her own mind, and never to bow to any man?
But if that was true, she told herself, then why couldn't she shake the terrible feeling that she had disappointed him? Their last quarrel, caused by her refusal to consider her tiresome cousin's yearly offer of marriage, had been their most bitter, and the memory of it still hurt her deeply.
Reginald had come up from London for his annual visit, and as was his custom, he'd proposed. She'd refused, as she always did, and Reginald had returned to his home in the city. She'd thought that the end of it, until her father shocked her by hinting that marriage to Reginald, who was both a fop and a fool, might not be such a terrible fate after all.
"The lad merely wants guidance," he had insisted, glowering at her over the rim of his spectacles. "And you know there's nothing you'd relish more than leading some man about by the nose. The two of you are well-suited."
She'd replied tartly that the only place Reginald was likely to want guiding was to the nearest tailor, and the battle was joined. The more her father pressed the match, the more obstreperous she became. When her father disinherited her in his usual dramatic fashion, she retaliated by threaten
ing to run off and become a governess. They were still at daggers drawn when, three days later, he passed away quietly in his sleep.
That was what hurt most, she admitted, shifting restlessly beneath the thin blankets. Her father had died thinking her a failure, a sad disappointment to him because of her sharp tongue and willful ways. The last thing he had said to her on the night he died was that for once in his life, he would like to see her behave as a lady should. Now he was gone, and she was left to wonder if her pride and outspoken manner were worth the price she was now paying.
Well, no more, she decided, swiping at her tears. She had tried playing the stubborn shrew, and only look where it had landed her. From this day forward she would be the lady her father had wanted her to be. She would be demure, wellbehaved, and, above all else, she would hold her wretched tongue, regardless of the provocation. She had already made a good start of it, she mused, thinking of Mrs. Quincy. If she had managed to control both her temper and her tongue around that nagging female, then she could do anything. The thought cheered her, and she closed her eyes, sliding easily into a deep, peaceful sleep.
At first Portia thought the loud pounding on the door of her room was part of her fitful dream, and she snuggled deeper into the pillows. She was on the verge of drifting off again when a female scream sent her bolt upright in bed. What on earth? she wondered, shaking off sleep as she stared groggily about her. Then the screaming and pounding started again.
"The beast! The beast! Someone save me from the beast!"
The terror in the voice had Portia scrambling
out of bed, pulling on her night robe as she raced for the door. With no thought for her own safety, she fumbled with the bolt and threw open the heavy door.
"What is going on?" she snapped irritably, blinking at the petite blonde who was standing in front of her door. "What are you caterwauling about at this unseemly hour?"
Wasting no time with explanations, the blonde pushed herself past Portia and into the room.
"Oh, please, dear madam, close the door, I beg of you!" she cried, her blue eyes wide with fear as she pressed her back to the far wall. "He is after me!"
"Who is after you? Your husband?" Portia demanded, although she did as she was asked. She'd heard of men who brutally used their wives, and wondered if the poor girl was afflicted with such a creature. If so, she'd give the wretch a tonguelashing he'd not soon forget, she decided, her vow to be a lady forgotten as her lips thinned with anger.
The blonde shook her head, causing her golden curls to dance about her delicate face. "It is the . . . the beast!" she stammered, her voice quavering with dread. "I had heard he was fearsome, but he is an earl, after all, and I thought . . . Oh!" She buried her face in her hands. "I cannot go through with this! I wish to go home!"
It suddenly occurred to Portia that the pretty blonde, for all she was well-spoken, might be a doxy who'd had a falling-out with her protector. She also knew that a true lady of breeding such as herself should faint dead away at being faced with such an untenable situation, but her logical self argued that such behavior would be a colossal waste of time. Instead she turned her mind to helping the fear-stricken young woman.
"What did the beast do?" she asked, steeling herself to hear the worst. "Did he . . . er . . . assault you?"
The pretty blonde shook her head, her cheeks turning a delicate rose. "Oh, no, it was nothing like that! He has been a gentleman in
that
respect, but this is not at all what I was expecting when I agreed to go with him. He is so cold, so overpowering, that I vow I am in terror of him!" She raised tear-filled blue eyes to Portia's face. "Oh, you must help me escape him, ma'am!" she sobbed piteously. "You must!"
Portia hesitated, certain there must be more to the story than the pretty blonde was admitting to. As far as she could tell, "the beast," whoever he might be, had done nothing untoward. And yet why else would the young woman have fled into the night to escape him? Ah, well, Portia thought, giving a mental shrug, she supposed it did not matter.
"Have you money to secure passage home?" she asked, reaching a swift decision. While she was not an heiress, she felt her pockets were sufficiently plump to lend whatever assistance was required. Even if she had not had much money, she could hardly turn her back on the terrified creature standing before her. She had been raised to do her duty toward those in need, and clearly the young lady qualified on that account.
"Y-yes." The blonde gave an unhappy sniff. "But my bags are in the room his lordship arranged for me, and I dare not go back there! What if he should take me captive?"
Portia remained silent, considering the ramifications of any action she might take. She knew the wisest thing would be to summon the innkeeper and let him deal with the matter, but she quickly discarded the notion. For all she knew, the man
could be in league with this "beast," and would only deliver the woman back into his lordship's vile clutches the moment her back was turned.
"You may stay in my room for the night," Portia said, arriving at what she deemed the only possible solution. "In the morning, I shall send one of the maids to collect your things."
"Oh, ma'am!" Blue eyes filled with tears as the blonde clasped her hands together. "Thank you! You have saved me! How shall I ever repay you for your kindness?"
The heartfelt words made Portia wonder if she had mistaken the situation. Granted her knowledge of such things was practically nonexistent, but she much doubted a prostitute would have expressed such ardent thanks for being saved from a patron. She was about to renew her request for an explanation when a second bout of pounding on her door drowned out the rest of her thoughts.
"Miss Montgomery?" a deep male voice called out in obvious irritation. "Are you in there?"
"It is the beast!" the blonde shrieked, glancing wildly about her for a place to hide. "He has found me!"
"Blast it, ma'am, will you stop enacting a Cheltenham tragedy over this? Open this door at once!" the man demanded with what Portia regarded as unbelievable arrogance. She was about to call out for assistance when the latch rattled ominously, and she realized in horror that she had neglected to lock it.
Quickly she sought a weapon, her gaze falling on the long-handled brass bed warmer hanging by the hearth. She snatched it up in shaking hands, and whirled about to face the door just as it was thrust open. A very large, very fierce-looking man stood on the threshold, his black brows gathered
in a scowl as he glared at the blonde pressed against the wall.
"Miss Montgomery," he began, his voice clipped as he moved further into the room, "how many times must I explain that it is my mother who has engaged your services? I am but escorting you to her, and I assure you that I have no designs on your virtue. Now kindly return to your room; you are being tiresome."
"No!" the blonde exclaimed, continuing to cower in obvious fright. "Stay away from me, I shan't go with you! I shan't!"
The gentleman's green eyes narrowed with fury as he advanced inexorably toward his prey. "I warn you, ma'am, I am beginning to lose my patience with you," he said, his voice soft with menace. "If you do not come with me this very moment, I vow you shall have cause to regret it."
Portia had had enough of such blatant bullying. She stepped forward, raising the heavy bed warmer high above her head and then bringing it down with all her might. The blow connected solidly with the back of the intruder's head, bringing him crashing down like a felled tree.
The sight apparently proved too much for Miss Montgomery's sensibilities, for she uttered a piercing shriek and collapsed in a dead faint. Portia stared at her in dismay, her gaze moving from her crumpled form to that of the man she knew only as "the beast." Now what? she wondered, but before she could decide upon a course of action, her room was suddenly filled with strangers, all milling about and offering advice and admonishments in increasingly loud voices.
The commotion brought the innkeeper, clad in a faded night robe, querulously demanding what the devil was going on. Portia was about to oblige
him when he caught sight of the unconscious man lying on the floor.
"Good Lord love us!" he exclaimed, his voice so weak that Portia wondered if he was about to faint as well. "Ye've just killed the bloody earl!"
2
C
onnor Dewhurst, sixth earl of Doncaster, groaned at the pain throbbing in his head in rhythm with the beating of his heart. He must be as jug-bitten as a duke, and he stoically decided the discomfort he was experiencing was apt punishment for his sins. The odd thing was, he couldn't remember drinking a single glass of port, let alone the amount of spirits it would have taken to reduce him to this state. In fact, he realized, fighting against pain and panic, he couldn't remember anything at all! The acknowledgement startled him out of the black fog that filled his mind, and he struggled to focus his hazy thoughts.
The first thing he realized was that he was lying on the floor, and there was evidently a small riot raging above him. Several people were all shouting at once. It required all of his concentration to separate the voices so that he could make sense of them.
". . . in all my life!" he heard a woman exclaiming, outrage clearly evident in her sharp tones. "You, missy, are naught but a hoyden, and I wonder I should ever have been deceived by your simpering ways! I shouldn't remain with you now were you to offer me all the gold in Prinny's pocket!"
"Considering the paltry sum that would amount
to, Mrs. Quincy, I fear you are selling your services rather cheaply." He heard another woman— younger, judging from the sound of her voice— respond tartly, and he suppressed a grin at her cutting wit. It was just the sort of thing his mother would say, and he hoped he would remember it so that he might repeat it to her once he returned to Hawkshurst.
"We'll have to have the constable in." A man's whining voice rose above the others. "His lordship is a man of great power, and there's no telling what he'll do once he comes to his senses. He'll have us all transported, I'll be bound."
Connor wondered why he would desire to have anyone transported, but everything seemed such a muddle. Memory was slowly returning. He could vaguely remember arriving at an inn with his mother's newest companion. He'd met the tiresome creature in Cambridge and was escorting her back to his estate in Yorkshire per his mother's request.
The lady—Miss Montgomery, his addled brain provided—had seemed pleased with the situation at first, and had done everything within her power to fix his interest. But when he'd made it obvious that he wasn't taken with her, she'd withdrawn into silence, casting him nervous glances as if he was a cossack out on a rampage.
It was a reaction to which, over the years, he had become inured, especially from the fairer sex, and he'd ignored her inexplicable fear of him. He'd been preparing for bed when the maid he'd brought with him to act as chaperone had tapped on his door and announced Miss Montgomery had fled into the night. Disgusted, and more than a little concerned for her safety, he'd given chase, vowing to send her back to Cambridge on the next coach when he found her. His search had proven
fruitless, and he'd been about to return to his rooms and summon the innkeeper when he saw a door closing down the hall. He remembered knocking on the door, asking for Miss Montgomery, and then . . .