Authors: Joan Overfield
An ironic smile lit Portia's eyes. "Indeed not," she assured the countess in a quiet tone. "The lady in question is of a more mature nature; closer to his lordship's age in fact."
"Really?" The countess looked puzzled. "I cannot recall any of the ladies being so old as that, unless he was dangling after one of the mamas?" She glanced at Portia in apprehension.
"No, my lady," Portia said, the image of Connor chasing Lady Langwicke about the cloisters almost enough to lift her spirits.
"Then blast it all, who was she?" Lady Eliza snapped, losing all patience.
"Lady Olivia Duxford."
Lady Eliza gaped at her in horror. "What?" she cried, her hands fluttering to her throat. "No, it cannot be. If you are twigging me, Portia, I vow I shall be quite cross with you!"
Portia gave a dispirited sigh. "I'm not teasing, my lady," she said, her shoulders slumping in defeat. "I only wish I were." And she proceeded to
tell Lady Eliza every detail of the unfortunate encounter.
"And do you mean to say my son encouraged this hussy?" the countess said once Portia had finished. "I refuse to believe it! He cannot be so lacking in pride as all that!"
"I told you we should have informed him of the marchioness's arrival," Portia reminded her unhappily. "If he had known she was in the neighborhood he would have had time to prepare himself. As it was, he simply turned around and there she was."
Lady Eliza scowled at the hint that she was somehow to blame for the contretemps. "I still do not see how it would have mattered one way or another, especially if he is as besotted with the creature as you say he is," she grumbled, clearly furious at the upheaval in her carefully laid plans.
"I did not say he was besotted," Portia corrected, feeling an odd pain in the region of her heart. Only last night Connor had held her in his arms, his mouth burning hers with his ardor, and today he seemed to have forgotten her very existence. Oh, he'd been polite enough, she supposed, but on the ride back from York he had seemed distracted and moody, and it took very little imagination to know what . . . or rather
who
occupied his thoughts. The knowledge made her throat ache with unshed tears.
". . . going through," the countess concluded with a weary sigh, and Portia realized she had missed something. Rather than admit as much she gave the older lady a puzzled look.
"What do you mean, ma'am?" she asked with credible calm.
"Merely that for all he is a man, my son is no fool," Lady Eliza said calmly. "He may think he loves her as he did when he was a youth, but once
he sees her for the scheming minx she is, he will soon realize it is nothing more than the last flicker of lost love."
Portia wished she could believe it was as simple as that. She
knew
Connor, knew he wasn't a callow youth at the mercy of his emotions. He was a man in every sense of the word, and if he gave his heart to a woman, it would be done in full knowledge of what he was doing, and it would be forever. The thought was depressing enough to make her hands tremble and her cup rattle on the saucer.
"My word, Portia, are you all right?" Lady Eliza asked, eyeing her with concern. "You aren't feeling faint, are you?"
"No, my lady, it is nothing like that," she said, setting the cup on the side table with great care. "I have a slight headache, that is all."
"Then you must go to your rooms at once," Lady Eliza said with alacrity. "You should never have come down in the first place."
"But the guests . . ."
"Oh, pooh!" the countess declared with a stern look. "I have been handling guests since you were in leading strings. Not that there will be so many of them, mind," she added with a knowing smirk. "Your headache seems to be catching."
Portia ignored the jibe. "If you are certain it will not be an inconvenience, I
would
like to retire," she said, rising to her feet. "But if you should have need of me, you have only to send for me and I shall come right down."
The countess leaned forward to give her hand a loving pat. "You go on up, child," she said softly. "If worse comes to worst, I shall send for Connor. It is about time he started doing his duty by his guests."
Portia blinked back tears at the older woman's
kindness. "You are very good to me, my lady," she said, bending to brush a kiss across the countess's cheek. "Good afternoon."
Lady Eliza watched Portia leave, her own eyes misting with tears. The moment she was alone she pulled out the miniature of her husband she wore about her neck. "Blast it, Doncaster," she said, addressing her beloved's painted features with a frown, "what are we going to do now?"
"So this is where you have hidden yourself," Connor teased, smiling as he came upon Portia picking flowers the following afternoon. It was the first time he had seen her since their ill-fated visit to York, and until this moment he hadn't realized he'd been looking for her. She was wearing a simple gown of lavender and cream silk, and he thought she looked as lovely as the blooms in her basket.
"Good afternoon, my lord," she said, her tone as cool as the gray eyes that peeked up at him from beneath the wide brim of her straw bonnet. "Was there something that you wanted?"
Her tone as well as her use of his title made him arch his eyebrow in surprise. "To begin with, you may call me Connor, as you have already promised you would," he said, reaching out to pluck from her fingers the rose she had just cut. Holding her gaze with his, he lifted the flower to his nose and inhaled its sweet fragrance. He then kissed the soft petals, and handed it back to her without saying another word.
To his delight the symbolism of his gesture was not lost on her, for she flushed a bright-pink. "As you wish . . . Connor," she said, turning away and busying herself with the flowers. "Is there anything else you wished? Lady Langwicke is anxious
that I get these flowers cut by mid-afternoon so that we can make bouquets for all the ladies."
Connor was uncertain how to respond. Less than two nights ago they had held each other in a passionate embrace, and now she was treating him as if he was nothing but a chance acquaintance. Her actions made him want to pull her back into his arms and remind her that he was much more than that, but logic told him this was neither the time nor the place. Not that he intended letting the matter pass unchallenged, he decided, removing the clippers from her fingers and cutting a single white rose.
"Will you be attending the assembly with us?" he asked, the rose dangling from his fingers.
The question made her frown in confusion. "Of course I am," she replied, tilting her chin up as she met his gaze. "You made me promise to waltz with you, remember?"
"I do," he answered, his voice husky, "but I thought perhaps you might have forgotten . . . along with a few other things."
"What other things?"
He only smiled at the querulous demand. "I will tell you later," he promised. "What color is your ball gown?"
"My ball gown? It is ruby-colored, but I—"
"Then wear this," he instructed, handing her the dew-dappled blossom.
"Why should I?" Portia asked, accepting the rose with a suspicious scowl.
"Effect, for one thing," he said, trying not to smile at her cross expression. "It will make a stunning contrast."
"And the other reason?" she pressed when he did not elaborate.
"It will tell me that you are thinking about me," he answered softly, "as I will be thinking about
you." He caught her hand in his and raised it to his lips for a kiss.
Their gazes met, and in the silvery depths of her eyes he saw a reflection of the same inner turmoil and searing need that were tormenting him. His fingers tightened on hers, and for a briefest moment he wanted to say to the devil with his pride, and pull her into his arms. Only the knowledge that it wasn't just his honor he would be risking prevented him from doing just that, and he reluctantly let her go, feeling more alone and confused than he had ever felt in his life.
After fleeing from the gardens Portia retired to her rooms to brood over Connor's behavior. She was furious with him for flirting with her, and more furious still with herself for being captivated by his polished charm. Until yesterday he was the last man she would have labeled a rake, but now she was not so certain. Surely only a man of low principles would kiss one woman in the moonlight one night, and then make up to his lost love the next morning, she decided, tears shimmering in her eyes as she gazed out the window.
Lost love
. The term made her wince. When Connor had kissed her, that was precisely what he thought Lady Duxford was to him. Perhaps if he'd known she was in the area and now free from her marriage to another man, he would never have touched her, Portia. And yet, her logical mind argued silently, such reasoning did not explain his actions this afternoon. He'd been well-aware of Lady Duxford, and he'd still kissed her own hand, his eyes filled with desire.
Did he care for her, she wondered painfully, or was he merely toying with her? She wished she knew, and she wished she knew what the devil she was going to do about it.
She was no closer to resolving these puzzling matters when Nancy came in to help her change for dinner.
"Becoming a regular society miss, aren't you?" the maid scolded as she helped arrange Portia's dark hair in a coil at the back of her head. "Taking to your rooms with a headache every afternoon, and then dragging about looking pale and delicate for the rest of the day. You'll take to carrying smelling salts and swooning next, I don't wonder."
"Don't lecture, Nancy," Portia said wearily, gazing at her reflection with disinterest. She'd been eagerly waiting for the assembly since yesterday, but now she wondered if the countess would let her cry off. She didn't think she could endure watching Connor waltzing with the marchioness.
"If I didn't lecture you, you would only get worse," Nancy said with a sniff, picking up a necklace of gold filigree inlaid with delicate rubies and clipping it about Portia's neck. "A young woman needs a bit of prompting now and then, and 'tis my duty to see you get it."
"A duty you seem to perform with a great relish," Portia muttered beneath her breath.
"Don't be insolent. You know full well what I mean," Nancy reproved, fastening the matching earrings to Portia's ears. When she was finished she stepped back to admire her handiwork. "There," she said, sounding pleased, "you look fine as fivepence, if I say so myself. I heard Lady Langwicke hinted you should wear one of them dreadful turban things, but I'm glad to see you paid her no mind. You've lovely hair, and 'twould be a shame to hide it."
Portia remembered the conversation with the haughty lady that had taken place over tea that afternoon.
"Of course, there is nothing quite so sad as a lady who will not accept the inevitability of the years," Lady Langwicke had said, fixing Portia with a pointed look. "Unmarried ladies of a certain age should accept their fate, and wear the caps and turbans society deems proper for a spinster. It is far more dignified than going about in a debutante's curls. Don't you agree, Miss Haverall?"
Portia had been feeling rather downcast and sorry for herself, but Lady Langwicke's spiteful words had raised her spirits considerably. There was nothing she liked more than deflating such pomposity, and the older woman had provided her with the perfect opportunity to vent some of her temper. She'd picked up her teacup, her lips curved in a sweet smile as she said, "Indeed I do, my lady, and I am glad to see your daughter has the sense to follow your eminently practical advice. That is a lovely cap you are wearing, Lady Margaret," she added, much to that young lady's ire.
"This is not a cap!" she had cried, indicating her lacy head-covering with indignation. "It is a French
chapeau
, and it is all the crack in London!"
"My mistake, then," she had replied in sugary tones, feeling vastly pleased with herself until she'd turned her head and encountered Connor's gaze.
His face had been expressionless, but his eyes had been full of silent laughter. He raised his teacup in a mock salute, and she had felt a closeness to him that was stronger than anything they had ever shared. The memory of that closeness made her catch her breath, and as she gazed into the mirror and saw her reflection, she was at last able to admit the truth. She loved Connor.
"Good evening, Miss Haverall. That is a beautiful gown you are wearing."
The gentle voice shattered Portia's reverie, and she gazed up from the bench where she had sought sanctuary to find Miss DeCamp standing before her. For a moment she was tempted to ask the young lady, whom she had come to regard as a friend, to go away, but in the end good manners overwhelmed her desire for solitude, and she managed a shaky smile.
"Thank you, Miss DeCamp," she said quietly, sliding over on the bench so that the other girl could join her. "May I say you are also looking quite lovely?"
"If you like," Miss DeCamp replied, settling beside her in a rustle of powder-blue silk. When her skirts were arranged to her satisfaction, she turned to Portia with a warm smile.
"Now that we have been insufferably polite to each other, I wish you would call me Felicity. And your name is Portia, is it not?"
Portia nodded, touched by the other girl's offer of friendship. "Father named me for Brutus's longsuffering wife," she said, forcing herself to think of anything other than the fact that Connor was standing across the ballroom deep in conversation with Lady Duxford.
"Indeed?" Felicity sounded intrigued.
"He was a literature don at Cambridge, and he was teaching
Julius Caesar
to his students when my mother gave birth to me," Portia explained, her eyes twinkling as she remembered the many times she had heard her father tell the story. "I have often given thanks that he was not teaching the comedies at the time, else I might have been saddled with Titania or Thisbee for a name."
"Or Olivia," Felicity said, nodding toward Lady
Duxford. "What do you think Shakespeare would have made of the merry widow in our midst?"
Portia reluctantly followed Felicity's gaze. "Something interesting, I've no doubt," she said, glancing quickly away. "He had a sharp eye."