Page 17 of The Music of Love

“Yes, my nephew is generous in many ways—sometimes to a fault. His propensity to think of others’ welfare before his own has sometimes caused him . . . discomfort.” She paused, as if to let Portia absorb that piece of information. “I hope you enjoy your morning.”

“Thank you, Miss Tate.” Portia waited until the door shut before resuming her meal. Well. Frances Tate hadn’t exactly issued a warning, but she’d certainly let it be known she was prepared to take up the cudgels on her nephew’s behalf if Portia overstepped herself. Miss Tate was likely accustomed to protecting her handsome, wealthy nephew from impoverished, fortune-hunting females. Portia wanted to reassure the woman that Mr. Harrington was in no danger from her, but she doubted the reserved older woman would either appreciate or believe reassurance from a person who’d already shown willingness to lie to get what she wanted.

And whose fault is that?

Portia ignored her guilty qualms and finished breakfast without further interruption. After fetching her hat, cloak, and reticule she meandered through the spectacular gardens on her way to the stables.

Mr. Hawkins was out front grooming the white horse she’d seen the prior evening.

“What a beautiful animal.”

Hawkins smiled proudly, as if the animal belonged to him. “Aye, miss, ’ee surely is. Ready to try tha hand with the cart again?”

“If you think I should, after my disastrous first attempt.”

Hawkins gave a good-natured laugh. “T’were only a few bushes tha flattened. Here, let me fetch John to finish Geist and I’ll fetch the gig.”

“May I pet him?” Portia asked, itching to stroke the beautiful animal.

“Aye, he’ll like that.”

Portia met the horse’s surprisingly dark eye. Geist gave her a calm look and then nudged her hand with his soft chin as she stroked the velvety soft muzzle.

The stable master soon returned with John and when Portia turned to greet the boy Geist nudged her arm with his nose. Both Hawkins and John laughed.

“Tha can niver quit with this one, ma’am. He’s a right greedy one for attention.”

“What does his name mean?” The word was familiar but Portia couldn’t recall where she’d heard it.

“The master says it be some fern word for ‘ghost.’”

Ah, that was it: Geist was German for ghost, exactly what Portia had thought he was—a ghost in the moonlight.

“Take ’im back into his stall, John, not the pasture. The master might want him later.”

The boy clucked his tongue and led the huge horse into the stables.

Hawkins turned to her. “I reckon tha should take John along these first few times, ma’am.”

“I should hate to deprive you of your helper, Mr. Hawkins.”

“’Tis naught. He can visit his ma and sisters while he waits.”

“I collect everyone knows everyone else in such a small town?” Portia asked, while Mr. Hawkins hooked a placid mare to the small cart.

“Aye, ’tis true. A body can’t take two steps without stumbling over family.”

“That must be nice.”

The old man grunted, his hands deftly attaching the harnessing while his eyes met hers. “It keeps a man from misbehavin’.” Mr. Hawkins’s eyes flickered over her shoulder and he paused to tug his forelock. “Good mornin’, master.”

Portia turned to find Mr. Harrington, dressed to ride in glossy boots, dark leather breeches, and an impeccably cut black coat. Unlike on his nighttime jaunts, he also wore dark spectacles, black leather gloves, and a high-crowned hat. The only color in his ensemble was his bottle green and gold striped waistcoat. He was a vision of masculine beauty.

“Tha be wantin’ Geist, sir?”

“It can wait, Hawkins.” He turned to Portia. “Are you going to try your hand at the gig, Signora?”

“Just as far as Bude, sir.”