Her prolonged silence made him uneasy. What was she thinking? Was she frightened? Disgusted? Worried?
“And what will you get out of the marriage, Mr. Harrington?”
He blinked. Surely she was not serious? Stacy opened his mouth, but then found he could not speak the truth and expose himself. So instead, he smiled faintly and said, “Perhaps a special rate for piano lessons?”
She shook her head, her expression grave. “No, I’m afraid I’ve given you lowest possible rate I feel comfortable offering, Mr. Harrington.” She laughed at whatever she saw on his face and the sound soothed his tense nerves.
“Call me Stacy.” He wanted to bite his tongue at the haughty tone of command.
Her dark, velvety eyes searched his face as if she could see every part of him, parts that weren’t visible, parts that might not exist.
“Stacy.” She reached up and cupped his jaw and he laid his hand over hers, his heart pounding at her sweetly intimate gesture. “I must tell you something, Stacy.”
His heart skipped and stuttered. “Yes?”
“I’ve been pregnant before but I miscarried within the first three months. It’s possible you might marry me for no reason.”
Stacy swallowed the inappropriate urge to laugh. He didn’t want to laugh because she’d suffered a miscarriage, but because she’d not confessed to something insurmountable—like already having a husband or being a mad, escaped convict.
“A child would be wonderful, Portia, but I believe we might find other reasons to enjoy our marriage.” He could only hope his words of assurance would soften his stiff, cool tone. He released her hand and she, lingeringly, he thought, released his face.
“I must also confess the last time I was pregnant I was even more emotional and temperamental than I usually am. Which, as my father would have warned you if he were still alive, can be quite excessive even at the best of times.”
“Ah, unreasonable. I see. Well, I shall consider myself forewarned. Was there anything else?” he asked lightly.
She smiled and the expression brightened the room. “I agree with what you’ve said. We are compatible in several ways and I’ve enjoyed the time I’ve spent with you. I know I should want more time to get to know one another—”
“A few more weeks would not cause any scandal when the child is born.”
“I said I should want more time, but I don’t. I would very much like to marry you . . . Stacy.”
Her gracious acceptance of his offer left him dazed and pleased. “I will do my very best to make sure you never regret your decision, Portia.”
“I will do the same, Stacy.”
And just like that, they were engaged to be married.
Chapter Twelve
When Portia entered the music room the following day she couldn’t help thinking about yesterday’s lesson and her face heated.
She’d not seen Stacy since dinner last night, when he’d told his aunt about their engagement. Although Miss Tate had given the proper responses and appeared pleased, Portia was not entirely convinced. In any event, she’d gone to bed not long after playing for them. Even if Miss Tate wasn’t appalled, the two would need time to talk without her.
This morning she’d been alone at breakfast and hadn’t seen either of the Harringtons until now.
When Portia shut the door Stacy turned away from the piano, where he’d been playing some scales. A very wicked smile curved his lips.
“If you give me such looks your playing will never progress,” she scolded.
His pale eyebrows rose and he wore the inscrutable expression that made her heart pound. “But perhaps my other skills will benefit, ma’am?”
“I think your other skills need no work.”
That made him smile. “I posted your letters today—are you sure you don’t wish to put the date back, just in case your friends are able to attend?”
Portia had written separate letters to all six of her friends, telling them her news. She’d extended invitations, but she knew how hard her friends had to work. If she asked them, they would find a way to come, but she did not wish to beggar her friends just so she wouldn’t feel lonely.
“I think the date we chose is best,” she said.
“Very well. I shall set off two days hence to secure the license. I daresay I’ll be back by the end of the week. I shall speak to the vicar tomorrow. I can also talk to my aunt about the wedding breakfast, unless—”
“I would like to discuss that with her, if that is all right with you?”
He gave her one of his rare smiles and she could see he was pleased. “Thank you, Portia, I appreciate your thoughtfulness. I know you will soon be mistress of Whitethorn and—”
“Actually, I’m dreadful when it comes to managing household affairs,” she lied. “I would love it if Miss Tate would consider continuing in her current role—if she doesn’t mind, of course.” That second part was not a lie. Portia had no interest in managing a huge house and could see it was important to Miss Tate. The woman would always live with them, so it behooved her to try and get along.
“Thank you,” he said simply.
The two-hour lesson—during which only music was performed on the piano—passed too quickly. When it was finished, Stacy came to the desk where she was assembling her notes.
“Will you join me in the library for a few moments, ma’am?”
His rather severe expression made her stomach tighten, but she ignored her butterflies. “Of course.”
When they entered the library Portia noticed one of the windows was uncovered. It was a window that faced north and was shaded by a large tree. Even so, it was brighter than he usually kept his rooms.
He followed her gaze. “It is my hope to allow a little more light into the house.” The words were simple, but the meaning was clear: he was doing this for her.
Portia took the same chair she’d sat in less than two months ago and Stacy withdrew a beautiful wooden box from his desk and handed it to her.
“How lovely,” she said, tracing the fine marquetry with her finger.
He leaned against the front of his desk. “The gift is actually inside the box, Portia.”
A little shiver ran down her spine at the sound of her name in his mouth. She bit her lip, afraid of what she would find inside. She had nothing to give to him in return.
“It will not open itself.” There was amusement in his quiet voice.
Inside the box was an exquisite pearl choker. The pearls were large and the color of fresh cream. There were earrings and a bracelet to match. Portia had never had anything even a fraction as fine.
“Oh, Mr. Harrington, how beautiful,” she breathed, touching one of the pearls, which actually felt warm beneath her finger. She looked up, embarrassed by his generosity. “How can I thank you for such a magnificent gift?”
“You can start by calling me Stacy.” He grimaced, “Or Eustace, if you must. As for thanking me?” His pale lips curved. “I’m certain I will think of something.”
Portia’s face became unbearably hot under his bespectacled stare.
“Will you take off your glasses, Stacy?”
“Tsk, tsk, tsk. You know what happens when I do that, Portia.”
She laughed. “I promise I shan’t launch myself at you like a wanton.”
He uncrossed his arms and placed both palms on the edge of the desk. “Then I hardly see the point.”
She rose, took the single step that separated them, and stood on her tiptoes to kiss him softly on the mouth before lowering back to her heels. He stood as still as the statue he so resembled.
“Thank you for the jewels, Stacy, they are lovely.”
He reached out and skimmed a finger down her jaw, the feather-light touch sending a pulse of desire directly to her core.
“You are welcome, Portia.” To her disappointment, he dropped his hand to his side. “They belonged to my mother. There are several other pieces you are welcome to use. We can go through them at some point but I t
hought this set would go particularly well with the red gown you’ve worn on occasion. It would please me if you wore it tonight.”
His quiet request took her breath away; there was just something very sensual about a man wanting to see her body wearing certain clothing.
He shifted slightly, as though he needed to put some distance between them, and Portia took a step back, resolving to keep her hands off his body. The next time they made love—or rutted like a pair of wild minks—it would be he who initiated it.
“If you change your mind about inviting your friends I shall be happy to send my traveling carriage for any who might need it.”
Portia blinked at the offer. “That is very generous of you.”
“Incidentally, I gave Daisy instructions to wait on you until we can engage a proper maid. She is a pleasant girl and eager to please.”
The offer surprised her. “I’ve always tended to my own needs. Indeed, I should hardly know how to keep a personal servant employed.”
His smile was gentle, but firm. “No doubt you will become accustomed to it.” He walked toward the door as he spoke and held it open, as though the topic was no longer under discussion.
For the first time Portia realized she was marrying a man who had a mind of his own. He was gentle and soft-spoken, but, she realized now, his servants all obeyed him quickly and without question. She recalled his aunt’s words from all those weeks ago: He was a benevolent despot. Portia was fairly certain Miss Tate had spoken in jest, still . . .
Once you are married, he will be your lord and master.
The thought struck her with some force, even though it shouldn’t be a new one to her. After all, she’d been married to Ivo for most of her adult life. But she and Ivo had managed their marriage like two squabbling children and there had been no master in their relationship. They’d each constantly struggled to impose their will on the other.
Portia glanced up at Eustace Harrington’s handsome, impassive face and a frisson of something—excitement? Fear?—shot through her body as she stared into his dark lenses.
It occurred to her that she actually knew very little about her husband-to-be.
He took her hand, the one not holding the extravagant gift he’d just given her, and lifted it to his lips. “I look forward to seeing you at dinner, my dear.” His kiss was hot on the thin skin of her hand. It felt very much like a brand.
When Portia saw the way Daisy dressed her hair that evening—a sleek French twist—she was considerably more sanguine about engaging a maid.
“You’ve worked a miracle, Daisy.”
Daisy laughed. “’Tis easy when a body has hair like you. I’ve got eight sisters, ma’am, and we all have these same straight as straw mops.” She gestured to her own hair, which was braided into two heavy honey-blond ropes.
Portia opened the marquetry box. “Will you help me fasten the necklace?”
“Oh ma’am, I never!” Daisy stared at the glowing pearls with wide eyes.
“Mr. Harrington gave them to me as a wedding gift. Evidently they belonged to his mother.” She picked up the heavy strand and draped it around her neck. It did look fine with the low-cut flame silk. While Daisy fastened the necklace Portia screwed on the earrings and clasped the bracelet around her wrist.
“My goodness but you look lovely.” Daisy stared open-mouthed at Portia’s reflection. So did Portia. She’d never looked better.
On impulse, she said, “I shall be pleased to keep you as my maid, Daisy, if that is what you would like.”
“Oh above all things, ma’am. I know Mr. Harrington said it was just temporary-like.”
“He has left the choice to me, and I choose you.”
“Thank you, ma’am, you won’t regret it.”
Portia left Daisy humming to herself while she examined Portia’s rather pitiful wardrobe.
One of the two footmen, Charles, was waiting at the bottom of the stairs. “Mr. Harrington is in the yellow drawing room, Mrs. Stefani.”
“Thank you, Charles.”
Stacy was seated at a small writing desk when she entered and he’d just finished sanding something. His lips parted, but it was a moment before he spoke. “You look ravishing, Portia.”
Her face heated at his quiet homage. “Thank you.” She looked around at a room she’d only seen once before, the day Soames gave her a tour of the house.
“Do you care for something to drink?”
Portia had actually been feeling quite queasy, but it felt uncivil to say no. “Thank you, perhaps a sherry—a very small one.” He strode toward a table holding several decanters and Portia couldn’t help staring at his muscular legs, encased in black pantaloons that fit him like a second skin. They’d only ever made love clothed and Portia had yet to see most of his body. The memory of the part she had seen made her mouth dry. Perhaps it was just as well she’d asked for the sherry.
He turned and caught her staring, as usual.
“Who decorated Whitethorn?” she asked, looking at his hands rather than his face when he handed her the glass.
“I did.” The candles behind her glinted off his blue-black lenses, making him appear remote and menacing.
“You have exquisite taste.”
“Thank you, but you will be mistress of Whitethorn so you must change anything you like when we are married.” His fine nostrils quivered at the word ‘married’.
Was he anticipating their wedding night as much as she was? Portia somehow doubted it. Ivo had been convinced she suffered from nymphomania, an accusation he’d flung in her face more than once. Portia had never heard the word before but had been able to guess what it meant. After what had happened in the stables—and again in the music room—she was beginning to suspect Ivo had been correct.
Portia realized he was looking at her, as if waiting for an answer. “I honestly can’t think of anything I would change.” The house was perfect. He was perfect.
“We’ve not discussed a wedding trip. Have you anywhere you’d like to go?”
“You wish to go on a trip?”
He looked amused by her surprise. “I have no objection to travel. I merely require certain precautions to make it possible.”
Portia decided now was as good a time as ever to discuss those precautions. “What kind of precautions, if I may ask?”
“You must ask me whatever you wish, Portia. You are soon to be my wife, after all.”
Portia swallowed at the word ‘wife’.
“The precautions are much the same as those I take most days. My skin burns very easily but that does not mean I cannot go outdoors. It just means I must cover as much of my person as possible. My eyes are particularly sensitive and easily damaged. That is why I choose to go out so rarely during the middle of the day. I’m afraid I have rather a fear of losing my sight,” he said, sounding as though he were admitting to something embarrassing—like a fear of snails.
“It would be a terrible thing to be deprived of sight.” The only thing Portia could think of that would be worse would be losing one’s hearing and the beauty of music along with it. “Do your spectacles protect you?”
“I have a pair that are far thicker and enclosed so light does not come in from the sides.” He saw Portia’s expression and smiled. “I daresay you will hate them, given your curiosity regarding my freakish orbs.”
“They are not freakish.” Portia was surprised by how angry the word made her. “They are quite possibly two of the most beautiful things I’ve ever seen. Do you never look in the mirror?”
“Rarely.” He sounded bored.
“No doubt your condition is a tremendous inconvenience and I’m sure ignorant people—of which there are lamentably a great many—make going out in public uncomfortable. But many people will be looking at you because you are an excessively handsome man. I’m sure my opinion comes as no surprise to you.” She flushed as she recalled their most recent lovemaking. How could he not see that she found him desirable?
His lips curved into a s
light, tolerant smile. “I thought we might invite the vicar and his wife to dinner when I return.”
Portia allowed him to turn from a topic he clearly found distasteful. But privately she vowed to do everything in her power to make him understand just how attractive she found him—both his mind and person—when they were man and wife.
The days before the wedding sped past quickly. Portia realized Stacy had been correct when he’d said she would find plenty to keep a maid occupied. Not only was Daisy skilled when it came to hair, but she was also a wizard with a needle.
After Stacy left for Plymouth they spent two afternoons altering one of Portia’s dresses into her bridal gown. They giggled like girls and ate too many cakes and biscuits while Daisy embroidered tiny flowers on Portia’s simple cream silk gown and transformed it into a stunning wedding dress.
“I wish I’d asked Mr. Harrington’s man what color his waistcoat would be,” Daisy said as she worked on the hem.
Stacy’s valet was a big, barrel-chested man with a severe expression. “I’d be frightened to ask Powell anything,” Portia said.
Daisy laughed. “Why he’s nothing but a big kitten.”
Portia smiled at her blushing young maid; ah, so that’s the way it was . . .
The door to her sitting room opened and Frances stood in the doorway. “I’ve brought you a surprise.” She stepped aside to reveal Nanny.
“And what a delightful surprise!” Portia sprang up and hurried toward the two older women while Daisy quickly moved the various garments off the chairs.
“How wonderful of you to visit—both of you.”
Nanny smiled at Daisy, her blue eyes clear and sharp today. “It’s nice to see you outside of church, Daisy—but you hardly ever visit me.”
The Music of Love Page 11
