They walked back toward the house in silence. Portia was slightly ahead of him, and if the stiff way she held herself was any indication, it was obvious she was doing her best to recover her composure. He decided he had remained silent long enough, and lengthened his stride until he was beside her.
"And how did you spend your morning, ma'am?" he asked in what he hoped was a casual manner. "I trust you and Mama have been keeping yourselves busy?"
"Indeed we have, sir," she replied, her gaze set firmly in front of her. "We have finished all of our correspondence, and are looking over menus for the next fortnight."
"I trust you remembered to tell Cook not to prepare any more oysters," Connor remarked, determined to set her at her ease. "I cannot imagine what made her serve them in the first place. She must know I can not abide shellfish."
"I will have a word with her," she replied, keeping her eyes fixed firmly ahead of her as she continued up the path.
Connor decided he'd had enough, and stopped walking. "Blast it, Portia," he exclaimed, reaching out to snag her arm and pull her to a halt. "Will you stop acting so missish? I am sorry you saw me without my shirt, but I always take it off when I am working with the hay. How was I to know you would be in the stables!"
To his annoyance she took instant umbrage to his words. "I am not behaving missishly!" she denied, jerking her elbow free and glaring at him through narrowed eyes. "And as for my being in the stables, I told you your mother sent me to fetch you!"
"I don't care why you were there, I am only saying that I didn't mean to shock you," Connor said through clenched teeth, determined not to lose his temper. He couldn't remember the last time a female had affected him so strongly, but he did know he was growing weary of it.
"I wasn't shocked . . . precisely," she replied, relaxing enough to offer him a tentative smile. "Now, let us say no more of the matter. I am sure you will agree the less said, the better."
Connor did not agree, but as a gentleman he must do as she requested. They resumed walking, and this time it was Portia who broke the silence.
"I must say I am looking forward to seeing a bit more of the countryside today," she remarked as they skirted a hay cart. "Is it as lovely as they say it is?"
"Better," he said, feeling a twinge of guilt as he realized he had been derelict in his duties as a host. It should have occurred to him that Portia would want the chance to explore the neighborhood. "Perhaps if we have time I shall drive you into York so that you can see the minster," he offered, anxious to correct his negligence. "It is huge, and, to my mind, every bit as grand as the cathedral in Canterbury."
"Spoken like a true Yorkshireman, my lord," Portia said, and Connor relaxed at the teasing note in her voice. He'd grown accustomed to speaking freely with her, and it troubled him to have the slightest onmity between them.
"Perhaps that is because we have so much to be proud of," he suggested, noting with regret that they had almost reached the house. He was enjoying their talk so much, he would not have objected if they kept walking for the rest of the afternoon. Ah, well, he consoled himself with a sigh, there was still the drive to the Darlingtons'. The thought made him smile, and suddenly he could not wait for the afternoon to arrive.
Portia and Connor, accompanied by Gwynnen, set out for their journey in high spirits. The Darlingtons' home lay between Hawkshurst and York, and they reached it in less than half an hour. Portia was not surprised to find the entire family assembled in the drawing room awaiting their arrival. Mrs. Darlington had indeed recovered her nerves, and if her greeting to Portia was less cordial than it might have been, there was no faulting the warmth with which she welcomed the earl.
"Dear Lord Doncaster," she fairly gushed, thrusting out her hand to Connor so that he might kiss it. "Such a delight to see you again! And pray how is your mama this morning?"
"She is well, ma'am," Connor answered, and the twinkle in his eyes told Portia he was doing his best not to laugh at the lady's effusive greeting. "I shall be certain to mention that you asked after her."
"I was going to call upon her myself," Mrs. Darlington continued in her ebullient manner, "for I have so many questions to ask her. There is the matter of clothes to be considered, of course, and the parties to be planned. My, but we shall be gay this summer! My girls and I are quite looking forward to it, aren't we, lambkins?" She turned a fond maternal eye on her three daughters sitting in blonde perfection on the opposite settee.
"Yes, Mama," they chorused, fluttering their lashes at Connor and sending him dimpled smiles.
"Naturally, one may hope the house will be cleansed of reptiles before the festivities begin," Mrs. Darlington added with a sniff, addressing Portia for the first time.
Portia, who had begun to grow bored with the pedestrian nature of the conversation, brightened at the display of poor manners. "Oh, there is no need to fear on that account, Mrs. Darlington," she answered with a dimpled smile of her own. "I have had a new cage built for Prinny, and I assure you he shan't escape again. The poor thing was quite upset by all the excitement, you know. I was hours calming him down."
A stunned silence filled the room as the Darlingtons exchanged horrified looks. "You . . . you have a pet snake?" Mrs. Darlington asked, her voice shaking so much Portia wondered if they were about to be treated to another dramatic swoon.
"Just a tiny garden snake," Portia said, enjoying herself more than she had in months. "He is very colorful, however, which is why I named him for the Regent. His lordship gave him to me," she added, a sudden imp of mischief making her include the earl in her deception. To her delight he picked up the reins at once, his expression solemn as he took the cup of tea that a visibly shaken Mrs. Darlington offered him.
"Yes, I read a fascinating article in one of my farming journals suggesting that snakes are far better than cats at keeping the mice down," he said coolly, raising his cup to his lips. "It worked astonishingly well in the stables, and so I decided to try them in the house. We haven't heard a single squeak or rustle in weeks."
"Snakes, eh?" Mr. Darlington spoke for the first time, the expression on his florid face thoughtful. "Worth a try, I suppose. Only last week Cook was complaining about the vermin in our larder—"
"Edgar!"
"Papa!"
A chorus of outraged female voices drowned out the rest of Mr. Darlington's observation. The rest of the visit was conducted with stiff civility, and at the end the Darlingtons seemed almost relieved to be shed of their highborn guest and his outrageous companion.
"You are a menace," Connor remarked with a chuckle as they rolled down the road toward their next stop. He had eschewed his elaborate carriage and its driver in favor of his light phaeton, and he took obvious pleasure in handling the ribbons himself.
"Snakes in the house," he continued, shaking his head in mock despair. "I don't know what compelled me to support such an outrageous clanker. Now it will be all over the neighborhood that Hawkshurst is overrun with vipers."
"Better to be overrun with snakes than to lay claim to mice in the larder," Portia retorted with a smug laugh, reveling in the havoc she had caused. After so many months of determinedly minding her every word, it felt wonderful to be her old, contentious self again. Mayhap she would allow herself an outrageous remark or two a week, she decided with a secretive smile. She had forgotten how much fun it could be.
"That is true," Connor agreed with a grin. "Did you see the expression on our hostess's face when her husband blurted out his artless confession? I daresay she read him a thundering scold before the door had even closed behind us."
"I am sure she must have," Portia said, recalling the knife-edged glares the other lady had cast her hapless mate. "I also noted no one took any of the cakes and sandwiches when they were offered. Ah, well." She tilted her head to one side and fluttered her lashes at him in perfect imitation of the Misses Darlington. "Perhaps the mice will enjoy them."
Their visit to the vicar's was less eventful, as Portia remained on her best
behavior. After listening to a long-winded lecture about the sacred duties of a host and hostess, and choking down a cup of weak tea, they were allowed to go on their way. The vicar also extracted a promise from Connor to attend services on a more regular basis, and as they made their way to the squire's house, Portia teased him about his dereliction to his immortal soul.
"Never say I have been residing with an atheist," she teased, laughing at the mulish expression on his face. "For shame, sir, have you no regard at all for the proprieties?"
"I am not an atheist," he denied, tearing his gaze from the road to send her an indignant scowl. "And you are a fine one to talk about disregarding the proprieties, ma'am. You haven't behaved with an iota of propriety since the moment we met."
"Ha! And you have the nerve to say I tell clankers!" Portia laughed, too high-spirited to take offense at the accusation. She turned to Gwynnen with a wheedling smile.
"Come, Gwynnen," she coaxed playfully, "tell this blackened sinner that my behavior has remained above reproach. I have been the very model of feminine decorum, have I not?"
"Wouldn't go so far as to say that," the taciturn maid answered in her usual blunt manner. "But you haven't tried to dash out his lordship's brains again, I'll grant you that."
"There, you see?" Portia affected a prim expression, hands folded and gaze demurely lowered. "I have been the very soul of sensibility and moderation. You would do well to follow my pattern, sir."
Connor gave a reluctant chuckle. "Were I to do that, ma'am, my reputation would be even worse than it is," he said, and from this tone Portia could see he did not seem so bitter. "Now mind you keep a lock on that outrageous tongue of yours for the rest of the day. I would as lief not alienate all of my neighbors in a single afternoon."
Two days later, Portia was sitting in her room going over the last of her lists. The guests had all written back with their acceptances, and in less than a sennight Hawkshurst would be filled to overflowing with people. The countess had promised to see that additional staff would be hired, and that the proper foods would be brought in from London, and left the planning of events to Portia's discretion.
All was going as well as she could have hoped, but instead of satisfaction in a job well done, Portia felt only shame. The countess was still insisting upon secrecy, and that meant his lordship remained ignorant of the coming invasion. She hated the thought of breaking her promise to her ladyship, but she hated more the thought of deceiving the earl. He had a right to know what was going on in his own house, she thought, and decided it was time to inform him of what was about to happen. She knew the countess would be angry, but that was a risk she was prepared to take.
Once she had reached that decision, the rest of the afternoon passed swiftly. In addition to the many teas, soiress, and card games, the house party would end in a grand ball, and in a flash of inspiration Portia had decided to make it a costume ball. She had never been to one, but they sounded like great fun, and she began sketching out various ideas for themes. The matter of costumes was another difficulty, and she decided to seek out the countess's advice. She was so preoccupied with the ball that she completely forgot to knock, but walked into Lady Eliza's rooms unannounced.
"My lady, I was wondering if I might have a word with you," she said, casually glancing up. "I have an idea for—" Her voice broke off, and she stared at the countess in disbelief. "Lady Doncaster!" she gasped, the list fluttering from her hand. "You can walk!"
9
Lady Eliza turned around, her expression first startled and then resigned as she saw Portia standing in the doorway. "Oh, dear," she said, sighing as she set down the porcelain figurine she had been holding, "it appears you have found me out."
"I . . . I do not understand," Portia stammered, advancing into the room, unable to take her gaze off the amazing sight of the countess standing in front of the fireplace. "Connor . . . Lord Doncaster told me you had been paralyzed in a fall!"
"And so I was," Lady Eliza replied calmly, crossing the room to take Portia's hand. "If you will give me a moment, I promise I will explain everything."
"But you can walk!" Portia said, still not believing the evidence of her own eyes. Her shock was gradually fading, and in its place was a rising sense of indignation. She remembered the expression on the earl's face, the pain in his voice when he had first told her of his mother's condition, and she shook her head.
"My lady, how could you do this to your own son?" she chided, appalled that anyone could be so cruel. "Do you not know what it does to him to see you in that chair, believing himself responsible for your being there?"
Tears gathered in the countess's eyes, but she did not let them fall. "It sounds heartless, I know," she admitted in a quiet voice, "but I assure you I do have a very good reason for what I have done. Let us sit down, and I will tell you the whole of it."
Portia allowed herself to be guided over to the settee, her gaze fixed on the countess as they took their seats. Lady Eliza settled her skirts about her, her eyes lowered to her lap as she began speaking.
"When the accident first happened, I truly was paralyzed," she began without preamble. "I could not move my legs, and the doctors could offer us no hope. I thought I would spend the rest of my days trapped in that blasted chair. And then gradually, feeling began to return. I was afraid to belive it at first, but when it was obvious I was recovering, I cannot tell you how thankful and relieved I was."
"I can understand that," Portia said gently, reaching out to cover the countess's hand with her own, "but why did you fail to share the joyous news with your son? You must have known he would want to know."
Lady Eliza gave a jerky nod. "I . . . I knew he held himself to blame for what happened," she said in a low voice, raising her eyes to meet Portia's gaze, "and I was going to tell him I could walk again, but . . . Oh, this is going to sound so dreadful!"
"What is going to sound so dreadful?" Portia asked as the countess covered her face with her hands.
"But I realized that if Connor thought I was still injured, he would be more amenable to getting married," Lady Eliza concluded in the tone of one confessing to a terrible crime. She dropped her hands and met Portia's startled gaze. "You think I'm terrible, don't you?" she asked miserably.
"I don't know what I think," Portia answered, too amazed to be anything other than completely candid. She had never heard of such a calculating act in her life, and the worst part was, even as part of her was horrified by the countess's actions, the other part was applauding her ingenuity.
"You think I'm dreadful," Lady Eliza sniffed, her green eyes filling with tears, "and I cannot say that I blame you. You are so honest and forthright, I know you would never dream of doing anything so conniving."
"I would not say that," Portia mumbled, recalling the times she had feigned illness to get out of some task her father had set for her.
"I never meant for the deception to go on so long," Lady Eliza continued in an unhappy voice. "But the weeks became months, and the months somehow turned into a year, and I could not think of any way to end the charade. I was trapped in that Bath chair by my own duplicity, as surely as if I'd been put there by the fall. I was at my wit's end until you came."
"Me?" Portia was startled by the countess's remark. "My lady, what are you saying? What has my coming here to do with anything?"
"Because for the first time since the accident, that stubborn son of mine has finally agreed to participate in the social round. Oh, I know it was but one afternoon," she added when Portia would have spoken, "and there's no denying it ended in disaster, but the important thing is that he participated. Until I saw him laughing and talking with Miss DeCamp, I was beginning to fear he would never marry."
Portia remembered the easy way the earl had conversed with Miss DeCamp, and an unfamiliar pain pierced her heart. "That is all very well, my lady," she said quickly, her gruff tone hiding her confusion, "but what do you propose we do now? You cannot mean to continue this charade indefinitely."
<
br /> The countess gave her a hopeful look. "Well, actually . . ."
"No," Portia interrupted, shaking her head. "I cannot allow you to keep deceiving his lordship. It is too cruel."
"But I cannot simply walk up to him and admit the truth!" Lady Eliza protested in alarm. "It would ruin everything, and he would never forgive me!"
As Portia could well imagine the earl's response, she sympathized with the countess's reluctance to confess all. Still, she couldn't allow him to continue blaming himself for something which wasn't even his fault. She tapped her foot thoughtfully, her brows gathering in a frown as she tried to think of a way out of their predicament.
"A month," she said at last, fixing the countess with a stern gaze. "I will give you a month to 'recover,' or I shall be forced to tell Lord Doncaster the truth."
Lady Eliza looked as if she would have liked to argue the point, but at the expression on Portia's face, she gave a defeated sigh. "Very well," she said, "if you are going to be that way about it. I will do as you insist."
Portia refused to feel guilty. "Good," she said coolly. "You may begin by using a regular wheelchair. It will grant you more mobility, and help convince his lordship that your recovery is gradual, and therefore genuine."
"Do you mean I shan't be allowed to miraculously walk?" Lady Eliza asked sweetly. "What a pity. It would have given our houseguests something to gossip about for years to come."
"And there is another thing," Portia said, ignoring the other lady's sarcasm. "I have never approved of your insistence that we not tell his lordship about our houseguests. I want your permission to apprise him of our plans."
"Tell him!" Lady Eliza protested indignantly. "But—"
"It's either that, or telling him his mama has been deceiving him all this time," Portia said calmly, folding her arms across her chest and meeting the countess's gaze. "It is your choice."
Lady Eliza's bottom lip thrust forward in a mutinous pout. "As you wish," she said petulantly, clearly put out. "But I must say I am disappointed in you. I thought you were my friend."
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