A Proper Taming Page 10

  While the smaller man stepped back to admire his creation, Connor turned to the mirror, halfafraid 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."

  Connor's jaw clenched at the soothing words. "Let us hope not, Samuels. I should hate to think we have gone through all of this for nothing." He gave his reflection one last glance, and then turned and left the room.

  He went downstairs to find all in chaos, servants running madly about like a group of ants whose nest had been disturbed. A few sharp questions to his distracted housekeeper brought an annoyed scowl to his face, and he stormed out to the garden in search of the perpetrator. He found her standing beside the refreshment tents, snapping off orders with all the skill of a top sergeant. He stalked over to her just as she was directing that a pot of his mother's favorite pinks be carried into the house.

  "What the devil is going on here?" he demanded, brows meeting in a threatening scowl as he glowered down at her. "I thought this was going to be a garden party!"

  "As did I, my lord, but it would seem God has other ideas," came Miss Haverall's unrepentant reply as she turned to face him. "Your guests will hardly be pleased if we allow them to be caught in a deluge."

  Connor could see the wisdom of her words, but such understanding in no way mollified him. He'd steeled himself to suffer through a garden party, and the sudden change of plans left him feeling strangely vulnerable. He brushed aside the unwelcome sensation in annoyance, turning his displeasure on the only person available.

  "Shouldn't you wait before rain actually begins falling before you admit defeat?" he asked irritably. "You went to a great deal of trouble to arrange this thing, and it seems foolish to undo everything because of a few harmless clouds."

  A flash of lightning split the sky as if in reply, followed quickly by a roll of thunder. Miss Haverall crossed her arms and gave him an arch look. "Harmless?" she repeated in a dulcet tone that was at odds with the gleam in her eyes.

  Connor tried not to laugh, but in the end he was unable to hold back a wry chuckle. "Very well, ma'am, I surrender," he said, giving her a low bow. "I refuse to argue with both you and the Almighty. Move the entire garden inside, if that is your pleasure."

  "Your lordship is too generous," she answered, her lips curving in appreciation, "but I want only the appearance of a garden, not the reality. A few pinks and roses will suffice, I promise you."

  As if by unspoken agreement they began walking back toward the house. They'd gone only a few paces when Connor remarked, "Why did you decide to move the party into the house, if I might ask? I thought it was agreed the orangery was to be used in the event the weather played us false."

  "That was my original plan," Miss Haverall admitted, "but after careful consideration I decided it would be better if we moved everything into the house. That way the guests can make use of the music or game room if they so desire."

  It made sense, and Connor nodded in agreement. "Clever and cool-minded as always, Miss Haverall. I might have known you knew precisely what you were about. My apologies for snapping at you as I did."

  To his relief she gave a light laugh. "You are certainly entitled to be displeased with the disruption of your household," she said, tilting her head and giving him a teasing smile. The smile suddenly vanished, and she gave him such an odd look that he was instantly apprehensive.

  "What is wrong?"

  "You are wearing a new jacket," she blurted out, and then blushed at her boldness. She looked so chagrined, in fact, that Connor's wariness vanished at once.

  "It is one of my old ones, actually. Samuels altered it for me," he said, trying not to preen with pride. "Do you like it?"

  "It looks wonderful!" she exclaimed, her voice filled with admiration. "And that cravat is marvelous! An American, is it not?"

  Connor stroked the front of his stock, too ashamed to confess his ignorance of such matters. To him the cravat was nothing more than an uncomfortable bother, and he didn't care what the style might be.

  "I believe so," he replied, deciding it was the safest response. Anxious for a new topic of conversation he turned to her, taking note of her appearance with appreciation.

  "May I say you are also looking quite dashing?" he said with a charming smile. "That is a new gown, is it not?"

  She gave a melodic laugh. "No, like yours it is one of my older garments. I had it made shortly before my father died, but this is the first opportunity I have had to wear it."

  He gave her another admiring look, saying the first words to enter his head. "The color becomes you."

  Her cheeks grew as rosy as her muslin gown. "Thank you, sir, it is most kind of you to say so."

  Connor frowned slightly. His compliment had been sincere. "I was not being kind, ma'am," he began, "I—"

  "Oh, look!" she interrupted, quickening her pace. "Williams is giving us the evil eye. Your guests must be arriving, and we are not there to greet them. He will think us shockingly lax in our duties."

  An icy fear settled in Connor's stomach, and the cravat, which had fit so comfortably only moments before, now seemed unbearably tight. The thought of jumping on his horse and riding as far as he could was sweetly tempting, but he sternly suppressed it. He was a Doncaster, he reminded himself proudly, and Doncasters did not run. His father had stood unmoving in the face of enemy fire at Cowpens, and he'd be hanged if he'd break rank and flee because of a few old women and simpering girls. He drew his shoulders back, his hand tightening slightly on Miss Haverall's elbow as he marched forward to meet his fate.

  "So you are Miss Haverall," the elderly woman said, her pale-blue eyes narrowing as they rested on Portia's face. "Can't say as I've heard the name before. Are you in society?"

  "No, Mrs. Goodkin, I am not," Portia replied in a stiff voice, wishing the disagreeable old biddy would go off and find someone else to pester. She had been trapped with the squire's mot
her-in-law for the past quarter hour, and she could feel her small store of patience evaporating. Another five minutes in the woman's company, and she would not be held responsible for whatever she might say . . . or do, she added silently, casting a longing look at the punch bowl.

  "I thought not." Satisfaction dripped from Mrs. Goodkin as she raised her punch glass to her lips for a noisy gulp. "At first I thought you might be another of dear Lady Eliza's companions, but when she assured me you are here as her guest, I must admit I was stymied. However did you meet?"

  When I bashed her son over the head with a bed warmer, Portia thought, wondering what the older woman's reaction would be if she were to admit to the truth. Doubtlessly she would swoon with horror, and then go dashing off to spread the gossip once she had recovered, Portia decided with a scornful smirk.

  "Her ladyship is an old friend of my great-aunt, the Countess of Lowton," she said instead, raising her chin and giving Mrs. Goodkin a superior look. "Perhaps you have heard of her?"

  Mrs. Goodkin's jowly face turned a mottled red. "I believe I may have," she muttered, her gaze sliding away from Portia's. She glanced around the crowded drawing room, brightening visibly as her gaze came to rest on a woman in an atrocious ensemble of purple and gold silk.

  "I see my neighbor, Mrs. Fashingham, over there talking to our hostess," she said, already pushing herself to her feet. "If you will excuse me, Miss Haverall, I believe I shall go over and have a word with her."

  "Must you go so soon? How sad," Portia cooed, delighted at having achieved her objective with so little effort.

  Other than a sharp look, Mrs. Goodkin gave no indication she had caught the sarcasm in Portia's voice, and Portia was left in blissful solitude. Content, she settled back against her chair, her eyes bright with pleasure as she gazed slowly about her.

  It was all going quite well, she thought, satisfaction spreading through her. Her decision to move the party indoors had proven a good one, as rain had begun falling minutes after the last guest to arrive had made his bows. The guests took the change of location in stride, and other than a pair of blonde beauties who were obviously put out not to be able to wear their pretty new bonnets, everyone seemed to be having a good time. Or almost everyone, she amended with a sigh, her gaze coming to rest on the earl.

  He was standing in the corner by the fireplace, his posture rigid, and a cold, unapproachable look stamped on his handsome face. Every now and then one of the braver guests would venture over for a word with him, but she noted they never stayed very long. What on earth was wrong with the wretch? she wondered, her brows gathering as she watched him rout yet another intrepid guest.

  It was as if he was deliberately trying to drive people away, yet why should he wish to do that? He could be charming when he wanted to, and certainly he never seemed to lack for conversation when the two of them were together. Indeed, his remarks about her gown were quite witty and his conduct in the drawing room when she was measuring him for his new shirt bordered on the flirtatious. If he could act like that with her, she reasoned with a decisive nod, then he could act like that with the rest of the guests!

  Her mind made up, she rose to her feet and walked over to where he was standing. His wariness vanished at once, and his dark-green eyes lost their icy sheen as he greeted her.

  "All seems to be going quite well, Miss Haverall," he said with a cool nod. "If there is anything I can do to be of assistance, please let me know."

  Portia fought the urge not to screech at such obtuse behavior. He hadn't made so much as a single move to mingle with the guests, and yet he had the effrontery to ask if he could be of assistance . . . ! Had any other man made the same offer she would have accused him of sarcasm. "If your lordship truly wishes to be of service," she snapped, lowering her voice to avoid being overheard, "you can stop acting like a suit of armor that has strayed from the main hall, and start acting more like a host!"

  His lips lost their warm smile, and he drew himself up even taller. "I do not know what you mean, ma'am," he denied in a stiff voice, his eyes flashing with fury. "I have been a perfect host. I greeted every guest, did I not?"

  "Yes, and with all the enthusiasm of an Egyptian being visited by yet another plague!" she returned, chin coming up as she faced him. "You haven't so much as approached a single guest since the party began, and the few guests who have dared approach you, you sent packing!" She shook her head in disgust. "No wonder people look at you as if you are an ogre; that is how you behave!"

  His face grew even colder. "If you think I mean to caper about like a fool, then you are much mistaken."

  If he had glowered at Miss Montgomery like that, Portia could see why the hapless creature had run screaming into the night. Fortunately she was made of sterner stuff, and instead of fleeing, she simply folder her arms across her chest and met him glare for glare.

  "What I expect, sir," she said in the tone she had often used when arguing with her papa, "is that you do your duty. And you may begin with that lady." She nodded at a modestly attired young woman sitting on the far side of the room.

  Connor burned at the insult to his honor, but what burned more was the knowledge that she was right. He fought back his anger and forced himself to concentrate on the woman Miss Haverall had indicated. "Who is she?" he asked, struggling to recall the lady's name.

  "Miss Felicity DeCamp," Portia provided, breathing a silent sigh of relief that he hadn't taken umbrage at her words. "She is visiting her cousins, the Brextons, and she doesn't know a soul here. As her host, it is your responsibility to see she is comfortable, and that she doesn't fade into a wallflower."

  Connor eyed the delicate blonde with trepidation. "She looks as if she'd swoon if a man so much as gave her a cross look," he said, recalling what had happened the last time he had approached a shy young lady.

  "Then don't give her one," Portia advised with a none-too-gentle prod. "Come now, you have dawdled long enough."

  They crossed the room and were soon standing in front of Miss DeCamp, who stared up at them with wide, velvet-brown eyes.

  "Good afternoon, Miss DeCamp," Portia said, offering the other woman a warm smile. "I believe you have met our host, Lord Doncaster. I was just telling his lordship you were from Bath, and he was remarking on the many Roman ruins in the area. Roman antiquities are something of hobby of his lordship's," she added in what she hoped was an encouraging manner.

  The brown eyes widened in surprise. "They are?" she said, giving Connor a shy look. "They are also an interest of mine. We found a Roman statue in our pasture, you know."

  "Indeed?" That piqued Connor's interest. He had heard much of the Roman ruins being unearthed about Bath, and he had been toying with the idea of going down for a look. "Which god?"

  "We believe it is a representation of the emperor Claudius," Miss DeCamp said, her quiet demeanor becoming more animated. "The statue is wearing a crown of olive leaves, which indicates a royal personage, and the face is similar to ones stamped on many of the coins which have been found in the area."

  "How long have you been interested in antiquities, Miss DeCamp?" Portia asked, noting with pleasure that several other guests were glancing their way with obvious interest. If she could just keep his lordship talking, she was certain it would encourage others to approach him.

  "Oh, for several years," the other woman confessed with a soft laugh. "It was an interest of my grandfather's, and when he died he willed his collection to me."

  "I also collect Roman coins and the like," Connor said, his voice losing some of its petulant edge. "I could show them to you later, if you would like?"

  "What a marvelous idea!" Portia said before Miss DeCamp could speak. "And I am sure Mr. Pelligrew should also enjoy seeing them as well. Would you not, sir?" She turned to the darkhaired Corinthian who had strolled over to join them.

  "As a matter of fact, I would," he agreed, tilting his head to one side and giving Connor a teasing look. "Had no idea you were interested in such things, old fellow,
" he drawled, hazel eyes dancing with laughter. "To hear McLean tell it, your interests are limited to sheep and oats!"

  "Ha, do not mention that scoundrel to me," Connor grumbled, still piqued by what he regarded as his friend's betrayal. "The wretch assured me he would be here, but at the last minute he sent his regrets. Coward."

  "His elder brother ordered him home to Buckinghamshire, and poor Keegan had no choice but to comply." Mr. Pelligrew defended their mutual friend with an indifferent shrug of his shoulders. "Such is the fate of a younger brother, forever at the beck and call of the true son and heir."

  There was an uncomfortable silence, but fortunately for all, the Misses Darlington, emboldened by the sight of the earl conversing with Miss DeCamp, drifted over, and the conversation soon turned to the topic of the London Season. The eldest Darlington girl had made her bows the year before, and she was eager to flaunt her many successes in her sisters' pretty faces.

  Once she was certain the earl seemed comfortable, Portia drifted away. She checked on the refreshments, and then joined the countess. She found the older woman holding court in a corner of the drawing room, enjoying a comfortable coze with several other ladies. Portia recognized the squire's and the vicar's wives, and after murmuring a polite greeting she took a chair beside Lady Eliza.

  "Well, things certainly seem to be going well, don't they?" the countess said, raising her teacup to Portia in a mock salute. "Congratulations, my dear, you have done the impossible. I never thought I should live to see that stiff-necked son of mine actually unbending enough to enjoy himself!"

  "His lordship needed only a little encouragement, my lady," Portia replied modestly, although she was rather pleased with herself. The earl was now moving from group to group, and even if he was not gregarious, at least he no longer resembled one of those Roman statutes he seemed to find so fascinating.

  "Who was that young lady you introduced to Doncaster?" Mrs. Hampson, the squire's practical wife, wanted to know, casting Miss De-Camp a speculative look. "She's a pretty little thing."