“I’m pleased to hear it.” He hesitated and then said, “I understand you went to visit Nanny this afternoon?”
“Yes, I wanted to see if she felt better before I left.”
“Better?”
“She was not well the last two times I stopped by.”
His brows drew down. “I wasn’t aware of that. I’ll have to speak to the Fants.”
“I do not believe Nanny cares for the Fants.”
He smiled. “Well, they are from Yorkshire and thus geographically suspect. But Miss Tate selected them and I have absolute faith in her judgement.” He uncrossed his arms and pushed off the desk, signaling the conversation was over.
“Thank you for the advance on my wages.”
“It is my pleasure, Signora Stefani.” He took several long strides toward the door and opened it for her. “I shall see you at four.”
Portia nodded and left the room without looking back.
Stacy watched until Signora Stefani disappeared down the hallway. She moved with a sensual grace which he knew was more than mere promise. Her hips shifted enticingly beneath her simple cotton gown and he couldn’t help wondering if she was wearing stockings or if she routinely went without them.
This is not a subject that will lead you anywhere good.
That is certainly true—but it is a subject that brings me pleasure. Even so, Stacy shut the door on both her and his lascivious thoughts.
But when he resumed his seat he found he was no longer in the mood to contemplate the new parcel of land he’d just acquired, a matter that had interested him greatly before the woman had made it impossible to think. He poured a brandy, took off his glasses, and checked his watch: two hours until his lesson. Lord, he was pathetic to look forward to those two hours the way he did.
He slid his hand behind his neck and brutally massaged the taut cords, his mind sneaking back to that night in the stables. Indeed, his mind rarely went anywhere else of late. He doggedly dragged his attention back to the true purpose of that evening, which had not been to seduce his employee, but to breed his newest mare. That endeavor, at least, had proven successful and Snezana was in foal, which Thompson said was not always the case after a young mare’s first cover—
“Good God!” Stacy sat up so fast he knocked his leg against his desk. He yelped and then rubbed his throbbing knee. Could Mrs. Stefani be pregnant? How could he not have thought of that possibility until now? He stared unblinkingly across the dim room, his spinning brain yielding very little of use on the subject. He’d only bedded prostitutes—how pitiful was that—and they were taught how to prevent conception. Mrs. Stefani was a widow, but did that necessarily mean she knew how to take precautions? What if she were carrying his child? Would his children be like him?
His aunt had told him long ago that his mother and father had both been fair, but not white like him. Lord. How had he not thought of this until now? He reached for the brandy decanter but stopped; he liked to have his wits about him when he went into a lesson.
He slumped back in his chair; he would have to talk to Signora Stefani. It would be a bloody uncomfortable conversation, but he needed to reassure her that she’d not face such an eventuality alone.
Stacy groaned at even the thought of such an agonizing discussion.
Surely it was early yet? Their talk could wait until she returned. Most likely it would never be an issue. While he knew little about human reproduction, he knew it usually took more than one coupling for horses and other livestock.
Thoughts of coupling inevitably brought her image to mind.
She’d looked delectable today and he cursed himself for not having the forethought to open the drapes on one window so he could’ve seen her better. He’d not seen her in natural light for days—which he knew was a product of them both avoiding each other.
As gorgeous and sensual as her body had felt, what he thought of most often were her eyes: how could eyes so dark—almost black—burn with such emotion?
Of course, he also thought about her expressive, kissable mouth and how she smiled so easily. Indeed, she seemed to feel easily, unhampered by the need to moderate her emotions like the typical staid Englishperson—like him, in other words. Watching the parade of emotions that marched across her face was fascinating. In the course of their brief conversation he’d seen curiosity, embarrassment, desire, anger, happiness, sadness, and a host of other emotions he could not define.
When it came to music her face was even more eloquent. Music turned her into a creature of pure passion: driven, confident, and magnificent. Had that passion threatened her husband? Or had he shared the same temperament? Had her talent been something Ivo Stefani viewed as a challenge or something to unite them?
Stacy had no thoughts of competing with her when it came to music. He played well enough, but she elevated the notes into the realm of the divine. Her mastery of the piano was erotic and the lessons had become a two-hour block of delicious agony. Listening to her play was bloody torture, but it was the high point of his days.
He was becoming stiff just thinking about her.
Stacy scowled at his body’s base reaction. He’d become the sort of predator who lusted after his employee—and that is exactly what she was: a dependent.
Not only had he engaged in reprehensible behavior with a subordinate, but it was possible she would suffer greatly from those few moments of careless passion. How would she feel about having a child who looked like him or needing to marry a man who looked like him?
Stacy could not imagine her being happy with either eventuality. A momentary indiscretion with a human novelty was one thing, spending the rest of your life with somebody like him was another matter entirely.
Chapter Ten
Portia had several days in the crowded mail coach to think about what she would tell her friends about Stacy, finally deciding she would tell them nothing. What was there to say? She could hardly disclose what she’d done in the stables, nor did she want to confess she was lusting for her employer day and night. So, yes, nothing was better.
When the hackney dropped her off in front of her friends’ townhouse Serena Lombard was waiting for her at the top of the steps.
“How lovely to see you, Portia!” The small Frenchwoman folded her into a very un-English embrace.
“I’ve missed you terribly,” Portia murmured, squeezing her friend hard enough to make her laugh.
Serena kissed both her cheeks before picking up Portia’s bag and leading her into the small foyer. “You look wonderful, darling.”
“Very droll. I’ve been cooped up in a coach for days—I look dreadful.” She hung up her traveling cloak and stripped off her gloves as Serena led her toward the ground floor sunroom that was just off the back garden.
“Tea will be ready shortly,” Serena said, ushering Portia into the room.
“Where are the others?” Portia asked, collapsing into a comfortable old wingback chair.
Serena took the settee across from her and curled her legs beneath her. “You just missed Honoria, who left yesterday to go to the Viscount Fowler’s country estate, and Freddie received an emergency message from her current young lady—something about a bonnet—but she’ll return this evening.”
Portia tucked her gloves into her reticule and tossed it onto the side table. “And how is Oliver?”
Serena’s eyes sparkled at the mention of her nine-year-old son’s name. “He is visiting his grandparents right now.” Serena’s husband, who died during the War, had been the Duke of Remington’s youngest son. “He’ll be sorry he missed you. Honey was, too, and said to give you her love.”
“I’m sorry to have missed both of them. I wish I could have given more notice of my visit, but I simply didn’t have the time.”
“Ah yes, your new position.” Serena grinned. “You’ve been suspiciously quiet about that. I warn you; I’m going to winkle every little detail from you.”
Which is just what Portia was worried about.
T
hankfully the door opened and a maid entered with the tray. “Let me,” Portia said before Serena—who made dreadful tea—could offer. “What have you been up to since we last spoke? I wouldn’t know—since you never answer my letters.”
Serena grimaced. “Ah, yes, my dreadful letter-writing skills. But I know Freddie tells you everything you need to know, so I don’t want to make you pay for more of the same.”
Freddie’s weekly letters were the glue that held their small circle together. The others in their group were indifferent correspondents, although none of them was as bad as their friend Miles. Lorelei wrote often, but her letters were brief to the point of being terse. Portia suspected her situation was not precisely happy and that was why she didn’t speak of it.
“Besides,” Serena said, “My life is so tedious there simply isn’t that much to tell.”
“But Freddie said you had a commission to design a bier or catafalque, or some such thing.”
Serena snorted and waved a dismissive hand. “Ah, that, yes—a marble bier for a mausoleum, an item few people will ever see.” She shrugged. “But it will pay enough to put food on the table and keep Oliver in automata.”
Portia grinned. “Is he still taking them apart?”
“Yes, but at least now he puts them all back together.”
Portia heard the pride in her voice. Oliver was only nine years old but he was a clever little boy who seemed wise beyond his years.
“But what you are talking about is work, my friend. What I was talking about was love and life.” Serena smirked as she took the cup and saucer Portia handed her.
“Why are you looking at me like that?” Portia’s tea slopped over the side of the cup and into the saucer. Before the other woman could answer her question she asked, “Has Freddie been keeping you busy?”
Serena chuckled at the clumsy change of subject but did not pursue it. “She has indeed. It has been rather busy for dear Freddie and she has several very wealthy—but not particularly promising—young ladies.”
Portia made a moue of distaste. Freddie—an earl’s widow—had been the deportment instructor at the academy. Now she used her skills and connections to launch wealthy young women into Society.
“Freddie is good at what she does, but I don’t think such work is good for her soul.” Serena was no longer smiling.
Portia sipped her tea. “No, she is too sensitive to engage in commerce.”
“Not like us,” Serena said with a smile.
The door opened and the lady in question entered. The Countess of Sedgwick was tall and slender with the silvery blond beauty of an arctic fox. Her lovely face became even lovelier when she smiled. “Portia, how wonderful to see you. How was your journey? Exhausting?”
“I was tired, but a few moments in Serena’s company was enough to reinvigorate me.”
Serena laughed. “I haven’t even begun being invigorating, darling.” She cut the countess a sly look. “Tell us about your employer, darling, Freddie says he is very, very interesting.”
Portia knew she was blushing but decided she was too tired to care.
“She is just teasing you, Portia,” Freddie said. “All I told her was that your Mr. Harrington was reclusive and reserved.”
“And wealthy,” Serena added around a mouthful of biscuit.
“Yes, he’s all three of those things,” Portia admitted.
“And?” Serena prodded.
Portia shrugged. “And nothing. He has offered me employment—even after my despicable behavior, so I am . . . contented.”
Serena’s eyes narrowed and she opened her mouth.
“I just received a letter from Miles,” Freddie said, cutting Serena a stern look.
The exuberant Frenchwoman heeded Freddie’s hint and they spoke about their absent friends for another quarter of an hour, when a huge yawn seized Portia.
“You poor dear,” Freddie said. “What beasts we are to keep you awake after that journey. Let’s get you to your room and I’ll have some warm milk sent up.”
“That sounds divine,” Portia said, pushing wearily to her feet.
Serena gave her a speculative look. “Yes, get some sleep. I’m busy tomorrow morning, but I will place myself at your disposal and we can spend the entire afternoon and evening together.” Her friend’s wicked smile boded ill for Portia’s peace of mind.
Stacy had mixed emotions as he watched the drab, gray buildings flicker past the window. He was still looking forward to a few days in Portsmouth, but it was for entirely different reasons than a month ago. He would visit a brothel, but this time he wouldn’t be engaging in his usual transactions.
The brothel in question belonged to Katherine Charring, the madam who’d been Stacy’s first lover and was now his dearest friend. Kitty was his only friend—at least the only one who knew him—aside from his aunt, his old nurse, and a few tenants. How pitiful was that? His best friend was also his madam, if no longer his lover.
Stacy frowned at the uncharitable thought; so what if Kitty was a madam? She was a wonderful person and—with the exception of Signora Stefani—a damn sight better company than most “proper” females in his experience.
His lips curved into a smile as he recalled that evening in the stables; well, perhaps the Signora was not entirely proper. But she was excellent company and he’d enjoyed their many dinner conversations, as well as the discussions about music they had every day during his lessons. Still, he could hardly call her a friend. He had plenty of acquaintances, business associates, and employees, but friends had been harder to accumulate.
Kitty held a special place in his heart and always would. He’d gone to her a bruised and broken young man after Penelope had broken his heart and she’d helped make him whole.
Although it had been years since they’d had anything but a platonic relationship, Stacy still recalled the day Kitty told him she could no longer be his lover.
“You are too important to me to be a client any longer.” She’d been lying naked against him, her redhead’s skin almost as pale as his own.
He’d been disappointed by her words although he didn’t disagree with them. “Tired of me, are you?” he’d teased.
“Don’t be daft. As a matter of fact, I was recently accused of trying to keep you all to myself.”
Stacy had laughed. “I somehow doubt your girls are lining up for me.”
“Yes, actually, they are,” Kitty said with no little asperity. “I wish you’d understand that people stare not only because of your color, but also because you are a very handsome man.”
He’d been too contented after their last bout of lovemaking to argue. “You almost make me believe you, my dear. You are an excellent madam, madam.”
She’d slapped his leg. “When a woman of my experience tells you anything about matters between the sexes you would be wise to listen.”
Stacy had wisely kept his laughter to himself and she’d continued.
“I’ve seen more naked male bodies than I care to recall,” she’d confessed with unusual candor. “I’ve rarely had the pleasure of lying beneath one as perfect as yours. Only one other, if I am to be completely honest.” He still recalled the yearning in her voice when she spoke those words. “You are special to me, Stacy, too special to be my customer any longer.”
“Then marry me, Kitty.” That hadn’t been the first time he’d asked her. He had no qualms about marrying a prostitute and he refused to despise the woman he chose to lie with.
“You fool,” she’d whispered, rolling him onto his back and lowering her body over his. “One of these days I’ll stun you by accepting.”
That had been almost eight years ago. Stacy still went to her house in Plymouth but now he went to other women, women who were lovely and gave him pleasure, but he had never become friends with any of the others. After he’d sated his body’s needs, he always spent time with Kitty to feed his soul. They argued politics, books, or anything else friends bickered about. They went out to plays and once even took
a week-long trip to London together. But still she would not marry him.
“You love me, Stacy, but you are not in love with me,” she’d said the last time he’d asked her, less than a year ago.
Stacy knew that was true. But was it not possible to have a good life together even without romantic love? He could only suppose she continued to reject his offers of marriage because she still carried a torch for another man. Somebody from the time before Stacy knew her—back when she’d been a governess.
The carriage wheels hit a rut of some sort and jolted him from his musings; he was not far from Kitty’s now. He already knew he could not engage one of her girls—no matter how beautiful and willing. The truth was he craved Signora Stefani: her humor, her body, her fire, her mystery—her music. No other woman would do.
For the first time he understood Kitty’s preoccupation with the man she’d loved so long ago—the man she could not have but still yearned for. Did his own preoccupation with Signora Stefani mean he was falling in love? Or was what he felt nothing more than lust and passion?
He honestly didn’t know which of the two possibilities he wished for.
The journey to Portia’s prior residence the next morning roused memories of her life with Ivo—memories she preferred not to remember.
Mrs. Sneed, her landlady, was a needle-thin woman with sharp black eyes and an unusually small mouth. Her expression was perpetually pinched, as if she’d just smelled something rancid. She’d become suspicious and unpleasant toward Portia after Ivo had left, but today she greeted Portia—and her money—with a welcoming smile.
“Going to join your husband in Rome, Seenyora?” Her beady eyes were watchful as Portia loaded a few possessions into the small crate she planned to take back with her.
Portia considered telling her about Ivo and then shrugged the thought away—why bother? “No, I’m teaching in Cornwall, at the address I sent you in my last letter.”
“That reminds me. A man came looking for you a few days ago and I gave him the address.”
The Music of Love Page 9
