The Music of Love

by Minerva Spencer

  “I’ll keep that in mind.” He kissed her hand and they resumed walking. “Tell me, Signora Stefani, what do you charge for making a man scream?”

  She laughed and the mood lightened for the remainder of their walk.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Their wedding day dawned sunny, warm, and lovely. It was too bad Portia started the morning by vomiting into her chamber pot. When she’d finished expelling the meager contents of her stomach she pulled the bell; it would be permissible to have breakfast in her room on her wedding day. After she’d ordered a small breakfast and hot bath she climbed back into bed.

  By the time her tray arrived she was actually able to eat the contents. In addition to the toast and tea there was an egg, a small piece of ham, and yet more berries.

  Daisy grinned at her. “The master had Cook prepare your tray according to his instructions, ma’am.”

  “He will not be satisfied until I am as plump as a pigeon,” Portia grumbled, pushing herself up into a sitting position.

  “I’ve heard men don’t mind a curve or two.”

  “Daisy!” Portia chastised with a teasing laugh.

  Her maid might have been all smiles and giggles about some matters, but about her breakfast she was adamant.

  “Now, you make sure you eat your breakfast, ma’am, you have a long day ahead of you.”

  Portia gave the food a sour look. “I suppose those are orders.”

  “Mr. Harrington only wants what is best for you.”

  Portia knew that was true and gave in to Daisy’s well-meaning hectoring, eating every morsel. As a result, she was feeling well enough that she was ready to leave her warm, comfortable bed. After her bath she was so relaxed that she allowed Daisy to dry, dress, and primp her like a doll.

  Daisy wouldn’t allow her to look in the mirror until she’d finished and Portia smiled at her reflection. “You’ve done a lovely job with your lump of clay.”

  “You look just like an angel, Signora.”

  Portia laughed at her maid’s wildly inaccurate words. “Come, come Daisy, you’ll have me weeping and I’d hate to show up to the altar with a swollen nose and red-rimmed eyes.”

  When Portia entered the tiny, ancient church a short time later she saw only one person: Stacy. He was so stunning it actually hurt to look at him. He was wearing silk breeches the same ivory as her dress, a wheat-colored coat that hugged his magnificent shoulders, and a waistcoat with tiny embroidered roses that matched those on her gown.

  But the most fascinating part of his ensemble were his glasses. Rather than his usual dark blue-black pair, today’s spectacles were rose-tinted glass in delicate gold frames. He was breathtaking. As she came closer she saw the glasses were not opaque and she could see his eyes; he’d worn them just for her. He winked at her and she laughed.

  The ceremony passed in a blur and it felt like hardly an instant passed before they were leaving the small church to encounter what must surely be every person in the village.

  “I daresay the Lawsons are responsible for this,” Stacy said as they ran through a shower of flower petals to the waiting carriage. He handed her into the open barouche and took a maroon-velvet bag from a nearby footman, flinging handfuls of coins into the air, distracting the crowd before leaping up beside her.

  He offered her the bag and she tossed a glittering clutch of coins into the air as the horses surged forward accompanied by an earsplitting din.

  Stacy leaned close, having to shout above the racket. “Jewel, Hawkins, and Baker were sneaking around like young boys to do this and I didn’t have the strength to deny them their entertainment.” His warm breath warm tickled her ear and sent a delicious thrill through her body.

  He took her hand and raised it to his mouth, his lips hot even through her glove. “Hello, Mrs. Harrington. Did I mention how lovely you look today?”

  “Thank you, Mr. Harrington. Is the sun not too bright for those?” She gestured at the rose glasses he still wore, shaded by the brim of his hat.

  “I will survive such a brief trip.”

  Portia suddenly remembered something. “Drat!”

  “Did you forget something?”

  “I forgot to look at the flowers Frances and Mrs. Lawson spent so much time arranging.”

  “You only had eyes for me, I take it?” His smile was smug.

  “You are as vain as a debutante, Mr. Harrington.”

  He laughed and the warm, deep sound sent arrows of desire shooting through her body. Was is wrong of her to want to skip the wedding breakfast and go directly to the wedding night?

  Somehow the wedding breakfast lasted almost until dinner and by the time their guests departed it was time to eat again. Only Frances joined them for the evening meal and Portia was embarrassed by the obvious haste with which the other woman took her leave after the dessert course.

  Stacy grinned across at her. “Do you think my aunt really has crucial matters to discuss with Soames?”

  “You shouldn’t have teased her, Stacy. The poor woman was redder than a beet.”

  He stood and came around the table, holding out his hand and drawing her to her feet, his eyes dark behind the rose-colored glass. “I would much rather be teasing you, Mrs. Harrington.”

  She flushed under his hot gaze and swallowed awkwardly; Portia adored this playful, affectionate side of his personality but was not yet accustomed to it.

  “I will join you in your chambers after I finish my port—shall we say an hour.” He wore a slight, smug smile; a smile that said it amused him to make her wait.

  It should have annoyed her, but it only increased her desire for him. Still, she forced herself to meet his hot stare with a prim, cool gaze. “Perhaps an hour and a quarter.”

  She gave him a deep curtsey and left to the sound of his laughter.

  To her delight there was a bath waiting in her chambers.

  “Mr. Harrington ordered it for you ma’am.”

  Portia smiled. So, he was not tormenting her, after all, but being considerate. How decadent to have not one, but two, baths in a single day. He knew she was sore—every muscle in her body seemed to ache these days—and wanted to soothe her pain. The realization left an odd ache in her chest; it had been so long since somebody had taken care of her.

  Daisy helped Portia change out of her wedding finery and she groaned as she slipped into the steaming tub. She lounged until the water cooled, not washing her hair as she’d done so that morning. Afterward, she put on a nightgown she rarely wore, one made of white lawn and trimmed with cobweb-thin lace.

  Daisy brushed Portia’s hair until it shone and then set the brush down on her dressing table. “Will there be anything else, Mrs. Harrington?”

  Portia smiled at her maid’s flaming face. “No, Daisy. That will be all for tonight.”

  Daisy curtseyed and scuttled from the room.

  She was too nervous to get into bed so she inspected her new chambers: the mistress apartment. The rooms were done in soothing shades of green with cream silk wall hangings and emerald velvet drapes. It was twice the size of her original chambers and the bed was an enormous four-poster that made her entire body tingle whenever she looked at it.

  The connecting door opened and her husband stood in the doorway, wearing a silk robe the color of his magnificent eyes. He closed the door behind him and Portia stood riveted to the floor, her heart pounding and her breathing shallow as she consumed him. He held a bottle and two glasses in one hand, lifting them wordlessly as he came toward her.

  Portia pointed to the half-full glass of milk on the side table and he lifted his brows. “Frances had it sent up. I’m afraid even the thought of wine makes me feel ill.”

  He set down the glasses and bottle on her dressing table. “I shall remember that. May I?” He gestured toward the glass of milk.

  Portia laughed. “Of course.”

  He took a drink and grimaced. “We shall suffer together.”

  “You don’t care for milk?”

 
“Not even when I was a boy.” He replaced the glass and their eyes locked. He reached out and touched her cheek and she shivered.

  “That is a lovely gown,” he murmured, running his finger down her jaw and throat and coming to a rest at the top button of the high neck. “But I would like to see your body. All of it.”

  Her breathing hitched and her fingers were on the buttons before he finished speaking. He rested his hands on her shoulders and watched in silence. Portia thrilled at the flaring of his pupils as she unfastened the tiny buttons. When she reached the last of them he slid his hands beneath her nightgown and pushed it off her shoulders, leaving her naked.

  “Good God.” His voice was thick and his hands moved to cover her breasts.

  Portia gasped and closed her eyes.

  “So beautiful,” he murmured, his fingers stroking the hard tips. She felt hot a puff of breath and then the gentle suction of his lips and tongue as he took her nipple into his mouth.

  She groaned and leaned into him, taking his head in her hands. “I need you,” she whispered, all her plans to let him be the one to initiate their love making flying out the window.

  He gave a low, wicked laugh and bit her nipple before sliding an arm beneath her knees and sweeping her into his arms.

  “You won’t hurry me this time, Mrs. Harrington.” His lips curved into a mocking smile. “I plan on taking my time.”

  “You shouldn’t be lifting me, Stacy. You’ll tear the stitches.”

  “Shhhh. Let’s make that the last time you mention my stitches, shall we?”

  His face was all hard, white planes and she swallowed. “Yes, Stacy.”

  “Such a good, obedient wife,” he praised.

  Portia snorted and he grinned.

  She moved her hand toward the ‘V’ of his robe when he laid her on the bed. “Take it off,” she said, echoing his words.

  He gave the sash a tug and the robe slithered open. Portia stared. He was dusted with hair too pale to hide the quilted musculature of his stomach and chest. Even the two bandages he wore did not distract from his masculine beauty. His erection, she was pleased to see, was as impressive as she recalled and her hand moved toward it.

  He caught her wrist, pushing her gently back onto the bed, before shrugging out of his robe, the perfectly defined muscles of his chest and shoulders bunching and flexing.

  “Lie back.”

  She sighed but did as he bade, watching in silence as he spread her legs and knelt between her thighs, looming above her. She was desperate to look at every last part of him.

  “You’re a god,” she said, her voice low and harsh with want.

  His jaw tightened and his thick shaft jerked, the slit in the fat, smooth crown leaking freely. Portia smiled at the delicious evidence of his desire; he was so close to spending. It would take only a few touches from her—

  “You are a devil.”

  His words pulled her eyes from his erection. He wrapped one large hand around her throat and held her gently but firmly pinned to the bed. The dominating gesture was unspeakably erotic and she spread wider for him. His violet eyes became twin black pools as he dragged his free hand down her chest, between her breasts, leaving her eager nipples untouched. He had a clear destination and didn’t linger until he reached the dark tangle between her legs. He parted her swollen lips and thrust a finger inside. She arched against the sudden invasion, desperate for more.

  His expression was a mixture of fierce possession and hunger and he effortlessly held her pinned while he proceeded to pump her, his eyes consuming her as she bucked and thrusted and squirmed.

  Portia gave a grunt of frustration as he slowed his stroking and brought her back from the precipice.

  “Please, Stacy.”

  But he maintained his steady, annihilating pace, his smile cruel as he eased a second finger inside her, thrusting harder, deeper. Her climax stole up so quickly it ripped the breath from her chest and she threw back her head, squeezed her eyes shut, and gave herself up to the inevitable.

  And then—just as suddenly as he’d started—he stopped.

  Portia pushed her hips against his motionless hand. When he didn’t move she growled and squeezed her eyes even tighter.

  “Open your eyes and watch me, Portia.”

  She gritted her teeth and forced herself to obey.

  “Yes,” he murmured, his hand resuming its tantalizing motion. “Watch your husband, darling. Watch as I make you come.”

  His raw words ignited her and her mind exploded, her body arching so hard she thought her spine would snap in half.

  Stacy feasted on her pleasure thoroughly, like a glutton sucking the marrow from a bone. When her shuddering diminished to mere twitches he withdrew from her body.

  “No, don’t leave—” Her hand shot out like a viper and caught his wrist.

  “Shhh,” he murmured, kissing her clenched fingers. “I’m not leaving.”

  She released him with a sigh and Stacy slid his hands beneath her bottom, positioned himself at her opening, and thrust hard, filling her as the contractions of her last orgasm tightened around him. Her lush body was flushed and sheened with sweat and he was so hard it was painful. How would he ever make this last when she was so bloody gorgeous? He sank his fingers into her hips and slowly dragged himself out before thrusting back in, his body shaking as he struggled for control.

  Slow and deep. Make it last forever.

  But his hips ignored him, pounding hard enough to drive her up the bed.

  She gave a throaty laugh. “Yes, Stacy.” Her sheath tightened and white spangles exploded across his vision. A groan of frustration and desire broke from him and she looked up at him with hooded eyes as her hand slid around the base of his cock, circling him where they were joined, tightening around him while he moved inside her.

  He shuddered and pounded into her, his fingers digging cruelly into her flesh. “Are you trying to kill me?”

  Her lips curved into a wicked smile and then her beautiful, artistic fingers released him and slid between her legs. She worked herself with a skilled, almost ruthless, efficiency that told him this wasn’t the first time she’d done this. The thought of her pleasuring herself in her room down the hall all these weeks sent a punishing bolt of desire from his brain to his groin and any willpower that remained flickered and disappeared like the light from a guttering candle.

  He held nothing of himself in reserve, driving as deeply as he could, again and again and again—until his mind went blank and sensation consumed him.

  Portia wrapped her arms around his heaving body and smiled; this wedding night was as unlike her first one as was possible. Instead of anger and recriminations, she’d been pleasured beyond her wildest expectations. She’d never, in her entire life, been this happy. He was heavy, sweaty, and hot on top of her and she loved it. She licked the salty skin below the bandage on his neck, pleased to see his wound had not bled through with all this activity.

  He laughed weakly. “You are trying to kill me.”

  “Perhaps, but you will enjoy it, Mr. Harrington.”

  He slowly rolled off her, his softening organ sliding out of her body. He lay on his side and pulled her closer, his face inches from hers. They looked into one another’s eyes and she became lost in his. They were too perfect, too extraordinary. She could get no sense of him by looking at them; it was like gazing into jewels. What was he like behind those magnificent eyes?

  He pushed a strand of damp hair behind her ear with one finger. “I’ve always thought your eyes were black, even though I know that isn’t possible. They are velvet brown with a very light gold ring around them. I see also that you have a freckle on the side of your nose. Is it the only one?”

  “I have one and a half freckles.”

  “Do you?” He gave her a skeptical look. “Where is the half?”

  “You’ll have to find it.”

  He leaned forward to kiss her freckle and she ran a hand up the side of his body, her fingers digging int
o the bands of muscle that covered his ribs.

  “And you, Mr. Harrington? Do you have any freckles?”

  “Not a one.”

  “But you have other . . . things.” Her hand moved back down his side. “Things I don’t have.”

  He lifted one eyebrow and shifted his hips so she could access one of those things. His eyes fluttered shut and he sucked in a breath through his clenched teeth when her hand closed around him.

  “Oh, you like that old thing, do you, Mrs. Harrington?” he asked huskily.

  “Mmm hmm. This is far better than a freckle, Mr. Harrington.”

  A blissful smile settled on his lips. “Portia,” the word was a sigh. “What did I do to deserve such a perfect wife?”

  A chill ran down her spine at his words. She could only hope he would always feel that way.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Portia woke to an empty bed. She sat up and looked at the clock—it was almost ten—and then flopped back on the pillow. She should be up and about as the party would begin at two. It had been Stacy’s idea to make the day after their wedding a celebration for his tenants and everyone else who worked on the estate. Portia knew he was making the effort to be more social for her sake, and she was grateful.

  “And as long as we’re having something of a public day we might as well invite the entire town.” That suggestion had given her pause. His tenants knew him, but many of the townsfolk rarely saw him unless they had a case before the magistrate.

  “Are you quite sure, Stacy?”

  He’d given her one of his slight smiles, the one that drove her mad with lust. Well, one of the many that drove her mad. “I want to show off my new wife.”

  “I’m afraid your new wife has very little experience organizing such things.”

  “Frances can arrange it.”

  Portia had tried to help, but the older woman was so efficient that she’d only gotten in her way. So she’d left everything in her hands, but there would be plenty of last-minute things that needed doing today.