Authors: Joan Overfield
"I did," Lady Eliza responded, looking annoyingly smug. "What could be more natural than to be cured by 'the grace and goodwill of God'?"
The quote from one of the church ladies made Portia wince. She had never been particularly religious, but she couldn't help but feel they were risking some form of divine retribution in continuing the deception. "But my lady, I—"
"Oh, do not take on so," Lady Eliza interrupted, snapping her fan closed in annoyance. "I did nothing more than take advantage of my own clumsiness. Or do you think I meant to fall out of that blasted chair?" she added with an angry scowl.
Portia considered this for a long moment. "Do you mean to say it was an accident?" she asked at last.
"Well, of course it was an accident!" the countess exclaimed in frosty accents. "I hope I was
raised better than to make a cake of myself in so public a manner!"
Portia was instantly contrite. "I am sorry, your ladyship," she apologized in a soft voice. "I did not mean to insult you."
"Well, I suppose it is of no moment," Lady Eliza continued after an injured pause. "In retrospect it is probably just as well that I acted as I did. Certainly it managed to distract attention from Connor and That Woman."
Portia did not need to be told who That Woman was. The image of Connor flirting with Lady Duxford was burned indelibly in her mind, and it was with a great deal of effort that she forced it from her thoughts.
"It will all be an eight days' wonder, anyway, once the rest of our guests start arriving," Lady Eliza continued in her brisk manner. "And I must say it will be a great relief to be able to participate in the festivities without having to be wheeled about like a sack of grain. Perhaps I might even dance." A smile of anticipation lit her eyes.
They continued chatting for another twenty minutes before their solitude was interrupted by the return of Lady Langwicke and the other guests, who had been off enjoying an impromptu tour of the countryside. Connor accompanied them, and after bending down to kiss her mother's cheek, he shocked Portia by stopping to press a kiss to her hand as well.
"Good afternoon, Miss Haverall," he said, the warm note in his voice making her heart flutter like a schoolgirl's. "Hard at work as usual, I see. We must take care to see you do not become exhausted by taking on too much."
She would not be charmed, Portia told herself sternly. She refused to be charmed by a man who was so fickle in his attentions. "This from a man
who only last week kept us waiting for our dinner while he was off rescuing a sheep from a hedgerow," she said, managing a light laugh as she freed her hand from his. To her relief he let her go, but that relief was short-lived when he settled on the chair beside hers.
"Ah, but that was last week. I have since reformed," Connor claimed indolently, crossing one booted foot in front of the other and leaning back in his chair. He'd spent the entire afternoon waiting to see Portia again, and now he wanted only to look his fill of her.
She was wearing a gown of ruffled muslin, and the misty-rose color made her skin glow with life. Her hair was arranged in a sophisticated knot, but he remembered how it felt beneath his fingers, and his hands itched to bury themselves in that silken softness again. The thought caused his body to respond in an unmistakable manner, and even though he was somewhat embarrassed by his reaction, he could not help but be wryly relieved.
The other evening Olivia had rubbed herself against him in a way certain to enflame any man, and he hadn't felt so much as a stirring of desire. His lack of response had troubled him, but now he thought he understood. Evidently his tastes had become slightly more refined in the last dozen years, he decided with a rueful grin. He thanked God for the fact.
The rest of the company seemed oblivious to the undercurrents swirling about them, and continued chatting in a desultory manner. Lady Langwicke had evidently despaired of making a match between Connor and her haughty daughter, and had now set her sights on one of the young men who had been invited to round out their numbers.
"The nephew of the Earl of Mayfield, you know," she confided to Portia in a smug aside.
"Rumor has it that he will name the lad his heir once it is determined his own son is dead."
The explanation shocked Portia enough to make her forget her own troubling emotions. "What do you mean, once it is determined he is dead?" she asked, wondering if she had missed something. "I should think there would be little to debate. A person is either dead, or he is not. How could there be any doubt?"
"Because the son—Adrian was his name—was reported lost at sea when his ship was sunk off the Indies," Lady Langwicke explained with a marked degree of condescension. "Which only goes to show you why an only son ought not to be allowed to gallivant about the globe. It was most thoughtless of the boy to put his own selfish needs above his duty to his title and his family. Do you not agree, my lord?" She turned to the earl with a fatuous smile.
Connor remembered the intense young man who had been the Viscount Comeraugh. Adrian had been two years behind him at Oxford, but he had impressed Connor with both his intelligence and his determination to restore his family fortune. He'd been engaged in the tea trade when his ship had sunk in a storm, and it angered Connor to have the marchioness denigrate his memory.
"Actually, it was his devotion to both which led to his death," he said, fixing Lady Langwicke with an icy stare. "The earl was two steps from financial ruin before Adrian began 'gallivanting about,' as you called it.
The marchioness flushed an angry red, but the arrival of the tea cart kept the conversation from deteriorating any further. Talk became general after that, and when calm had been restored Portia decided it was time to take her leave. There was much she needed to do if all was to be ready for
the last of the guests, and in any case, she wanted to get away from Connor's disturbing presence. His nearness was having a marked effect on her usual good sense, and she was anxious to leave before she did or said something that would make her love obvious to all.
She waited until he was deep in conversation with one of the younger men before taking the opportunity to slip quietly from the room. She thought she had made it until a firm hand closed about her elbow, pulling her to a halt on the other side of the door.
"Where are you going?" Connor asked, his voice soft as he gazed down at her.
She thought quickly, her mind seizing on her conversation with the marchioness. "I . . . I need to speak with the housekeeper," she replied, furious with herself for stammering. "If Mr. Granger is indeed the heir to an earldom, he really ought to have his own room. We shall have to reassign the rooms, and that will take some doing."
"I shouldn't bother." He dismissed the matter with an indifferent shrug. "If Granger doesn't care for his present quarters, he is free to bunk with the horses. Besides, I wouldn't be so quick to write off Adrian if I were you. If there was any way possible to have survived that shipwreck, he will have found it."
Portia did not bother with an answer. Rearranging Mr. Granger's accommodations had been a mere ploy, and having been deprived of that, she quickly thought of something else.
"As you say, my lord." She inclined her head politely, wishing he would take the hint and release her arm. "In that case, I will need to go up to the attic and check on the costumes I have arranged for some of our guests."
Her use of his title as well as her obvious deter
mination to escape his company flicked his pride on the raw, and for a moment he was strongly tempted to pull her into his arms and kiss her senseless. Only the knowledge that such an action would stain her reputation beyond repair stayed him, and he reluctantly released her arm.
"Very well," he said, his jaw clenching as he fought for control. "Perhaps I will see you later then? There is another assembly this evening, and Mother insists that we all attend. Will you ride in our carriage?"
Until this moment Portia had fully intended to attend the local dance. But suddenly the thought of watching Connor waltzing with Lady Duxford was more than she could endure, and she knew she would have to cry off. "I am afraid not, your lordship," she said, her chin coming up as she faced him. "With the guests arriving on the morrow, there is much I need to do. But I hope that you and the others will have a wonderful time."
Her words, spoken in that cool, precise tone, made Connor flinch, and abruptly, he was reminded of his Season in London. It seemed that once again his attentions were unwanted. This time the knowledge shattered more than his pride. It shattered his heart.
He stared down at Portia, wanting to scream a denial of the pain clawing at him. He loved her, he realized dazedly, a love so great it reduced the emotions he had felt for Olivia to mere boyish infatuation. He wanted to marry Portia, and then carry her off to his room and make love to her until she admitted she was his. Her rejection of him was not so cruel as Olivia's, he thought bitterly, but it was just as painful . . . and as final. Knowing she did not return his love, he knew he had no choice but to keep his distance from her. Somehow, he would have to keep his love to himself.
Over the next sennight Portia kept too busy to brood over the sad state of her heart. In between the dinner parties, picnics, and endless hands of whist and Pope Joan, she saw little of Connor, a situation helped by the fact that he seemed equally determined to avoid her. She tried telling herself it was for the best, but she would remember the closeness they had once shared, and she would mourn for what had been and what would never be.
Complicating matters was the letter she had received from her great-aunt, inviting her to join her in Scotland. The countess, it seemed, had decided to forgive her black-sheep niece her many failings, and was now demanding her presence at her side. Portia had told no one of the missive, but she knew the letter provided her with the perfect excuse to leave Hawkshurst should it prove necessary. Another deception, she thought with an unhappy sigh, wondering if the duplicity would ever end.
The afternoon prior to masquerade ball was surprisingly peaceful. While the guests rested for the festivities, Portia decided to go for a ride. It was a pleasure she had denied herself since the ill-fated trip into York, and as she rode over the green, rock-strewn hills, she knew she saying good-bye to the land she had come to love as much as she loved its owner.
She drew her horse up on the rise, tears filling her eyes as she gazed slowly about her. She would always carry the memory of the place and the man in her heart, and she knew she would never be able to look at the moors without remembering him. The thought brought a bitter smile to her lips. Finally, she mused, she was behaving like a true lady, starry-eyed and hopeless with love.
On impulse she decided to visit the old ruins, and nudged her horse in that direction. She'd almost reached her destination when she saw Connor and Lady Duxford standing by the stones. Even as she was absorbing this painful sight, the marchioness flung her arms about Connor and drew him down to her for a passionate kiss. Unable to bear the agony of it, Portia spun her mount around and galloped off, her eyes streaming with tears, and her heart shattering in her chest.
"Really, Connor, you disappoint me," Lady Duxford chided, her expression reproachful as she drew back from Connor. "I thought we understood each other."
"As did I, my lady," Connor answered coolly, his gaze hard as he studied her beautiful and calculating face. He had brought her to the ruins on purpose, determined to put his painful past behind him at last. It was a test of sorts, and he realized with satisfaction that he had passed with flying colors.
"I cannot believe you are still holding my rejection of you against me," Lady Duxford continued, a note of desperation stealing into her voice. "I told you, the choice was not mine! My parents insisted I marry Duxford. What else could I do?"
"Nothing."
The blunt reply made her blink. "I wanted to accept you," she insisted, laying her hand on his arm and gazing up at him with ardent longing. "You cannot imagine how painful it was to send you away. My poor heart was breaking, but Mama was adamant."
"Now it is you who disappoint me, Lady Duxford," he interrupted, his mouth twisting in a rueful smile. "But you are wrong to think I hold your refusal of my suit against you."
"Do you mean you do not?" From her expression Connor gathered she did not know whether to be relieved or offended.
"No. In fact, I feel quite the opposite," he said, smiling with cold pleasure. "Since meeting you again, I have been on my knees thanking the Almighty for my deliverance."
Lady Duxford's face turned an unbecoming shade of red, and she lashed out with her gloved hand. "Bastard!" she exclaimed, her eyes bright with fury. "You are as beastly and uncivilized as you always were!"
"Thank you, my lady." Connor gave her a mocking bow. "Fortunately for me, there is a certain lady who prefers beastly and uncivilized men. Now, if you have finished attempting to seduce me, it is time we were riding back. I've much to do."
"Well, you look a sight, I must say," Nancy muttered, hands on her hips as she studied Portia. "Did the ladies really wear them queer things?"
"According to Lady Eliza, they were all the crack some sixty years ago, although heaven knows how the poor creatures managed to get through the doorways." Portia's expression was dubious as she studied her reflection in the glass. "I look like a table that's decided to go exploring on its own."
Designed in rich red brocade and lavishly embroidered with gold and silver threads, the gown was a far cry from the modest and fashionable dresses Portia had always worn. Rather than the straight, graceful skirts she was accustomed to, the skirts on the ball gown extended a full sixteen inches on either side of her, making walking difficult and the thought of dancing laughable. The gown was also cut scandalously low, and Portia
was trying to decide whether or not she should stuff another lace fichu in the neckline when Nancy spoke.