A Proper Taming Page 2

  The blonde shook her head, causing her golden curls to dance about her delicate face. "It is the . . . the beast!" she stammered, her voice quavering with dread. "I had heard he was fearsome, but he is an earl, after all, and I thought . . . Oh!" She buried her face in her hands. "I cannot go through with this! I wish to go home!"

  It suddenly occurred to Portia that the pretty blonde, for all she was well-spoken, might be a doxy who'd had a falling-out with her protector. She also knew that a true lady of breeding such as herself should faint dead away at being faced with such an untenable situation, but her logical self argued that such behavior would be a colossal waste of time. Instead she turned her mind to helping the fear-stricken young woman.

  "What did the beast do?" she asked, steeling herself to hear the worst. "Did he . . . er . . . assault you?"

  The pretty blonde shook her head, her cheeks turning a delicate rose. "Oh, no, it was nothing like that! He has been a gentleman in that respect, but this is not at all what I was expecting when I agreed to go with him. He is so cold, so overpowering, that I vow I am in terror of him!" She raised tear-filled blue eyes to Portia's face. "Oh, you must help me escape him, ma'am!" she sobbed piteously. "You must!"

  Portia hesitated, certain there must be more to the story than the pretty blonde was admitting to. As far as she could tell, "the beast," whoever he might be, had done nothing untoward. And yet why else would the young woman have fled into the night to escape him? Ah, well, Portia thought, giving a mental shrug, she supposed it did not matter.

  "Have you money to secure passage home?" she asked, reaching a swift decision. While she was not an heiress, she felt her pockets were sufficiently plump to lend whatever assistance was required. Even if she had not had much money, she could hardly turn her back on the terrified creature standing before her. She had been raised to do her duty toward those in need, and clearly the young lady qualified on that account.

  "Y-yes." The blonde gave an unhappy sniff. "But my bags are in the room his lordship arranged for me, and I dare not go back there! What if he should take me captive?"

  Portia remained silent, considering the ramifications of any action she might take. She knew the wisest thing would be to summon the innkeeper and let him deal with the matter, but she quickly discarded the notion. For all she knew, the man could be in league with this "beast," and would only deliver the woman back into his lordship's vile clutches the moment her back was turned.

  "You may stay in my room for the night," Portia said, arriving at what she deemed the only possible solution. "In the morning, I shall send one of the maids to collect your things."

  "Oh, ma'am!" Blue eyes filled with tears as the blonde clasped her hands together. "Thank you! You have saved me! How shall I ever repay you for your kindness?"

  The heartfelt words made Portia wonder if she had mistaken the situation. Granted her knowledge of such things was practically nonexistent, but she much doubted a prostitute would have expressed such ardent thanks for being saved from a patron. She was about to renew her request for an explanation when a second bout of pounding on her door drowned out the rest of her thoughts.

  "Miss Montgomery?" a deep male voice called out in obvious irritation. "Are you in there?"

  "It is the beast!" the blonde shrieked, glancing wildly about her for a place to hide. "He has found me!"

  "Blast it, ma'am, will you stop enacting a Cheltenham tragedy over this? Open this door at once!" the man demanded with what Portia regarded as unbelievable arrogance. She was about to call out for assistance when the latch rattled ominously, and she realized in horror that she had neglected to lock it.

  Quickly she sought a weapon, her gaze falling on the long-handled brass bed warmer hanging by the hearth. She snatched it up in shaking hands, and whirled about to face the door just as it was thrust open. A very large, very fierce-looking man stood on the threshold, his black brows gathered in a scowl as he glared at the blonde pressed against the wall.

  "Miss Montgomery," he began, his voice clipped as he moved further into the room, "how many times must I explain that it is my mother who has engaged your services? I am but escorting you to her, and I assure you that I have no designs on your virtue. Now kindly return to your room; you are being tiresome."

  "No!" the blonde exclaimed, continuing to cower in obvious fright. "Stay away from me, I shan't go with you! I shan't!"

  The gentleman's green eyes narrowed with fury as he advanced inexorably toward his prey. "I warn you, ma'am, I am beginning to lose my patience with you," he said, his voice soft with menace. "If you do not come with me this very moment, I vow you shall have cause to regret it."

  Portia had had enough of such blatant bullying. She stepped forward, raising the heavy bed warmer high above her head and then bringing it down with all her might. The blow connected solidly with the back of the intruder's head, bringing him crashing down like a felled tree.

  The sight apparently proved too much for Miss Montgomery's sensibilities, for she uttered a piercing shriek and collapsed in a dead faint. Portia stared at her in dismay, her gaze moving from her crumpled form to that of the man she knew only as "the beast." Now what? she wondered, but before she could decide upon a course of action, her room was suddenly filled with strangers, all milling about and offering advice and admonishments in increasingly loud voices.

  The commotion brought the innkeeper, clad in a faded night robe, querulously demanding what the devil was going on. Portia was about to oblige him when he caught sight of the unconscious man lying on the floor.

  "Good Lord love us!" he exclaimed, his voice so weak that Portia wondered if he was about to faint as well. "Ye've just killed the bloody earl!"

  2

  Connor Dewhurst, sixth earl of Doncaster, groaned at the pain throbbing in his head in rhythm with the beating of his heart. He must be as jug-bitten as a duke, and he stoically decided the discomfort he was experiencing was apt punishment for his sins. The odd thing was, he couldn't remember drinking a single glass of port, let alone the amount of spirits it would have taken to reduce him to this state. In fact, he realized, fighting against pain and panic, he couldn't remember anything at all! The acknowledgement startled him out of the black fog that filled his mind, and he struggled to focus his hazy thoughts.

  The first thing he realized was that he was lying on the floor, and there was evidently a small riot raging above him. Several people were all shouting at once. It required all of his concentration to separate the voices so that he could make sense of them.

  ". . . in all my life!" he heard a woman exclaiming, outrage clearly evident in her sharp tones. "You, missy, are naught but a hoyden, and I wonder I should ever have been deceived by your simpering ways! I shouldn't remain with you now were you to offer me all the gold in Prinny's pocket!"

  "Considering the paltry sum that would amount to, Mrs. Quincy, I fear you are selling your services rather cheaply." He heard another woman— younger, judging from the sound of her voice— respond tartly, and he suppressed a grin at her cutting wit. It was just the sort of thing his mother would say, and he hoped he would remember it so that he might repeat it to her once he returned to Hawkshurst.

  "We'll have to have the constable in." A man's whining voice rose above the others. "His lordship is a man of great power, and there's no telling what he'll do once he comes to his senses. He'll have us all transported, I'll be bound."

  Connor wondered why he would desire to have anyone transported, but everything seemed such a muddle. Memory was slowly returning. He could vaguely remember arriving at an inn with his mother's newest companion. He'd met the tiresome creature in Cambridge and was escorting her back to his estate in Yorkshire per his mother's request.

  The lady—Miss Montgomery, his addled brain provided—had seemed pleased with the situation at first, and had done everything within her power to fix his interest. But when he'd made it obvious that he wasn't taken with her, she'd withdrawn into silence, casting him nervous glances as if
he was a cossack out on a rampage.

  It was a reaction to which, over the years, he had become inured, especially from the fairer sex, and he'd ignored her inexplicable fear of him. He'd been preparing for bed when the maid he'd brought with him to act as chaperone had tapped on his door and announced Miss Montgomery had fled into the night. Disgusted, and more than a little concerned for her safety, he'd given chase, vowing to send her back to Cambridge on the next coach when he found her. His search had proven fruitless, and he'd been about to return to his rooms and summon the innkeeper when he saw a door closing down the hall. He remembered knocking on the door, asking for Miss Montgomery, and then . . .

  "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 implications 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?"

  T
he 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."