Page 89 of The Music of Love

“Father wonders if you would join him, Mrs. Harrington.” She gave Stacy a fearful look as she delivered her message, as if she were worried that he might insist on joining his wife.

“Will you excuse me?” Portia murmured to Robert and Stacy.

The earl sat in state beside the massive fireplace, his back to his family. He looked up when Portia approached and gestured to the chair a footman had just placed across from him. She sat, able to see not only the earl but the rest of the family behind him. She looked at the old man and they locked eyes. His were a very different color from his son’s but they were shapely and long, set deep beneath well-marked brows. There was not even a particle of softness in those eyes. They raked, weighed, and assessed her as efficiently as a piece of meat at the butchers. His mouth curled into a contemptuous smile, as if he’d found something to entertain him.

“I heard your husband play once.” His voice was deep and hollow, the clipped consonants elegant.

Portia smiled slightly but did not respond. She loathed what he’d done to his family and the way he was behaving toward Stacy.

He watched her face like a raptor sizing up a potential kill and one corner of his thin mouth twitched. “You are recovered from today’s mishap in the west wood.” It was not a question.

“I was not hit. The bullet clipped the ear of one of your horses. I daresay she will not forget the incident any time soon.”

That drew a sharp bark of laughter. “Horses are stupid creatures, much like most people. They forget what they choose. You are new to riding, Frances tells me. Grew up in Rome, did you?” Something about that seemed to amuse him.

“Yes. My father was Italian but my mother was English. They met while my father was teaching music here in England.”

His smile became more derisive. “Married one of his students, eh?”

“Yes. He married the Earl of Marldon’s daughter.” Portia hated herself for dropping the name of her illustrious relative and trying to impress the supercilious man. Her disclosure made the earl laugh again, but this time it was a bellow that turned into a choking fit.

Constance appeared in an instant, her mouth puckered as though someone had pulled it with a drawstring.

“Father?”

He flapped his hand over his shoulder, not bothering to turn. “Get away! Quit fussing.” The words came between gasps. He turned back to Portia, his breathing labored and his expression twice as venomous.

“Marldon had nothing but females and hardly two pence to split between ’em.” He gloated at the thought of the other peer’s surfeit of daughters and impoverished state. “He’s dead now. I hear the new earl is not half the idiot the old one was.” He saw her face and his expression grew avid. “Did you visit the new earl when you returned to England and impress him with your famous husband?” The notion seemed to tickle him.

“I am not acquainted with the new earl.”

He laughed outright this time. “So the new sprig would have nothing to do with you, eh?”

Portia refused to either confirm or deny his accurate reading of the situation but it seemed he didn’t need her to carry on a conversation.

“Well, you’ve done well enough for yourself even without their help, eh? Your new husband has accumulated quite the fortune for himself.” Portia heard aristocratic disgust, but it was tempered with pride. Portia’s lip curled; as if he’d had any hand in Stacy’s success.

Again, he seemed to read her as easily as a ledger.

“I don’t claim any credit for his situation—nor would I want to. Well, only for the part of me he was lucky enough to inherit, that is.” He gave another of his raucous coughing laughs. This time his daughter was wise enough to keep her distance. When he’d ceased hacking, he pinioned Portia with his pitiless gaze. “You will play after dinner for my guests.” It was not a request. He chewed the inside of his mouth, the action an unprecedented show of emotion, although Portia knew not which one. He glared at her like a magistrate judging a felon. “It is my opinion your playing puts Stefani’s to shame.” The words were grudging and he looked pained to have uttered them.

Portia felt one of her eyebrows arch in response to his unwillingly bestowed accolade.

He saw the expression and snorted.

“Why, thank you, my lord.” Portia didn’t bother keeping the ironic amusement from her tone.

Just then the first visitors were announced and the Earl of Broughton turned his chair away from her.

The interview was over.

Stacy could not take his gaze from his wife’s usually expressive face as she spoke with his father. But, for once, he could read nothing. He guessed this was what she looked like when she spoke to a stranger—a stranger she did not much care for.

He also realized she’d never turned such an expression on him. When she spoke to Stacy, she showed what she was feeling: anger, fury, passion, lust, affection, concern, pain. Her openness was—he now understood—a gift she gave to him. It was also a gift he was singularly ill-equipped to handle. He’d never been the recipient of any great passion before, nor had he felt any. Until now.

“Don’t worry, Stacy, your wife will be able to manage him,” Robert said in a low voice. Neither of them could take their eyes from the unprecedented sight of their father having a tête-à-tête with anyone. Stacy looked at his brother and saw a wrinkle between his friendly blue-gray eyes, as if he didn’t quite believe his own words.

“I have every confidence in her,” Stacy said. And he did. He’d never lacked for admiration or respect when it came to Portia. He just wished he trusted her.