A Proper Taming (22 page)

"And a sharper pen." Felicity unfurled her fan, and began fanning herself in a languid movement. "Mr. McLean told me she was the Duke of Cumbria's mistress, but he threw her over when she began to press for marriage."

The news came as no surprise to Portia, who had taken the widow's measure in one glance. What did surprise her was that Mr. McLean had imparted such shocking news to Felicity. She toyed with her own fan for a few seconds before speaking.

"That doesn't sound like the sort of thing a gentleman should discuss with a lady," she chided, her eyes meeting Felicity's in gentle disapproval.

To her amazement Felicity actually blushed. "You must not blame Mr. McLean," she said, her gaze lowering to her hands. "I fear it was my fault. I had been scolding him for allowing such an obvious creature to wrap him about her pretty finger, and he assured me that I need not have any fear on that score as he had no intention of offering for . . . er . . . shopworn goods." Her color deepened as she repeated the cruel phrase.

Portia wanted to ask her friend why she should be taking her nemesis to task for flirting with another woman, when a shadow fell over them. She glanced up, and her heart stopped when she saw Connor standing before her.

"I have come to claim my waltz," he said in his deep voice, his eyes brilliant as he held out his hand to her. "You did promise it to me, if you recall."

As if she could ever forget, Portia thought, re
membering the heady sensations she had felt when he'd first taken her into his arms. Had she loved him then? she wondered, committing his handsome features to memory as she gazed up at him.

"Portia?" His brows gathered in a puzzled frown. "Do you not wish to waltz?"

The question startled her out of her brown study, and she rose quickly to her feet. She mumbled a polite apology to Felicity, and allowed Connor to escort her out onto the dance floor, where couples were already gathering in eager anticipation.

He slid a firm arm about her waist, his hand holding hers as they waited for the music to begin. "I see you are wearing my rose," he said, his voice pitched to an intimate level as he drew her closer. "I am glad."

This time Portia was determined not to be charmed by his sophistry. "As you said, sir, it provided an interesting contrast to my gown," she said, stiffening slightly and making an attempt to move back.

He ignored her efforts as if they did not exist, and held her even closer. "I meant to tell you that you are looking very beautiful," he said as they began to move about the room in time to the lilting music. "I was certain I would have to do battle with a legion of your suitors in order to claim my waltz."

Given the fact she'd remained on her bench far more than she had danced, Portia considered this a blatant piece of false flattery. She raised her face to his, fully prepared to unbraid him for uttering such nonsense. Their eyes clashed, and the expression she saw there had her lowering her own in confusion. If she hadn't seen him dancing attendance on Lady Duxford a scant few minutes ago,
she would almost think he was captivated by herself, she thought, and then quickly squashed the notion.

She was being ridiculous, she scolded herself. The man was naught but a rake and a flirt, and she would be mad to take his attentions seriously. She thought back to the aloof and difficult man she had first met, and compared him to the handsome and sophisticated man who held her now. Really, she thought sourly, if she had known that her efforts to tame him would have led to this, she would never have bothered!

While Portia was busy silently castigating Connor for his profligate ways, he was busy sorting out his nebulous feelings. He had spent the better part of the evening in Olivia's company, and the more time he had spent with her, the more he wondered how he could ever have thought himself in love with her. Not only was she as spiteful and cruel as he remembered, but she also possessed the morals of a Covent Garden abbess, and it was all he could do not to sneer at the blatant way she kept pressing herself against him. Did she really think him fool enough to take her up on her obvious offer? he wondered bitterly.

It was odd, he mused, but the entire time he had been with Olivia his thoughts had all been on Portia. She looked far more beautiful in her modest gown than Olivia did in her daring dress of goldshot silk, which was transparent enough to make it obvious she had rouged her nipples. He also could not help but compare their conversation; again, to Portia's credit. While
she
could converse on any number of subjects, Olivia's talk was all of herself, or the latest scandal, and more than once he had found himself fighting a yawn while she had prattled on.

He also could not imagine Olivia bashing him
over the head with a bed warmer, had it been her room he had burst into when searching for Miss Montgomery. Indeed, he thought, his lips curving in a wry smile, it would probably have been he who would have had to use the bed warmer to save himself from being ravished. The thought made him chuckle, and the sound brought a frown to Portia's face.

"Your lordship finds something amusing?" she asked, her tone so lofty it was all Connor could do to keep from kissing her on the spot.

"A great deal, actually," he replied, enjoying the fire in her eyes. He wondered if he could convince her to join him for a stroll on the balcony, and was about to ask when the master of ceremonies came dashing up to them.

"Lord Doncaster! Lord Doncaster!" the stately gentleman exclaimed, his normally serene countenance gray with worry. "You must come with me at once. Your mother has collapsed!"

12

"I
wish everyone would stop fussing, and leave me alone!" Lady Eliza's voice could be heard as Portia and Connor rushed toward the other end of the room where a small crowd had gathered about the woman lying on the floor. Connor roughly shoved one man out of his way, his face white as he knelt beside his mother.

"Are you all right?" he asked gently, taking her hand in his. "What happened?"

"It was the silliest thing, really," she muttered, looking more embarrassed than hurt. "I dropped my reticule, and when I leaned over to pick it up I fell out of my chair. Now kindly help me up. This blasted floor is cold."

The impatient demand relieved Connor of his initial fear that she had reinjured herself, and he bent to pick her up. He was returning her to her chair when she gave a sharp cry.

"My leg!"

He set her down and stepped back. "What is it?" he asked, his eyes filled with concern as he studied her.

"The thing is tingling as if it were afire," Lady Eliza grumbled, her lips twisting into a grimace as she rubbed the affected limb. "I've been feeling occasional twinges, but nothing like this. I must have jolted it when I fell."

Portia had been standing at Connor's side prepared to offer whatever assistance might be required, but at the countess's words she took a step back. So
this
was how she meant to miraculously "recover," she thought, admiration for the other woman's craftiness dispelling the lingering worry for her health. Later she would take the countess to task for her theatrical display, but at the moment she decided it was wisest to get her home before she could dream up even more mischief.

"Perhaps it would be best if we took your mother back to Hawkhurst," she suggested, placing her hand on Connor's arm. "We can arrange to have the doctor meet us there."

Connor hadn't thought about a doctor, but now that she mentioned it, it made sense. He gave a curt nod, and ordered a footman who was hovering nearby to fetch the doctor. After a brief discussion it was decided that those houseguests who wished to do so would remain at the assembly, and less than ten minutes after being summoned to the countess's side, they were on their way back to the estate.

Connor sat across from his mother, taut with anguish, not even aware he was crushing Portia's fingers in his grasp. He kept seeing his mother on the floor, and it reminded him painfully of the accident that had originally injured her. His fault, he thought miserably, all of it was his fault.

"Connor?"

The sound of Portia's voice finally penetrated Connor's misery, and he glanced down to see her watching him. At the same moment he realized he was holding her hand in a tight grip, and he quickly lessened his hold.

"Was I hurting you?" he apologized, rubbing his thumb over her knuckles as if to smooth away the
pain. "I'm sorry. There are times when I forget my own strength."

"You weren't hurting me," Portia assured him, although her fingers were throbbing. "I was going to say that you needn't look so grim. Everything will be all right."

When she smiled at him like that, Connor thought, he could believe anything. "I know," he said quietly, carrying the hand he was still clasping to his lips. Their eyes met, and he pressed a grateful kiss to the warm flesh. He would have spoken, but the countess, who had been leaning back on the opposite seat, suddenly stirred to life.

"What are the two of you mumbling about over there?" she demanded crossly. "There's no need to whisper, you know, I'm not that ill!"

Connor and Portia exchanged amused looks as he lowered her hand to her side. "We know you're not, Mother," he said, his deep voice edged with laughter. "We just didn't wish to disturb you with our conversation."

"Conversation, is it?" The countess gave a disbelieving sniff. "Is that what they call it these days?"

They arrived home in less than half an hour, and Connor carried his mother up to her room before leaving her to Portia and the waiting Gwynnen. They undressed Lady Eliza and were doing their best to make her comfortable when the doctor arrived. Connor was resented the way he was shoved gently from the room, but he accepted it with grudging understanding. He went down to the drawing room to wait for news, and was considering ringing for some brandy when the door opened and Portia walked in.

"How is she?" he asked, rushing up to her and grabbing her hand in his. "Is she all right? It's not her heart, is it?"

"No, not at all," Portia assured him, furious with the countess for putting that panicked look in his eyes. She'd taken a moment alone to let her ladyship know what she thought of her charade, but now she wished she'd been more vocal in her disapproval. However pure Lady Eliza claimed her motives to be, she had no right to put her son through such torment.

"Thank God for that," Connor said, his eyes closing as he breathed a sigh of relief. He'd sensed his mother was keeping something from him, and feared she was far more ill than she was letting on. He opened his eyes and smiled at Portia.

"What did the doctor say?" he asked, leading her over to one of the settees and settling easily beside her.

"He is still examining her, but he doesn't seem overly concerned. Indeed, he actually seemed encouraged," Portia replied, feeling even more guilty. Loving Connor and being forced to deceive him was making her miserable, but she didn't see that she had a choice. However distasteful she found such duplicity, she
had
given her word.

"Encouraged?" Connor was frowning at her in concern. "That seems an odd word to use."

Portia stirred slightly, wishing he wasn't so close. "He . . . he thinks the tingling in her legs may be a sign that some feeling is returning to them," she said at last, grateful that in this, at least, she could be completely truthful.

"Do you mean she could walk again?" Connor demanded incredulously.

The happiness in his voice added to Portia's misery. "He did not say, but it seems a logical deduction," she answered quietly, keeping her gaze firmly fastened on the portrait hanging on the far wall.

"But that is wonderful!" Connor exclaimed with
a joyous laugh, gathering her against him for an exuberant hug. When she did not respond, he drew back in consternation. "You don't seem very happy about it," he accused, noting her downcast eyes and pale features.

His quickness made her flinch. "Of course I am happy," she replied, averting her eyes from his too-knowing gaze. "It is just I have been so worried. I suppose the news hasn't sunk in yet." She added this last with an uncomfortable laugh that sounded false even to her own ears.

He gave her a sharp look, and seemed about to press her for more information, but the doctor chose that moment to enter the room. Vowing to get to the bottom of the matter later, he rose to his feet, Portia's hand still held tightly in his.

"How is my mother?" he queried, clinging to Portia's hand as he steeled himself for the doctor's reply.

"Better than I have seen her in years, my lord!" the elderly physician answered, his lined face breaking into a glorious smile. "All feeling has returned to her ladyship's limbs, and it is only a matter of time before she will walk again. A miracle, that is what it is. A miracle!"

The news of Lady Doncaster's recovery spread quickly through the neighborhood, and the house was soon besieged with callers anxious to clap eyes on the miraculously cured invalid. No sooner had one group of curiosity-seekers been ushered out than a second group came dashing in and by mid-afternoon of the second day, Portia's small store of patience had been exhausted. After chasing off a group of church ladies who had come from Easingwold to pray over Lady Eliza, she collapsed on the nearest settee and closed her eyes in weary disgust.

"Well, I hope you are satisfied," she muttered, opening one eye to glare at the countess. "One would think this was the cathedral at Lourdes the way the faithful have been flocking here. A pity we didn't think to charge an admittance fee; we'd all be as rich as Croesus by now."

"Don't be vulgar, my dear," Lady Eliza reproved, fanning herself with languid grace. "I have lived in Yorkshire for the better part of four decades, and it is hardly surprising that my neighbors should express concern over my well-being." She stopped fanning herself and looked thoughtful. "How much do you think we could charge?"

"Never mind," Portia replied, cursing herself for having put the thought in her employer's devious mind. "I still cannot believe you did anything so foolishly melodramatic. Whatever could you have been thinking of? I thought it was agreed you would recover naturally."