Page 81 of The Music of Love

The next half hour passed in a blur of introductions and greetings. By the time it was over the only person they hadn’t met was the earl. Portia glanced at her husband but he was as impassive as ever.

Stacy gave Frances a brief nod but Portia embraced the tall, bone-thin woman and whispered in her ear, “I’ve missed you, and so does he, even if he is too proud to show it. We will have you back at Whitethorn before you know it.”

Frances gave her a tremulous smile and quick squeeze before releasing her.

Stacy’s other sisters were considerably shorter than Frances but all four siblings shared the same sandy blond hair and blue-gray eyes. Although they must have heard about Stacy over the years, neither sister could take their eyes from him. Portia couldn’t blame them. She saw him every day and still found it difficult to look at anything or anyone else when he was in the vicinity; even when she wanted to club him over the head with a brick.

By the time they’d been escorted to their chambers, which were twice the size of those at Whitethorn, Portia was exhausted. But there would be no rest. They’d agreed to freshen up and meet in the Red Drawing Room for tea.

Portia was sitting in front of her dressing table trying to keep from falling asleep while Daisy fixed her hair when Stacy came through the connecting door. They met each other’s eyes in the mirror. Well, at least she thought they did, he was wearing his impenetrable glasses. She smiled bitterly. She should probably be grateful he hadn’t stopped to put them on before their torrid encounter at the inn last night. She glanced at her reflection and was proud to see no sign of either her anger or amorous thoughts showed on her face.

“If you wish, I will tell them you mean to rest before dinner, Portia.” The offer was considerate, even if his delivery was aloof.

“I am quite refreshed,” she lied. “Should we ring for a servant or do you recall the way?”

Daisy stepped back and Portia stood and took her husband’s arm. Even that slight contact caused intense churning in her stomach.

“I believe I can get us to our destination without precipitating the need for a search party,” he said, causing Daisy to giggle.

Portia ignored him.

The house was just as rambling on the inside as it appeared from the outside. The original portion had been built in the Plantagenet period and had sprouted a new wing with each succeeding monarch. It felt like it took an hour to reach the appointed room, but that might have been the uncomfortable silence.

Portia wondered how a person decided which of the dozens of rooms and salons to use each day. If she and Stacy lived in this house they would never need to see one another again. She turned slightly to look at her husband’s handsome, sharp-edged profile and then wished she had not. It was tragic that he was so attractive.

Stacy’s sisters and brother were already in the room when they arrived. The earl was not in attendance. Did the man really exist?

The five siblings tried to bridge the yawning gap between them with conversation about the unseasonably cold weather, the exceptionally poor harvest, and the state of the roads. While the three sisters resembled one another quite closely, Stacy and Robert Harrington were only alike in that they were both tall, well-built, and handsome. The one characteristic all five seemed to share was a certain reserve. Yet as reserved as they were, Portia could see they wished to know each other.

Lady Rowena, however, appeared to have no interest in anyone other than Portia. The woman’s pale green eyes bore all the warmth of a snake’s and her piercing gaze slithered over Portia’s face and person in a way that left her feeling . . . invaded.

“I understand congratulations are in order,” the viscountess said, breaking into something Mary was saying to Stacy about the nearby Bishop Caverns. “When is your confinement?”

“March.”

The Harrington sisters greeted this information with nods and soft murmurs. The men drank their tea and the sound of cups clinking against saucers filled the silence. Portia almost laughed; this was agonizing. Was the entire two-week period going to be like this?

“I understand your last husband was the pianist Ivo Stefani.”

Stacy stepped in before she could answer. “Portia is also a remarkable musician in her own right.”

Portia slid him an astonished look while trying to appear modest at his display of husbandly pride.

“Perhaps you will play for us?” Robert Harrington asked, giving her a warm, charming smile.

Portia instinctively liked Lord Pendleton. His enthusiasm about Stacy was unfeigned and he appeared thrilled to have discovered his brother.

His wife, however, was a duke’s daughter first, an earl’s daughter-in-law second, a viscount’s wife third, and a human being last. The woman had a ridiculous sense of self-consequence. Her clothing was more formal and grander than what her three sisters-in-law were wearing and it was evident she spent a good deal of time and money on her appearance.

Portia smiled at her brother-in-law. “I would be delighted to play for you. Does anyone else play?”

“Father insisted we all have lessons but I’m afraid only Mary was worth our poor instructor’s patience.” Frances’s eyes flickered to Stacy, as though she thought he might chastise her for having the audacity to speak in his presence.

“Do you still play?” Portia asked Mary.

Her blushing sister-in-law gave a breathy laugh that was more suited to a girl of eight-and-ten than a woman who must surely be over fifty. “I shan’t be playing in front of you, Mrs. Harrington, nor . . . er, Eustace.” She looked from Frances to Stacy, uncertain what to call her brother.

Again, Portia filled the embarrassed silence. “Stacy is quite accomplished. Perhaps he can be persuaded to play, as well.”