“Are you mad?” Portia demanded when she found her voice.
Stacy raised his eyebrows. “I didn’t think so,” he said mildly.
“I agree with Portia—you are mad.”
It was the first time Portia had ever seen Frances angry. Perhaps it was the first time his aunt had ever shown Stacy the emotion either, because his lips parted in surprise as he took in her flushed face and flashing eyes.
“That was beyond foolhardy, Stacy, and we will speak of this later,” she promised.
Portia gave the startled man a hard look and nodded. “Yes,” she said, nodding with menacing slowness, “we most certainly will.”
Portia was not surprised when Stacy insisted the wedding proceed as planned.
“It makes no sense to postpone things. I still have a few more days to recuperate and am more than capable of standing before a tiny group of people and eating breakfast afterward.”
He was, in fact, eating breakfast as he delivered his ultimatum. He glanced up from the impressive pile of food on his plate and smiled at Portia. “I thought perhaps you and I might walk over to see Nanny today.”
Portia opened her mouth—
“The leg wound is barely even visible and the one on my neck has almost disappeared.”
“That is a bald lie.”
He cut her a sly smile. “Your needlework is adequate, Portia, but do you think Daisy might add a flourish or two?”
Portia laughed, in spite of herself. “I don’t know about Daisy, but Frances is ready to sew you to your bed.”
He cut a piece of ham and swabbed it in egg, clearly unbothered by his aunt’s persistent anger at his reckless behavior. He paused in the act of levering the food to his mouth. “I would like to visit Nanny. Will you go with me today?”
“Should you walk so far?”
“The good doctor was the one to advise walking.”
Portia wasn’t sure she believed he’d meant a walk as far as Nanny’s cottage.
“I’ll take my cane with me. Will you accompany me, Portia?”
He really was accustomed to having everything his way. Luckily they would have years together to sort that out.
But for now, she capitulated. “I would like that.”
Stacy frowned at her plate of dry toast and turned to the footman. “Are there any strawberries?”
“Cook has the last of them and said she was thinking to make a tart for dinner.”
“Ask her if we might have a small portion and some cream?” He turned to Portia once the footman left. “You must eat something.”
She grimaced down at her plate; she’d woken up sick again this morning and the food that filled the sideboard held no appeal.
“The last berries are always the best,” he added, as if that settled the matter. Portia had visions of him sitting on her and making her eat them, a berry at a time. He saw her speculative look and cocked an eyebrow. “What is it?”
“I believe you always get your way, Mr. Harrington.”
He smiled but refused to be drawn. “Shall we leave for our walk after breakfast?”
Portia changed into her walking dress and half boots before going to meet Stacy in the library. He was waiting for her and took something from a drawer in his desk. She hesitated and bit her lip; he was going to give her something else.
He saw her hesitation and shook his head. “Please tell me you are not one of those tiresome people who do not feel as though they deserve gifts? Come here, Signora Stefani.”
“You must stop giving me things, Mr. Harrington.”
“Give me your hand,” he demanded.
“Don’t you know the word ‘please’?” He ignored her question and unbuttoned the two tiny buttons that held her glove closed and then pulled it off, finger by finger. He was wearing his walking glasses and she reached up with her free hand to remove them. She stared at his ridiculously long eyelashes, lust pounding through her veins like a torrential river. Something cool slid onto the third finger of her left hand and she looked down. An enormous emerald-cut diamond sparkled up at her.
“Oh Stacy, it is beautiful.” She looked up to find his gorgeous eyes on her. “It is also enormous.”
“Why thank you.” His slight smile was beyond wicked.
Portia flushed, loving his playful flirtation more than the expensive gift. “Please, do stop giving me such lovely things.” She gazed down at her hand and tilted it from side to side, the gem catching the light from the window and sparkling. “Not that I have any intention of returning this,” she muttered.
Stacy took her chin in strong, warm fingers and forced her to look at him. “I did not get it because I like you, Portia. I bought it hoping it might get me a kiss.”
“What an indecent proposal, Mr. Harrington. I’m afraid you’ll have to wait a few days for your kiss.”
She had the satisfaction of seeing a completely new expression cross his face, one of utter surprise at being denied something he wanted, and then he threw back his head and laughed. She snatched her hand away and plucked her glove off the desk before taking a few steps to a safe distance. When she’d closed the two buttons she looked up to find him watching her with an intensity that made her body tighten. His violet eyes burned and it was all she could do not to fling herself at him. But the next time flinging was done, she resolved that it would be him doing it.
“Are you ready, Mr. Harrington?” she asked coolly, cocking one eyebrow at him. He really needed a lesson when it came to expecting her to fawn all over his person. Just because he was all she thought about did not mean she had to give in to her impulses. Denying him might be just as enjoyable.
But somehow she doubted it.
Stacy walked with a cane beside Portia as they entered the section of forest that led to Nanny’s bluff-top cottage. His leg was stiff and forced him to amble slowly. They walked in companionable silence while he thought about a recent conversation they’d had. Spurred by the realization that he really knew very little about her Stacy had asked her about her friends—the six teachers who used to work at her school.
The tongue of jealousy that had licked at him upon learning that one of them—Miles Ingram—was a handsome young lord had been a surprise, and not a pleasant one. It also made him recall Kitty’s warning when he’d invited her to their wedding. Perhaps she’d been correct about Portia not wishing to meet one of his ex-lovers. How could he ask her to accept such a situation when he became jealous just hearing about a mere friend?
Stacy was learning many things about himself, and not all of them pleasant. His possessive feelings toward his bride to be were uncomfortable. He’d never been troubled by such emotions before and his reaction made him realize how bloodless his feelings for Penelope had been.
He watched Portia pick a daisy that was growing in a narrow strip of sunlight beside the path. She tucked the flower in the velvet band of her bonnet and looked up at him. “There, how is that?”
“Hideous,” he lied.
She laughed and resumed walking. “I’m so sorry my friend Annis is not able to come.”
“Is she the closest of your friends?”
“No, that would probably be Serena. But Annis is so gentle and sweet I was rather thinking she would enjoy meeting Jeremy Lawson.”
“Ah, playing matchmaker?”
“Perhaps a little.” She sighed.
Stacy privately thought young Lawson was half in love with Portia. Stacy could not blame him; he was half-way in love with her himself. Maybe a little more than half.
“Lawson is a personable and biddable young man. I am sure he’ll find a female eager to manage him when he decides the time is right.”
She clucked her tongue at him. “You make it sound so romantic, Mr. Harrington.”
Romantic? Stacy supposed he wasn’t.
“You know him better than I do, Portia, but I daresay Lawson has more than enough romance in his bosom for two. He needs a wife like his mother—somebody shrewd.”
“You thi
nk Mrs. Lawson is shrewd? She seems so…gentle and vague.”
“Do not mistake her lightness of manner for a lack of shrewdness, my dear. Mrs. Lawson manages the vicar with the skill of a military commander. I daresay the vicar needs that,” he hastened to add.
Stacy, however, did not. Although Mrs. Lawson was a charming woman she had a distinctly managing gleam in her eyes. He much preferred the look in Portia’s eyes: amorous.
“You sound disapproving, Mr. Harrington. Do you dislike ambition and intelligence in a female?” There was an edge in her voice that made him smile.
“You willfully misunderstand me, Signora Stefani. You know very well I recognize and appreciate both qualities—neither of which are the same as managing. Not that I disapprove of managing qualities, although they are not something I seek in a mate.”
“No, I believe you possess that characteristic in abundance.”
“I daresay I do; does that worry you?”
She pursed her lips as she considered the question. “I’m afraid my temperament is not always amenable to following orders.”
He put his hand on her arm and stopped her, waiting until she met his eyes. “I do not expect to be issuing orders, Portia.” Did she think he was some sort of tyrant?
She gave him a rather suspicious look, as if she was only half convinced. “What happens when we disagree on a subject?”
“Then I would try to persuade you.”
“And if I remain unpersuaded?”
Stacy paused. What would he do if she did not agree with him? “I suppose it would depend on how strongly I felt on the matter.”
She gave a small nod and began walking.
“Portia,” he said, waiting until she turned back to him to continue, “We are to be married and I wish to please you in every way. I would never impose my will on you. I would not wish to make you unhappy.”
Her shapely mouth curved into a smile. “I know that, Stacy. I suppose I should have warned you how stubborn I can be before you offered for me. My father used to say I could be unmanageable when I got the bit between my teeth.”
Stacy could well imagine. She’d shown fire on more than one occasion, the last of which had been the way she’d handled his injuries the night he’d been shot. He’d been groggy, but not too delirious to recall how she’d issued orders to everyone and handled his wounds with impressive efficiency. He’d been very grateful—and always would be—but the steel in her had made him realize she had a will of her own. Stacy knew there had been few instances in his life when anyone had thwarted his will. Both his aunt and Nanny had spoiled him dreadfully as a child, no doubt feeling he deserved indulgence because he lived such a solitary existence. But while he might like his own way, he was no monster.
Was he?
He took a step toward her. “It is true that I am master of Whitethorn, Portia, but you will find that I am gentle with the ribbons.” When she flushed and bit her lower lip he knew she was thinking about horses and the first night they made love. Just thinking about that evening made him harden. And the expression in her eyes as she looked up at him only enflamed him more.
But the tenuous voice of reason held him in check: You’ve already behaved badly enough. Another few days and you can have her properly. Or improperly—however she wants it.
Stacy leashed his desire and put his hand on the small of her back, giving her a gentle push before he succumbed to his urges and mounted her against a nearby tree.
They walked in silence, his gaze on her hips, which swayed tantalizingly. He wrenched his eyes from her backside and forced his thoughts in another direction.
“I will teach you to ride,” he said, and then realized how autocratic he sounded. Did he always speak with such arrogant certitude? He tried again. “You will be able to explore far more territory than either walking or in a gig.”
“I should love to learn to ride. Is it difficult?”
“Not for someone as naturally graceful as you.”
“Charmer,” she said, but he could hear the pleasure in her voice.
“It will be more pleasant with a good horse and I will enjoy finding you a proper mount.” Indeed, Stacy was more than a little excited at the idea of spending time teaching her something.
“You mean I can’t ride Geist?”
He laughed.
“You are wretched, Mr. Harrington. Perhaps I should have snickered when you first played the piano for me?”
They bickered good naturedly about pianos and horses until they came to the rise that overlooked the cottage.
“It’s such a lovely house, Stacy. But wouldn’t you rather have Nanny closer? At Whitethorn, maybe?” She took his proffered arm and they walked down the gentle hill.
“My aunt thinks Nanny wants a place of her own.”
“I think she wants to be close to you more than anything else.”
“Oh?” The warmth in her voice startled him. Was she saying that was what she wanted? “We can certainly ask her if she would like to move back to Whitethorn.”
Just then Gerald Fant came storming out of the small shed that stood off to the side of the house. He looked furious. His wife stood in the doorway, hands on her hips, and watched him for a long moment before she noticed Stacy and Portia. She raised one hand in a belated greeting and then smoothed her skirt, giving her husband’s retreating back a last glance.
What was that about? Stacy mentally shrugged. Probably just a domestic dispute—something he would soon get to experience himself if his wife’s confession about her passionate nature was true.
“We’ve come to see Nanny,” Portia called out. “How is she today?”
The older woman gave Portia a stiff, rather sour, smile and curtseyed to Stacy. “She is sitting down to tea. There’s a bit of a breeze today so she’s in the sun room.”
Nanny Kemble was waiting for them at the front door and threw her arms around Stacy as though she’d not seen him in a year. He held her birdlike body in a gentle embrace before releasing her.
“Well, Nanny. I guess you’ve missed me?”
She squeezed his arm tightly with her slender, claw-like hand. “I thought you’d been killed. Miss Frances would only say you were fine and wouldn’t tell me what had happened.” Her face wore the bitter look it always did whenever she spoke his aunt’s name. Stacy had never understood why she disliked his aunt so much. Especially as Frances had been the one to engage her and did everything in her power to see to her comfort and care.
“I daresay she didn’t want to alarm you, Nanny. As you can see, I am fine,” he held out his arms and turned around and she laughed.
“I’m so pleased you’ve come to see me, Master Stacy, even though you should be home resting,” she scolded.
“Signora Stefani would agree with you, Nanny.”
The old lady gave Portia an affectionate look. “You’ve a good woman in Signora Stefani.”
“I know, Nanny. I’m fortunate.” He smiled at Portia and the wicked woman crossed her eyes at him, quickly, so that Nanny never saw. The playful gesture touched him more deeply than he would have expected; how wonderful to have a wife who wasn’t only a mate, but also a companion and friend and lover.
He turned to his old nurse, disconcerted by the sudden surge of emotion. “Come, Nanny, I need some sustenance after that grueling walk. I am a wounded man yet Signora Stefani drove me before her most cruelly.”
While they sat and enjoyed their tea Stacy told his old nurse a less remarkable version of his shooting. By the time they’d finished the second cup he could see she was tired and had begun to mistake him for some long-past child, murmuring about his sister Miss Mary and how she ate bonbons until she cast up her accounts in the drawing room.
“She is such a dear lady,” Portia said as they began the walk back. “I wish she did not suffer from such confusion.”
“So do I, but at least she does not seem much disturbed by it. I believe most of the time she forgets about the brief episodes almost as soon as they
happen.”
“Did you know the family she was with before you?”
“I only know she was married to Mr. Kemble for barely a year before the poor man died in some tragic accident. She was with child at the time and miscarried from the shock.” He shook his head. “It’s a shame she never married again. She is the kind of woman who needs children of her own.”
“Oh, what kind of woman is that, sir?”
He smiled down at her. “The loving kind.”
The look in her dark eyes was unreadable and they walked in silence, each occupied with their own thoughts.
Stacy wondered how she felt about carrying his child, a man she barely knew. He wondered if she’d yet realized their baby might very well be born with his condition. He would need to broach the topic eventually.
“Is your leg paining you?” she asked, interrupting his thoughts.
“Not a bit,” he lied. “I believe you must have magic hands, Signora.” He held one of those magic hands in his as they came to a part of the trail wide enough to walk side-by-side.
“No, that would be Doctor Gates who has magic hands. If you will recall, all I did to that particular wound was clean it and cause you to scream.”
“I do recall that, actually.”
She shivered.
“Are you cold?”
“No, just remembering what you looked like when they brought you into the house that night.” She stopped abruptly and looked up at him, taking his hand, her eyes wide. “It was terrifying, Stacy. There was so much blood you looked as though you’d been mauled by a beast.”
Stacy ran a finger down the sweet curve of her jaw, the worry he saw in her eyes making it difficult to swallow; she cared for him, at least a little. Perhaps that feeling would grow?
“You had incredible presence of mind, Portia. I knew that even in my groggy state.”
She squeezed his hand hard enough to hurt. “Please never do that again, Mr. Harrington. Next time I shall be forced to present you with a bill for services.”
The Music of Love Page 13
