“Oh no.” The words were barely a whisper but they chilled him to his core.
Stacy gritted his teeth and pulled out of her before lowering her to the ground. She swayed against him, her forehead on his chest.
“Can you stand?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“Did I hurt you?” His throat was so tight it was a chore to force the words out.
“No. No, I’m not hurt.”
Stacy turned away as memories of the last few moments flickered through his brain with shocking clarity. He’d treated her like a whore—worse. He couldn’t recall ever using a woman so hard. Of course never in all his years had a woman used the word fuck in his presence—not that the curse excused his brutality. He swallowed hard, his cock twinging at the memory of her vulgar command.
The next few moments were every bit as excruciating as one would expect after one had intimate relations with a virtual stranger in a horse barn. They busied themselves tucking and straightening. Once he’d reassembled his clothing as best he could, he put on his glasses and turned to her.
She was waiting for him.
“Signora—”
She held up a hand, her eyes no longer hot, but severe. “Please, don’t apologize. There were two of us, and I’m no blushing maiden.” Yet she blushed all the same. “This was a mistake.” Her mouth twisted miserably as her eyes swept the room, landing everywhere except his face. “Just because I’m a woman does not mean I’m not equally responsible.” She gave a small, bitter laugh. “You didn’t, after all, despoil an innocent virgin.” She bit her lower lip and met his eyes. “What I wish to know is whether it will be possible for me to continue working here after . . . this.”
Any remaining warmth that had lingered inside him fled at her words. He’d violated a woman in his employ—a person whose very livelihood depended on him—the very thing he’d sworn not to do, and now she feared for her position and future.
“This will change nothing between us, Signora Stefani.” He spoke the foolish words with a cool assurance he was far from feeling. How could things not change? He’d been inside her, for God’s sake, and he bloody well wanted to be there again, right now, in fact.
Everything had changed.
Everything.
He realized she was still looking up at him, as if waiting for something more—but what?
Reassure her, you dolt.
“I’m certain we can continue to work with each other, ma’am.”
Her eyes were veiled, but she nodded, as if his cold, stilted words were satisfactory.
He held out his arm. “Come, I’ll take you back to the house.” She laid her fingers lightly on his sleeve but did not say a word.
What had he done?
What had she done?
Portia ran up the steps after her employer left her in the entry hall. When she reached her room she threw herself onto her bed and took her head in both hands, tugging on it as though she could yank it off and exchange it for another—one that was not so horribly bent on destroying her. She’d all but crawled into the poor man’s breeches—after tearing them off his body.
Ivo had been correct; she was no better than a rutting bitch.
Fuck me, Stacy.
Portia groaned at the horrid memory and wished she could hide in a crack in the earth and never come out again. How could she? Had she forgotten so quickly how her vulgar language and behavior had horrified and disgusted the last man she’d bedded? Would she never learn?
She’d been a naïve and foolish girl of seventeen the first time she’d used such language with Ivo. It had been her wedding night and Portia had not gone to his bed a virgin. If that hadn’t been bad enough, she’d used the words her first lover had taught her; doing and saying things no virtuous Catholic girl should have known. Things Benedict had taught her.
Portia fell in love with Benedict Carruthers, one of her father’s students, when she was fifteen. He’d been only three years older than Portia but decades older in sin. The youngest son of an English earl, he’d bedded his first woman at thirteen. Blond, blue eyed, and smooth-cheeked, Benedict had looked like an angel but he’d been the devil himself, especially in bed.
It had been Benedict who’d taught Portia dirty English words and then encouraged her to use them liberally when they made love—a habit that was obviously impossible to break. Benedict had been demanding and wicked, but also generous and kind in his own way.
“Never hide your sensual nature,” he’d told her not long before he was killed. “Passion is something to be proud of, even though men try to shame women for taking pleasure from their bodies.”
Benedict had been English, but he’d had a temper to match any Italian man. His temper had ultimately been his undoing and he’d died in a knife fight a week before Portia’s sixteenth birthday: stabbed through the heart with a stiletto and left to bleed to death in an alley.
Portia had been devastated, convinced she would never love again. But then Ivo—a handsome, gifted genius—came to study under her father several months later. Now that she was older Portia knew what she’d felt for Ivo had been hero worship; his talent had blinded her. And then her father had died of a heart attack and she’d been terrified of what the future held. Ivo had been her salvation. Or so she’d believed.
Their marriage was a disaster from the very first night. He never forgave her for not being a virgin and he deplored her sensual nature.
The most recent example of her deplorable sensual nature echoed in her head: Fuck me, Stacy.
Portia groaned, pressing a pillow tightly over her face, as if that could block out the memory of what she’d said and done. The cool, aloof façade she’d cultivated so carefully destroyed in a moment. Well, several glorious moments, actually.
How would she be able to work with him after this?
Chapter Nine
The days passed in an uncomfortable blur.
Portia was stilted and correct around her employer—as if that might somehow make him forget she’d spread her legs and then scratched, bitten, and cursed at him—and it was awkward to communicate even the most innocent information.
Stacy—why not think of him that way after what she’d done—on the other hand, appeared as cool and unruffled as ever. His behavior was so normal she might have thought she’d imagined their tryst if she hadn’t woken up so deliciously sore the following morning.
Their first lesson had been the most trying. Portia stared at his face, lips, hands—everything—and hadn’t been able to stop remembering that evening. Look, he’d said, a fierce expression on his chiseled features while his body thrust deep into hers, over and over.
Portia simply couldn’t help herself; whenever she looked at him, she remembered how he’d looked when he’d come undone and filled her with his seed: his pale beauty fierce, cruel, and magnificent.
The only times they saw each were at lessons and dinner. Lessons were all business and dinner was pleasant conversation with his aunt present. When they weren’t in lessons she took care to avoid accidental encounters and suspected he did the same.
The nights, however, were far, far different. At night she welcomed his presence in her head as she lay in her big bed and allowed her imagination to run wild. At night he rode her with the same skill, passion, and confidence he’d shown during their oh-so-brief interlude.
The end of her trial period was only days away and Portia fully expected him to present her with a month’s pay and send her packing. It wasn’t that he treated her any differently than he had before their tryst, but their interactions were so stilted she couldn’t believe he wanted them to continue. Besides, he could easily hire another teacher for the money he was offering. The only reason she was here in the first place was because he thought he was hiring Ivo.
On the thirtieth day he came to her desk after he’d finished playing. She was making notes and recommendations for future work. She replaced the quill in the stand and looked up.
“I am very pleased w
ith my progress and would like you to stay.”
Portia’s mouth opened, but nothing came out.
“I will understand if you’d rather return to London. I will pay you two months’ wages and arrange your transportation.” His face was a rigid, emotionless mask—but surely he wouldn’t ask her to stay if he didn’t want her here? Perhaps he even liked her a little.
Her heart pounded foolishly hard at the thought and she ruthlessly shoved it aside. This was a second chance he was giving her and she would not make the same mistake again.
Portia ignored the mocking laughter in her head. “I would like to stay, Mr. Harrington,” she said, proud there was hardly a quaver in her voice. She opened her mouth, and then closed it.
“Yes?” he prodded.
“I hate to ask, but I’m afraid I left things rather unresolved in London.” She grimaced. “I didn’t know if I’d be staying in Cornwall or returning.” The both knew what she meant.
His expression was thoughtful. “A break would actually suit me as I have to take trips to Plymouth and Barnstaple. You’ll need at least ten days for your journey—or perhaps even two weeks.”
“Ten days will be sufficient.” It would mean a very short stay in London, but Portia could not justify a longer visit.
“Shall we finish out this week? Will that give you enough time to make travel arrangements?”
“Yes, thank you. Monday would do nicely.” Portia was so relieved it was difficult to think straight. She waited until the door closed behind him before dropping her head onto her arms and fighting back her tears of joy.
Thank God. She wouldn’t need to leave here. She wouldn’t need to leave him.
Portia couldn’t pay for her trip to London without an advance on her wages.
She decided to get the unpleasant task out of the way the following morning after breakfast and went in search of Soames. She found the butler supervising a trio of maids in the dining room.
“Could you tell me if I might speak to Mr. Harrington?”
“He is in the library with his steward.” Before she could answer he frowned at the maid who was scrubbing the blackened metal dogs in the fireplace. “No, no, Sally, you will need to use salt on that.” He turned back to Portia. “Should I tell him you’d like a word?”
“Don’t disturb him. I’ll try again later.”
“I’ll let him know once his steward leaves, ma’am.” The stiff butler actually gave her a smile. The Whitethorn servants had unbent toward her when they realized she didn’t add much work to their lives and had no plans to steal the silverware.
Portia decided to see Nanny before she departed for London. The last two times she’d gone to the cottage Mrs. Fant had told her the old lady was not feeling well.
When Portia crested the rise that overlooked the cottage she saw both Fants doing something near the shed on the far side of the cottage. Nanny herself was in the small garden on the other side of the house and Portia headed toward her, feeling as though she were racing against the clock—or at least the Fants—to reach the old lady. Perhaps it was just her over-developed imagination, but she suspected they disapproved of her visits.
Luckily, Nanny saw her before the Fants did. “Signora Stefani.” She began to stagger to her feet.
“Please, Nanny – don’t get up. How are you feeling today?”
“I’m excessively well, Signora.” Nanny’s blue eyes twinkled, making her resemble a good fairy from some children’s tale. She was so tiny a stiff breeze would carry her away.
“You’ve recovered from your illness?”
“Illness? What illness? Why, I’ve never been ill a day in my life! I come from fine country stock, you know.”
Just then Mrs. Fant came around the corner of the cottage and Portia was positive she saw dismay, quickly followed by annoyance, on the woman’s face.
“Hello, Mrs. Fant.” Portia gave the sour-looking servant a pleasant smile.
“I have a visitor, Mrs. Fant. Please see to tea for the Signora and me.”
“Are you sure you’re feeling up to entertaining, Mrs. Kemble?”
The look Nanny turned on her must have been one she’d developed for recalcitrant charges. “Of course I’m well enough.” Her voice was icy with displeasure and the housekeeper was wise enough to scuttle off to make the tea. Nanny shook her head before speaking in a stage whisper, “I cannot abide those people.”
“Why don’t you dismiss them? Or ask Mr. Harrington to do so? He dotes on you, Nanny. He wants you to be happy.”
Any mention of Stacy always put a large smile on her face.
“He does love me, doesn’t he?” She preened for a moment and then her lips trembled. “The poor little mite—sent away so young.”
“Sent away? By whom?”
“Why the earl, of course; he couldn’t abide him.” She looked as though she might cry and Portia couldn’t bring herself to pursue the subject, even though she was more curious than she should be. Instead she changed the topic.
“Tell me about your childhood, Nanny. What part of the country did you grow up in?”
“I grew up just outside Thurlstone, but you know that Miss Mary. I’ve known all you girls since you were born. Our family has worked for Harringtons since The Conqueror, my pa used to say.”
Before Portia could respond, Mrs. Fant returned with the tea tray. “I thought you might like this calf’s foot jelly Lady Watley left for you, Mrs. Kemble.”
Nanny’s vague gaze sharpened when it landed on the Yorkshirewoman, who was holding said jelly. She gave a dismissive sniff at either the jar or her servant. “Signora Stefani will pour, Mrs. Fant. You may go.” She made a shoeing motion.
Mrs. Fant could hardly argue with such a direct dismissal, but she did give Portia an accusatory look, as though to say it was all her doing.
While Portia let the tea steep she picked up the jar.
“The nerve of that woman bringing me her wretched calf’s foot jelly.”
She looked up at the venom in the older woman’s voice. “Who is Lady Watley?”
Nanny’s eyes narrowed, making her resemble a rather evil little fairy. “She’s nothing but a harlot.”
Portia’s eyes widened, but Nanny didn’t notice.
“She had a chance to marry the best man in Britain and picked that—that, oaf, instead.”
Portia didn’t have to stretch her imagination too far to guess who Nanny considered the best man in Britain. “Do you mean Mr. Harrington?”
Nanny nodded her head vigorously, her eyes glinting with spite. “Wanted him for his money, she did.” Her chin quivered and a single tear rolled down one cheek. “Oh how she hurt him. He isn’t one to wear his heart on his sleeve, but I know him like he was my own.”
Portia wanted to ask her in the worst of ways what this woman had done, but Nanny blinked and seemed to come to herself. “I don’t want that,” she said, looking at the jar. “The Fants can have it.”
The rest of their conversation revolved around Nanny’s garden and there was no more mention of imaginary earls or Lady Watley.
The older lady was so chipper that Portia stayed too long and had to hurry to get back in time for her lesson. She’d just entered the foyer when Soames found her.
“Mr. Harrington will see you now, Signora.”
“Thank you, Soames.” Portia wished she could go up to her room and tidy her hair but she satisfied herself with a quick glance in a mirror before making her way to the library.
Stacy was leaning over his desk when she entered. “Ah, good afternoon, Signora.” He gestured to one of the chairs in front of the desk. “Please, have a seat.”
The top of his massive desk was piled high with ledgers and rolls of paper. “I hope I am not interrupting you; I shan’t take up very much time.”
“It is a welcome interruption, Signora.” She heard a slight weariness in his modulated tone.
This man has been inside me. The thought sprang from nowhere and Portia’s legs went rubbery a
t the sudden, graphic image that accompanied it. She gratefully lowered herself into the chair.
“How may I help you, Signora?”
“Would it be possible to have an advance on my wages?” Portia swore he looked relieved, as if he’d thought—or feared—she might say something else. But what?
“Of course. I should have thought of that myself, Signora.”
“I do not require all of the money, perhaps the amount for two months?”
“I should be very glad to pay you all of it. I trust you enough to render the services promised.”
Portia’s face heated at the word ‘services’ and she knew she must look very much like a brick wearing a day dress.
Fuck me, Stacy.
The words ricocheted around in her head, amplifying the heat that was already spreading through her body.
“Two months will be sufficient, Mr. Harrington.” Her voice cracked on his name.
He removed a strongbox from a drawer and counted out a sum she assumed to be two month’s pay. He rose and walked around the desk to hand it to her. Portia stood and was immediately aware of how close the action brought her to his body. Close enough to smell him, only faintly, but enough to stoke her yearning for him, which seemed to burn hotter every day.
She took the money from his hand, careful not to touch him, as if that might create a dangerous spark. “Thank you.”
He propped his hip against his desk and crossed his arms. “Is there anything I can do to help with your travel plans?” His cool, conversational tone convinced Portia that his insides were not tying themselves in knots. He was a man; likely bedding her once had been enough to get her out of his system. If she’d ever been in his system to begin with.
“Thank you, but I’ve already seen to everything.”
A heavy, uncomfortable silence hung between them and stretched . . . and stretched.
“Will it be just business in London, or will you have some time for pleasure?”
“I am staying with friends, so it will not all be business.”
The Music of Love Page 8
