“I should hate to have to restrict your riding privileges, my dear.” The words were softly spoken but she heard the threat beneath them. She felt something on her leg and looked down. He was lightly tapping his crop against her thigh. The message was clear: it was he who had the whip hand and she would do well to remember it. Her breath caught at the blatantly dominating gesture and she looked up into his unsmiling face, her eyes reflected back at her.
Her heart was pounding, doing its best to betray the desire she felt for him.
“I should hate to make you issue a restriction I’d be forced to ignore,” she said just as softly and then spun on her heel, forcing herself to walk at a leisurely pace when all she wanted to do was run from his brooding stare.
When she reached the stables, it was to find Rowena already mounted on a gray stallion who matched Geist for size, magnificence, and enthusiasm. The woman sat her horse as if she’d sprung fully formed from the saddle.
“Heavens,” Portia murmured as the big gray pawed the ground. “Please tell me you’ve got something a bit less . . . volatile for me?”
The viscountess laughed, the first time Portia had heard her do so. The sound was light and musical but held no warmth or mirth.
“No, I believe Frost would be a bit much for you. I’ve had Watts saddle Honey. You’ll like her; we give her to visiting children. Please excuse me for a moment.” She turned away and trotted over to one of the grooms before Portia could reply. That was just as well. What could she say about her ladyship’s cutting words when they were true? No doubt all the children who came to Thurlstone already rode far better than she ever would.
The groom led a placid-looking honey-colored horse up to her.
“This is Honey, ma’am. She’s a good girl, eh?” This last part he addressed to the horse, who gave Portia a sly look as if to say, Maybe I am, or maybe I’m not.
He helped Portia into the saddle and handed up her whip.
Lady Rowena called over her shoulder, “I thought I would take you through our small wood.”
They’d hardly left the stables behind when Honey decided to test Portia’s mettle, ambling off the trail and grabbing a mouthful of what was probably one of the earl’s prize topiaries.
Portia hauled on the reins, but Honey continued chewing her treat. “You villain,” she hissed.
Her sister-in-law half-turned, an amused look on her face. “Honey,” she said, not even raising her voice. The blasted creature released the shrub and hurried forward.
“Hateful, odious beast,” Portia muttered beneath her voice as the horse trotted up beside the other woman’s massive horse.
The viscountess glanced down at her. “Don’t worry, the ride we’ll take today is quite gentle.” Her thin lips twisted while her pale eyes glinted. Could that be humor?
Rowena’s gray habit was exquisite, just as all her clothes were. Portia wouldn’t be surprised to learn she had a habit to match each horse. With her pale skin and light blond hair she looked and rode like a Valkyrie. Portia tried not to hate her but the woman did not make that an easy proposition.
“You did not grow up around horses, Mrs. Harrington?”
“I grew up in Rome. Horses were neither feasible nor necessary.” Portia wasn’t entirely able to keep the sharpness from her voice. “You, I see, are an expert. You said your father keeps a hunting box; do you hunt?”
“Yes, I quite enjoy hunting.”
Portia wasn’t surprised to hear it. “Do you go often to your father’s property?”
“A few times a year.”
“It is close to here?”
“It is almost directly inland from here—in the hunting country, north of Modbury.” The viscountess turned away, clearly not interested in making conversation.
Portia couldn’t help wondering why the woman had been so insistent on dragging her out riding if she didn’t wish to speak to her. No doubt she’d just wanted to humiliate her on horseback. They took a narrow path that led toward the nearby woods. The trees swallowed them up and the castle disappeared from view. The air was humid and heavy and sound was muffled by the lush canopy of greenery. Portia quickly realized the small forest was more extensive than it appeared. Most of it was below the level of the park and sloped toward the stream.
“Do you feel it?” Lady Pendleton asked her.
“Feel it?” Portia repeated.
“This wood is ancient—some of these trees are hundreds and hundreds of years old. Many were here long before the Harringtons and they’ll be here after we’re gone.” Portia could not see her face but her voice throbbed with hushed reverence.
Interesting. Here, it seemed, was something the disdainful daughter of a duke appreciated: land, the badge of the English aristocracy. Before Portia could pursue the topic the viscountess spoke.
“How are you enjoying your visit to Thurlstone so far?”
“Very much, thank you. Your hospitality means a great deal to both my husband and me.”
“You must forgive the earl if he seems rather rigid in his behavior. I’m afraid he is not a demonstrative man.”
Portia was tempted to point out he was very demonstrative when it came to exhibiting his disdain, but held her tongue. She could well believe this cold woman thought such haughty behavior admirable. Indeed, she was rather undemonstrative herself, except when it came to demonstrating scorn.
The path narrowed and the viscountess slowed. “You go ahead of me, Mrs. Harrington. This is wide enough only for one. It is also somewhat steep, but only for a short while.”
The branches of the surrounding trees almost touched them and the path sloped sharply. They rode in silence for a few minutes as the trail cut back and forth, zigzagging down the steep hill. The trail had just begun to straighten when the sound of hooves came from behind them.
Portia tensed, hoping the rider would see them before they ended up on top of them. She risked a quick glance behind her even though she was terrified of the steep, narrow path ahead.
“Do you hear—”
“Hallo! Hallo, Portia!” a voice called.
Portia sighed with relief: it was Frances, and the hooves thundered to a halt.
“Frances, what are you doing here?” Rowena asked, sounding irritated.
“I ran into Stacy and he said you were going for a ride with Portia. I thought I’d join you as I missed my usual ride this morning.”
Portia couldn’t help smiling. So, she’d actually exchanged words with Stacy? Good for Frances! She was about to tell Frances she was glad she’d joined them when she heard a loud crack and her hat was torn from her head. Honey reared and made a noise that sounded very much like a baby screaming.
And then she bolted.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Portia’s screams joined Honey’s as the reins flew from her hands and the horse surged forward. Voices rang out behind her as she fumbled for a handful of Honey’s mane. She grabbed for the reins and almost flew over Honey’s head. By some miracle she managed to snag one of the reins. She pulled back with all her might but the horse had the bit and no amount of yanking would stop her.
The forest flickered past in a green-brown blur and a low-hanging branch ripped painfully at her hair. She hunkered low just in time to feel Honey gather her strength, bunch her hind legs, and sail over something that lay across the path.
Portia screamed as they flew. She wanted to squeeze her eyes shut but suppressed the foolish urge and stared with wide, tearing eyes as they burst from the woods and entered a gently sloping vale. Emboldened by the lack of obstacles, Honey doubled her speed.
Something wet hit Portia in the face, blotting the vision in one eye and she gripped Honey’s mane in one hand and the solitary rein in the other, blinking rapidly to clear her vision.
A dark shape thundered into her peripheral vision and a hand shot out and grabbed Honey’s bridle, pulling the horse to a stop so abruptly Portia had to hug the horse’s neck to keep from flying over her head.
P
ortia buried her face in Honey’s hot, damp mane until a strong hand grabbed her shoulder and pulled her upright. She brushed at her eye and saw blood on the York tan glove.
“Are you all right?” Frances’s face was white except for two slashes of color over her high cheekbones.
“Blood.” Portia held up her hand as if Frances might not believe her without proof.
“It is Honey’s, she’s been shot. The bullet clipped your hat and hit her ear. That is what set her off.”
“Shot?” Portia repeated, her voice sounding oddly sleepy.
Rowena came cantering up on her other side. “Are you hurt, Mrs. Harrington? My heart was in my mouth when I saw you bolt.”
Fury distorted Frances’s normally impassive features as she whirled on the viscountess. “Somebody shot at her, Rowena.”
Rowena flushed at the accusation in the other woman’s tone. “It must have been somebody shooting hares or wood pigeons, a poacher. I daresay they never even realized we were there or that anyone had been hit. It looks as though Honey has lost the tip of her ear.” Her pale eyes moved from the horse to Portia. “You are extremely fortunate, Mrs. Harrington, the bullet passed less than an inch from your head.”
Portia’s mouth fell open. Why, in the name of all that was holy, would the woman feel the need to reiterate such a horrible thing?
Frances must have wondered the same thing and made an irritated noise and pushed her horse closer. “I will take you back, Portia. You must be scared witless and poor Honey will need her ear seen to.” She turned her back on Rowena and leaned over to grab Honey’s reins.
The return trip took forever and the entire way through the woods Portia’s scalp itched, as if waiting for another bullet. She was shaking so badly by the time they reached the house the groom had to lift her off the horse.
“Carry her up to the house,” Frances ordered.
Portia rebelled at the thought of being carried anywhere. “Oh, no, please, Frances. I am perfectly able to walk. I am just a little shaky but will be fine in a moment.” Portia turned to the strapping groom who’d already bent down as if to scoop her up. “I shall be fine, really.” She was ashamed by the wobbly sound of her voice.
“I will go and arrange that a bath and tea be sent up immediately,” the viscountess said.
Frances watched her depart with a hard look before taking Portia’s hand. “Come, Portia, you will feel far better once you are in a nice hot bath.”
Portia was lying in the bath and wondering if she would ever stop shaking when the door flew open so hard it bounced off the wall.
Stacy crossed the floor in a few long strides, dropped down beside the enormous tub and took her wet soapy hand in his. “Good God! I just heard. Are you all right?”
She thrilled at his worried expression and the unrestrained anxiety in his voice.
“I am unharmed, it is the poor horse who lost a piece of her ear.”
Stacy exhaled noisily, as though he’d been holding his breath. He lowered his head and reached up to take off his glasses with a shaking hand. When he looked up, she could see the terror in his arresting eyes. He squeezed her hand so hard it hurt.
“Robert thinks it was a poacher they’ve been having trouble with lately. He has men combing the woods.” He shook his head, his lips thin. “I should never have allowed Lady Rowena to choose your horse. She has no idea of your skill level.” He frowned. “But I cannot stay. I should go and help them search. I just wanted to make sure you were unharmed first.”
Now that the immediacy of the moment had passed, he looked awkward.
“The child . . ?”
“I do not feel anything amiss, either with the child or myself.” She gave him a teasing look, hoping to lighten the mood. “Does this mean I’m forbidden to ride from now on?”
His expression became even haughtier. “It means I’m not going to let you out of my bloody sight.”
Portia’s mouth fell open. Was he blaming her because some idiot poacher shot her horse?
She glared up at him. “That won’t be an easy task—not with the connecting door locked and you on the other side of it.” Portia wished she could bite off her tongue. The last thing in the world she wanted him to think was that she missed him in her bed, even if it was true. Especially because it was true.
He slid his glasses over his eyes. “If you lock the door you’d better expect it to be broken down,” he promised, striding from the room.
Portia threw her wash cloth at him but it missed him by several feet and smacked wetly against the wall. “It wasn’t me who locked it in the first place!” she yelled, not caring who heard.
His answer was to slam the door.
In spite of everyone’s urging, Portia went down to dinner that night. What was the point of lying around in her room when she was not injured? Besides, she did not feel like being alone. She hated to admit it, but she was horribly shaken by the episode.
Stacy came to her room just as Daisy was leaving. Neither of them spoke and the walk to the dining room seemed to take two hours. It was Stacy who finally broke the silence. “You look beautiful tonight, Portia.” He issued the compliment with an aloofness which annoyed her.
“Life-threatening situations must flatter me.”
She felt him turn to look at her but she refused to look up at twin reflections of her own face.
“Please tell me you will not make a habit of such situations.”
Portia stopped, yanked her hand from his arm, and spun to face him. “I am to tell you that I will not make a habit of being shot at?” She gave him no time to answer the question. “Hmm,” she said, taking her chin between thumb and forefinger, as if giving the matter serious consideration. “No,” she said. “No, I’m afraid I do not feel comfortable promising that.” She turned on her heel and strode down the hall.
“Portia.”
She refused to stop.
“Portia, you are going back the way we just came.” Even from twenty feet away she could hear the amusement in his voice. She wanted to scream and was sorely tempted to just keep walking. She would have kept going but she knew she’d never find her room. She stopped, too furious to turn. Instead, she closed her eyes and counted to ten. A light, warm, touch settled on her arm.
“Come, let us go to dinner before they send out men with dogs and torches. You must know I am not angry with you, Portia. I was merely very frightened.” Portia felt herself weakening toward him and took a breath to say something rude. But when she opened her mouth nothing came out.
“Yes?” His voice was close to her ear, his breath warm and ticklish.
She placed her hand on his arm and they resumed their trek. “Did they find anything in the woods?”
“Nothing. No doubt the poacher heard the commotion and hastened to get as far away from the scene as possible.”
That was what Portia had expected. It was probably some farmer with a failed crop trying to feed his starving children.
When they reached the drawing room, they found the entire family awaiting the arrival of the other dinner guests and Portia suddenly recalled this was the first dinner they would have with outsiders. She grimaced. Perhaps she should have stayed in her room.
Robert approached her without outstretched hands, his forehead furrowed with concern. “I am so sorry this happened to you, Portia, of all people.”
Portia laughed. “Well, I suppose there isn’t anyone here who would have enjoyed it, my lord.”
“You’re determined to be a good sport about it. That is what your husband said you would do.”
Portia shot a startled look at Stacy. The annoying man remained his usual impassive self.
“How is Honey faring? She is the true victim.”
“She will be fine, although minus the tip of her ear. No doubt it will lend her a certain gravitas among her fellows. Her bravery will be spoken of in the equine world for decades to come.”
Portia bit back a smile. “Perhaps she should append something to her
name that proclaims her battle worthiness?”
Robert laughed. “Yes, did not the Vikings distinguish themselves in such a manner?”
“Perhaps something like Honey Cleft-Ear would be suitable,” Stacy suggested with a straight face.
The men laughed and Portia shook her finger in admonishment, hardly able to suppress her own laughter. “You are terrible to make fun of my valiant mount.”
They were making up additional, equally ludicrous, Viking names when Constance approached them. All Stacy’s sisters were shy but Constance was the most retiring.
“Father wonders if you would join him, Mrs. Harrington.” She gave Stacy a fearful look as she delivered her message, as if she were worried that he might insist on joining his wife.
“Will you excuse me?” Portia murmured to Robert and Stacy.
The earl sat in state beside the massive fireplace, his back to his family. He looked up when Portia approached and gestured to the chair a footman had just placed across from him. She sat, able to see not only the earl but the rest of the family behind him. She looked at the old man and they locked eyes. His were a very different color from his son’s but they were shapely and long, set deep beneath well-marked brows. There was not even a particle of softness in those eyes. They raked, weighed, and assessed her as efficiently as a piece of meat at the butchers. His mouth curled into a contemptuous smile, as if he’d found something to entertain him.
“I heard your husband play once.” His voice was deep and hollow, the clipped consonants elegant.
Portia smiled slightly but did not respond. She loathed what he’d done to his family and the way he was behaving toward Stacy.
He watched her face like a raptor sizing up a potential kill and one corner of his thin mouth twitched. “You are recovered from today’s mishap in the west wood.” It was not a question.
“I was not hit. The bullet clipped the ear of one of your horses. I daresay she will not forget the incident any time soon.”
That drew a sharp bark of laughter. “Horses are stupid creatures, much like most people. They forget what they choose. You are new to riding, Frances tells me. Grew up in Rome, did you?” Something about that seemed to amuse him.
The Music of Love Page 24
