The Music of Love

by Minerva Spencer

  “Will you be playing, Mrs. Harrington?”

  Portia forced yet another smile. “I’m afraid I don’t have the energy for it today.”

  Lady Elizabeth fought unsuccessfully to hide her pleasure. “Then may we steal your husband?” The younger woman’s body swayed toward Stacy’s in a way that made Portia want to rip off her head and smack it with a mallet.

  Stacy looked from the flirtatious girl to Portia. “I think perhaps—”

  “I’m going to rest. There is no reason you cannot play.”

  He paused and smiled at Lady Elizabeth. “Very well. But you must allow me to eat first.”

  It was agreed he would have a quarter of an hour before they would collect him. When they left Stacy sat beside her.

  “Is aught amiss, Portia?”

  Portia looked at her husband, a man she’d come to love with every fiber of her being. He’d done the proper thing when he found out she was pregnant, even though he was in love with another. It was beyond unfortunate that Mrs. Charring had only realized her true feelings for him when it was too late. Portia knew she shouldn’t hate him for who he loved; a person did not get to choose—she knew that better than most. He did not love her, but he’d been kind to her. Clearly he was determined to be a good husband and father even though his heart belonged to another. Portia just wanted to be alone and weep.

  Instead she smiled. “I’m fine, but you will be in trouble if you are not ready to play when your admirers return.”

  Stacy leaned toward her. “You know very well there is only one admirer I want, Portia. Are you sure you don’t wish to go back?” His voice was low and intimate and it made Portia’s heart ache.

  How could he mouth such words when less than an hour ago he’d been holding his weeping lover? She wanted to tell him to quit acting. She wanted to run away and hide where nobody would find her. But she could do neither—at least not until after they left Thurlstone. She’d wait to tell him she wanted a separation until they’d returned home. Surely he would not wish for a divorce until after the child was born?

  Portia smiled at him, her cheeks aching. “I’m certain—now go eat; I wish to close my eyes for a while.”

  He looked like he wanted to argue, but he stood and left her alone. She stole a look from beneath her lashes a few minutes later and saw that Rowena had descended on Stacy and dragged him to join another group.

  She waited until the game was well underway before going to find Robert. He was watching three other men compete for Kitty Charring’s attention; the woman was some sort of siren.

  “I hate to interrupt, Robert, but would it be possible to have one of the grooms take me back to Thurlstone?” The inevitable clucking and fussing transpired before Portia could convince everyone concerned that she refused to tear any of the revelers away from the fun.

  “You cannot leave your guests, Robert. Please tell Stacy where I’ve gone. I hate to disturb him as he seems dangerously close to winning.”

  Portia didn’t fully relax until the carriage started down the lane. And then it took all her strength not to weep.

  By the time Stacy learned Portia was gone it was too late to catch up with her.

  “I’m sorry, old man,” Robert said. “She didn’t want to make a fuss. She said she was going to have a rest before dinner and the ball.”

  Stacy gestured toward the twittering collection of females. “They want another game. Will you step in for me?”

  Robert gave his shoulder a reassuring squeeze. “Of course. If you take the same shortcut you took to get here, you’ll most likely get there just about the same time she does.”

  Stacy was taking his leave of the players when Kitty approached. “Is everything all right, Stacy?”

  “I want to check on Portia. She hasn’t been feeling up to snuff, even though she does a good job of hiding it.”

  “I’ll come with you, if you don’t mind.” She looked significantly at Robert’s back and Stacy understood. They spoke very little on their way to Thurlstone. Stacy was worried about Portia and he knew Kitty had concerns of her own.

  He encountered Daisy leaving Portia’s chambers. “Is she in?”

  “She just dropped off to sleep, sir. She was exhausted.”

  Stacy nodded, torn between the desire to go to her and relief he would be spared from having to divulge this mess with Kitty for a little bit longer. He knew she would’ve noticed his awkward behavior and cursed himself for not pulling her aside earlier. But Kitty had been a wreck, so he’d gone off with her.

  Once back in his room Stacy poured himself a hefty brandy and dropped into the nearest chair with a groan. What a bloody, unbelievable, coincidental disaster.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Sleep was impossible. Instead, Portia lay in the dark, her mind churning. If only she could leave—run away. But there was this wretched ball to be endured and two more days after that. She refused to give Rowena the satisfaction she so clearly desired. It was obvious the woman had invited Katherine Charring for her own twisted amusement, although how she’d known about Stacy and the woman was a mystery. Or perhaps it was mere coincidence and she was imagining things? Could she really be so paranoid?

  She knew her dislike of Rowena was petty, but at least it gave her something to think about other than the agonizing knowledge that her husband was in love with another woman.

  Portia bit her lip to keep from sobbing like a child. Instead, she tossed and turned, her mind an endless blur of questions with no palatable answers. Did she stay with him, knowing she was a duty to him? Knowing she would be a burden for him to bear if he wanted to know his child? Or did she leave, taking the child with her? Because she could never leave her child, she knew that.

  Where would she go? Back to London? Portia knew her friends would take her in, but what would happen to their reputations—their lives—to have a divorced woman with a child living with them?

  She couldn’t stay, and she couldn’t go.

  By the time Daisy came to dress her for the evening she was far more exhausted than she’d been hours earlier. She took strength in the knowledge that she only needed to maintain a convincing façade for another few days.

  Daisy chatted happily as she dressed Portia’s hair, thrilled beyond anything to be preparing her mistress for a ball in a castle with actual peers. Portia closed her eyes and let the sound of her maid’s excited voice wash over her. A knock on the door a few moments later made Portia’s entire body stiffen. Please don’t let it be Stacy.

  “Good evening, my dear.”

  She opened her eyes. Stacy looked even more godlike than usual. He wore a black coat and pantaloons and his waistcoat was ivory silk embroidered with mauve birds that matched Portia’s gown perfectly.

  He smiled. “Do you like it? It is Daisy’s doing.”

  Portia’s eyes became unaccountably hot and she was afraid she would begin weeping.

  She swallowed convulsively. “Daisy, you truly are a wizard.”

  “’Twas nothing, ma’am,” she murmured, her face red as she rummaged through the jewel box looking for the earrings Portia would wear.

  Stacy came to stand behind Portia, facing her reflection. Of course she couldn’t see his eyes. He held a black velvet box toward her.

  “What is it?” Her voice was sharper than she’d intended.

  The corners of his mouth turned down. “You sound so . . . fierce. Am I not allowed to give my wife a gift?”

  Portia couldn’t look at him, she was afraid she would collapse into a puddle of tears. Why was he doing this to her?

  “You shouldn’t have.” Her voice broke on the last word but at least she wasn’t crying.

  Stacy’s hand settled on her shoulder, his brow furrowing with concern. “Will you excuse us, Daisy?”

  Portia watched her servant leave the room as though she was bidding farewell to her last great hope. The door closed and she turned back to the mirror.

  “Are you sure everything is all right, Portia?”


  “I’m sorry I was sharp. I’m afraid I have been experiencing the most exhausting swings in mood.” That was true enough, at least.

  “Are you sure you want to go downstairs?”

  Anything was better than sitting alone in this room. She smiled. “I’m looking forward to it,” she lied.

  He nodded, and then turned to the box in his hand. “I commissioned this for you when I was in Barnstaple. It took the man longer than he expected. When I learned of this ball I sent him a message requesting that he make haste to finish it.”

  Portia took the box as though it were a live snake, her hands trembling. She lifted the lid and gasped. It was more pearls, but unlike any she’d ever seen. She glanced from the beautiful necklace to her husband’s reflection. “Why, they’re almost . . . black.”

  He smiled at her amazement and reached into the box. “Yes. Black pearls, uncommon, precious, and beautiful. Just like you, Portia.” He draped the double strand around her neck and clasped it. It fit snugly. “This is called a collar.” His elegant white fingers stroked the pearls, the contrast between black and white arresting. “Now you wear my collar, Portia.” He bent low and nuzzled the side of her neck, his mouth hot against her skin. “You belong to me.”

  Portia felt as though he’d reached into her chest and crushed her heart. How could he be so cruel? Just what game was he playing?

  He saw her stricken expression in the glass and frowned. “What is it, why—”

  A knock on the door interrupted whatever he was going to say.

  “Come in!” Portia called, beyond grateful for whomever was on the other side of the door. Frances stood in the doorway, her eyes flickering nervously from Stacy to Portia before settling on the necklace and widening.

  “My goodness,” she breathed.

  Stacy took a step back and clasped his hands behind his back. “Good evening, Frances. You look lovely.”

  Portia was momentarily distracted from her misery by Stacy’s kind words. But he was right, Frances did look striking in a gown of verdigris silk, an unusual shade which brought out the gold in her hair and made her blue eyes look almost turquoise. Her high cheekbones tinted at his words and she came forward, one of her hands outstretched.

  “This is for you, Portia. It belonged to my mother and I would like you to have it.”

  Portia glanced from the small velvet covered box to Frances and could no longer hold back the tears.

  “Here! What is this?” Stacy was beside her in an instant.

  Portia shook her head, capable only of making gulping sounds like some sort of fish.

  Frances placed the box on her dresser and held out a handkerchief before taking Portia’s free hand. “It is normal for a woman in your condition to be emotional—especially with this most recent shock.”

  Portia gave the other woman a startled look. Did she know about Kitty Charring?

  “You might not have taken physical harm from the incident with the balcony,” Frances continued, stroking her hand, “but it would have been a terrible stress on you.”

  Portia didn’t know whether to be happy or miserable that the other woman didn’t know the worst of it. Oh, how she wished she had somebody to confide in. Instead, she dabbed her eyes and nodded. “Thank you, Frances. You are correct, it has been a strain.”

  “You don’t need to do this tonight, darling. Everyone will understand if you decide to rest,” Stacy said.

  Especially Rowena.

  Portia shook her head. She’d endured years of misery at Ivo’s hands; surely she could endure a few hours of this wretched evening. She turned to Frances and smiled. “I would love to see what is in the box.”

  The huge drawing room was filled with beautifully dressed, coiffured, and bejeweled house guests when they entered a short time later. While Stacy wished Portia had taken his suggestion and stayed in bed, he could not deny he was pleased to have her beside him.

  “Will you both excuse me?” Frances asked. “I promised Rowena I would speak with the new pastry chef. He is a bit . . . temperamental.”

  Stacy nodded and then said, “The ring was a lovely gesture, Frances.”

  Portia held up her right hand and the diamond ring sparkled. She smiled at his sister. “Yes, thank you. It is beautiful.”

  Stacy watched his sister walk away and slid his hand down Portia’s back until it rested at the base of her spine. Her sharp intake of breath sent blood rushing to his groin. The mauve silk was thin and he could not resist sliding his hand lower, until it rested on the generous swell of her bottom. Her cheekbones stained a delicate rose and a flare of possessive heat churned in his gut at the way her body responded to his touch. He should have said to hell with this bloody ball and taken her to his bed. They could have made love and he could have left Kitty, Robert, and Robert’s scheming wife to sort out their own problems.

  But instead he’d behaved like a responsible adult and now it would be hours and hours before he could hold her, soothe her . . . be inside her delicious body. He needed to stop thinking about it before he embarrassed them both in public.

  Of course he’d have to tell her about Kitty first—an unpleasant conversation—not about her connection to Robert, but certainly about their friendship. Now that he knew Portia better, he could not relish introducing her to a former lover.

  Thoughts of that discussion were enough to stop the pleasurable sensation in his groin.

  “Would you like something to drink, Portia?”

  “Perhaps a glass of lemonade.”

  “I will return before you know it.” He headed for the drinks table and poured a lemonade for Portia and small glass of wine for himself. He surveyed the room for Robert, whom he’d hoped to pull aside for a few moments before they all sat down to dinner. Even if they only—

  “Good evening, Mr. Harrington,” the viscountess’s purr came from his other side and he turned. Stacy had to admit his brother’s wife was a beautiful woman. Even so, he could not understand how Robert had been persuaded to marry her. She was cold, untouchable, and more than a little devious. And he was going to get to the bottom of her invitation to Kitty before this bloody visit was over.

  Stacy took her proffered hand and bowed over it. “Good evening, my lady, you look lovely. Something to drink?” Her smile was odd—almost flirtatious—as though he’d just asked to put his hand up her skirt.

  “Nothing for me, thank you.” She turned from the table and swept the room as she fingered the hideous diamond choker around her neck. Her décolletage was so low he thought he could see the top of her areolae.

  “That is an impressive necklace.”

  Her throaty chuckle held no warmth. “It belonged to the earl’s first wife, a woman endowed with more money than breeding, I’m afraid.”

  Stacy frowned at the distasteful comment.

  She smiled, as if he’d spoken out loud. “One could not say the same about your mother, of course.”

  “I know very little about my mother.” He did not care to discuss his family, or anything else, with such a venomous person.

  “You look very like her, more so than Pendleton. Your mother was a beautiful woman.”

  Stacy’s eyebrows rose. Was she flirting with him?

  Robert entered the ballroom just then, spotted Stacy, and headed in his direction. Whatever his sister-in-law was up to, Stacy could only hope Robert’s arrival would put a stop to it.

  “Good evening Stacy, Rowena.” The look he gave his wife was markedly colder than the one he bestowed on Stacy. He poured himself a hefty brandy and pointedly ignored his wife.

  Stacy glanced across to where Portia stood, wishing he were beside her right now. She was talking to a young couple who’d gone to the picnic today. The door behind Portia opened and Kitty entered. It wasn’t his imagination that the conversation in the room briefly stuttered. Robert stopped in the process of drinking; the rim of the glass resting against his lower lip, as if he’d lost the strength to tip the liquid into his mouth.


  Stacy couldn’t help being amused by how Kitty drew every eye in the room, her beauty was like a flame. She might appear magnificent in her emerald gown—which looked as if it had been stitched to her body—but he could see she was nervous. Stacy knew she’d likely donned her garment like battle armor. The question was, just who would she have to do battle with?

  Kitty glanced around the room before going to stand beside Portia, who—after a brief look of surprise—smiled and introduced her to the others beside her. Stacy was proud of his wife for the kindness she was showing Kitty. Most of the other female guests were glaring at the beautiful woman as if she were a serpent that had slithered through a crack in the door.

  He shot a look at Robert. His brother had finally completed the action of drinking. In fact, his glass was empty. The viscountess was also looking at Kitty and when her eyes swiveled from the other woman to her husband Stacy inhaled sharply at the raw hatred he saw. His brother did not notice. In fact, Robert looked as though he’d forgotten everyone’s existence but one. He set the glass blindly on the table and started toward Kitty like a sleepwalker.

  Lady Pendleton’s eyes sank into her husband’s back like pale, lethal blades.

  “If you’ll excuse me, my lady.” Stacy took long strides to reach Portia and Kitty before Robert could do anything foolish—like try to take Kitty into dinner. The gorgeous redhead might look strong, but Stacy knew she was hanging on to her sanity by a thread.

  “Here you are, darling.” Stacy pushed the glass into Portia’s hand and turned to Kitty. “Kitty, you look smashing. Will you allow me to accompany you into dinner?”

  He turned to give Portia a reassuring smile, but her face had hardened into the polite mask he recognized too well.

  Blast and damn! She couldn’t be jealous, could she—not after their conversation less than twenty-four hours ago? He reached for her elbow and leaned toward her but she turned away to answer the young man on her other side, pulling her arm from his grasp.

  Yes, she is angry. Stacy wanted to go after her but Robert had come around Stacy and stopped in front of Kitty, looking like a man who’d been struck between the eyes with a mallet.