“Would you please excuse us, Daisy?”
Daisy dropped a hurried curtsey before leaving.
Stacy gestured to the door through which he had come. “Will you join me in the sitting room, Portia?”
The elegant sitting room attached to his suite had a fire burning and Portia took the chair that was closest; she was always cold.
Stacy went to pour a drink. “Do you care for any brandy? Or should I ring for something else—milk?”
“Not tonight.”
He took the seat across from her and stretched out his long legs. Her eyes were drawn to the flexing muscles beneath the snug-fitting pantaloons, her hands itching to touch him.
He took a sip and then set down his glass. “I would like to put an end to the strain between us, Portia. I know you were acquainted with the Italian man who died in Bude. Who was he to you?”
Her lips parted and Stacy realized he’d surprised her. Indeed, he’d surprised himself with his directness. Her skin flushed a shade of red that shrieked of guilt.
“It was Ivo.”
He snorted and momentarily closed his eyes before facing her. “Why did you not tell me this before?” All the fury and fear he’d held in check for weeks broke free.
Rather than look contrite Portia’s eye’s blazed at him. “Because I was ashamed, Stacy, that is why.”
“Ashamed your husband was alive?” Ashamed was not the word he would have chosen. Appalled or stunned he could have understood—even overjoyed, although he wouldn’t have liked it—but ashamed?
“Ashamed he wasn’t my husband!”
Stacy realized his mouth was open and shut it.
“I can see what you are thinking,” she accused.
“What a wonderful skill you possess, Portia. But have you ever thought you might sometimes misread my mind?” Stacy had no interest in her answer. “Would you please do me the honor of explaining what happened before condemning me?” He was one step away from escorting her back to her room and locking the damn door.
For a moment he thought she might do the same thing—after hurling something at his headfirst—but she sighed.
“The explanation is simple, if sordid. Ivo was married before we met. I did not know this until his first wife—his legal wife—came to England to find him. Ivo claimed he’d believed her dead or he never would have married me.” She snorted. “It made no difference to me what he knew or when he knew it. The only thing that mattered was that it would destroy me if it were made public. So, I gave him the tiny bit of money I’d saved and he promised to change his name and leave quietly and never, ever come back to England.
“We agreed I’d wait a few months and then claim he’d died during the War. I knew how the news of his death would damage the school so I was in no hurry. And then, a few weeks after he departed, I read about the shipwreck. The paper listed the names of those who’d died and Ivo’s assumed name was among them. Part of me could not believe it, but there it was, in print.”
She smoothed her skirt over her lap, the motion abrupt. “I didn’t bother to spread the story—the newspapermen would have seized on it like ducks on breadcrumbs and the school, already in trouble, would have collapsed. Oh, I know I should have told the truth when I closed the school but it was hardly a priority.” She pulled her eyes away from the past and looked at him, her creamy cheeks tinting. “I never told you this, but I had less than two pounds when I showed up at Whitethorn. I was truly desperate.”
Her full lips compressed into a grim line but she continued. “Ivo turned up at Whitethorn not long after we married. He claimed his wife died in the shipwreck.” Portia shrugged. “Maybe she did, maybe she didn’t. Who knows? He said he would tell you we were still married and that you would never believe me because he had our marriage lines.” Her eyes flickered around the room as if she sought the words. “Even without such damning proof I doubted you would believe me. After all, you and I were just beginning to know each other.” She exhaled and tipped her head back, staring at the ceiling.
Stacy studied the column of her throat and his heart ached for her. It was everything he could do not to take her in his arms. But he wanted to hear the rest of her story—no matter how much he dreaded it.
“I could not take the risk you might believe him, so I paid him the money and he promised to leave. I knew he would probably come back but I thought the next time he came our marriage would be . . . stronger.
“I took the jewels to Plymouth in case I did not have enough money in the account you created for me.” She gave him a wry smile. “I’m afraid I did not listen when we discussed the settlement you generously bestowed on me.” Her smile disappeared. “I returned the jewels to the safe that night after paying Ivo the two thousand pounds.”
Stacy sucked in a breath at the sum and held it for a long moment before letting it out slowly.
Portia continued. “Whoever found Ivo’s body must have taken the money. Or perhaps he showed it to someone and that was why he was killed. I don’t know. Two thousand pounds would be enough to tempt anyone.”
“Is that . . . all?”
Her eyes came back into focus and she arched her shapely brows. “Are you asking if there are there more non-husbands I haven’t told you about? Or are you asking if I am the one who shoved him off the cliff?” She stood and closed the distance between them before sinking gracefully to her knees beside his chair. “I should not jest; the subject is not funny. I am so sorry I did not tell you. I was scared at first and stupidly lied to you. And then I became hurt and furious at you for treating me so coldly and my temper seized control.” She took his hand. “I calmed down and was about to confess everything and then Ivo’s body was discovered. Given what you saw that night, I was even more terrified of what you might think.” She squeezed his hand. “I should have confessed everything even though I was ashamed. But my temper—” she shrugged, her expression one of resignation.
Stacy looked down at her glossy dark hair, warm brown eyes, and lush pink mouth and became as aroused as he always did whenever she was near.
“I’m sorry about deceiving you, but Ivo was such an accomplished liar, I just thought—” she bit her plump lip. “I swear I won’t keep anything from you again.” She slid one hand from his knee up his thigh, her eyes holding his, one eyebrow arched, as though daring him to stop her. “Do you forgive me?”
“Of course I forgive you—I only wish you’d trusted me. I also owe you an apology for my stubborn, childish behavior, and also for how I acted at the inn. Do you forgive me?”
She chuckled. “I forgive you for part of it.”
Stacy knew this discussion was far from over, but he was a besotted fool and powerless to stop her wicked, questing hand as she reached for him.
Stacy collapsed beside her after a particularly impressive display of sexual prowess, his hair damp and curly around his face, his chest slick with sweat.
“What do you think of my brother and his wife?” he asked, his chest heaving.
Portia eyed his nipples; something about their diminutive size was irresistible. She lowered her mouth and suckled one for a moment while his body stiffened and she considered his question.
Stacy groaned. “I’m an old man, darling. I need some time.”
She reluctantly released the hard pebble and rested her chin on his chest. “Your brother is lovely. Warm, handsome, amusing, intelligent—”
“Thank you, that is quite enough,” he interrupted, punctuating his point with a sharp spank on her bare bottom.
“You didn’t let me finish, my jealous husband.” She wiggled her bottom against the hand now resting there. “I was about to say that, despite all that, he could not hold a candle to my own Harrington male.”
“That’s better,” he grumbled.
“You are happy we came?”
“Yes, I am happy. I am enjoying getting to know Robert and my sisters—although that is not easy given their reserved natures.”
Portia smiled at that, thi
nking of her husband’s reserved nature. “And Frances? Have you forgiven her?” She felt him stiffen at the question, and not in a good way.
“I’m trying, Portia.”
She let the subject be.
He tilted his chin down until their eyes met. “And you? Are you glad you came?”
“I am. I like your brother and sisters, very much. Although your father . . .” she stopped.
“Yes, let us agree to avoid speaking of my father.”
Portia knew it was cowardly, but she was grateful to leave the subject of the earl untouched—for now.
“And Lady Pendleton?” Stacy asked.
“Ah, the viscountess . . . I believe she is trying to be accommodating and welcoming but I think the experience is novel. I can only suppose her life as the daughter of a duke lacked any training in the area of pleasing mere commoners.”
“I think you’ve accurately summed up our proud sister-in-law. I don’t think Robert and his wife like each other, sometimes it feels as if it might even go beyond dislike.”
Portia thought they hated each other but kept that thought to herself. “I believe that is common among the aristocracy. If you’d been raised within your father’s grasp then you, too, would most likely be wedded to the appropriate article.” She ran a single finger from his nipple to the tantalizing line of white hair that ran over the taut muscles of his abdomen toward his slumbering organ. She lightly dragged a finger over the astonishingly soft skin on the crown and he leapt against her hand and she laughed.
He plunged a hand into her hair, wrapping a length of it around his fist and forcing her to meet his eyes. “And what type of article are you, Mrs. Harrington? I’ll bet you were the kind of little girl who enjoyed teasing all the boys. Did you? Did you eat sweets in front of them without sharing? Promise them kisses and then run away? Yes, I would wager that you reveled in such diabolical and wholly female behavior.”
She gave him an innocent, wide-eyed stare. “I was the ideal child. Perfect in every way.”
“Just as you are the perfect wife?” He laughed and she nipped his chin.
And then she lowered her mouth over his swiftly hardening shaft and showed him—yet again—just how ideal and perfect she was.
When Portia woke the following morning, she was alone in bed. She was also sore in places she’d never realized could be sore. They’d been like a pair of starving castaways who’d stumbled upon a banquet, pulling every last ounce of pleasure from each other’s bodies and then returning for second and third helpings. In between bouts both savage and tender they’d talked as they’d never done before, neither of them sleeping much in their eagerness to make up for lost time.
Portia was smirking to herself and reliving the evening when Daisy entered. The state of her bedroom spoke louder than words and Daisy gave her a huge smile; well, at least the servants were happy again.
“Mr. Harrington said I should let you sleep, ma’am. Would you like breakfast in your room?”
Portia glanced at the bedside clock and saw it was almost eleven. She was to meet Rowena for a tour of the castle at one.
“I’d better be up and about. Do you know where Mr. Harrington went?” She stepped into the robe her maid held out for her and went to sit at her dressing table so Daisy could untangle her hair before she bathed.
“Powell said the master left earlier with his lordship.” Daisy began the long, painful process of brushing out the knots. Her hair was quite coarse and Portia had hated it until lately, when Stacy couldn’t seem to resist playing with it and wrapping strands of it around parts of his body.
“I think I’ll wear the new burgundy dress, Daisy. Have you heard anything about who will be arriving today?” Portia had spent enough time hovering between the servants’ hall and the upper levels of various houses to realize servants always knew the comings and goings better than the master or mistress of the house.
Daisy took the hair pins she’d held clamped between her teeth and laid them on the dresser’s glossy surface.
“I believe there will be nine couples and four singles.” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “There is quite a bit of worry about Lady and Lord Kenwich. They had a mad row the last time they visited and threw the entire contents of a tea tray at one another.”
Portia laughed. “Goodness. A passionate pair, are they?”
“Aye, but not about one another.” Daisy’s eyebrows were near her hairline.
It was a little after twelve by the time Daisy had her dressed and ready for the world. Portia arrived in the breakfast room and found only Rowena eating.
“Good morning, my lady.” Portia smiled at her sister-in-law and then turned to one of the numerous footmen. “Could I have a glass of milk, please?”
“Milk?” Rowena repeated once the footman had gone, her expression scandalized, as though Portia had ordered a floating island and a magnum of champagne. Predictably, the viscountess was sipping black tea and eating dry toast, which no doubt was how she maintained her trim figure. “I don’t believe I have ever seen an adult drink milk.”
“My husband is a bit of a tyrant and says the proper diet for a woman in my condition includes milk. Lots of milk.”
The viscountess frowned at that information, and then chose to ignore it. “Are you ready to see Thurlstone today?”
“I am looking forward to it. Frances tells me you are quite the expert on the castle. Did you grow up in a house like this?”
“There is no other house like Thurlstone.” Her voice held an odd, almost fierce, intensity. “My father’s seat is Bent Park, not far from Chelmsford. It is a Tudor structure.” She set down her empty cup and motioned for a footman to remove it before she stood. “I’m afraid I must leave you now. Shall we meet in the long gallery at one?”
Portia watched her stiff figure disappear, grateful the woman was gone. No matter what subject she raised with the viscountess it always felt awkward and hostile. She felt genuine sympathy for her brother-in-law—not to mention the three sisters who would need to live on her bounty when Lady Pendleton eventually became mistress of Thurlstone.
Portia dawdled over her breakfast and read the paper. When she finished eating it was time to make her way to the long gallery, where she perused portraits of long-dead Harringtons while she waited. The room had been designed to awe visitors and descendants alike. Sun filtered through the stained glass of massive mullioned windows, which allowed in light to illuminate the room but not enough to damage the precious paintings that covered every square inch of the wood-paneled walls. Portia had grown up in Rome, where buildings far grander than this had been common when the Harringtons’ ancestors had still been painting themselves blue and fighting with sticks. Even so, it was one thing to view such opulence in a public setting but quite another to realize you’d married into it.
Portia was examining a pair of young girls dressed in the fashion of the early seventeenth century when she heard footsteps behind her.
She turned to find Frances and gave her sister-in-law a genuine smile. “What a pleasant surprise.” Portia gestured to the identical girls. “Do you know who these young ladies are?”
“Those were the twin sisters of Charles Harrington, the fifth earl. I believe their names were Constance and Faith, two family names. They never married,” she added. “I will find you a book my great uncle James Harrington wrote on the history of the family.” She smiled fondly. “He was still alive and living here when I was a young girl. He never married and spent his entire life in the east wing. After he died, we found hundreds of bundles of foolscap, all the books he’d worked on during his lifetime but never showed to anyone. I had his book about the family portraits bound.” Her pale cheeks stained, as if she was embarrassed by her enthusiasm on the subject. “I came to see if you wished to go to the summer pergola. This is not the best year for it, but there will be some beautiful foliage.”
“Could we could go a little later? I’m meeting Lady Rowena in a few minutes for a tour of the castle
.”
Frances’s mouth tightened at the sound of her sister-in-law’s name. “I daresay you’ve only seen the wing in which you are staying and this addition?”
“When was this added?” Portia gazed up at the soaring ceiling and ornate crossbeams.
“This is late gothic, I believe 1537. The oldest part of the building dates to the eleventh century, and then there are ruins that run down to the cliff closest to the sea. That collection of tumbled down masonry is what is left of the Saxon stronghold.”
The sound of clapping made Portia jump.
“Brava, Frances.” Rowena’s voice came from the far end of the hall. “You really are an expert on this house and everything Harrington. I do believe you must know all the family secrets.” Rowena’s smile was mocking as she turned to Portia. “Are you ready for your tour, Mrs. Harrington?” The viscountess’s hard green eyes made Portia regret promising to spend more time than necessary in her presence.
She glanced at Frances; her face looked as though it were carved from stone. “Shall we meet after my tour, Frances?”
“I believe I shall tag along,” Frances spoke to Portia but her eyes were on Rowena. “It has been a long time since I’ve looked at the old north wing. Perhaps Rowena will be able to teach me something about the castle as she’s been working toward its restoration.”
Rowena inclined her head. “As you wish.”
An hour into Rowena’s tour Portia was grateful to have eaten such a large breakfast. The rambling house was comprised of endless warrens and dark hallways, many of which smelled of damp and decay.
“I’ve lost track of the rooms,” she said as they looked at a third set of state apartments. This one occupied by Queen Elizabeth for two weeks in 1559, with her alleged lover, Robert Dudley, staying only two doors away.
“We are some thirty rooms shy of being a ‘calendar house,’” Frances said, frowning while examining the corner of a rotting tapestry that hung behind the bed where Elizabeth had slept.
The Music of Love Page 26
