Authors: Joan Overfield
"What does your ladyship mean?" she asked, striving to understand the countess's worry.
Lady Eliza gave another sigh. "You do not know Connor as well as I do," she said, her eyes sad as they met Portia's gaze. "He is not nearly as sanguine about this party as he lets on."
"I know he only agreed to it to please you," Portia said slowly, recalling the earl's initial resistance to the idea, "but since then he has been most help
ful. Indeed, it was his suggestion that we use the small tents to protect the food from the heat and the insects."
"Oh, yes, Connor would do whatever he thought was required of him, regardless of how painful it might be," the other woman said with a humorless laugh. "He is much like his father in that respect. But that doesn't mean he is looking forward to this afternoon with anything other than dread."
"But why?" Portia was confused. Admittedly the party was bound to be a dead bore for a worldly man like Doncaster, but she sensed the countess meant something far more serious than a simple case of ennui.
The countess hesitated as if uncertain what to say. She threaded her fingers together, her expression anxious as she studied Portia's face. "We never mention the matter, even amongst ourselves," she said in solemn tones, "but I know it is because of this tragic incident in his past that Connor has hidden himself on our estate. He would be furious if he knew I have told you, but I feel you have the right to know."
"Thank you, my lady," Portia replied, steeling herself to hear the details of some dreadful scandal. It was a duel, she decided, easily envisioning the earl with a pistol in his hand, his green eyes full of icy calm as he faced his opponent. The earl had killed his man, and now he was an outcast from society.
Or perhaps it was an affair, she amended, recalling the devastating charm his lordship could wield when it suited him. Yes, he had gone mad for a married lady, and the woman's husband had threatened scandal. Perhaps he had even called Connor out, and he had no choice but to accept. Perhaps . . .
"It began the year he turned twenty-one, and his papa and I insisted he come to London for the Season," Lady Eliza began, her expression pensive as she lost herself in the past. ''He'd always resisted before, claiming he couldn't leave his books or his duties on the estate. He is so very conscientious, you know, just like his father, and usually he would do whatever was asked of him without question."
As Portia had already experienced the earl's dedication to duty firsthand, she could readily believe his mother's glowing praise. But as she was still annoyed with him, she was unwilling to give the devil his due. "Mayhap he was enjoying himself too much to leave," she said, lowering her gaze to the papers piled on her desk.
The countess shook her head with a soft laugh. "It wasn't that at all!" she replied. "I know you would not credit it to look at him, but while he was at Oxford Connor was dreadfully bookish. He preferred his studies to the ladybirds and carousing . . . quite unlike his father when I first met him, I might add."
Portia winced, recalling the morning at the ruins when his lordship had demonstrated his obvious expertise. "But you say you were able to persuade him to go to London?" she asked, hiding her shame behind the gruff question.
"Yes, and almost from the start it was an unmitigated disaster."
That brought Portia's head up with a snap. "A disaster?" she echoed in disbelief.
"It is his size, you see," Lady Eliza explained with an earnest look. "He has always been so much taller than most of the men, and he simply
towers
over the ladies. People would stare so whenever he entered a room, and I fear it made him dreadfully self-conscious."
The idea of Doncaster being anything other than supremely arrogant would have been laughable in any other situation, but Portia didn't feel like laughing. "It is rather difficult to imagine his lordship being self-conscious," she said, her heart aching for the earl. "He always seems so sure of himself."
"And so he is . . . now," the countess agreed with a sigh. "But this was when he was younger, and uncertain of himself in social situations. He tried, but the more people stared and whispered, the more he withdrew into himself. We could hardly get him to accept any invitations, and just when things were looking their bleakest he met
that woman
."
"What woman?" Portia asked, wondering if her original suspicions were correct, and the earl had indulged in an illicit affair.
"Miss Olivia Carlisle, the niece of the Earl of Stamford," Lady Eliza provided, her mouth thinning in anger. "She was the toast of London, all blonde curls and dimpled smiles, a perfect pocket Venus. The blades all went mad for her, including Connor. He offered for her, and do you know what that hussy did?"
"As his lordship has no wife, I would gather she refused him," Portia replied, hiding her surprise that a mere niece of an earl would have turned down so eligible a
parti
as his lordship. Unless the lady had bigger fish already on her string, she added to herself, wondering what had become of the young woman.
"Ha! That was only the half of it! She
laughed
at him, saying she would as lief marry her mother's footman as tie herself to him. She called him . . . Oh! I can not say it!" Lady Eliza's eyes flashed with fury. "Even a dozen years later the memory of her vile insult makes my blood boil!"
Portia blinked in astonishment. "Good heavens, ma'am!" she said, trying to imagine what Miss Carlisle could have said to have so enraged the usually placid countess. "Whatever did she call him?"
"She called him by the cruelest of nicknames," the countess raged. "The name she herself had given him. She called him the Ox from Oxford!"
7
"T
he what?"
"The Ox from Oxford," Lady Eliza repeated in a clipped voice. "The little baggage named him that after he fell and broke a table at Almack's. Not that it was his fault, mind," she added anxiously. "Another man tripped him, accidentally
he
claimed, but it was poor Connor who took the blame."
"That is terrible," Portia said, understanding now the earl's remarks that day at the ruins. No wonder he had such a poor opinion of her sex, she mused sadly. A sudden thought occurred to her, and she sent the countess a curious look.
"Whatever became of Miss Carlisle?" she asked, hoping to hear the chit had met with some terrible misfortune.
The countess gave a haughty sniff. "She married the Marquis of Duxford," she said in a voice dripping with scorn. "the man was old enough to have been her father, but he had more than enough gold to make up for his advanced years. Now that he's finally popped off, I hear she is on the catch for a new title. 'Tis rumored she will be visiting the Bowlands later this summer, and I am praying she won't bother us. It shall be difficult enough getting Connor to cooperate with our plans, but if
he should learn she is lurking about, well, I needn't tell you what
that
would portend!"
"Indeed you do not, my lady," Portia replied, easily envisioning the earl's possible reaction to the news. "Still, I feel it might be better if we at least mention it to him. That way he won't be taken by surprise should he encounter her. 'Forewarned is forearmed,' you know."
"Perhaps, but if Connor even suspects that minx is in the neighborhood he will likely hole up like a badger in his den." Lady Eliza's expression was stern as she met Portia's gaze. "You must promise you shan't say a word to him."
Portia was uncertain what she should do. She certainly had no desire to defy the countess, but neither did she wish to deceive his lordship. Instinct told her he would not appreciate being kept in the dark, and she could imagine his fury should he learn the truth. On the other hand, she did not see why she should upset him unless it was absolutely necessary.
"Very well, my lady, I shall do as you ask. But," she cautioned when the countess would have spoken, "if Lady Duxford does stay with her friends, then I insist his lordship be told. It is only fair."
Lady Eliza opened her mouth as if to disagree, and then closed it again. "As you wish, my dear," she said, inclining her head in approval. "Now that we have resolved that matter, there is something else I should like to discuss with you."
"What is that, ma'am?"
"I have decided that instead of introducing you as my companion, I shall introduce you as my guest," Lady Eliza said in a decisive tone. "And 'tis more or less the truth when you think about it. Georgianne did write granting you permission to stay with us, you know."
Portia cringed, recalling the letter her great-aunt
had written the countess some two days earlier. The elderly lady had learned of the incident at the inn, and if the three-page tirade was to be believed, she was far from amused. She had informed Lady Eliza that if she wanted "the little hoyden" to remain with them, then she was welcome to her. She also added a cold postscript that should Portia learn to conduct herself in a manner befitting a proper lady, she was free to return to the bosom of her family. Until then, it was strongly suggested she might find the wilds of Yorkshire more to her liking.
"That is very kind of you, my lady," Portia said, shaking off the remnants of old pain as she smiled at the countess. "But I do not care if people know I am your companion. That is why Lord Doncaster brought me here, after all."
"You may not care, but I do," the countess answered with surprising vehemence. "People, even good people, tend to treat companions and poor relations as if they are invisible, and I'll not have you snubbed by our guests. Believe me," she added grimly, "I fully know whereof I speak."
"Oh?" Portia was intrigued by the confession.
The countess shook her head. "It is an old story, child, and a long one. Someday when we have more time I promise to tell you all, but in the meanwhile I believe I shall go to my rooms for a little nap."
Portia rose to her feet and moved over to the countess's chair. "Shall I push you to the steps, my lady?" she asked, placing her hands on the chair's lacquered handles.
"If you wish," the countess agreed, closing the leather apron that covered her lower limbs. "It will be quicker than sending for the footman."
"I've often wondered why you do not use a wheelchair," Portia remarked as she guided the
chair with its two large back wheels and smaller front wheel through the door. "They're much smaller, and you wouldn't need to depend on others to push you about."
"I'd thought of it." Lady Eliza surprised Portia with her admission. "But I didn't wish to offend the servants."
"How would your buying a wheelchair offend them?"
The countess gave an unhappy sigh. "They were all so upset when I had that silly fall," she muttered. "They could not do enough for me, and if I attempted to do the smallest thing for myself they acted so hurt. I vow, if I'd had any idea the entire household would be thrown into such chaos by all this, I'd have never—" She broke off abruptly.
"Never what, my lady?"
"Never tried to take that silly fence, of course," Lady Eliza finished with a light laugh. "But that is pride for you. In my case, it truly went before a fall. Ah, there is John!" she exclaimed, summoning the stocky footman with a wave of her hand.
"Will there be anything else, Lady Doncaster?" Portia asked, watching as the footman lifted the countess from her chair.
"Heavens, no!" the older woman replied, giving her a quick smile. "Just try to relax, my dear, and pray the party doesn't end in disaster. That is all any of us can do."
"If your lordship will kindly refrain from squirming, I shall have this thing tied in a moment," Samuels pleaded, swaying on tiptoe as he added the finishing touches to Connor's cravat. "It needs only one more tug, and . . . there! Perfection!"
While the smaller man stepped back to admire his creation, Connor turned to the mirror, half
afraid of what he would see. The sight that greeted him made him blink in pleasant surprise.
Instead of the frilly, uncomfortable monstrosities he remembered from his youth, the cravat his valet had fashioned was a simple arrangement of starched white linen. The folds lay flat against the front of his shirt, and instead of extending past his ears, the points of his collar barely brushed his chin. He'd also allowed Samuels to cut his hair, and even to his critical eyes, the effect was pleasing. Perhaps this afternoon wouldn't be the torment he dreaded, he thought, tugging on the cuffs of his shirt.
"Is everything all right, my lord?" Samuels asked anxiously, brushing a fleck of lint from the shoulders of Connor's black jacket. "Is the coat not to your liking?"
"No, it's fine, Samuels," Connor said, and was shocked to realize it was true. He'd always hated the fashionable clothes his mother insisted he wear, feeling as if he was suffocating every time he pulled on one of the tight satin jackets she had claimed were
de rigueur
for a gentleman.
"I was afraid the lapels would be too narrow," the valet continued, fretting and fussing as he helped Connor finish his toilet. "But now I think they are just right. Your lordship's chest is much too broad for wide lapels."
Remembering Monsieur André's refusal to compromise the width of his lapels, he was strongly tempted to tease his too-serious valet on the matter. Then he studied his reflection again, and a new concern arose to plague him.
"Are you quite certain the gentlemen wear their pantaloons this tight?" he asked, giving his yellow nankins an anxious look. He had ordered them made last year, but Samuels had insisted upon altering them, commenting with a sniff that a
gentleman
would never wear so ill-fitting a garment. They were not ill-fitting now, Connor thought, turning for a better look at his reflection. Indeed, they fit as smoothly as a riding glove, the soft fabric hugging his thighs to an embarrassing degree.
Samuels gave him a long-suffering look that was beginning to become familiar. "Pantaloons must be tight to give a gentleman the proper silhouette," he said, with the studied patience of a tutor addressing a slow-witted pupil. "You look quite dashing, my lord, I assure you. The ladies shall swoon when they see you."