Page 85 of The Music of Love

“In a cottage on my land. She came from around here, I believe. I don’t know her maiden name but she married a man named Kemble.” Thinking about Nanny made him recall how she’d cried with joy when he told her he knew the truth behind his birth. It seemed to have knocked ten years off the old woman’s age. She’d never wanted the deception but as an employee had had no choice but to lie. Not like Frances. Stacy’s jaw tightened at the thought of his duplicitous sister.

“Hm, Kemble? No, I’ve not heard that name.” Robert sounded uninterested in the provenance of Stacy’s nurse and the conversation moved to the topic of Plymouth, each of them apologizing in advance for annihilating the other at darts.

A few days after their arrival in Plymouth—where Portia found a particularly lovely mauve silk for her first ball gown—she finally gave in to one of Lady Rowena’s many offers to go riding. At first, Portia had begged off going with Rowena, an excellent horsewoman, but she couldn’t continue to do so after the viscountess caught her talking about going riding with Frances.

She took a last look in her mirror as Daisy placed the high-crowned riding hat on her head. Her habit, if not her riding skills, was flawless. Stacy had presented her with three outfits when he’d given her Dainty.

The stark black was only relieved by a burgundy cravat that matched the feather in her hat. Portia believed she looked better in her riding habit than any other clothing but that might be because Stacy had selected it for her. It aroused her to think of him taking the time and effort to choose things that would touch her body, even if he no longer wanted to do so.

She’d just shut the door to her chambers when she encountered the man who was never far from her thoughts. He must have just returned from his own ride. When he saw her, he stopped in front of his door and looked her up and down, tapping his crop absently against his boot as he did so. Something about his cool inspection set her back up.

“You are going riding?” he asked, his eyebrows arched.

“As you see.”

“With whom?”

She resented his tone but refused to let him see her irritation. “Lady Rowena.” She turned to go but his voice stopped her.

“The viscountess is a bruising rider, Portia. Make sure you don’t let her lead you in above your head.”

She swung around. “I appreciate your concern for my welfare, Stacy, not to mention your confidence in my riding skill and overall intelligence.”

His mouth tightened and the crop stilled. “Must I remind you that it is not only your welfare I am concerned with?”

“I believe you just did,” she snapped, furious at his impassivity, his superior attitude, and the nearly overwhelming desire she felt for him no matter how much she hated him.

He closed the gap between them with two long strides, until their bodies were mere inches apart. She swallowed and took a deep breath, refusing to step back or look away. He smelled of horse, sweat, and leather and it brought to mind vivid memories of their first coupling.

“I should hate to have to restrict your riding privileges, my dear.” The words were softly spoken but she heard the threat beneath them. She felt something on her leg and looked down. He was lightly tapping his crop against her thigh. The message was clear: it was he who had the whip hand and she would do well to remember it. Her breath caught at the blatantly dominating gesture and she looked up into his unsmiling face, her eyes reflected back at her.

Her heart was pounding, doing its best to betray the desire she felt for him.

“I should hate to make you issue a restriction I’d be forced to ignore,” she said just as softly and then spun on her heel, forcing herself to walk at a leisurely pace when all she wanted to do was run from his brooding stare.

When she reached the stables, it was to find Rowena already mounted on a gray stallion who matched Geist for size, magnificence, and enthusiasm. The woman sat her horse as if she’d sprung fully formed from the saddle.

“Heavens,” Portia murmured as the big gray pawed the ground. “Please tell me you’ve got something a bit less . . . volatile for me?”

The viscountess laughed, the first time Portia had heard her do so. The sound was light and musical but held no warmth or mirth.

“No, I believe Frost would be a bit much for you. I’ve had Watts saddle Honey. You’ll like her; we give her to visiting children. Please excuse me for a moment.” She turned away and trotted over to one of the grooms before Portia could reply. That was just as well. What could she say about her ladyship’s cutting words when they were true? No doubt all the children who came to Thurlstone already rode far better than she ever would.

The groom led a placid-looking honey-colored horse up to her.

“This is Honey, ma’am. She’s a good girl, eh?” This last part he addressed to the horse, who gave Portia a sly look as if to say, Maybe I am, or maybe I’m not.

He helped Portia into the saddle and handed up her whip.

Lady Rowena called over her shoulder, “I thought I would take you through our small wood.”

They’d hardly left the stables behind when Honey decided to test Portia’s mettle, ambling off the trail and grabbing a mouthful of what was probably one of the earl’s prize topiaries.

Portia hauled on the reins, but Honey continued chewing her treat. “You villain,” she hissed.

Her sister-in-law half-turned, an amused look on her face. “Honey,” she said, not even raising her voice. The blasted creature released the shrub and hurried forward.

“Hateful, odious beast,” Portia muttered beneath her voice as the horse trotted up beside the other woman’s massive horse.