Portia looked up from her packing. “A man? Did he leave a card?”
“No. Said he was passing through and wanted to see you; he said he knew your husband.”
It was hard to breathe, like something was squeezing her chest. “Did he give his name?”
“I didn’t ask for it, did I?” Mrs. Sneed snapped.
Portia forced herself to remain calm. “Well, could you describe him?”
She gave a careless shrug. “Big, dressed poorly, an accent thicker than treacle.”
“What kind of accent?”
Mrs. Sneed’s bored expression turned mean. “You don’t pay me enough to be your personal secretary.”
Portia bit her tongue. The woman was horrid and arguing with her was not worth the effort. She stood and surveyed everything she was selling: a piano, some furniture from the school, and other odds and ends. She’d offered the remainder of the possessions to a man Ivo had borrowed money from and he’d grudgingly agreed to take them in return for part of the debt.
“Men will come by tomorrow morning to take away the rest of the things.”
The landlady’s sharp eyes narrowed. “Anything still here tomorrow evening will be mine.”
Portia strode from the house without another word, glad to be done with the sour, nasty woman.
The rest of the day passed in a whirl of drudgery and she spent most of her time calling on the various people she—or rather Ivo—owed money to. She applied small amounts to most of the debts and made arrangements for quarterly payments for the rest. Even with the wages Stacy was paying it would take years to discharge it all. She pushed that depressing thought aside and told herself to be grateful she had employment.
The rest of her trip went far too quickly. Her second night she ate dinner with Freddie and Serena and stayed up too late talking. The third night she was alone with Serena as Freddie had obligations with one of her clients.
Portia had expected to be prodded and poked for information, but Serena avoided the subject of her employer, almost as if she feared what Portia might tell her.
On her final night in town they ate a late supper at the house. Portia was listening to her friends discuss the play they’d just seen when her mind wandered back to Stacy Harrington. It had been a week since she’d last seen him. Tomorrow she would leave London and begin the long journey home.
Home? When had she begun to think of Whitethorn as home?
Portia frowned; she was lying to herself. It wasn’t Whitethorn she was thinking of, it was Stacy. She missed their lessons, their dinner conversations, those brief glimpses of him in the moonlight. She yearned to know more about him—not just about his beautiful body, although that intrigued her more than it should—but to get to know the man who lived behind his mask of reserve.
What was she going to do about him? It was clear he’d put that night in the stables behind him. After all, it had been Portia who’d instigated the heated tryst. That was another thing she could not lie to herself about. She’d wanted him and she still wanted him, and he was far too much of a gentleman to show how shocked and disgusted he’d been by her vulgar words and wanton behavior.
Had her disastrous marriage taught her nothing? When would she realize men did not like to be stalked and brought to earth as though they were wild game? When would she learn they went to whores for what she provided and to proper women for a wife?
Her mind burned with shame but her belly burned with something else: she would do the same thing with him again if the opportunity presented itself. More than that, she would undoubtedly do everything in her power to ensure such an opportunity arose.
She sighed, exhausted and annoyed by her pointless fretting.
“Why the heavy sigh, Portia my darling? Are you thinking about how much you will miss me and my sage counsel and clever wit?” Serena teased.
Freddie gave a delicate snort but Portia smiled into Serena’s affectionate hazel eyes. “I will miss you both, dearly.”
Serena lifted her wine glass. “I propose a toast—to old friends, the very best kind.”
“To friends old and new,” Freddie corrected, her serious gaze on Portia. Although the reserved, private woman hadn’t pried, Portia knew Freddie was concerned about her new life in Cornwall and where it would all lead.
Portia gave the other woman a reassuring smile. “To friends old and new,” she echoed.
After she’d taken a drink Portia left her glass lifted a moment longer, silently toasting somebody who was not at the table, but who was present all the same.
Chapter Eleven
Portia knew she was pregnant two weeks after she returned from London.
She woke up before dawn, retching and sweating with an odd heaviness in her pelvis. After vomiting a third time she crawled back into bed and fell into an uneasy sleep. When she woke again it was after eleven and somebody was knocking on her door.
“Signora? Signora Stefani?” It was Daisy.
“Come in,” she called weakly.
The maid poked her face into the dim bedroom. “Are you ill, Signora? When you didn’t come down to breakfast Mr. Soames worried you might be having trouble.”
Portia almost laughed. She was having trouble, all right.
“I’m feeling a little fatigued so I decided some extra sleep would not be amiss. But I should love some tea and toast if you wouldn’t mind, Daisy.”
“Oh, I don’t mind at all. Mayhap you’d like a nice hot bath, ma’am? I know that always sets me up all right and tight.”
“That sounds lovely. Perhaps in an hour?” Portia collapsed back onto the bed once the door shut. What a mess. At the very least she would have liked to keep her situation a secret. Not that being ill necessarily meant pregnancy—except to a suspicious mind. She lay in bed and massaged her sore stomach. What on earth was she going to do?
Stacy was leaving his chambers and saw Soames and Daisy conferring outside Signora Stefani’s room. “Is aught amiss, Soames?”
The girl scuttled off and his butler turned to him. “When Signora Stefani did not appear at breakfast I became concerned.”
Stacy’s heart lurched into a gallop. “Is she ill? Does she need a doctor?”
“She’s feeling a bit under the weather and asked for tea and toast, sir. She has not requested a doctor.”
Stacy looked into the old man’s suddenly not-so-vague eyes and nodded. “Inquire as to whether she would like the doctor when you bring her meal. Please let me know what she decides. I shall be in the library.”
“Very good, sir.”
Stacy didn’t bother lighting any candles when he reached the library. He slumped into his chair and stared into the darkness.
“Hell.”
Was she ill or was she pregnant? He knew women sometimes became ill during pregnancy. He could hardly breathe for the thumping in his chest. He was still sitting in the same position a half-hour later when Soames entered. The butler did not look surprised to find his master sitting in the pitch dark.
“Signora Stefani thanks you but declines your offer of a doctor. She is feeling much better.” He stood in the doorway, waiting.
“Very good, Soames. That will be all.”
Soames closed the door without making a sound.
Stacy tried to get work done, telling himself he was acting foolishly. All the same, his pile of paperwork did not diminish and he found himself in the music room an hour before his lesson. He could think of no other way to calm himself other than to play. He’d been restless ever since his trip to Plymouth. He’d only stayed for three days even though Kitty had wanted him to stay longer. But, for whatever reason, he’d been unable to relax. So he’d come home and worked on the new music he’d picked up in Plymouth, a piece by Beethoven, his Sonata 14. It was haunting, riveting, and almost mad. The third segment, the presto agitato, was beyond his skill and likely always would be, but he was determined to master it all the same.
He’d just finished playing the adagio sostenuto for the umpteen
th time when he felt her presence. He stopped but did not turn around.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Harrington.” Her voice was hushed, not at all like her usual lively tone. He felt the heat of her body behind him. “A lovely piece of music.”
“I find it captivating.”
“You are doing quite well with it.”
“Ah, but you have only heard the first part. I’m afraid the last of it is beyond my abilities.”
“Presto agitato.” He heard the smile in her voice.
“Will you play it for me, Signora Stefani?” His voice was raw and husky, like a man who needed a drink of water. Or something stronger.
She hesitated so long he thought she hadn’t heard him. But then she sat down beside him. He began to rise.
“Stay.” Her voice was low but firm. She moved closer to him and although he gave her room on the bench their bodies still touched.
Stacy had never heard the piece played by anyone but himself. He knew how it should be played and he could hear the music inside his head, but he’d failed to imagine its ferocious beauty.
Her hands commanded, caressed, and ultimately beseeched, all the while demonstrating complete mastery of the instrument before her. The music rampaged through his body like a violent marauder intent on wrecking his peace of mind and stealing his soul.
By the end Stacy was sweating, his heart was pounding, and he felt distinctly light-headed. Whether that was from the force of the music or the pressure of her thigh against his, he could not have said.
She removed her hands from the keys and laid them palm-up in her lap. “I am with child.”
Not until she said the actual words did Stacy realize how much he rejoiced at her news—news that would surely be a misfortune for her. He turned to face her.
She was waiting for him and her hands went around his neck even as his slid around her body. He crushed her mouth under his. The kiss was the physical equivalent of the music she’d just played: fierce, unbridled, and mad. He couldn’t get deep enough inside her, couldn’t get enough of her mouth, her taste, her heat. It felt like years since that glorious night in the stables.
She made a gravelly noise in her throat and her fingers threaded into his hair and tugged painfully as her mouth moved from his lips down his face. She bit him on the chin, hard.
Stacy heard himself utter the words he swore he’d not speak. “I want you. Now.”
She groaned into his mouth. “I’ve thought about this—dreamed about it.” She removed his glasses, making the same noise she’d made the last time they’d looked into each other’s eyes. It was a noise he’d thought of each and every time he’d had to spill into his fist to be rid of her, even if only for a few hours.
He pulled her to her feet and shoved the bench back with his foot before sweeping the music off the piano. She turned, leaned all the way forward, and gripped the edges of the instrument. When she looked over her shoulder at him, her smile the most wanton he’d ever seen.
Stacy pulled up her skirts. Good Lord! She was wearing stockings and garters and a chemise so brief it barely covered her bottom.
“Mother of God,” he muttered. She tried to turn around. “Stay exactly where you are,” he ordered, drinking in the sight of her. “I believe you are trying to drive me mad,” he accused in a voice he didn’t recognize. Her answering laugh was low and wicked.
She was pink, shapely, and perfect, her bottom so like a peach he could barely resist taking a bite.
But that would have to wait. Right now he needed her fast and hard.
“Hold up your skirts.”
She grasped the fabric, leaned even lower, and thrust her hips back, offering herself to him.
“Bloody hell,” he breathed. He needed at least one taste of her. He dropped to his haunches and ran his tongue along the skin above her plain white stockings. She moaned and her feet spread wider, bringing her sex lower. Stacy ran his tongue up the back of her thigh and over her perfectly formed bottom, stopping when he reached the base of her spine. She shivered as he breathed heavily on the fine down, and then whimpered when he slid a hand between her thighs and parted her damp curls. The pad of his thumb grazed her slick, swollen bud and she jerked against him, muttering something he couldn’t hear.
An evil imp prodded him. “What did you say?” he teased, stilling his hand.
“Please. . . please,” the word came out in a hiss and she pushed against him with needy abandon.
He pushed his thumb inside her and stroked, until he found what he sought.
She bucked and bit out a very filthy word and he chuckled, reaching around her with his other hand, stroking between her swollen lips while he began to work her, pumping harder and deeper as she ground against him.
Stacy had just settled into a pleasurable rhythm when her hips jerked and then froze. She gave another low, animalistic growl and then shouted something in another language; something loud enough to be heard down in the kitchens, or perhaps even the stables.
Her climax drenched his hand and she’d not stopped contracting around his finger when she began to push back against him: She wanted more.
Stacy almost laughed at the feline sound of displeasure she made when his hand left her body. He stood up and tore open his placket. “Hold your skirts higher.” He pressed his erection against her bare bottom and groaned with pure joy, lowering his mouth to her neck and kissing, nibbling, and licking.
When she was holding her skirts up to her waist he turned her face until her profile was facing him. He traced her parted lips with the hand that had brought her to climax. She sucked his thumb into her mouth without hesitation, tonguing and stroking him with a suggestiveness that made him ache to be inside her.
“My God,” he whispered, and then slid his free hand between her legs and found what he wanted. “Tell me how I should fuck you,” he ordered, thumbing her stiff, sensitive bud. “I want to hear you say it.”
Her body shuddered at the vulgar word and Stacy guided his shaft between her spread thighs and pushed the slick crown against her tight opening, but not enough to breech her. “Tell me,” he said harshly, ceasing his suggestive stroking.
She canted her hips even more and shoved back against him. “Hard, Stacy. Fuck me hard.”
Stacy lifted her off the ground with the force of his thrust and she fell forward over the piano, one hand slamming down on the keys and filling the room with a clamor that was no match for the one inside him. He grabbed both her wrists and spread her arms until she held the edges of the instrument.
“Stay put.”
And then he grabbed her hips and tilted them, holding her just so before pulling out. She hissed and he knew he’d found the angle that would suit them both to perfection. The next time he entered her he worried he might come out the other side of her body.
“Harder,” she murmured.
Stacy used her like an insane man, his body and mind beyond his control. When she climaxed he rode the storm of pleasure right behind her, burying himself to the hilt and filling the part of her that already held his child.
Their child.
It was the most explosive orgasm of his life, an excruciating cataclysm that wracked his body with seemingly endless waves of pleasure before leaving him light-headed and weak.
It was possible he actually fell asleep while still on his feet and seated deep inside her. Her body shifted slightly beneath him and reality intruded; he was crushing her against the unforgiving hardness of the piano. He withdrew reluctantly and then shook out her rumpled, creased skirts before tucking himself into his breeches.
She gave a sigh of pure pleasure, her head resting on her forearms, which were crossed on the piano. “Mmmm. That was . . .”
“Yes, it was,” he agreed.
She laughed huskily and pushed herself upright, walking with a stiff-legged gait toward the gold framed mirror. Stacy went to the settee in the darkest corner of the room. He watched her smooth her dress and fuss with her hair, which was wild and would
take far more than mere smoothing to return to its tidy chignon.
“Please come here, Signora Stefani.”
Her shoulders stiffened at his cool command, but she turned, the light behind her obscuring her face. Not for the first time did he curse the ridiculous darkness he’d imposed on his house: he would have given a great deal to see her expression just then.
As she picked her way toward him Stacy lit two candles beside the settee.
She sat and he turned to face her. “I have an embarrassing confession to make.”
She cocked her head, her expression haughty. “Oh?”
“I’m ashamed to admit I do not know your Christian name.”
Her look of surprise was priceless and her laughter made him smile. “It is Portia.”
“Portia,” he repeated. “It is a beautiful name and it suits you.” He took her hand. “I know this—” he waved his hand in an encompassing gesture, “is not what you expected when you came here to teach music, but we are beyond that now.” He paused and she remained motionless. Stacy did not know whether that was a good or bad sign, but he had to press onward. “We are not well-acquainted but I believe we share at least one passion. Well, two, actually.” He grinned and her eyes widened and flickered to his mouth; did he really smile so rarely? He shook the thought away. “There are people who marry after far less acquaintance and I do not think we are as ill-matched as many couples.” He paused and she nodded slowly, her expression difficult to read.
“Portia, would you do me the great honor of becoming my wife?” He heard her breath catch in her throat and he plunged on. “I think you are not repelled by me?”
Her lips, full and bruised from their recent lovemaking, curved. “No, Mr. Harrington. Repellant is not a word I would use to describe you. You might be the least repellant man I’ve ever met.”
Her disclosure sent blood rushing to his groin. Again.
But then the smile drained from her face. “I didn’t tell you I was pregnant to trap a proposal from you.”
“Trapped is not the word I would use to describe my feelings on the matter . . . Portia.” His words were a dry echo of hers. Her lips parted, as if she might say something, but she remained silent. He continued. “I know we are not well-acquainted, but I believe we would deal well together. I would never expect you to bury yourself in the country merely because I do not prefer to go into society. I would understand if you wanted to travel. I will be generous and you would be an independent woman in many ways.”
The Music of Love Page 10
