A Proper Taming

A Proper Taming

Joan Overfield

A Proper Taming

Joan Overfield

"YOU DO DANCE?"

"Yes, I dance," Connor replied in a cold voice.

"What of waltzing?"

"If you wish me to waltz, then you have only to teach me."

The riot of color that flooded Portia's face delighted Connor. "I cannot teach you to waltz!" she exclaimed, thoroughly vexed.

"Why not? Are you saying that you do not waltz?"

"Of course I waltz!" she snapped. "That is to say, I have learned the dance, but I have never actually performed it."

He gave a pleased nod. "Then we shall learn from each other. When would you like to start?"

Portia opened her mouth to continue arguing, but realized the wretch had outmaneuvered her. There was no way she could insist he learn to dance if she did not follow suit. "You are enjoying this, aren't you?" she accused.

"Not yet, my dear," he drawled, his green eyes dancing. "But I will."

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

About the Author

Sheffield, England, 1817

It was not that she was one of those ladies who went about engaging in fits of the vapors. Indeed, Miss Portia Haverall had always held such creatures in quiet contempt, and had vowed never to emulate them. But after the events of the past year, she was beginning to wonder if it was time to reconsider the matter. Surely one small swoon would not compromise her lofty principles, she thought, glaring at the butler who was blocking her path. A moment later, she angrily shook off the impulse.

"What do you mean her ladyship is not here?" she demanded, lifting the black veil covering her face to better see her elderly opponent. "I wrote my great-aunt I was coming!"

"I am sure you did, Miss . . . Haverall, is it not?" the majordomo said, his tone condescending as he studied her down the length of his nose. "However, your missive, if indeed you sent one, appears to have gone astray. Nor do I recall the countess mentioning she was expecting company, as she surely would have done. Perhaps you have the wrong address?" he added with a superior smirk that set Portia's teeth on edge.

For a moment she contemplated the pleasure it would give her to bring her reticule down on the butler's balding head, but she was too weary to make the attempt. The journey from her village near London in the Cotswolds, which should have taken two days at the most, had taken closer to four, and she was at the end of her endurance. First her rented carriage lost its wheel, then the lead horse had gone lame, and as if that were not bad enough, the drink-sodden driver she had foolishly engaged had managed to get them going south rather than north.

She was exhausted, aching from the constant bouncing, and she wanted nothing more than to collapse on the nearest bed and sleep for a week. Unfortunately, it seemed even these simple luxuries would be denied her by a fate which had proven capricious of late. Fighting back the renewed desire to give in to the vapors, she raised her face until her gray eyes met the butler's suspicious gaze.

"If you would be so good as to tell me where her ladyship has gone, I would like to send her a note," she said haughtily, clinging to the frayed edges of her composure with grim determination.

The butler hesitated, then said, "Lady Lowton is in Scotland to attend the birth of her grandchild. I have no idea when she may return."

"She has gone to Edinburgh?" Portia exclaimed in dismay, the hope that her aunt was enjoying a mere weekend in the country vanishing.

The fact that Portia knew her ladyship's oldest son lived in Edinburgh seemed to relieve the elderly butler of some of his reservations, although he still showed a marked reluctance to let Portia inside.

"Yes, Miss Haverall," he replied, his tone not quite so supercilious. "She is residing with the earl and his lady on Charlotte Square. If you like, I would be happy to forward your message for you. Will you be staying in Sheffield?"

From this Portia surmised that staying in the elegant manor house was out of the question, and she bit back an angry retort. "If you could recommend a respectable inn, I will be staying," she said, her mind already turning to the difficulty of an unescorted female remaining at a public inn. She had engaged a companion to accompany her from Chipping Campden, but she wasn't sure she could convince the older lady to remain for an indefinite time.

"The Red Dove is considered fashionable, and I am sure you shall be comfortable there," the butler offered hesitantly, clearly uncertain what to do. "I should allow you to stay here had her ladyship left instructions to that effect, but as it is . . ." His voice trailed off and he gave a helpless shrug.

Portia sensed he was weakening, and toyed with the idea of pressing her advantage. In the end, however, she decided the effort was not worth the candle, and accepted the inevitable with a weary sigh. "That is all right. I understand you can not admit me without permission," she said quietly, resisting the urge to connive her way past him.

"If you have need, I will send a maid along to attend you," the butler said, apparently anxious to offer what assistance he could. "It would not do for a member of the countess's family to be attended by a common maid from an inn."

Whereas it would apparently "do" for a member of her ladyship's family to stay at that same inn, Portia thought with a flash of her usual irreverence. "That is not necessary, sir. I brought my own maid with me." she said, raising her chin to give the man a mocking smile. "But I do thank you for the kind offer," she added, her tone fairly dripping with sarcasm. She then turned and stalked back to the waiting carriage.

"Well, what is it?" her companion, Mrs. Quincy, demanded, her black eyes full of distrust as Portia climbed inside. "Your great-aunt refuse to see you? I'm not surprised; you likely offended her sensibilities by arriving in a rented hack. The gentry's queer that way, did I not warn you?"

"Indeed you did, Mrs. Quincy, a dozen times at least," Portia replied, closing her eyes and collapsing against the cushions with a heavy sigh. After spending four days trapped inside the cramped conveyance with Mrs. Quincy, Portia did not know what she feared more—that the older woman with her rigid sensibilities and a tongue that dripped acid would refuse to stay with her another day, or that she would agree.

"What is amiss?" Mrs. Quincy prodded, her brows meeting in a scowl. "If your aunt isn't refusing you the door, why are you still here? We're not lost again, are we?"

"No, we are not lost, nor has my aunt refused me admittance," Portia replied, gritting her teeth as she fought to remain civil. "It seems her ladyship has gone to Edinburgh for a visit, and since she left no instructions to the contrary, the staff cannot let me stay in the house. We shall have to put up at an inn until I contact my aunt."

"We?" Mrs. Quincy's expression grew even more sour.

Portia clenched her hands in her lap. "I was hoping you would be gracious enough to remain with me," she said, mentally cursing the necessity for such an arrangement. "I have Nancy with me, of course, but I feel it might look better if I was properly chaperoned."

"I should think so," Mrs. Quincy opined with a loud sniff, giving the middle-aged maid sitting beside Portia a baleful glare. "Bad enough that an unmarried female should stay at a public inn in the first place, but to stay with only a simple maid to lend you countenance . . ." Her massive frame shook with horror. "Well, I am sure I need not tell you what people would think about that."

Pompous old hag, Portia thought, although she managed to keep her expression blank. "Then you will stay?"

Mrs. Quincy drew herself up rigidly. "I should hope I know my Christian duty as well as the next woman, Miss Haverall. I would never dream of leaving a fellow sister in danger of jeopardizing her virtue and her good name. You may rely upon me to remain so long as I am needed."

With that hurdle behind her, Portia was able to scrape up a tired smile. "Thank you, ma'am. That is most gracious of you."

"Of course," the other woman added, a sly look in her dark eyes, "I was paid to accompany you only as far as Sheffield. I had planned to return home on the next mail coach, as I have another position waiting for me. But naturally I shan't give such paltry financial considerations another thought."

Perhaps she wouldn't be eternally damned if she should accidentally kick the old witch's shins, Portia thought, wistfully studying Mrs. Quincy's bombazine-draped limbs. She had but to uncross her ankles and . . .

"I should be more than happy to reimburse you for the inconvenience, Mrs. Quincy," she said instead, mentally admonishing herself for the lapse in control. "Another ten pounds, shall we say?"

"I would have made fifteen at the other post." Mrs. Quincy's prompt reply told Portia she had been unwisely generous in her initial offer.

"Fifteen, then," Portia agreed, then uncrossed her ankles, allowing the toe of her kid half-boots to come into painful contact with Mrs. Quincy's thick ankles.

"Ouch!"

"Did I kick you?" Portia's eyes were wide with innocence. "Oh, dear, how very clumsy of me. I am sorry."

"Sour-faced, mean-spirited, money-grubbing old witch!" Nancy muttered, her jaw clenching with fury as she flung Portia's belongings into the small wardrobe that came with the simply furnished room. "I vow, that one could tell vinegar how to be bitter! Whyever did you hire the harpy in the first place? Your wits must have gone begging, is what."

"Please, Nancy, no more, I implore you." Portia groaned, pressing the washcloth dipped in lavender water to her throbbing temples. "My poor head feels as if it is about to split open."

"And small wonder, I shouldn't think," Nancy grumbled, although she lowered her voice. "Four days with that female could give a statue a case of the colic! And as for you . . . well, all I can say is 'tis a good thing your father wasn't here to see you. He'd have thought you dicked in the nob for sure."

Portia opened one eye to give the maid an indignant glare. "Me? I have been a pattern card of propriety!"

"That's what I mean." Nancy placed her hands on her hips and fixed Portia with an accusing look. "Since when would you have put up with that female's nonsense for more than five minutes, hmm? I could hardly credit my own eyes and ears the way you kept casting down your eyes and simpering like a green school-miss." She shook her head in obvious disgust.

"I never simpered!" Portia denied, eyes flashing at the hateful accusation.

"And you didn't put Mrs. Quincy in her place as you ought to have done, either!" Nancy was merciless in her summation of Portia's behavior. "Whatever ails you, girl? You've never acted like such a ninnyhammer in the past."

The querulous comment from someone who had known Portia since she was in short frocks drove out her anger, and Portia collapsed back on the uncomfortable bed. She remained silent for a long moment, struggling to find the words that would explain the abrupt change in her manners.

"Perhaps I am tired of playing the vixen," she said at last, her expression troubled as she gazed down at her clenched hands. "I have been thinking, and I've concluded that 'tis my own fault Papa disinherited me. If I hadn't acted like such a willful child, he would never have cut me out of his will."

"But he was always disinheriting you!" Nancy protested in alarm. "He cut you out of his will at least four times a year, only to put you back in once his temper was cooled. Even Mr. Clinden's solicitors admitted he'd have doubtlessly put you back in that last time, except . . ."

"Except that he died before he had the chance," Portia finished when Nancy's voice trailed off. "I know, but that is precisely the point. If I hadn't squabbled and disagreed with Papa over every little thing, he wouldn't have needed to disinherit me at all."

"But—"

"Don't you see?" Portia interrupted, raising anguished eyes to meet Nancy's gaze. "Papa had every right to disinherit me! I failed him as a daughter, and I do not deserve to be his heir."

Nancy's jaw dropped in shock. "You can't believe that," she managed' at last, twisting her work-worn hands in dismay. "Your father loved you!"

"And I loved him." This time Portia made no attempt to blink back the tears scalding her eyes. "He was the dearest father anyone could want, and I shall miss him always. But toward the end, I knew I had disappointed him. He wanted a sweet-tempered, well-behaved daughter, and he got me instead."

"Oh, pet." Nancy hurried over to sit beside her. "You mustn't think such sad thoughts! Disappointed in you? Why, your father was proud as proud could be of you! Many were the times he would say to me, 'Nancy, that daughter of mine would invade hades and tell the devil himself how to manage purgatory.' Now, does that sound like he was ashamed of you?"

Secretly, Portia thought that it did. She also recalled her papa saying the same thing to her, but looking back she wondered if her father was condemning her independent and willful ways, rather than praising them. Toward the end he had chastised her for what he termed her "unfeminine nature," and had begun urging her to consider her cousin Reginald's offer of marriage. At the time she'd thought he was simply trying to provoke her. Now she wasn't so sure.

"'Tis your nerves, that's what," Nancy decided, giving Portia's hand a brisk pat and bustling her under the covers. "And after the year you've had, 'tis no small wonder. First your poor father dying so sudden-like, and then that awful court battle to have his will overturned. I shouldn't doubt but that you're all out of curl. You just rest for a bit, and you'll soon be feeling your old self again. You'll see."

Portia dutifully closed her eyes, but as soon as she heard the door closing behind Nancy, she opened them again. My old self, she thought bitterly, turning on her side. A fat lot of good her old self had ever done anyone.

She had barreled through life, behaving as outrageously as she pleased with no thought to the consequences. Even her squabbles with Papa, which had resulted in her being disinherited, had seemed a game. She'd loved provoking him, and she'd have sworn he'd enjoyed their spats with equal relish. Hadn't he been the one to teach her to use her own mind, and never to bow to any man?

But if that was true, she told herself, then why couldn't she shake the terrible feeling that she had disappointed him? Their last quarrel, caused by her refusal to consider her tiresome cousin's yearly offer of marriage, had been their most bitter, and the memory of it still hurt her deeply.

Reginald had come up from London for his annual visit, and as was his custom, he'd proposed. She'd refused, as she always did, and Reginald had returned to his home in the city. She'd thought that the end of it, until her father shocked her by hinting that marriage to Reginald, who was both a fop and a fool, might not be such a terrible fate after all.

"The lad merely wants guidance," he had insisted, glowering at her over the rim of his spectacles. "And you know there's nothing you'd relish more than leading some man about by the nose. The two of you are well-suited."

She'd replied tartly that the only place Reginald was likely to want guiding was to the nearest tailor, and the battle was joined. The more her father pressed the match, the more obstreperous she became. When her father disinherited her in his usual dramatic fashion, she retaliated by threatening to run off and become a governess. They were still at daggers drawn when, three days later, he passed away quietly in his sleep.

That was what hurt most, she admitted, shifting restlessly beneath the thin blankets. Her father had died thinking her a failure, a sad disappointment to him because of her sharp tongue and willful ways. The last thing he had said to her on the night he died was that for once in his life, he would like to see her behave as a lady should. Now he was gone, and she was left to wonder if her pride and outspoken manner were worth the price she was now paying.

Well, no more, she decided, swiping at her tears. She had tried playing the stubborn shrew, and only look where it had landed her. From this day forward she would be the lady her father had wanted her to be. She would be demure, wellbehaved, and, above all else, she would hold her wretched tongue, regardless of the provocation. She had already made a good start of it, she mused, thinking of Mrs. Quincy. If she had managed to control both her temper and her tongue around that nagging female, then she could do anything. The thought cheered her, and she closed her eyes, sliding easily into a deep, peaceful sleep.

At first Portia thought the loud pounding on the door of her room was part of her fitful dream, and she snuggled deeper into the pillows. She was on the verge of drifting off again when a female scream sent her bolt upright in bed. What on earth? she wondered, shaking off sleep as she stared groggily about her. Then the screaming and pounding started again.

"The beast! The beast! Someone save me from the beast!"

The terror in the voice had Portia scrambling out of bed, pulling on her night robe as she raced for the door. With no thought for her own safety, she fumbled with the bolt and threw open the heavy door.

"What is going on?" she snapped irritably, blinking at the petite blonde who was standing in front of her door. "What are you caterwauling about at this unseemly hour?"

Wasting no time with explanations, the blonde pushed herself past Portia and into the room.

"Oh, please, dear madam, close the door, I beg of you!" she cried, her blue eyes wide with fear as she pressed her back to the far wall. "He is after me!"

"Who is after you? Your husband?" Portia demanded, although she did as she was asked. She'd heard of men who brutally used their wives, and wondered if the poor girl was afflicted with such a creature. If so, she'd give the wretch a tonguelashing he'd not soon forget, she decided, her vow to be a lady forgotten as her lips thinned with anger.

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!"

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.

CONTENTS