Authors: Joan Overfield
It took a moment for his words to penetrate the sensual fog filling Portia's mind. "I . . . I was going to, yes," she said, praying he wouldn't ask her to stay home. She had to see him again, even if they were surrounded by a dozen people.
He gave a curt nod, his hands clenched at his sides. "I shall see you then," he said, his voice still rough with passion. "Good night, Portia."
Portia spent a restless night reliving the kiss, and dreaming of Connor. She remembered the taste of his warm mouth on hers, and the feel of his hard, muscular body pressed so intimately against her own, and she trembled with thwarted passion. Thank heavens he had been gentleman enough to end the embrace when he had, she mused, turning onto her back with a sigh. She shuddered to think of what might have happened had he not been so noble.
It wasn't as if she'd never been kissed before, she fretted, frowning at the ceiling. She wasn't a wanton by any means, but neither was she a complete innocent. There had been a few stolen kisses here and there throughout her girlhood, but this was the first time a simple kiss had ever made her forget everything but the man holding her. Connor had made her feel things she had never felt before, and she greatly feared she had been on the verge
of surrendering more than her honor to him. She feared she had been about to offer him her heart as well.
She awoke late the next morning, bleary-eyed and edgy from lack of sleep. Since they weren't leaving for York until after luncheon, she was able to avoid the other guests by staying in her study and pretending to go over the plans for the costume ball. She heard from Nancy that Connor had gone about his morning chores as usual, but that he was expected to return by noon. The information made her breathe a silent sigh of relief, and she prayed she would have her errant emotions in hand before she must face him again.
They set out for York after luncheon, traveling in three separate coaches. In honor of the occasion Portia wore one of her new gowns of cherry-red muslin, a chip straw bonnet with a matching ribbon perched on her curls. A striped parasol and a pair of crocheted mitts completed the ensemble, and she felt confident she could hold her own amongst the well-dressed beauties. That she should care about such paltry concerns shamed her, but she took comfort in the fact that she was finally behaving like a true lady. Her father, she reflected with a grim smile, would doubtlessly be gratified.
In York they went first to the spectacular cathedral where they had arranged to meet Miss De-Camp and Mr. McLean. Despite her own troubling thoughts, Portia noted that Miss DeCamp seemed somewhat distressed, and while the others were admiring the stained-glass window, she drew her off for a private coze.
"Is everything all right, Miss DeCamp?" she asked, studying the other woman with concern. "You seem a trifle quiet today."
Miss DeCamp flushed guiltily. "I am sorry to be
such poor company," she said, her gaze sliding toward Mr. McLean, "but that wretch has been plaguing me all morning, and I vow, I have reached the end of my endurance!"
The vehemence in her voice startled Portia. "Indeed?" she asked, her own gaze shifting in the man's direction. "Has he been making untoward advances? If so, I am sure Lord Doncaster would be more than happy to have a word with him."
Miss DeCamp gave a nervous start. "It's nothing like that," she said, her color deepening. "It's simply that Mr. McLean is laboring under the misconception that I find his attentions flattering, and he has been making something of a pest of himself. But it is nothing I cannot handle on my own," she added, her chin lifting.
"Well, if you are certain," Portia said, smiling as she recalled her first impression of the other lady. "But if he gives you any further trouble, do not hesitate to inform his lordship. He will soon set the wretch straight."
"If the wretch gives me further trouble I shall push him off Clifford's Tower!" Miss DeCamp muttered with such feeling that Portia feared for the handsome rascal's safety.
While Portia talked to Miss DeCamp, Connor stood listening to Lady Langwicke rhapsodizing over the Rose Window, his hooded gaze never leaving Portia's face. He had always thought her lovely, but looking at her now, standing in the stone nave while a rainbow of colors from the soaring windows washed over her, he thought her the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. As if sensing his perusal she suddenly glanced up, her silver-gray eyes meeting his. For a brief moment time and place faded away, and he gazed at her with all the hunger he could no longer deny.
The memory of their brief kiss had stayed with
him all night and through the long morning. Even as he went about his daily chores he could still taste the honey of her lips, and it had taken all of his considerable control to push the image from his mind. He thought he had succeeded, but gazing at her soft lips now, it was all he could do to keep from closing the distance between them and helping himself to another sweet taste.
Even as the tempting thought was forming in his mind, Portia's cheeks grew pink, and she dropped her gaze and turned away. He was wondering if he should go to her when another group of people came into the cloister, tour books in hand. He started moving to one side when one of the ladies gave a startled gasp.
"My heavens, Lord Doncaster, is that you?" she exclaimed, her indigo eyes wide as she gazed up at him. "Do you not recognize me?" she asked, her lips curving in a reproving smile. "It is me, Olivia! What are you doing here?"
11
A
t first Connor could not believe the evidence of his own senses. In the years since Olivia's cruel rejection he'd often dreamed of meeting her again. He had wiled away many a lonely night imagining what he would say, and how he would behave should they ever meet. But now that the moment had actually arrived, he was too numb to do anything other than stare at her. Aware he was becoming the object of everyone's attention, he quickly shook off his shock.
"Good afternoon, Lady Duxford," he said coolly, managing a polite bow. "I had no idea you and your husband were in town. I trust you are well?"
The eyes he had once thought bluer than the most costly of sapphires sparkled with amusement. "Oh, dear," she said, her pink lips curving in a moue, "I am really not certain how I should answer.
I
am quite well, but I fear my poor husband is not. He died well over a year ago."
Connor's cheeks reddened in embarrassment, and he felt as gauche and awkward as he had felt at twenty. "My apologies, my lady, I had not heard," he said, his new cravat suddenly seeming much too tight. "Pray accept my condolences for your sad loss."
"You are too kind," the marchioness responded, unfolding her fan in a languid gesture. "But as I
say, it has been over a year, and I have had time to accept that I am all alone in the world. But what of you? Whatever brings you to York, and in the company of so many lovely ladies? I heard you had become something of a recluse, and never left your estate."
"His lordship is kindly showing us about the town," Portia answered for him, deciding she'd had enough of the pretty blonde and her simpering ways. She remembered the countess saying Lady Duxford was a beauty, but that in no way prepared for the stunning lady in her perfectly matched silks and velvets.
Lady Duxford's eyes narrowed on Portia. "Is he indeed?"' she purred, her soft voice reminding Portia of a coiled snake about to strike. "In that case, perhaps you will allow my friends and me to join you? So far it has been a dreadfully dull day."
It was obvious this observation did not sit well with the three young dandies escorting the marchioness. Nor did the mamas in the group seem eager to welcome the widow and her entourage in their little group. However, there was no graceful way they could refuse, and when Lady Duxford twined her arm through the earl's, there seemed nothing left to do.
"Forward creature," Portia heard Lady Langwicke whisper to one of the other mamas. "It would seem those rumors one hears are the truth. Indeed," she added, bristling as the marchioness threw back her head and gave a merry laugh, "it would seem they do not even begin to do her justice."
"One dislikes speaking ill of the dead," Mrs. Darlington said, the smug note in her voice belying the prim words, "but I heard her husband actually
encouraged
her outrageous behavior. My husband says he even vetted her lovers, and that
he . . ." She lowered her voice, apparently wishing to spare any innocent ears from the juicy details she was imparting with such relish.
Portia could have shrieked with frustration. She had never been one to engage in idle gossip, but something about the marchioness made her want to learn all she could. Perhaps it was the way she seemed discontent to have but one man's attention, and was brazenly flirting with Mr. McLean even as she clung possessively to the earl's arm. The sight made Portia clench her teeth in anger, and she wondered if anyone would object were she to bash the other woman over the head with her reticule.
While Portia was busy plotting, Connor was wrestling with his own troubling thoughts. Now that he'd recovered from his initial shock, he was beginning to sort out his turbulent emotions. He realized that rather than being filled with bitter anger or wild joy, he felt only indifference, and a vague sense of relief. He was no longer blindly infatuated with Olivia's beauty, and without that infatuation he could see her for what she was, and he thanked God she had had the good sense to refuse him. He shuddered to think what his life might have been like married to such a cold and calculating little jade.
"You are rather quiet, my lord," Olivia chastised him, her hand tightening on his arm as they walked slightly ahead of the rest of the group. "May I ask what you are thinking?"
Connor glanced down into her face, wondering coolly how long that inviting smile would last if he answered her honestly. For a brief moment he was strongly tempted to do just that, but in the end he called upon the hard control that had stood him in such good stead over the years.
"I was thinking, my lady, that I ought to make
more of an effort to get into town," he prevaricated, his gaze moving away from hers. "This is the first visit I have made to the minster since my father's death some five years ago."
"Oh." It was obvious his cool reply was not what she expected, and there was a long pause before she made another try. "I hear there is to be an assembly tomorrow night," she said in a bored tone. "Of course, country entertainments can be so tiresome, but if you are going, perhaps I will as well." She shot him a languid look ripe with enticement. "Perhaps we might even keep each other entertained, my lord?" she added, her dimples flashing.
Connor remembered how the sight of those dimples had once made him weak-kneed. "As I will be acting as host to our guests, I fear I shall have little time to call my own," he said, amused at how the tables had been turned. Where once he would have done anything to win a smile from her, she now seemed equally anxious to fix his interest with her. It might be interesting to play along, and see how far she meant to go, he thought, and reached a swift conclusion.
"But that is not to say that every moment of my evening will be taken up with duty dances," he added, raising her hand to his lips for a brief kiss. "I am sure I shall find some time for . . . such an old friend."
For a moment he feared he had overplayed his hand, but then her enchanting smile dawned, and she gave a throaty laugh. "I would rather you refer to me as your
dear
friend," she corrected, bringing her long lashes into play as she gazed up at him. "
Old
friend has such an unfortunate connotation, do you not agree?"
"As if one could ever take you for anything other than a fresh-faced debutante," he riposted,
delighting her and surprising himself. He'd never been so glib in his youth, and he was amazed at how easy it was. He remembered all the light and teasing conversations he'd had with Portia, and realized that she was responsible for his newfound confidence.
Without his being aware of it she'd made him lower the shield he'd always held between himself and the rest of the world. But rather than feeling vulnerable at the sudden lack of protection, he felt oddly free. The realization made him forget all about the woman on his arm, and he longed to return to Hawkshurst to share it with Portia. Unfortunately he first had to think of some way to extract himself from Olivia's coils.
He was mulling over various possibilities when one of the dandies, Sir Cecil Chessfield, stiffly reminded Olivia they were expected elsewhere for tea. The look Olivia shot the hapless man made it plain he had displeased her, but she was all sweetness and charm when she turned back to Connor.
"Duty calls," she said, holding her hand out to him. "I shall look forward to seeing you tomorrow night."
Connor's eyes sparkled as he bent over the offered hand. "As shall I, Lady Duxford," he said suavely. "As shall I."
They returned to Hawkshurst in far lower spirits than they had set out, and Portia was not surprised when half the guests laid claim to the headache and retired to their rooms. Heaven knew she would like to indulge in a similar malady, but as Lady Duxford had said, duty called. Portia paused only long enough to wash her face and hands, and then hurried down to the parlor where Lady Eliza was impatiently waiting for a report.
"Well, what happened?" the countess demanded
the moment Portia entered the room. "Did Connor single out any particular lady for his attentions?"
"You might say that," Portia replied with a sigh as she took her chair across from her. "He showed a marked performance for one lady, and I saw him kiss her hand at least twice."
"Really?" Lady Eliza beamed with delight. "Was it that nice Miss DeCamp? I did say the two of them were well-suited, did I not?"
"So you did. Unfortunately, Miss DeCamp was not the object of his lordship's attentions."
"Never say he was making up to one of those tiresome Darlington chits," Lady Eliza demanded with a scowl. "They are sweet enough, but years too young for him. I would not have it bandied about that Connor snatched his bride from the cradle."