The Music of Love

by Minerva Spencer

  “Why do you torment yourself, cara?” he’d ask when he found her practicing, his caramel-colored eyes amused and condescending. “Is not my genius enough for the both of us?”

  He’d been considerably less amused about her practicing after his accident, which had left his hand usable, but unable to play. Then he’d become vicious, rather than mocking, when he’d caught her at a piano. Portia hadn’t minded so much; he’d attacked her because he could no longer make music. As a musician, she could imagine how dreadful that would be.

  She went up to her room not long after she finished playing. Her body was tired but her mind was still in a whirl so she took Voltaire’s Zadig from the small collection of books she’d brought with her. But her eyelids became heavy and she abandoned the book and blew out the candle after a quarter of an hour.

  Just like the night before, she slept for a few hours before waking. This time she went directly to the window and drew back the curtains. She didn’t have long to wait before he appeared, thundering across his land on his magnificent horse, two ghosts under the moonlight.

  She kept hidden, unable to tear her eyes away as man and beast moved as one. As he’d done the previous night, he ended his ride by coming beneath her window. Portia didn’t think she’d moved and there was no light from a candle, but just as he rode past her balcony he looked up. She froze. He was not wearing his spectacles and under the combined light of the torch and bright moon she caught a faint glimpse of violet.

  Not until he’d gone past did she realize he’d been smiling.

  “Did you see the nosy music teacher tonight, Geist?” The majestic horse’s ears twitched at the sound of Stacy’s voice. He removed Geist’s saddle and began the horse’s rubdown. Stacy tsked. “You probably think she stays up to watch you?” The stallion pawed the floor with one of his forelegs and Stacy chuckled. “I don’t think so, my friend. I think she stays up to stare at me.”

  It was the same morbid interest women always showed in him. Usually their inquisitive stares did not amuse him and never before had he wanted to satisfy a woman’s curiosity by exhibiting his eyes—at least not since his debacle with Penelope. He frowned at the memory of his former fiancée and the night he’d learned just how well a woman could hide her disgust at his person in pursuit of his money.

  Geist leaned heavily against Stacy’s shoulder as he toweled first one foreleg and then the other. Geist made a low grumbling noise.

  Stacy laughed softly. “You like that, do you, you greedy thing?”

  After he was done he slipped on Geist’s halter and led him down the long corridor. Other white heads poked out as Stacy and Geist passed, one his newest mare, Snezana.

  The stallion’s body stiffened and he stopped and whickered, stomping one hoof on the plank floor outside her stall. Snezana tossed her head but then retreated into the dark recesses of her stall.

  Stacy clucked his tongue and patted Geist’s rump. “She’s not ready for you yet, my friend.” Geist followed him with obvious reluctance, his large dark eyes rolling as they left the silent mare behind.

  He led the agitated stallion toward his big corner stall, soothing him as they went. “It’s difficult to wait, I know. But she wouldn’t take you now. I promise, when the time is right, she will come to you.”

  Another pair of dark, expressive eyes flashed through his mind’s eye as he calmly stroked the big horse’s flank.

  Stacy wasn’t sure whether his soothing words were for the anxious stallion or for himself.

  Chapter Six

  Portia’s first week sped by and she rarely saw either of the other occupants of Whitethorn other than at daily lessons and dinner. In fact, she saw so little of them she sometimes wondered if they avoided her on purpose.

  But it was far more likely that they each had busy lives. She’d learned from the maid Daisy, who waited on her most often, that Mr. Harrington was a man of business with interests in other parts of the country, not only Cornwall. And Miss Tate ran her nephew’s large manor house and also volunteered at the local vicarage.

  The only one who had no life to speak of was Portia.

  She didn’t even get to peek at Mr. Harrington during his midnight rides as those had ceased with the waning of the moon. It struck her as odd that he’d never mentioned her spying; of course she’d never confessed that she watched him. It was almost as if they shared a secret.

  Portia snorted at the foolish thought as she rang for the maid her eighth morning at Whitethorn. She’d woken earlier than usual, determined to try her hand at the gig today. She was enjoying her walks, but she wanted to explore farther afield than she could on foot.

  When she reached the breakfast room she found it occupied for the first time in over a week. “Good morning, Miss Tate. Are you always an early riser?”

  “It is my favorite time of the day, Signora.” The older woman smiled but her pupils were small black dots. She was always friendly and pleasant but never lowered her reserve.

  Portia approached the groaning sideboard with eager anticipation; it had been many, many years since she’d eaten so well and she possessed a voracious appetite. She’d long ago ceased fretting about her figure, which seemed to remain unfashionably plump whether she starved herself or ate what she liked.

  “What are your plans this morning, Signora?” Miss Tate asked after Portia sat.

  “I’ve decided to take the gig to town.” Portia looked from the other woman’s plate, which held one half-eaten slice of dry toast, to her own, which was heaped with ham, eggs, pilchards, and a thick slice of buttered bread.

  “Do you ride?”

  “I’m afraid I never learned.” Three pots of jam sat on the table, begging her to sample them. “I’ve been exploring the area on foot.” Miss Tate arched her eyebrows, either at Portia’s words or appetite. “But Mr. Harrington kindly offered me the use of his gig.” She took a forkful of coddled eggs and immediately wished she’d helped herself to more: they were delicious.

  “Are you city born and bred, Signora?”

  Portia added a generous dollop of cream to her coffee. “I was born and raised in Rome. After I married, I accompanied my husband on his engagements, which were mostly in large cities.”

  “It must have been an interesting life.”

  “It had its moments.” Portia took a sip of coffee and sighed with contentment; it was dark, strong, and richly flavored.

  “Do you think you can be happy living in the country after such a glamorous life?”

  Portia chuckled. “I wouldn’t say it was glamorous.” She didn’t tell the other woman her life had actually been fraught with constant stress and insecurity. Instead, she cut a piece of gammon steak while she considered her answer. “Thus far I like living here quite well,” she said, and then popped the ham into her mouth, chewed, swallowed, and took another sip of coffee. “Have you lived here your entire life, Miss Tate?”

  “I moved here when my nephew was a baby.” She glanced down at her plate, where her hands were busy crumbling the remainder of her toast. When she noticed Portia watching her she wiped her elegant fingers on her napkin and lowered them to her lap.

  “Where did you live before you moved here?”

  The silence drew out for so long that Portia wondered if Miss Tate had heard her.

  “I lived with my sister and her husband just north of Plymouth.”

  Portia waited for more. When none came, she topped up her coffee and gestured to Miss Tate’s almost empty cup.

  “No, thank you.” Her tall body unfolded gracefully as she stood. “I am due at the vicarage. Mr. Harrington’s greenhouses provide fresh flowers for the church.”

  “That is generous.”

  “Yes, my nephew is generous in many ways—sometimes to a fault. His propensity to think of others’ welfare before his own has sometimes caused him . . . discomfort.” She paused, as if to let Portia absorb that piece of information. “I hope you enjoy your morning.”

  “Thank you, Miss Tate.”
Portia waited until the door shut before resuming her meal. Well. Frances Tate hadn’t exactly issued a warning, but she’d certainly let it be known she was prepared to take up the cudgels on her nephew’s behalf if Portia overstepped herself. Miss Tate was likely accustomed to protecting her handsome, wealthy nephew from impoverished, fortune-hunting females. Portia wanted to reassure the woman that Mr. Harrington was in no danger from her, but she doubted the reserved older woman would either appreciate or believe reassurance from a person who’d already shown willingness to lie to get what she wanted.

  And whose fault is that?

  Portia ignored her guilty qualms and finished breakfast without further interruption. After fetching her hat, cloak, and reticule she meandered through the spectacular gardens on her way to the stables.

  Mr. Hawkins was out front grooming the white horse she’d seen the prior evening.

  “What a beautiful animal.”

  Hawkins smiled proudly, as if the animal belonged to him. “Aye, miss, ’ee surely is. Ready to try tha hand with the cart again?”

  “If you think I should, after my disastrous first attempt.”

  Hawkins gave a good-natured laugh. “T’were only a few bushes tha flattened. Here, let me fetch John to finish Geist and I’ll fetch the gig.”

  “May I pet him?” Portia asked, itching to stroke the beautiful animal.

  “Aye, he’ll like that.”

  Portia met the horse’s surprisingly dark eye. Geist gave her a calm look and then nudged her hand with his soft chin as she stroked the velvety soft muzzle.

  The stable master soon returned with John and when Portia turned to greet the boy Geist nudged her arm with his nose. Both Hawkins and John laughed.

  “Tha can niver quit with this one, ma’am. He’s a right greedy one for attention.”

  “What does his name mean?” The word was familiar but Portia couldn’t recall where she’d heard it.

  “The master says it be some fern word for ‘ghost.’”

  Ah, that was it: Geist was German for ghost, exactly what Portia had thought he was—a ghost in the moonlight.

  “Take ’im back into his stall, John, not the pasture. The master might want him later.”

  The boy clucked his tongue and led the huge horse into the stables.

  Hawkins turned to her. “I reckon tha should take John along these first few times, ma’am.”

  “I should hate to deprive you of your helper, Mr. Hawkins.”

  “’Tis naught. He can visit his ma and sisters while he waits.”

  “I collect everyone knows everyone else in such a small town?” Portia asked, while Mr. Hawkins hooked a placid mare to the small cart.

  “Aye, ’tis true. A body can’t take two steps without stumbling over family.”

  “That must be nice.”

  The old man grunted, his hands deftly attaching the harnessing while his eyes met hers. “It keeps a man from misbehavin’.” Mr. Hawkins’s eyes flickered over her shoulder and he paused to tug his forelock. “Good mornin’, master.”

  Portia turned to find Mr. Harrington, dressed to ride in glossy boots, dark leather breeches, and an impeccably cut black coat. Unlike on his nighttime jaunts, he also wore dark spectacles, black leather gloves, and a high-crowned hat. The only color in his ensemble was his bottle green and gold striped waistcoat. He was a vision of masculine beauty.

  “Tha be wantin’ Geist, sir?”

  “It can wait, Hawkins.” He turned to Portia. “Are you going to try your hand at the gig, Signora?”

  “Just as far as Bude, sir.”

  He nodded, hesitated, and then said, “Perhaps I shall accompany you. I have business at the inn.”

  Portia’s fertile imagination leapt ahead to sitting beside the gorgeous man on the very small bench. “Er—”

  “If that is acceptable to you,” he asked, with a slight smile.

  “Yes, yes of course it is. Mr. Hawkins was just saying that I should have somebody with me.” Of course he was suggesting a boy, and not a paragon of masculine perfection.

  “I think that is probably wise the first few times.”

  Hawkins stepped back from Buttercup “She’ll be a right hand with the ribbons soon enough, master.”

  “I’m sure she will, Hawkins.” His nostrils flared slightly. “Signora Stefani strikes me as the kind of woman who is good at everything she turns her hand to.”

  Portia couldn’t see his eyes, but she swore she could feel his gaze and her body heated; if looking at him did this to her, what would sitting beside him do?

  She was about to find out.

  Stacy stared at the very woman he’d been avoiding for days. What the devil am I doing?

  Apparently you’re avoiding her company, the dry voice in his head answered.

  He handed her up onto the narrow bench and once she was settled he swung himself up. She’d squeezed all the way to the metal railing that surrounded the seat, yet still his thigh, side, and buttock pressed against hers. She felt good; too good.

  Stacy glanced down to find her staring up at him, her face a fetching shade of pink. “Is this uncomfortable for you, Signora?”

  “No, of course not.” She whipped around and faced forward. And then she sat there.

  Stacy’s lips twitched. “You need to give Buttercup some indication you are ready to proceed.”

  “Oh!” Her small hands tightened on the reins and she made a clucking noise with her tongue. Buttercup’s head came up, but she didn’t move.

  “Perhaps you might give her a bit of slack, Signora.”

  “Oh,” she said again, and then loosened her grip so much the reins slid through her fingers.

  Stacy’s hand shot out and caught them before they could tangle in the harness.

  Buttercup, freed from restraint, ambled forward.

  “Oh dear.” The woman grimaced, cutting him a quick, mortified look. “I’m sorry.” Her face had gone from pink to crimson.

  “There is nothing to apologize for, you are just learning. Here, take the ribbons.”

  She shook her head vigorously. “I’d rather you do it.”

  He continued to hold them out for her and she finally heaved a sigh and took them, this time holding them loosely.

  “Is this all right?” she asked when Buttercup had plodded along for a moment.

  “It’s perfect.”

  “I suppose she knows the way and doesn’t require much steering.”

  Stacy decided not to tell her that one guided, not steered, a horse. “Buttercup could walk to Bude in her sleep—backward.”

  Mrs. Stefani laughed, a low, sensual sound he’d heard once or twice before. A sound that he decided he liked hearing far too much.

  “Your horse—Geist—is lovely.”

  He raised his eyebrows. Was she finally going to mention watching him on his rides?

  “Thank you,” he said.

  “You have quite a few horses. Are they for personal use or do you breed them to sell?”

  “Most of the breeding I’ve done in the past was for my tenants.”

  “Oh?”

  “Yes, most farmers don’t have a use for stallions as they can be temperamental. I own several studs and allow my tenants to use them at no cost as stud fees can often be too expensive. Over the next few weeks you will see farmers bring their mares.”

  She glanced at him. “That’s very kind of you.”

  “A happy tenant is a productive one. Besides, by providing good sires I’m doing my part to maintain the quality of livestock in the area.”

  “So Geist’s offspring are numerous?”

  “Geist is far too valuable to use for draft animals. He is still young, and this is his first season so he will cover only my own mares. But next year I’ll stud him for a fee.”

  Beside him, she shook her head. “I don’t understand—I thought you said your tenants couldn’t afford to pay?”

  “These would be other breeders from around the country.”

 
“And they would bring a horse all the way here?” She sounded more than a little skeptical.

  “Oh, indeed. I’ve already got twenty-five owners on my list, some from as far as Scotland.”

  “That is astounding! I take it Geist is a racehorse?”

  Stacy heard the same disapproval in her voice as when she’d asked him about hunting dogs. “He raced for a short period, but only long enough to establish his qualities. When he was put up for sale, I purchased him.”

  “You bought him because he won races?”

  “In part.”

  “Then why don’t you still race him?”

  “While it’s true he exhibited impressive speed and endurance on the flat he possesses an impeccable lineage so he is far more valuable as bloodstock than as a racehorse. He’s also a good-natured horse and fairly biddable for a stallion, which should make him easier to stud.”

  The brief look she gave him was heavy with censure. “So he’s nothing more than a business to you?”

  Rather than finding her annoying, Stacy liked her fire. “May I not enjoy him and earn money, Signora?”

  “You may do whatever you like. It just seems cold to only care about him because of his bloodline. Not to mention arrogant to believe one should control such bloodlines.”

  Stacy gestured to the two trees on either side of the drive, just ahead of them. “What do you think of these trees?”

  “The trees?”

  “Yes, the trees.”

  She shrugged. “They’re trees.”

  “Look closer.”

  She leaned forward as they passed. “My goodness, are those large things buds?”

  “Yes, they are. In less than a month you will be gifted with an amazing sight. This year the circumstances have been propitious and our magnolias will flower.”

  “I’ve heard of magnolias. They are supposed to be quite spectacular.”

  “They are. And there are no others quite like these two. These magnolias were planted during my uncle’s lifetime. He was a botanist and acquired some of the first magnolias to arrive in Britain. Over the course of many years he worked with them until he created a pair that would not only survive, but thrive, in our climate.”