Page 35 of The Music of Love

Stacy knew that was true. But was it not possible to have a good life together even without romantic love? He could only suppose she continued to reject his offers of marriage because she still carried a torch for another man. Somebody from the time before Stacy knew her—back when she’d been a governess.

The carriage wheels hit a rut of some sort and jolted him from his musings; he was not far from Kitty’s now. He already knew he could not engage one of her girls—no matter how beautiful and willing. The truth was he craved Signora Stefani: her humor, her body, her fire, her mystery—her music. No other woman would do.

For the first time he understood Kitty’s preoccupation with the man she’d loved so long ago—the man she could not have but still yearned for. Did his own preoccupation with Signora Stefani mean he was falling in love? Or was what he felt nothing more than lust and passion?

He honestly didn’t know which of the two possibilities he wished for.

The journey to Portia’s prior residence the next morning roused memories of her life with Ivo—memories she preferred not to remember.

Mrs. Sneed, her landlady, was a needle-thin woman with sharp black eyes and an unusually small mouth. Her expression was perpetually pinched, as if she’d just smelled something rancid. She’d become suspicious and unpleasant toward Portia after Ivo had left, but today she greeted Portia—and her money—with a welcoming smile.

“Going to join your husband in Rome, Seenyora?” Her beady eyes were watchful as Portia loaded a few possessions into the small crate she planned to take back with her.

Portia considered telling her about Ivo and then shrugged the thought away—why bother? “No, I’m teaching in Cornwall, at the address I sent you in my last letter.”

“That reminds me. A man came looking for you a few days ago and I gave him the address.”

Portia looked up from her packing. “A man? Did he leave a card?”

“No. Said he was passing through and wanted to see you; he said he knew your husband.”

It was hard to breathe, like something was squeezing her chest. “Did he give his name?”

“I didn’t ask for it, did I?” Mrs. Sneed snapped.

Portia forced herself to remain calm. “Well, could you describe him?”

She gave a careless shrug. “Big, dressed poorly, an accent thicker than treacle.”

“What kind of accent?”

Mrs. Sneed’s bored expression turned mean. “You don’t pay me enough to be your personal secretary.”

Portia bit her tongue. The woman was horrid and arguing with her was not worth the effort. She stood and surveyed everything she was selling: a piano, some furniture from the school, and other odds and ends. She’d offered the remainder of the possessions to a man Ivo had borrowed money from and he’d grudgingly agreed to take them in return for part of the debt.

“Men will come by tomorrow morning to take away the rest of the things.”

The landlady’s sharp eyes narrowed. “Anything still here tomorrow evening will be mine.”

Portia strode from the house without another word, glad to be done with the sour, nasty woman.

The rest of the day passed in a whirl of drudgery and she spent most of her time calling on the various people she—or rather Ivo—owed money to. She applied small amounts to most of the debts and made arrangements for quarterly payments for the rest. Even with the wages Stacy was paying it would take years to discharge it all. She pushed that depressing thought aside and told herself to be grateful she had employment.

The rest of her trip went far too quickly. Her second night she ate dinner with Freddie and Serena and stayed up too late talking. The third night she was alone with Serena as Freddie had obligations with one of her clients.

Portia had expected to be prodded and poked for information, but Serena avoided the subject of her employer, almost as if she feared what Portia might tell her.

On her final night in town they ate a late supper at the house. Portia was listening to her friends discuss the play they’d just seen when her mind wandered back to Stacy Harrington. It had been a week since she’d last seen him. Tomorrow she would leave London and begin the long journey home.

Home? When had she begun to think of Whitethorn as home?

Portia frowned; she was lying to herself. It wasn’t Whitethorn she was thinking of, it was Stacy. She missed their lessons, their dinner conversations, those brief glimpses of him in the moonlight. She yearned to know more about him—not just about his beautiful body, although that intrigued her more than it should—but to get to know the man who lived behind his mask of reserve.

What was she going to do about him? It was clear he’d put that night in the stables behind him. After all, it had been Portia who’d instigated the heated tryst. That was another thing she could not lie to herself about. She’d wanted him and she still wanted him, and he was far too much of a gentleman to show how shocked and disgusted he’d been by her vulgar words and wanton behavior.

Had her disastrous marriage taught her nothing? When would she realize men did not like to be stalked and brought to earth as though they were wild game? When would she learn they went to whores for what she provided and to proper women for a wife?

Her mind burned with shame but her belly burned with something else: she would do the same thing with him again if the opportunity presented itself. More than that, she would undoubtedly do everything in her power to ensure such an opportunity arose.