Portia lay down on the bed they would share for the first time in weeks and rested while Stacy arranged their meal. Would he go to the brothel tonight—where he’d claimed to have done nothing more than visited a friend? Jealousy burned hot in her belly at the thought.
She heard a sound and opened her eyes.
Stacy stood in the open doorway. “I’m sorry—I didn’t realize you were sleeping.” He turned on his heel to go.
She scrambled up onto her elbows. “I was only resting. I daresay you wish for a bath after a day on horseback.”
He gave her a faint smile and Portia saw new lines of strain around his mouth. As usual he wore glasses; she’d not seen his eyes in weeks. The realization brought an odd, painful lump to her throat. He’d found the perfect way to punish her: depriving her of every last form of contact, even looking into his eyes. Did he know ignoring her was the best punishment he could conceive? She doubted it. Her nature was so different from his. She needed contact, interaction—even if it was only conflict. He seemed to need nothing; nothing from her, in any case.
He rang for a bath and busied himself in the small dressing room adjacent to the bedroom. She listened to the normal sounds of domesticity and pondered her life. How much longer would this continue? Each day that passed made telling him one notch more difficult. He was an impenetrable wall of ice: hard and cold and unyielding. Not for a second had he melted toward her or given any sign that he missed their nights of passion or their days of friendship.
It is your fault you are estranged, the prim schoolmistress in her head scolded.
Shut up.
Tell him the truth.
Portia groaned and sat up; trying to rest was pointless.
A parade of servants passed through the room to fill the large bath and she busied herself with the contents of her valise until the last servant deposited his steaming bucket and departed. She flopped onto the bed with a book and then noticed the door to the dressing room was open a sliver, just enough that she could see Stacy as he disrobed.
She lowered the book and stared, silently willing him not to notice the door. By the time he bent to remove his buckskins and drawers she had difficulty breathing normally. He stepped out of the clothes, leaving them strewn on the floor while he leaned back and stretched. He extended his muscular arms over his head, cords and sinews rippling like steel beneath white silk as he worked the soreness out of his body. When he finished stretching, he absently scratched one perfect buttock and then lifted a foot to test the water. He jerked his foot back before lowering it again and slowly easing into the tub.
It took him a full minute before he submerged himself. It was the best minute of the past month and Portia wished it would go on forever. But all too soon the only things she could see were his shoulders and head.
She was shaking when she stood, the place between her thighs every bit as wet as his body. She unfastened her carriage gown as though she were in a daze, never taking her eyes from the narrow slit between the door and frame. He was splashing about while he soaped his body, and by the time she removed her chemise and stockings he’d submerged his head. She paused to watch as he emerged, the water flowing off snow-white hair and beading on flawless skin.
He turned when she pushed open the door and his translucent violet gaze swept her naked body and kindled. They took one another’s measure, probing without touching, looking for secrets, lies, the truth, anything other than the terrifying detachment that had settled between them. His eyes left a scorched trail in their wake until every inch of her body was on fire.
“Come here.” The words were quiet and controlled, just like his face—just like everything except his eyes. His eyes told the truth about what he was feeling, his pupils huge and black and bottomless. She closed the distance between them.
“Straddle the tub.” His words were clipped and his lids lowered as he reclined against the high, slanted backrest.
She raised one leg over the side and his eyes dropped to the curls between her thighs. His lips tightened and his chest expanded as he inhaled. She lowered both thighs until they rested on warm metal, holding herself upright by gripping the metal rim behind her, leaning back slightly to do so.
“Come closer.”
She pushed herself closer, the motions awkward, like a crab forced to walk forward.
“Closer.” The single guttural word made her shudder and Portia scooted until she was close enough to feel the heat of his uneven breathing on the sensitive skin of her thighs. He lifted wet hands and parted her lips, his touch warm and feather-light. When he looked up the violet was no more than a ring around swollen black pupils. He slid low in the water before leaning into her, his eyes holding hers while the very tip of his tongue found her peak.
She gasped and gritted her teeth to keep from giving orders; or worse, begging.
Again he flicked her, the same light, taunting touch tormenting her while he gently but inexorably pushed her legs wider, until her hip sockets pulsed with an exquisite pain.
“Please, Stacy.”
He stopped teasing and began to stroke her in earnest. Unspeakable pleasure flooded her body and reduced every thought to one: want. He sucked her swollen bud into the soft heat of his mouth and slid a finger inside her. She tightened around him while he found the spot that seemed to be his very own discovery. While he worked her from within, his clever lips and tongue teased out her first climax.
Indecent sounds and words burst from her and her hands gripped the tub until they were numb and still he didn’t stop. A second wave of pleasure obliterated the small piece of her mind that remained and left her gasping for breath. Her head fell back and she lowered her shaking arms until her elbows rested on the rim of the tub, her body spread wantonly before him.
She was on a blissful cloud when he pushed to his feet, his abrupt motion sending waves over the high copper sides and water fanning out over the wooden floor.
In a few brusque motions he lifted her, set her on her feet, and bent her over the tub, shoving her knees wide before stroking her hot cleft with his equally hot shaft. And then he thrust into her so hard she had to brace her hands to keep from falling over the rim and into the water.
He pulled all the way out and teased her entrance with his swollen head as he wound her hair around his hand, the motion arching her back and back and back until she felt her spine might snap. He held her body taut and immobile while he breached her only with the fat crown.
The demonstration of raw power made her tighten around him and he gasped, slamming deeply into her, holding her arched, stretched, and filled.
“Have you missed this?” he hissed, his chest slick and hard against her back, his breath hot against her ear. “Have you missed my cock inside your body? My fingers? My tongue?” he taunted before pounding her with a series of savage thrusts that left her dizzy. He stopped again, buried to the hilt, his shaft so hard she could feel him pulsing inside her.
“Did you pleasure yourself, Portia?” His voice throbbed with a tangle of desire, anger, and hurt. “I did. I stroked myself raw thinking about you.” He pulled out with agonizing slowness and then impaled her with a brutal thrust.
Portia almost climaxed from his words alone.
“Did you slide your fingers inside your body and imagine they were mine? Can you make yourself wet the way I do?” He didn’t wait for an answer but rode her with a violent intensity that obliterated her wits.
She knew, for the first time in all their lovemaking, he was not considering her needs, but using her for his own pleasure.
That unexpected streak of selfish cruelty only made her want him more.
He gave a last flurry of brutal, sharp thrusts, and then hilted himself, his fingers digging into her hips, his shaft thickening and jerking as he pumped his release deep inside her body.
For one blinding moment she was complete—at one with him—but his tremors hadn’t even receded before he stepped back and left her empty.
Portia’s ar
ms were shaky as she pushed up from the hard rim of the tub, echoes of her climax still rippling through her body. She watched through a pleasure-drenched haze as he picked up one of the towels, cleaned his still tumescent organ, and tossed the linen to the floor without looking at her.
And then he strode from the room and shut the door behind him with a decisive click.
Portia hadn’t given much thought to what Thurlstone Castle would look like but she’d assumed the country seat of an earl—and a castle, at that—would be impressive. Nothing prepared her for what greeted them when their carriage crested the rise. The house was an endless succession of structures that sprawled in all directions, more impressive for its sheer size than its elegant architecture. Indeed, it looked wholly English and nothing like the castles of Europe. The central portion—a crenelated tower that lent the edifice its name—must have served a defensive purpose in the distant past. But the once-majestic tower was now ringed by buildings and additions and resembled a squat debutante in a dress that bore too many furbelows and flounces.
The land that surrounded it, by contrast, was as meticulously and mathematically laid out as an ancient Roman military encampment. An immense formal garden extended to the south and west and a thin ribbon of blue led to a placid pond surrounded by carefully orchestrated clusters of trees.
It was closer to the sea than Whitethorn and one could hear the sound of breakers and smell the tang of salty air. As they descended the hill the ancient trees that lined the drive obstructed most of their view. The only thing visible inside the tunnel of autumn foliage was the entrance to Thurlstone some distance ahead. The entire estate was impressive, but Portia could not help thinking the less structured wilderness that held sway around Whitethorn was more to her taste.
Not that she would have cared if the place had been a hovel. After their torrid encounter at the inn and Stacy’s frigid indifference, she’d hardly been able to keep from running back to Whitethorn on foot.
When she’d finally emerged from the dressing room last night, he’d behaved toward her with the same icy courtesy he’d employed for over a month. If she’d had any feelings of remorse about lying to him before, she had an entirely different set of feelings toward him now. If a battle of wills was what he wanted, that was exactly what she would give him. Last night was the last time she would show her desire for him. Ever.
“Oh look, ma’am,” Daisy interrupted Portia’s venomous musings to point out a distant sliver of blue between two massive tree trunks. Portia ignored the sight and looked instead at her husband, who rode on that side of the carriage. He chose that moment to look at the window, as if sensing somebody watching him. Portia gave him a blinding smile and was childishly pleased when his lips parted in surprise. She turned to see Daisy watching them, a disapproving wrinkle between her eyes. Portia ignored her and stared out the opposite window.
The carriage rolled to a stop in front of two lines of people that stretched from the huge, metal-studded castle doors to the middle of the drive. It looked as if her new sister and brother-in-law had assembled every servant on the property to greet them.
Viscount Pendleton himself lowered the carriage steps and opened the door.
“Mrs. Harrington,” the viscount exclaimed, his handsome face wearing a genuine smile. “Welcome to Thurlstone.”
Prinny himself could not have received a warmer welcome.
Lord Pendleton’s wife waited for them at the top of the shallow, worn steps, her exquisite pale green gown making Portia feel travel-stained and frumpy.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you,” the viscountess and duke’s daughter murmured, her lips flexing into a slight smile. Her cool manner matched her icy blonde exterior. She was not as thrilled by their visit—or at least not as demonstrative—as her exuberant spouse. She was to be addressed as Lady Rowena, rather than Lady Pendleton. It appeared she preferred to use her courtesy title as a duke’s daughter.
The next half hour passed in a blur of introductions and greetings. By the time it was over the only person they hadn’t met was the earl. Portia glanced at her husband but he was as impassive as ever.
Stacy gave Frances a brief nod but Portia embraced the tall, bone-thin woman and whispered in her ear, “I’ve missed you, and so does he, even if he is too proud to show it. We will have you back at Whitethorn before you know it.”
Frances gave her a tremulous smile and quick squeeze before releasing her.
Stacy’s other sisters were considerably shorter than Frances but all four siblings shared the same sandy blond hair and blue-gray eyes. Although they must have heard about Stacy over the years, neither sister could take their eyes from him. Portia couldn’t blame them. She saw him every day and still found it difficult to look at anything or anyone else when he was in the vicinity; even when she wanted to club him over the head with a brick.
By the time they’d been escorted to their chambers, which were twice the size of those at Whitethorn, Portia was exhausted. But there would be no rest. They’d agreed to freshen up and meet in the Red Drawing Room for tea.
Portia was sitting in front of her dressing table trying to keep from falling asleep while Daisy fixed her hair when Stacy came through the connecting door. They met each other’s eyes in the mirror. Well, at least she thought they did, he was wearing his impenetrable glasses. She smiled bitterly. She should probably be grateful he hadn’t stopped to put them on before their torrid encounter at the inn last night. She glanced at her reflection and was proud to see no sign of either her anger or amorous thoughts showed on her face.
“If you wish, I will tell them you mean to rest before dinner, Portia.” The offer was considerate, even if his delivery was aloof.
“I am quite refreshed,” she lied. “Should we ring for a servant or do you recall the way?”
Daisy stepped back and Portia stood and took her husband’s arm. Even that slight contact caused intense churning in her stomach.
“I believe I can get us to our destination without precipitating the need for a search party,” he said, causing Daisy to giggle.
Portia ignored him.
The house was just as rambling on the inside as it appeared from the outside. The original portion had been built in the Plantagenet period and had sprouted a new wing with each succeeding monarch. It felt like it took an hour to reach the appointed room, but that might have been the uncomfortable silence.
Portia wondered how a person decided which of the dozens of rooms and salons to use each day. If she and Stacy lived in this house they would never need to see one another again. She turned slightly to look at her husband’s handsome, sharp-edged profile and then wished she had not. It was tragic that he was so attractive.
Stacy’s sisters and brother were already in the room when they arrived. The earl was not in attendance. Did the man really exist?
The five siblings tried to bridge the yawning gap between them with conversation about the unseasonably cold weather, the exceptionally poor harvest, and the state of the roads. While the three sisters resembled one another quite closely, Stacy and Robert Harrington were only alike in that they were both tall, well-built, and handsome. The one characteristic all five seemed to share was a certain reserve. Yet as reserved as they were, Portia could see they wished to know each other.
Lady Rowena, however, appeared to have no interest in anyone other than Portia. The woman’s pale green eyes bore all the warmth of a snake’s and her piercing gaze slithered over Portia’s face and person in a way that left her feeling . . . invaded.
“I understand congratulations are in order,” the viscountess said, breaking into something Mary was saying to Stacy about the nearby Bishop Caverns. “When is your confinement?”
“March.”
The Harrington sisters greeted this information with nods and soft murmurs. The men drank their tea and the sound of cups clinking against saucers filled the silence. Portia almost laughed; this was agonizing. Was the entire two-week period going to be like this?
“I understand your last husband was the pianist Ivo Stefani.”
Stacy stepped in before she could answer. “Portia is also a remarkable musician in her own right.”
Portia slid him an astonished look while trying to appear modest at his display of husbandly pride.
“Perhaps you will play for us?” Robert Harrington asked, giving her a warm, charming smile.
Portia instinctively liked Lord Pendleton. His enthusiasm about Stacy was unfeigned and he appeared thrilled to have discovered his brother.
His wife, however, was a duke’s daughter first, an earl’s daughter-in-law second, a viscount’s wife third, and a human being last. The woman had a ridiculous sense of self-consequence. Her clothing was more formal and grander than what her three sisters-in-law were wearing and it was evident she spent a good deal of time and money on her appearance.
Portia smiled at her brother-in-law. “I would be delighted to play for you. Does anyone else play?”
“Father insisted we all have lessons but I’m afraid only Mary was worth our poor instructor’s patience.” Frances’s eyes flickered to Stacy, as though she thought he might chastise her for having the audacity to speak in his presence.
“Do you still play?” Portia asked Mary.
Her blushing sister-in-law gave a breathy laugh that was more suited to a girl of eight-and-ten than a woman who must surely be over fifty. “I shan’t be playing in front of you, Mrs. Harrington, nor . . . er, Eustace.” She looked from Frances to Stacy, uncertain what to call her brother.
Again, Portia filled the embarrassed silence. “Stacy is quite accomplished. Perhaps he can be persuaded to play, as well.”
“My wife has to say that. She is, after all, my teacher.”
The siblings laughed and Stacy looked at Portia and smiled. How oddly competent he was at behaving as though they were a loving, happy couple. Portia wanted to throw her teacup at his head.
The Music of Love Page 22
