To his surprise she turned an alarming shade of white. "What do you mean?" she asked, her voice trembling slightly.
Her reaction made Connor frown. He'd meant to intimidate her, certainly, but not to terrorize her. He was painfully aware his appearance was frightening at the best of times, and he'd always gone out of his way never to use his size as a weapon. That he may have done so now shamed him, and he made a conscious effort to moderate his voice.
"I mean, Miss Haverall, that having traveled all the way from York to Cambridge to fetch Miss Montgomery, I have no intention of returning home empty-handed. I am asking that you and your maid come with me, and that you act as my mother's companion until I can arrange for a replacement."
She sat so quietly that he feared he'd offended her beyond all bearing. He cursed himself for listening to Gwynnen. Cursed himself some more for being so bloody blunt when he should have apologized for bursting into her room like a maddened rapist. No wonder she had hit him over the head, he thought, feeling lower than the vilest criminal. He sent her a tentative look before reaching out to take her hand.
"Is everything all right?" he asked, his tone gentle as he searched her misty gray eyes for some hint of what she was thinking. "I apologize if I have upset you. I assure you that was not my intention."
Portia gazed up at him, not knowing what to say. In the end she decided only the truth would suffice, and she drew a deep breath to steady herself. "I am not upset," she replied quietly, her heart racing as she met his brilliant green gaze. "It is just that I . . . I know what it is to disappoint one's parent, and I quite sympathize with your plight."
"I see," Connor replied, feeling worse than before. Perhaps others were right to label him a beast, he decided morosely. Heaven knew he had done nothing but behave in the most beastlike manner since meeting Miss Haverall.
"Yes," Portia continued, "my father died last year, and prior to his death we quarreled incessantly. I know what a bitter disappointment I was to him, and as I told my maid, I do not blame him for disinheriting me."
Connor sat back, his eyes widening in disbelief. "He disinherited you?" he repeated, unable to believe that any father could treat his own child so shabbily.
Portia's face grew red with embarrassment. She hadn't meant to blurt that out, but having said it, there was little she could do but brazen it out. "Things aren't quite so grim as all that," she informed him with an uneasy laugh. "My mother left me well provided for, and I assure you I am far from destitute. Quite the opposite, in fact."
Connor said nothing, although he was far from convinced. Perhaps he should offer her the post permanently, he thought, and was about to do just that when she said, "Enough of me, my lord. I have been thinking, and I've decided to return to York and act as your mother's temporary companion. As you say, 'tis only fair."
"Then you agree you are at fault?" he asked, not certain what he should believe.
Her chin came up a fraction. "Not at all," she said coolly, defiance returning to her face. "This is all your doing from start to finish, but I see no reason why your mother should suffer merely because you have bungled things."
"I have bungled?" he repeated incredulously, his guilt vanishing under a wave of indignation.
She gave a brisk nod, apparently recovered from her earlier distress. "If you hadn't frightened Miss Montgomery she would never have fled to my room for sanctuary, and then I shouldn't have been obliged to knock you over the head with the bed warmer." Bluntly, she added, "Although I will grant you probably did not deliberately frighten Miss Montgomery. She struck me as being of a rather excitable disposition."
"Do you mean you do not think I meant to have my evil way with her?" he demanded in an aggrieved tone, wondering why he'd been so foolish as to think he had offended her. It was obvious the chit didn't have an ounce of propriety in her entire body.
Her eyes grew even frostier. "Had I thought that, my lord, I should have told you to go to the devil. Now, if you are quite finished with your attempts to put me to the blush, when would you like to leave?"
"I hope you know what we're about," Nancy grumbled, carefully folding a chemise and laying it in the portmanteau at her feet. "Your father would spin in his grave if he knew what you was doing."
Portia remembered one of her and her father's last quarrels and gave a bitter smile. "Nonsense, Nancy. Papa wouldn't be the slightest bit amazed by my actions," she said, hiding her pain with a light laugh. "Did I not threaten to run off and become a governess if he disinherited me?"
Nancy's eloquent snort let Portia know what she thought of that bit of fustian. "Governesses is one thing; companions is another," she said, adding another chemise to the pile. "Well, at least that Gwynnen seems a sensible soul. She'll keep his lordship in his place, I don't doubt."
The memory of how the plump maid had bearled her towering employer out of the room made Portia smile, despite her sad thoughts. "She did seem to have him nicely under the cat's paw," she said admiringly. "I wonder how she does it."
"Never you mind about that, Miss Portia," Nancy advised sharply. "You ought to be wondering how your great-aunt will react when she finds out you've gone dashing off to Yorkshire with the earl. That will take a fine bit of explaining, you mark my words."
Portia had already given the matter considerable thought. "Don't fret, Nancy. Aunt will be delighted to learn that the Countess of Doncaster, upon hearing of my sad plight, invited me to stay with her in her country home. How could she possibly object?"
"She'll object plenty when she learns her ladyship wasn't even here!" Nancy slammed the lid of the trunk closed and rose to her feet. "And if you think she won't find out, you're all about in your head! There will be more than enough folk eager to spill the truth to her."
"Perhaps, but Aunt will accept my version of events."
The cool certainty in Portia's voice made Nancy frown. "Why?"
Portia's lips curved in a cynical smile. "Because it is convenient for her to do so," she said sagely. "And if I have learned anything, it is that people will always believe what they want to believe. Truth has little to do with reality."
Nancy was silent for a long moment and then shook her head. "I still don't understand why you are so set to go to York," she complained with a sigh. "I'd have thought that after last night, you'd never be wanting to clap eyes on his lordship again."
Portia wasn't sure how to respond. She lowered her eyes to the fichus in her lap, her fingers stroking the fine lace as she struggled to find the right words to make Nancy understand.
"Perhaps I see it as a way to make amends to Papa," she said, her shoulders lifting in an uneasy shrug. "I failed him so miserably, and I see no reason why the earl should have to fail his mother. Besides, it is only for a little while, and York is certain to be more agreeable than Chipping Campden." She added this with a light laugh, but it was obvious from the scowl on Nancy's face that her attempt at humor had fallen flat.
"Failed your father, indeed!" the maid muttered darkly, rolling up a stocking and adding it to the second portmanteau. "If you ask me, 'tis he who failed you! Cutting you out of his will only because you didn't want to wed that mutton-brained cousin of yours . . . ! Well—" She shook her head. "—far be if from me to speak ill of the dead, but I hope the old skinflint is properly sorry for what he has done!"
"But that was only money," Portia argued, sad she could not make Nancy see her point. "I failed him in a far more basic way, and I am determined to do whatever it takes to make amends. Now kindly finish the packing. His lordship wishes to leave as soon as possible."
They departed after a hasty luncheon, setting out for the north country in the earl's traveling coach. The carriage amused Portia, for it was as large and imposing as the earl himself. The body was painted a glistening black, and except for the gold and scarlet trim, it was completely free of adornments. The lack of a crest or other heraldic device surprised Portia. She would have thought a man so obviously aware of his rank as Doncaster would have
announced the fact to the world.
Nancy and Gwynnen became instant friends, and while they were engaging in a comfortable gossip, Portia settled back to stare out the glazed window at the passing scenery. She would have preferred spending the time becoming better acquainted with the earl, but after muttering a curt "Good day" to her, he had buried his nose in a gazette. She was used to such behavior from her father, but for some reason Doncaster's indifference stung her pride. After all, she told herself peevishly, she was doing the dratted man a considerable favor. The very least he could do would be to acknowledge her existence!
She glanced away from the window to study him through narrowed eyes. His head was bent to the gazette, his attention fixed on whatever he was reading. If he wouldn't do her the courtesy of satisfying her understandable curiosity, she decided with a flash of her old mischievousness, then she would simply have to discern what she could on her own.
He was dressed for travel in a worn Garrick coat of gray wool, and the many-caped coat made him look even larger and more imposing than ever. Upon entering the coach he'd set his hat and gloves aside with an impatience that told her he seldom bothered with such items, an observation that was confirmed by his tanned and work-worn hands. As it had been this morning, his dark hair was pulled back in a queue. It was a style she associated with men of her father's generation, yet it looked oddly right on the earl. She bit her lip in amusement, a sudden vision of Doncaster, his hair arranged in a mass of curls à la Byron, springing to mind.
"Is there something I can do for you, Miss Haverall?" The earl's cold voice dissolved the image, and Portia looked up to find him watching her with his brilliant green eyes.
She flushed at being caught gaping at him like a schoolgirl. "I was wondering about your mother, my lord," she said, speaking coolly to hide her embarrassment. "I believe you said she is an invalid?"
His expression grew even more remote as he turned to gaze out the window. "She was injured in a fall from a horse last year, and is not yet able to walk." His clipped words made it obvious he still found the topic a painful one. "The doctors have no explanation for it, but then, they seldom do."
The suffering in his voice made Portia forgot her annoyance with him. "I am sorry, my lord."
"It was my fault," he continued, his hands clenching into fists. "We had guests, and they wished to go hunting. I've never seen the sense in chasing some poor, defenseless fox all about creation, and so I refused to accompany them. I thought that would be the end of it, but I hadn't reckoned with Mother's stern sense of duty. She took them out on her own and lost her seat going over a hedge."
Portia gave an involuntary gasp. One of her neighbor's sons, a young man in his twenties, had been killed in a similar accident. The countess had to be in her fifties at least, and the wonder was that she had survived the fall at all. Portia knew she should say something to that effect to the earl, but if the bitter look on his face was any indication, she doubted the words would bring him much comfort.
"That is why I am so determined you should act as her companion until I can hire a new one," Doncaster said, his gaze fastened once more on her face. "I put her in that Bath chair. The least I can do is see that she lacks for nothing."
Portia's heart dropped to her toes at the stark declaration. She'd wanted to become better acquainted with the earl, she reminded herself with a heavy sigh, and it would seem she had received her wish. Unsure what to say, she turned back to the window.
Connor watched her, angrily cursing himself when he saw the shock she was taking such pains to hide. A taciturn man by nature, he could hardly believe he had been so forthcoming with her. It was her eyes, he decided, shifting uncomfortably on his seat. They were direct and clear, and they looked at a man as if they could see clear to his soul.
Her dark-brown hair was pulled back from her face in an elegant chignon, but he had no trouble remembering how it had looked still tousled from sleep and streaming down her back. She was dressed in the first crack of fashion in a traveling ensemble of gray and maroon, and he had to admit she was a fetching sight. She was as delicate and lovely as a piece of Dresden china, and looking at her now, he found it hard to believe she was the same virago who had crowned him with a bed warmer.
The uncomfortable silence that had fallen between them continued as the carriage wound its way northward. Even Gwynnen and Nancy had stopped talking, and by the time they reached the inn where they would be taking their tea, Portia's nerves felt stretched to the breaking point. Her head was pounding from the tension and the swaying of the coach, and as she stepped down from the carriage she would have stumbled had it not been for the earl's hand at her elbow.
"Are you all right, Miss Haverall?" he asked, his tone solicitous as he took in her pale features. "Shall I carry you?"
The thought of being carried to the inn like a silly female in a swoon was all it took to stiffen Portia's spine. "I am quite all right, my lord," she said, her tone firm as she gazed past his broad shoulder. "My foot slipped on a rock, that is all."
He gave her a measured look but took a step back, allowing her to continue on her own. They were greeted at the door by the innkeeper, who escorted them into a private parlor where a fire was blazing in the hearth. After stepping into the vestibule to wash her hands and face, Portia hurried forward to warm herself by the fire. She was enjoying her second cup of tea when the earl joined her.
"We should reach Hawkshurst by evening." he said, his eyes intent on her face. "Are you certain you feel up to continuing? You are still quite pale."
His concern pleased Portia, even as it annoyed her. She detested women who behaved as if every ill wind would blow them away, and it irked her that he should take her for such a puling creature. On the other hand, she couldn't remember the last time anyone had expressed such interest in her well-being. It was oddly touching, and because she liked the sensation so much, she pushed it away with a scowl.
"I should have thought that last night would have shown you that I am no milk-and-water miss," she said, raising her chin until she was gazing straight into his startlingly green eyes. "A carriage journey is well within my poor powers, I assure you."
The belligerent tone in her voice as well as the defiant tilt to her chin had no discernible effect on the earl. "We will leave within the hour," he said, his voice as cold and smooth as ice. He then rose to his feet and left the room.
Portia watched him go, more than a little ashamed of her shrewish performance. So much for her vow to be a lady, she thought with an unhappy sigh. It was apparently going to prove far more difficult than she had anticipated.
It was approaching twilight as they arrived at the earl's estate, which was located some five miles from York. The manor house had been built during the middle part of the last century, and its elegant lines and graceful columns made the breath catch in Portia's throat. "It's beautiful," she whispered, her eyes filled with awe as she turned to Doncaster.
Connor gazed at the house, feeling the same sense of joy he always felt when returning home. "Yes, it is," he said, the quiet pride of ownership evident in his deep voice. "Shall we go inside? I am sure my mother will be waiting to meet you."
To Portia's disappointment, however, the countess had already retired for the evening, leaving a message that she would meet her new companion in the morning. Gwynnen paused long enough to explain that her ladyship often retired early, and then hurried upstairs to attend her mistress. Nancy also excused herself to see to the unpacking, and Connor and Portia were left to eye each other uncertainly. Connor was the first to break the uneasy silence.
"We normally take our meals at country hours, Miss Haverall," he said, clearly making a determined effort to be polite. "Would you care to join me for dinner in an hour?"
Portia hesitated, knowing the earl was extending the olive branch to her. The thought of food was tempting, but not so tempting as a hot bath and a soft bed. Although she knew she should accept, she shook her head with regret.
"If your lordship has no objections, I would rather have a tray in my room," she said, offering a soft smile of apology. "It has been rather a long day."
"Yes, it has," he agreed, so solemnly that Portia was uncertain whether he was relieved or disappointed. "In that case, ma'am, allow me to bid you good night. I shall be gone when you awaken, but after lunch I should be happy to show you about the place. Do you ride?"
She debated whether or not to own to the truth, then shrugged her shoulders in resignation. Her deficiency would be more than obvious to his lordship the first time she tried to take a fence. "After a fashion," she confessed with a selfdeprecatory laugh. "We usually rented our hacks as we needed them, and the only chance I had to ride was when I visited my friends in the country. But I'm a fast learner," she added somewhat anxiously, lest he think her a complete ninnyhammer.
He studied her for a moment, and then his mouth curved in a smile that made her heart race. "Of that, Miss Haverall, I make no doubt," he drawled, his eyes bright with the first flash of warmth she'd seen in hours. "Until tomorrow, then."
The room to which the maid conducted her was the most luxurious Portia had ever seen. The walls were papered in a bright-yellow print that was vaguely Oriental, and the furniture was a charming collection of delicate Queen Anne and gilded Italian rococo. After indulging herself in a soak in the copper tub set before the fire, Portia climbed into the high, canopied bed to enjoy the tray of tea and cakes that had been delivered by a giggling parlor maid.
"It seems I've been deceived all these years," she remarked to Nancy, her expression rueful as she glanced about her. "The lot of a companion isn't nearly so grim as I have been led to believe. It's quite comfortable, in fact."
"Don't let this fool you, Miss Portia," the older woman warned sagely as she arranged Portia's brushes on the polished surface of the dressing table. "This is a guest room, not servant's quarters like you'd have in another house. Although," she added grudgingly, "even the servants' rooms here aren't so bad. I have my own room."
A Proper Taming Page 4
