Page 98 of The Music of Love

Astonishingly, Portia slept all the way through to the following morning, waking only moments before Stacy came to tell her he was going for an early ride with Robert.

“I think I liked it far better when you slept until ten o’clock every day and went out at midnight,” she grumbled.

“Mmmm.” He kissed her cheek and reached under the covers, stroking the first thing he found, which just happened to be one of her breasts. His hand felt divine and she was suddenly wide awake. She arched toward him.

He laughed. “You need your rest and I need a good, hard ride after yesterday—on Geist,” he qualified when he saw her eager expression.

Portia opened her mouth to argue but a yawn came out.

He raised his eyebrows. “You see?” He pinched her nipple and was gone.

The next time Portia woke it was to find a cup of hot chocolate beside her bed and Daisy supervising the filling of her bath. She took a drink of chocolate and wandered into the lovely marble bathing chamber.

“You read my mind, Daisy.”

“No, ma’am, it was Mr. Harrington who sent the bath—and the chocolate. He said I was to have you in the breakfast room by noon.” She gave Portia a little smirk, as though she found a husband ordering his wife around charming. So did Portia in this instance. She’d been afraid he would try to make her remain in bed for the remainder of their visit.

When she arrived in the breakfast room there were at least a dozen people, Stacy among them. He rose and led her to a vacant seat while Lord Pendleton performed introductions to all of the people who’d arrived the day before while Portia was lying in her bedchamber.

She said the appropriate words, smiled, and assured everyone she was fine. She would have preferred to answer all the questions and meet all the guests after she’d had coffee but that was not to be. One thing about the group of people surprised her greatly: none of them appeared to find it odd that a full-grown son and his wife had magically appeared at Thurlstone. If they did think it was strange, they were too polite to mention it or stare.

She’d just acquired her first cup and taken a long, steadying draught when Rowena entered the room, her eyes sweeping the table before settling on Portia. Portia groaned inwardly; what now?

“How are you this morning, Mrs. Harrington?” Her disconcerting eyes crinkled in solicitude, but the expression in them was as hard as the agates they so resembled.

“I am well, my lady.” She changed the subject. “Lord Pendleton was just about to share the plans you’ve made for our entertainment.” Portia turned back to Robert.

“We have an alfresco lunch prepared for our trip to the Temple of Music on our neighbor’s estate, Hillcombe Park.”

“Oh Lord Pendleton, how wicked,” a woman named Miss Creasy teased. She was one of the new arrivals, a pretty girl with honey-colored hair who was making her interest in Robert quite evident.

But Robert merely smiled coolly and turned to Portia “Miss Creasy is referring to the history of Hillcombe Park, of course. One of the prior masters of Hillcombe was very good friends with the infamous Sir Francis Dashwood, the founder of the Hellfire Club. Lord Bishop built a tribute to Dashwood on his property.”

The conversation grew noisy after that, as everyone vied to share their knowledge on the taboo subjects of orgies and satanic rituals. A plate of ham and eggs mysteriously appeared before her and she looked up to find her husband’s eyebrows raised in challenge.

“Thank you, Stacy.”

He gave her the slight, sensual smile that drove her mad—and also made her achingly grateful they’d bridged their differences. Never again, she promised herself. Never again would she let her dreadful temper come between them.

Stacy leaned closer as she lifted a forkful of food. “Perhaps this is one appetite of yours I can actually satiate.”

Portia almost choked and had to take a sip of coffee. She looked up to see Robert watching their intimate interplay with an expression of envy and yearning. Portia darted a glance at Rowena; the cool blonde was watching her husband with an amused, mocking smile.

Portia felt like an actor in a French farce.

The young man on Portia’s other side asked her a question and she turned away from her disturbing in-laws.

The group who assembled for the picnic was noisy, gay, and far larger than Portia expected. Many of the houseguests had breakfasted in their rooms and were only now trickling down to the portico, where carriages waited for those who didn’t wish to walk to the picnic area.

Stacy and Portia were engaged in a heated discussion about her presence in one of the carriages when he stopped in mid-sentence and stared at something over her shoulder, his jaw dropping. “Kitty?” His voice was high-pitched and unnatural.

Portia turned and encountered one of the most beautiful women she’d ever seen.

“Stacy?”

They stood enrapt, as if only the two of them existed. Stacy emerged from his shock first, turning to Portia as if he’d only now remembered her presence. His pale cheeks flushed a dull, angry red. “Portia . . .” he began, laughed weakly, and then turned back to the other woman. “Portia, this is Mrs. Katherine Charring. Kitty, this is my wife, Mrs. Harrington.”

The woman pulled her gaze from Stacy with obvious effort and gave Portia a nervous smile. “It is a pleasure to meet you.”