Now if Portia envied anything, it would be Lady Emma’s horse. The mare was a dainty dappled gray that made Honey appear a lumbering ox. She had a kind eye, big ears, and a smooth gait.
Instead of going to Camber Hall’s front door, Lady Emma had spied Portia and came trotting up to the paddock. “Good morning, Miss Maclean.”
“Good morning, Lady Emma,” Portia said, feeling at a disadvantage with her hair curling wildly around her head in spite of the braid and her person covered in dust and straw.
She and Lady Emma rarely spoke other than a passing nod of acquaintance. Then again, Portia was nine years older than the girl and as far from society as one could be—especially wearing her work shoes and mucking out the paddock.
“I was out for my morning ride and thought it would be nice to call,” Lady Emma said.
Camber Hall wasn’t anywhere close to the duke’s sprawling estate. Lady Emma had ridden out of her way to visit, and Portia’s suspicions were confirmed by how lathered Her Ladyship’s horse was.
Noting the direction of Portia’s gaze, Lady Emma said, “Yes, he does need to be walked out. Marvin,” she called to the groom, “help me down and then walk my horse.”
The groom, a dark, brooding sort who wasn’t much older than Portia, jumped to do Her Ladyship’s bidding. Having helped Lady Emma dismount, he took the horses off to walk up and down the drive.
Alone, Lady Emma glanced over to Honey with a critical eye. “What is it?”
“She’s a pony.”
“What sort?”
Portia’s earlier good mood started to vanish. There was only one reason she could think of why Lady Emma would be here—the back rent. But why would the girl bypass Mr. Buchanan, who knew the rent was coming?
“She’s of undetermined lineage,” Portia said, resting the pitchfork she’d been holding on the ground, hoping that Lady Emma’s appearance didn’t portend bad news. “May I offer you refreshment?”
“I don’t have time to linger.” She faced Portia, her smile hardening on her face. No, this wasn’t a social call. She still carried her crop, a feminine thing with a beribboned handle.
“Is there something the matter, Lady Emma?” Portia dared to ask.
“Yes, there is. I don’t want you to have anything to do with Colonel Chattan.”
Portia almost laughed. A duke’s daughter believed Portia was competition?
“You need not worry, my lady,” Portia said.
“But I do,” Lady Emma said. She had the softest voice and liked to smile as she spoke as if she was being pleasant, but Portia sensed behind that smile were sharp, tiny teeth. “We all noticed his marked attention to you last night.”
“Marked attention?”
“He searched you out. You were seen talking to him . . . outside.”
“It is not what it appeared,” Portia said.
“The colonel took his leave from the Assembly right after you left,” Lady Emma said, an accusatory note in her voice.
Portia shrugged. “I have no idea why he chose to depart when he did, but it certainly wasn’t because of me.”
Lady Emma studied her a moment. She hit the palm of her leather-gloved hand softly with her crop. “You may be right.” She smiled. She did have small, sharp teeth. “I, um, well, we are fortunate to finally have a man who has everything I’ve been searching for in a husband pay his respects to us in the valley.”
“And what is everything?” Portia asked, curious, especially in light of her own wonderings.
“Handsome, well connected, wealthy, handsome—”
“You said handsome once,” Portia pointed out.
“It is worth repeating,” Lady Emma answered, and this time her smile was genuine.
Portia felt herself relax. “Well, he is all those things,” she agreed.
“Yes, and perhaps I shouldn’t jump to conclusions,” Lady Emma said. “I mean, you are almost as old as he is. Why would he be flirting with you?”
Portia tried to smile, but was thinking perhaps she preferred the suspicious Lady Emma over the friendly one. “He was being polite,” she said.
“Of course.” There was an awkward silence. “Well, I’d best be going. Father will worry if I am gone too long.”
“I can understand that,” Portia murmured.
Lady Emma turned to signal her groom to bring over her horse—but two riders coming up Camber Hall’s winding drive caught her eye.
Portia stepped forward, once more surprised by visitors. Then again, hadn’t Mr. Tolliver promised to call?
But it wasn’t Oliver Tolliver.
It was General Montheath . . . and Colonel Chattan.
Lady Emma slapped her crop against her palm, this time with more force. “It appears you have a caller, Miss Maclean,” Lady Emma said. Her eyes had grown as sharp and pointed as her teeth. “I believe I will accept your invitation for refreshment.”
Chapter Seven
Harry was not impressed with Miss Maclean’s home.
The stone house was a bit shabby. Someone had attempted to bring order to the front shrubberies, but the rest of the grounds were overgrown. The drive itself had more than a few holes that Ajax disdainfully stepped over. There had been some painting done to the house’s sashes but slates were missing on the roof. Harry wasn’t a very skilled workman but even he could tell the roof had to leak, and it made him angry. The landlord should take better care of an abode housing three women alone.
He had convinced Monty that if he truly wanted to woo his ladylove, he must call on her. No more waiting for the fair damsel to come to him. Monty must go to the damsel.
Of course, Monty was scared witless at the prospect, so Harry had thought it wise to accompany him. Harry also found himself eager to spend some time with Miss Portia Maclean again. Their moment of verbal sparring and plain speaking had been the last thing he’d thought about before he’d drifted off to sleep. She was quite possibly the most contrary female of his acquaintance. There was something about her that he could not define, something that drew him to her.
Besides, he told himself, it was a good day for a ride.
And so, here he was, dressed for a casual call and an easy ride, while Monty wore a full dress uniform with his gold braid gleaming in the winter sun. Harry had suggested his friend was a tad overdressed. Monty had shaken his head.
“If I’m going to do this,” he informed Harry, “it’s going to be a full-on attack. I’ve always rigged myself out before going into battle. I am laying siege to Ariana’s heart. I am going to give her my best until she sees we were meant for each other.”
His best had included the intention of bringing all his dogs with him. The whole pack of them, large and small.
Harry understood that, in Monty’s mind, the dogs were his clan, his trusted troops, but he had strongly suggested the general leave them behind. Monty had argued and they had compromised and brought one, Jasper, leaving the others penned in horse stalls lest they follow. They had howled their disappointment.
Jasper was not Harry’s favorite dog. He was a long-legged hound with an overeager, rambunctious personality. Harry couldn’t understand why Monty always wanted the dog close at hand. He owned better-behaved dogs—all right, they were just barely better-behaved—but he always made allowances for Jasper.
Of course, the dog had run ahead of them, as wild and bounding as an antelope, his ears flapping and his tongue hanging. Jasper noticed the activity by the barn before Harry and went racing over there first. He gleefully circled the groom holding the horses, ignoring the servant’s air of bored insolence.
One of Jasper’s favorite tricks to earn attention was to nip at a horse’s heels. Ajax had put him in his place with a well-aimed kick.
Now, the dog attempted to nip at the gray the groom held. The mare snorted a protest and shifted away, revealing that her body
had been blocking the view of the person of Lady Emma.
Harry cursed under his breath. The duke’s daughter had wanted him to call on her today, something he was determined not to do. He knew better than to play with innocents, especially those related to dukes. They were marriage bait.
And then he saw that Lady Emma was talking to Miss Portia Maclean, who appeared to be masquerading as barn help, although she did make a charming sight. She wore heavy boots and had flipped her cloak over her shoulders to reveal a sensible dress of forest green. Her curly hair created a halo around her head and her cheeks were rosy from fresh air and good work.
Harry just naturally directed Ajax toward her.
“I say, Chattan. Let’s go to the door,” Monty said.
“One moment,” Harry murmured, and trotted over to the barn.
Both women watched him approach.
But before he could reach them, the front door to the house opened. The other Miss Maclean, Miss Portia’s sister, came out on the step. He nodded to her.
“General Montheath and Colonel Chattan,” she said in greeting. “Have you come to call?”
“We have indeed, Miss Maclean,” Harry responded, and jumped from his horse. He tied Ajax at the post. Lady Emma had started walking toward him from the barn, a smile on her lips, and her fist tight on her crop. She was not pleased.
Miss Portia followed like a child who hated anything unpleasant.
Harry had to smile. “Good day, Lady Emma. Miss Maclean.”
“How nice to see you here,” Lady Emma said in a voice overladen with honey. “I was paying a visit to my friends Miss Portia and Miss Minerva, and had no expectation of meeting you here. How did you know what I was about?”
Harry had to marvel at the woman’s ability to make it sound as if he pursued. “Lucky happenstance?” he suggested.
“Very lucky,” Lady Emma echoed, sliding a triumphant glance toward Miss Portia, and as far as Harry was concerned, the game was on now.
There was no easier way to discourage a woman, even an aggressive puss like Lady Emma, than to pay court to another.
So he made much of shifting his gaze to Miss Portia, of smiling warmly, of moving into step beside her.
Miss Minerva had noticed the exchange, and a secret smile came to her lips. She was no one’s fool. “Let me tell Mother you are here. Please, come inside.”
“I must beg off,” Miss Portia said. “I am involved in something else right now. Please forgive me.”
“Of course we do,” Lady Emma hurried to say.
“I cannot,” Harry interjected. “I came specifically for a moment with you.”
Miss Portia’s eyes narrowed with suspicion. She recognized nonsense when she heard it. “I am sorry I may not accommodate your wishes.”
“But you can,” Harry insisted pleasantly. “Come inside, just for a bit. The general and I will not stay long.” He took her arm so that she could not run off, and was also gallant enough to offer Lady Emma his other arm. “My lady?” He thought it a peaceful offering.
Lady Emma did not. She sniffed, her smile tight. “General, will you escort me?”
Monty was still on his horse. His glassy-eyed expression was one Harry often saw on the faces of green recruits. Moments before he had been telling Harry of all the gallantries he would visit upon Lady Maclean. He now appeared ready to pass out.
“General? You are joining us?” Harry prompted.
His friend responded to his voice. “Yes, yes,” Monty said, and dismounted.
Miss Minerva had already gone inside, presumably to announce they had company. Lady Emma placed her hand on Monty’s arm and together they climbed the three stairs to the front door.
Harry started to follow them, but Miss Portia pulled back. “What game are you playing?” she demanded in a low voice.
“Game?” he asked innocently.
“You know Lady Emma has her interests set on you. Don’t use me to hold her off. You shall make my life miserable.”
“And how is that?”
“She’s my landlord’s daughter.”
If Miss Portia thought that news would bring him in line, she was wrong. “The landlord who hasn’t repaired the slates in the roof? Or applied a bit of paint to the wood of this house?” He demonstrated his meaning by placing a hand on the door frame. The wood was rotted. Harry frowned. “This place is about ready to fall down around your ears. I should talk to Montcrieffe. He should pay you to live here.”
“Don’t you say a word to him.” Now she had a grip on his arm. “Don’t you dare. I like this house, and I’m thankful we have it.”
“That doesn’t mean he shouldn’t meet his obligations.”
She shook her head. “The world must be a very easy place for you. You have rank, you have privilege, you have money to burn on ridiculous notions—”
“What notions?” Harry asked, confused.
Miss Portia dismissed his question with a wave of her hand. “Whatever notion you wish. You are handsome, bold, and people come to you.”
“You think I’m handsome,” he murmured. “Kind of you to notice.”
“I haven’t noticed,” she lashed out. “And can you not be serious?” She drew a breath as if to steady herself before admitting, “Life is not easy for those of us who are of the genteel poor. My mother insists upon appearances while I’m struggling to see if we can keep a roof over our heads. I am very aware we can fall much further than our present circumstances. So will you kindly stop the pretense of being interested in me and place your randy intentions upon Lady Emma, who will appreciate them.”
“Randy intentions?” Harry almost choked on his laughter, which earned him another glare from her. He held up his hands as if begging for quarter. “If you think my being pleasant is randy, let me assure you, Miss Maclean, I can be much randier.”
For a second, he feared he was going to be slapped. Her cheeks turned a becoming shade of red, and he enjoyed the moment. “I’d wager few people make you blush, Miss Maclean.”
“Few people want to.” She spat the words out, and would have stormed into the house, but he caught her arm.
“The simple truth is,” he said, “I like you. You are rather easy to tease, but only because you want to pretend no one notices you. Well, you are out of luck with me.”
Her lips parted, her temper replaced by surprise.
He braced himself, curious as to how she would respond to his honest compliment.
She disappointed him. She ducked her head, pulled her arm from his hold, and dashed into the house.
Harry was puzzled. Women didn’t run from him. They flocked to him. They searched him out.
This one didn’t, and he didn’t understand why. There was something more between them, something he wasn’t understanding.
Did she not feel the pull between them? And if she did, why did she fight it? Why not be pleasant and encouraging to him? Every other woman was.
Removing his hat, Harry stepped into the house. Monty was standing at attention in the sitting room to the left. Lady Maclean was not present. Her daughter Miss Minerva was playing the hostess and arranging the chairs to Lady Emma’s comfort.
Miss Portia had not joined the others in the sitting room but was climbing the staircase off the hall as if to escape.
She was stopped by her mother.
Lady Maclean came to the top of the stairs, her blonde curls tucked into a lace cap, a cape of the same lace around her shoulders and her hands in fussy lace, fingerless mittens. Her daughter froze like a deer caught in a hunter’s sights. There were some whispers between them. Harry strained to hear what was being said, and then Lady Maclean saw him. A broad smile of pleasure crossed her face. “Why, Colonel Chattan, what a pleasure.” She started down the stairs and was such a force of nature, Miss Portia had no choice but to turn and go ahead of her.
Lady Maclean reached the bottom step. “I’m so happy you have called. I know my daughter Minerva is as well—”
She broke off with a frown of disapproval.
Jasper, that woebegone hound, had returned from his nosey investigation of the barn. He was now on the hunt for Monty and had tracked him here. Sniffing the doorstep, he walked into the house, so enthusiastic his body seemed to be wagging his tail.
“Out.” Lady Maclean punctuated the word with a finger pointed to the door.
Jasper gave her a big dog grin and did not obey. After all, Monty never made him obey.
“I want that dog out of here,” Lady Maclean ordered.
Monty still stood at attention. He’d not moved a muscle, not even for his cherished dog. It was Harry who shooed Jasper out and closed the door.
“I can’t stand the beasts. So uncouth, so filthy and annoying,” Lady Maclean said. “I didn’t know you had a dog, Colonel Chattan. I hope I didn’t offend you.”
“You didn’t, my lady. The dog is not mine,” Harry answered.
“Not yours?” she repeated faintly, and then her face drained of color as she realized the implications. Slowly, she turned to the sitting room.
Monty put back his shoulders, trying to look his best. “Good day to you, my lady.” His voice shook slightly. He’d known he would not be welcome.
“You haven’t changed,” Lady Maclean said with a sniff. “Always with the hounds.”
For a second, Monty appeared flummoxed; his expression was that of an officer losing the battlefield—and it made Harry angry.
“He has a champion pack of dogs,” Harry lied audaciously. “The envy of not only Scotland but England as well.”
Lady Maclean smiled her disbelief. She entered the sitting room and took a seat on the room’s settee. “Please, sit here, Colonel,” she said, patting the seat next to hers. Minerva, take the chair next to the colonel—” she started, but stopped as Lady Emma plopped herself into the indicated chair without so much as a by-your-leave.
Monty still stood, anxious and ill at ease.
“Please, sit here, General,” Miss Portia said, directing him to a chair across from her mother. Harry knew she had not intended to stay. She’d hovered by the door but had now apparently decided to champion Monty’s cause and counter her mother’s rudeness. Harry silently applauded her. She’d saved him from having to make a stand that would be doubly harsh.
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