Authors: Joan Overfield
4
A
fter luncheon Connor retired to his study for a quick look at his accounts while Miss Haverall went up to her rooms to change. He was going over his tenants' accounts when his mother, pushed by a footman, maneuvered her Bath chair through the door.
"Aha, I knew I'd find you here," she accused, bending a disapproving frown on him. "I thought you were taking Miss Haverall riding. What do you mean by holing up in here like a hermit?"
"I am but waiting for Miss Haverall to join me, ma'am, and then we will ride out," Connor replied, experiencing the familiar pang of shame he always felt when he saw his mother in the chair. Each time he remembered he was the one who put her there, the guilt would lay heavy on his heart.
"She is a lively thing," the countess said after dismissing the footman with a wave of her hand. "A trifle nice in her notions, perhaps, but I must say I like her much better than any of the others. Thank you for bringing her to me."
Connor left the papers on his desk and crossed the room to kneel beside her chair. "You know this is only temporary," he warned, hating the feeling that he was snatching away her happiness. "The moment I find you a new companion, Miss Haverall will join her great-aunt in Edinburgh."
"Yes, but that could take weeks," Lady Eliza reminded him, her lips curving in a crafty smile. "And even if you do hire some other silly girl, I do not see why I should lose Miss Haverall's company. She could always remain as our guest, could she not?"
Connor frowned as he considered his mother's suggestion. He'd already forgiven Miss Haverall for assaulting him with the bed warmer, but that didn't mean he was ready to welcome her as a permanent fixture in his home. "That is so," he conceded with a sigh, "but I think we should wait before suggesting it to her. She may have other plans, or her great-aunt may not grant her permission to remain."
"Posh." Lady Eliza dismissed his objections with another wave of her hand. "I am sure Georgianne will be delighted to have the child remain with us. Now, where do you mean to take our guest?"
"I thought to show her the north fields near the old Roman ruins," Connor replied, accepting the change of subject with resignation. It was a familiar ploy of his mother's, and he knew better than to argue with her.
"Excellent." Lady Eliza nodded her approval of the plan. "Although we spoke only briefly I gather she is something of a bluestocking, and I am sure she will enjoy seeing something so ancient. Perhaps you might translate some of the carvings for her. You took honors in Latin when at school." She added this last with a spark of maternal pride that made Connor smile.
His classical studies had been the favorite part of his years at Oxford, and he'd enjoyed losing himself in his books. If only the rest of his time there had passed half so pleasantly, he thought, his
eyes growing bitter as he remembered the humiliation he had suffered out of the classroom.
A sound at the door drew him away from his dark thoughts, and he glanced up as Miss Haverall hurried into the room.
"I am sorry if I kept you waiting, my lord," Portia apologized, feeling flushed and rushed after having spent the past half hour attempting to pin up her old riding habit. She'd lost a great deal of weight in the fifteen months since buying the habit, and it had taken all of Nancy's skills to make it fit with some semblance of style.
"Not at all, Miss Haverall," Connor replied, his deep voice giving no indication of the pleasure her appearance gave him. Her habit was fashioned of mulberry serge, lavishly trimmed with gold and black braid, and it showed her delicate figure to advantage. A velvet hat of the same color with a black veil and curving feather completed the ensemble, and he thought she looked completely enchanting.
"What a charming habit, my dear!" Lady Eliza exclaimed, clasping her hands together. "There, did I not tell you bright colors would suit you?"
"Yes, my lady." Portia's cheeks grew warm at the countess's praise and the admiration in the earl's eyes. "I know it's not appropriate for mourning, but—"
"Nonsense," Lady Eliza interrupted, her tone indicating she would brook no opposition. "It is perfectly lovely, and as it is doubtful you and Doncaster will encounter anything other than sheep on your ride, I am sure it hardly signifies. Off with you now." She gave them both a stern look. "And I don't want you to bring her back, Connor, until she has roses in her cheeks. She is much too wan."
Half an hour later Connor and Portia were riding over the green hills, the cool, damp wind stinging their faces. When they reached the top of a rise, Portia pulled up on her horse's reins and turned to the earl with a laugh of sheer delight.
"I hope your mother will be satisfied with the roses in my cheeks, my lord," she teased, forgetting her reserve in the pleasure of the moment. "My face feels as if it is frozen!"
Connor leaned forward in the saddle, the reins held competently in his hands as his gaze rested on her flushed features. "Do you wish to turn back?" he asked, determined to act the dutiful host.
"Heavens, no!" she exclaimed with a light laugh, her eyes dancing. "I was only funning, my lord, I assure you. Do let us go on."
An emotion he refused to identify as relief welled in Connor's heart, and he inclined his head in a grave manner. "There are some ruins just over the next hill," he said, indicating the direction with his riding crop. "They are said to be Roman in origin, although I have my doubts."
"That sounds delightful, sir," Portia replied, remembering the many ruins she'd seen in the area around Colchester when on holiday with her father. She'd been captivated at the thought of standing in the same spot where eighteen hundred years ago the emperor Claudius had stood, and she'd enthusiastically thrown herself into researching every detail she could find of the Romans. She smiled sadly, recalling how she and Papa had disagreed over the influence of Roman architecture on the Normans. He'd cut her out of his will for almost two months before finally restoring her.
Less than ten minutes later, she and the earl were standing before massive columns of marble
that had been stained black from centuries of grime. She ran her gloved hands over the grooves cut deep in the ancient stone, awed at their immense size and age. "Why do you doubt that they are Roman?" she asked, slanting him a curious look. "They look much like the other ruins I have seen. And that is Latin." She pointed at the words carved above the arch.
"Yes, but a Latin of a much later period than the Roman occupation," he answered, enjoying her inquisitiveness. The last time he'd showed the ruins to a lady she'd pronounced them frightful and asked to be taken home. Or perhaps it was himself the lady had found frightful, he thought, remembering that the lady had departed Hawkshurst soon afterward.
"I had no idea there was any difference between one form of Latin or another," Portia said, apparently much struck by the thought. "Why would it change?"
"All language changes," he replied, stepping closer to indicate a specific word. "Do you see that?
Dei
. It is Latin for 'God.' The Romans practiced polytheism, the worship of more than one god, and has this been one of their buildings, they would have dedicated it to a specific god like Jupiter or Minerva. I would say this was probably a chapel or a monastery, and that it dates from a later period, possibly the twelfth or thirteenth century."
"Indeed?" The casual expertise he displayed intrigued Portia, and she tilted her had to one side to give him a considering look. "You seem certain in your facts, sir. Is antiquities an interest of yours?"
Connor hesitated, as if unwilling to share so private a part of himself. "You might say that," he said at last, his eyes fixed on the ruins. "I made a
study of it while at Oxford." He turned his head suddenly, his eyes narrowing at the expression on her face. "Why are you smiling?"
Portia gave a guilty start at being caught behaving so poorly. "No reason, my lord," she denied, and then spoiled her disavowal by adding, "It is just that you do not look like a scholar, and I find it difficult imagining you bent over a pile of dusty books."
"I see," Connor answered, his lips twitching at her disarming frankness. "And pray, what does a scholar look like, Miss Haverall?"
"Slender, interestingly pale, with shabby clothes and a vague, distracted air about him."
He blinked at her prompt reply. "That is certainly specific enough," he said, leaning one broad shoulder against the pillar as he studied her. "Might I ask how you came to be so familiar with the species? Have you an older brother?"
"Not at all, but my father was a literature don at Cambridge, and he always had a half dozen or so of the creatures trailing after him." Portia's expression softened as she recalled those halcyon days of her childhood when their house had been filled with the sound of male voices raised in earnest argument. She used to sit on the steps in her night rail, listening entranced as her father discussed Shakespeare and Milton with his students until the wee hours of the morning.
There was nothing he had liked more than a good debate, and he always favored those students who dared to disagree with him. Perhaps that was why she had begun defying him, she mused with a sudden flash of insight. She hadn't been purposefully obtuse, as he had so often accused. She'd been trying to win his approval.
Connor was watching her closely, as if trying to read her thoughts. "Shall we start back, Miss
Haverall?" he asked, pushing himself away from the pillar to stand over her. "The wind is rather sharp today, and I wouldn't wish you to become chilled."
Portia nodded distractedly, still lost in her troubling thoughts. He helped her remount, easily lifting her onto the saddle. They rode back a different way, and Portia emerged from her bleak memories long enough to notice her surroundings. They were riding past a clear brook tumbling and frothing over sharp, black stones, and she pulled her horse to a halt to admire it.
"How beautiful," she said, sighing as she listened to the musical sound of rushing water. "I've always thought of Yorkshire as a cold, desolate place, but this is lovely."
Connor leaned forward in his saddle. "It is that," he said, his voice filling with pleasure and satisfaction as he gazed out at his land. "But don't let the beauty of this place blind you to its true nature," he warned, his eyes coming to rest on her features. "It may appear civilized, but beneath the surface it is wild and dangerous. You would do well to remember that."
Portia nodded silently, thinking the description could also be applied to the earl himself. Except in his case the wild danger was all too obvious, she decided, stealing a thoughtful glance at him as they resumed their ride.
Dressed as he was now, in a plain jacket of black wool, his white stock tied carelessly about his tanned throat, and his dark hair pulled back from the sharp planes of his face, he looked utterly at home in the harsh surroundings. She remembered how out of place he had seemed in the inn's shabby parlor, and realized this was his true element. For all his fine title and great wealth, he was really a simple farmer, and she found she admired
him the more for it. The realization kept her quiet for the remainder of their ride.
Within a week of her arrival Portia felt as if she'd been at Hawkshurst forever. She and the countess had become fast friends, and Portia enjoyed every moment spent in the older woman's company. Unlike most of the invalids she'd had the misfortune of meeting, Lady Eliza didn't dwell on her infirmities, but instead remained surprisingly cheerful. Not that she was all sweetness and light, however. Lady Eliza was sharp-witted and often sharp-tongued, and she kept Portia entertained with her wry observations of those about her.
The countess also manipulated her brooding son with a cunning combination of helplessness and hectoring that left Portia wide-eyed with admiration. She'd come to regard her own tendency to control those about her as unfeminine and unladylike, but no one could accuse the countess of being anything other than a complete lady, and yet she exercised complete command over her household. For someone who had vowed to become a true lady regardless of the cost, as Portia had, it was a most illuminating observation.
Although her mornings were devoted to the countess, her afternoons were her own. While Lady Eliza slept, Portia either read or explored the huge, elegant house. She was in the library one afternoon when the earl came upon her studying the portraits of his ancestors.
"A smug-looking lot, are they not?" he drawled, smiling as he gazed up at a painting of a darkhaired man in velvet and lace. "Lord of all they survey."
"Lord of this place, certainly," Portia answered, her gaze shifting from the features painted on canvas
to the man standing beside her. He had just come in from the fields, and he carried the smell of sweet hay and horses on him. That she should notice such a personal thing unnerved her, and she turned back to the portraits to cover her confusion.
"And who might this gentleman be?" she asked, her voice determinedly light. "He is certainly a fierce-looking fellow."
He glanced up at the portrait she indicated. "That is my grandfather, the fourth Earl of Doncaster."
Portia studied the man's dark hair and cold, remote expression. "You favor him," she said, recalling the first time she had seen him looming in her doorway.
The earl lifted his eyebrow as he gazed down at her. "Do I?" he asked, his deep voice edged with laughter. "That is hardly a compliment, you know. He was known as the Black Beast of Hawkshurst Hall, as much for his temper as his dark hair and eyes. I am said to resemble him in that as well."
The dryness in his tone told Portia he was teasing her, and she responded in kind. "Yes, I have noticed how the household quakes in fear of your fierce temper," she murmured, recalling how only that morning Gwynnen had scolded him soundly for tracking mud into his mother's sitting room.
Another portrait, that of a young lady with golden hair and wide blue eyes, caught her attention, and she moved closer to inspect it. "Who is this?" she demanded, caught by the sweetness of the woman's expression. "She is lovely."