Authors: Joan Overfield
"You hit me!' he exclaimed, his eyes flying open. He closed them almost immediately, muttering curses at the white-hot pain that exploded behind his eyes.
"Well, of course I hit you, you miscreant," he heard the younger woman say. "You were about to attack Miss Montgomery."
The accusation made Connor open his eyes again, albeit somewhat cautiously, and he fixed the speaker with a blurry glare. It took a moment for her features to come into focus, and he found himself gazing at a female he had never seen in his life.
That she was tall he noted first. That she was well-formed and possessed of a delicate beauty he noticed second. He took the time to admire her dark curls and silver-colored eyes before he fixed her with a furious glare. "Who the devil are you?" he demanded, wondering if he could sit up without casting up his accounts.
"I am Miss Portia Haverall," the woman said, drawing herself up proudly, her smokey eyes sparkling with defiance as she returned his glare. "And if you think you can have me transported, you may think again! My great-aunt is the Dowager Countess of Lowton, and I assure you she is not without influence in this village!"
"You may consider me cowed, Miss Haverall," Connor retorted sarcastically, cautiously raising himself on an elbow. The room was still dipping and spinning, but at least he no longer felt in danger of losing his dinner. He raised his other hand to the side of his head and winced as he fingered
the large lump forming there. At least he wasn't bleeding, he mused, taking from that thought what small comfort he could.
"Are you all right, my lord?" The innkeeper, a short, plump man with anxious eyes, shouldered his way past the woman who had identified herself as Miss Haverall. He wrung his hands as he stared down at Connor. "I've sent for Dr. Crowley, and I can have the constable here in a thrice if you'd like."
Connor's gaze flashed back to Miss Haverall's face. Despite her defiant words he saw the apprehension in her proud expression, and the nervous way she nibbled her lips. He admired their lush ripeness, and then carefully shook his head.
"The constable may enjoy his sleep," he said, pushing himself into a sitting position. "I see no reason to disturb him . . . yet." He glanced about him. "Where is Miss Montgomery?"
"If you are referring to that poor child you were attempting to assault, she is not here." Miss Haverall's smile was dangerously close to smug. "And you ought to be ashamed of yourself for forcing your attentions on such a gently bred young lady!"
Connor's hand dropped to his side, his temper flaming to life. "That is the second time you have accused me of dishonoring my name and my title," he said, his voice soft with menace as he sought to gain control. "I don't suggest you do it a third time."
He saw her bite her lip again, but at least she remained silent. He gazed at her for another long moment, blinking as he suddenly noted she was in her night robe. Indeed, he realized, glancing about him with dawning comprehension, everyone, including the apologetic innkeeper, was dressed for bed. His eyebrows met in a dark scowl as the im
plications of his presence in a lady's bedchamber occurred to him.
"Just what sort of rig are you running here?" he demanded, his jaw clenching as he turned a furious gaze on Miss Haverall. "Why did Miss Montgomery run to
you
? If I find you are in league with her—"
If he'd thought to offend or intimidate Miss Haverall with his accusations, it was obvious he had underestimated his opponent. Instead of cowering with fear or erupting with self-righteous indignation, she simply tossed back her tumbled dark curls and fixed him with a glare that could have frozen an inferno.
"If you think I would willingly lure you into my bedchamber, you doltish beast, then 'tis plain the blow to your head has affected the few wits you possess!" She regally ignored the dismayed gasps that followed her pronouncement. "Now kindly leave my room. You may await the doctor elsewhere."
Connor's lips tightened, and he considered letting his ferocious temper slip. He couldn't remember the last time anyone had given him such a dressingdown, and only the risk of scandal prevented him from telling the little shrew what he thought of her. For the moment he knew he had no choice but to quit the field, and it stung his considerable pride. If it was the last thing he did, he vowed, he would make her pay for the insults she had hurled at him.
"As you say, Miss Haverall," he said, motioning the innkeeper for assistance. The smaller man rushed forward, slipping his arms beneath Connor's shoulder and levering him to his feet. It took some effort and a great deal of grunting, but Connor was finally standing. He took a few deep breaths to combat the dizziness, and, when he was
sure he wouldn't collapse, he drew himself up to his full, intimidating height.
"Do not think this is the end of the matter, ma'am," he informed her, making each word drip with menace. "I shall expect to discuss this with you first thing tomorrow morning. And if you are thinking about sneaking away, I shouldn't advise it. Your great-aunt might be the Dowager Countess of Lowton, but I am the Earl of Doncaster. Attempt to leave here, and you will learn of the power
I
command in this village. Do you understand?"
Miss Haverall's cheeks flushed with temper, but she remained civil. "Yes, my lord," she said in a tight voice.
"Good." He allowed himself a cool nod, and with the innkeeper's stammering apologies filling his ears, he made his way to his rooms.
"Well, I hope you are satisfied!" The door had scarce closed behind the earl before Mrs. Quincy was letting her displeasure be known. "Disgrace and ruin, that is what you have brought down on all our heads! We shall be taken up over this, you mark my words, and if you think I mean to suffer for
your
folly, you are all about in the head! I shall inform his lordship I had nothing to do with this . . . this display, and then I shall return to Chipping Campden where you may make very sure I shall waste no time in informing the vicar of your conduct. Not that it should surprise him in the slightest," she added with a sneer. "He warned me you were a limb of Satan. Would that I had listened!"
"And would that I had listened to my solicitor, Mrs. Quincy. He told me you were a shrew of the first water, and it would appear he did not lie," Portia retorted, wearily rubbing her forehead.
Now that the initial excitement had faded, she was feeling oddly flat, and the only thing she desired was privacy in which to soothe her lacerated nerves. Unfortunately it appeared she would have to do battle if she hoped to enjoy even that small courtesy.
Mrs. Quincy's jaw dropped at the sharp words. Her mouth opened and closed several times before she managed a strangled, "Well, of all the ungrateful, ill-mannered females it has been my misfortune to encounter! You, Miss Haverall, are naught but a hussy, and you may consider our association at an end! Good night!" And she stormed out of the room, her hooked nose held high in the air.
"And good riddance to you, you old cat!" Nancy responded, closing the door with a satisfying bang. She turned back to Portia with a look of grim delight. "If I'd known that smashing a bed warmer over a lord's head was all it took to be shed of that biddy, I'd have done it myself days ago! Now mayhap we can enjoy some peace and quiet without listening to her snipping and complaining every five minutes."
Portia's lips curved in a reluctant smile. "Doubtlessly that is what Dryden meant about everything being good for something," she said. Then her smile faded as the reality of their situation set in. "Nancy, you don't think his lordship will have me arrested, do you?"
The maid's expression grew as somber as her mistress's. "As to that, miss, there's no way of telling," she said, nervously clasping her hands together. "He did seem a trifle put out with you, but mayhap he'll be in better fiddle once his head ain't paining him. And don't be forgetting it's
him
as pushed his way into
your
bedchamber. No judge is likely to fault you for protecting yourself however you could."
Her words eased some of Portia's fears as she considered that aspect of the matter. "There is that," she agreed slowly, her lips curving in a thoughtful smile as she imagined how she would defend herself should the earl drag her in front of a magistrate. She'd wear her primmest gown, she decided, presenting herself as a well-connected lady of respectable birth forced by unhappy circumstances to spend the night at an inn. Naturally, she would tearfully assure an understanding judge, when a strange man barged into her room she did the only thing possible in the circumstances.
Perhaps she'd even mention her father's death, she mused, brightening at the possibility. Any judge worthy of the name was certain to look more kindly upon an orphan who . . . Her thoughts slammed to a horrified halt as she realized the direction they had taken. She was doing it again, plotting and scheming so that she might have her own way. And to compound her crime, she was even planning to use her father's death to justify her actions . . . She closed her eyes as bitter guilt burned through her.
"Miss Portia, are you all right?" Nancy was regarding her anxiously. "You've gone as white as a corpse!"
"I'm just tired, that is all," Portia replied, not wishing to share her dark thoughts with anyone, not even Nancy. "If you'll excuse me, I believe I shall try to get back to sleep. I daresay I shall be needing my rest come the morrow."
"Aye, that's the truth of it," Nancy agreed darkly, bustling forward to assist her into bed. "Although how you'll be getting any sleep after all of this, I'm sure I don't know. That reminds me. Where's the young lady what started the commotion? I've not so much as caught a glimpse of her."
"I'm not sure," Portia admitted, frowning as she realized she hadn't given Miss Montgomery more than a passing thought since she'd smashed the earl over the head. Somehow in the middle of all the commotion Miss Montgomery had managed to slip away.
"Ah, well, doubtlessly she'll turn up for breakfast." Nancy dismissed the unknown woman with an indifferent shrug. "You just close your eyes, sweeting, and try to get some rest. You'll be wanting to look your best when you face his lordship again."
Portia smiled sleepily at the maid's endearment. "You haven't called me that in years," she said, exhaustion pulling at her.
"Haven't I?" Nancy tugged the covers up to Portia's chin.
"Maybe it's because I haven't been particularly sweet," Portia mumbled around a yawn, her eyes drifting closed as she snuggled against the pillow. "Good night, Nancy."
"What do you mean she isn't here?" Connor roared, then winced as his head began throbbing anew. He cursed roundly beneath his breath, and then spoke again, his voice carefully modulated. "How did she get away?" he asked, fixing the maid with a baleful glare. "I thought I brought you along to keep an eye on her."
"And so you did," the maid, Gwynnen, replied calmly, apparently unperturbed by her employer's black displeasure. "But even maids must rest, and the little minx stole out while I was sleeping. Took her bags as well, so I reckon we needn't bother looking for her. She's probably halfway back to Cambridge by now."
Connor felt a stab of guilt at the maid's words. "I didn't mean to imply you'd been neglectful," he
muttered, his eyes closing as he pinched the bridge of his nose. His head was still pounding like the wrath of God, although that was no doubt due more to the vile potion the physician had forced upon him than to the blow. He hadn't felt so wretched since his early days at Oxford, and he prayed it was another dozen years before he felt so poorly again.
"This is all my mother's fault," he announced, his hand dropping to his side as he met the maid's gaze. "Why couldn't she just send for this companion like she did all the rest? Why must I come fetch her?"
Gwynnen's eyes took on a knowing gleam, which would have alerted Connor had he been in any shape to take note. "Miss Montgomery's the great-niece to a viscount," she said, her mouth pursing in a disapproving line. "Can't expect her to take the mail coach like a parlor maid."
"I don't see why not," Connor complained, not yet ready to forgive his mother for the trouble he had endured. He'd been in the middle of the lambing season when his mother had insisted he travel southward to meet her newly hired companion. He'd refused at first, citing his many responsibilities, but his mother had looked so downcast and alone that he'd finally given in with ill grace. Now it appeared his efforts were all for naught.
"I suppose I shall have to return to Cambridge and hire some other female for Mother," he grumbled, feeling decidedly put out at the prospect. "Unless you think we might find someone suitable here?" His dark spirits lifted in hope.
Gwynnen hesitated. "I reckon we could ask about," she said, the doubt in her voice making it plain she thought it unlikely. "Her ladyship's par
ticular in her notions, and you can't hire just anyone. Although . . ."
"Although what?"
"That young lady, Miss Haverall, is a pretty thing, don't you think?"
Connor's brows met in a scowl at the mention of the hell cat who had floored him last night. "How the devil am I to know?" he snarled, although he remembered a pair of rain-gray eyes lavishly trimmed with thick, black lashes and a riot of dark curls cascading from beneath a nightcap. "The blasted female smashed a bed warmer over my head before I had a chance to say hello."
"Shows she's a quick thinker." Gwynnen defended the other woman's actions with an approving nod. "The countess would like that. She don't like empty-headed females."
"Then she would have been sorely disappointed with Miss Montgomery," Connor observed with a singular lack of charity. "The chit was a peagoose."
"But so pretty." Gwynnen gave a heavy sigh. "Just like a little doll, she was."
Connor said nothing, although the maid had confirmed what he had long suspected. He'd noted that his mother's main requirement in her companions was physical beauty, and he'd surmised she was hoping he'd take one look at one of them and fall head over heels in love. His lips twisted in a sneer at the possibility. At least a companion would be suitably grateful should he offer, he thought, bitterly recalling his one Season in London. God knew not even the temptation of his wealth and title had been enough to convince a lady of his own class to accept him.