Joss and The Countess (The Seducers Book 2)
Page 33
Alicia watched Lizzy and the baby from the terrace.
She’d had one of the ground floor rooms in the chateau converted into chambers for the girl and her child; that way Lizzy could roll her chair out into the sunshine whenever she wished.
She heard a light step behind her before two hands landed on her shoulders. Joss kissed her temple and she leaned back against the solid familiarity of him.
“How is she today?” he asked, his voice a low rumble against her back.
“A little better every day. I think Natalie has given her a reason to live.”
Alicia had been concerned Lizzy would hate her child because of who the father was, but instead she’d clung to Natalie since the first time she’d seen her.
Joss turned her to face him. “And how are you today, my lady?”
Alicia slid her arms around his neck and smiled up into his harsh-featured face: a face that was more beloved to her than any other except Lizzy’s.
“I’m better now that you are here. Did you see you have a letter from Mrs. Griffin?”
His eyes glinted with amusement. “Yes, I’m almost afraid to open it.”
She chuckled. “Coward.”
Joss had ended up staying behind in London for two months.
The first month was to complete his promise to Melissa Griffin.
He’d been concerned his notoriety would be bad for Melissa’s business. Instead, both men and women had flocked in greater numbers, drawn by the scandal.
His father had passed away quietly in the middle of his time at The White House, so Joss had stayed another month to help with the burial, various family matters, and attend Belle and Ian’s tiny wedding ceremony. Belle had decided it was better to offend propriety and marry Ian than to be a burden on her brother Michael and his wife for a year of mourning.
Alicia knew that Belle’s seemingly happy marriage was a great weight off Joss’s mind. They were looking forward to a visit from the newlyweds, sometime in the fall, hopefully around the time of the christening.
Alicia disengaged herself from his embrace and picked up another letter. “This also came—for both of us.”
He glanced at Lady Constance’s direction on the envelope and looked at Alicia. “Ah, news about Annie? What does it say?”
“Annie has had her child, a son. She is happy working for Lady Constance and has already met a very kind—and handsome—footman on the duke’s staff who has taken a shine to her.”
Joss chuckled. “I can only imagine.”
She smacked him with the letter. “You will restrict your imaginings to your wife, Mr. Gormley.”
“Temper, temper,” he teased, catching her so quickly that his hands were a blur. He pulled her close. “Too much excitement is bad for our daughter,” he whispered into her temple, and then began to trail kisses down her jaw.
Alicia pressed her body against his, her heart pumping faster at what she felt. “You already seem rather excited.”
“Excitement is good for your husband,” he murmured.
Alicia laughed and gave herself up to his caresses. “How can you be so certain it will be a girl? Don’t you want a son? I thought every man did.”
He nibbled her ear. “Why would I want a big ugly blighter like me?”
“Maybe I would,” she said, groaning when he thumbed one hardened nipple through her gown.
“You’ve already got a big ugly blighter,” he reminded her.
She chuckled, melting against him. The fact that she was pregnant for the first time at almost forty was a miracle she gave thanks for every day.
He slid a massive arm beneath her knees and swept her up in the way that always left her breathless.
“Joss,” she said laughingly. “What are you doing?”
“It’s a secret.” He stopped in front of the door. “Open the door, darling.”
She complied and he didn’t bother closing it before striding down the wide corridor toward the stairs.
Alicia had leased the beautiful, serene chateau for two years. She’d spoken to Lizzy and Joss and they’d all agreed that time away from scandal and England would give them all a chance to heal. But neither of them wanted to live here permanently.
As for Alicia, she didn’t care where she lived as long as she had Joss and her daughter with her. In her experience, it was the people you loved, and not the country, that made a place feel like home.
The scandal over David’s death and Rebecca’s suicide was still mentioned in the papers from England, even months later. The news of Joss and Alicia’s marriage had quickly crossed The Channel and caused the matter to resurface.
Likely there would always be scandal associated with their names—both because of Joss’s initial arrest for murder but more for his role as the enterprising groom who’d somehow managed to marry the American Ice Countess.
Fortunately, Lizzy’s part in the drama remained a secret. Although her daughter might never be able to walk, she’d become leagues healthier in the months she’d been away from David.
It would take years for her to put the worst of her nightmarish past behind her, and she would never be able to forget completely.
Alicia wanted to stay as close to Lizzy as the young woman would allow, and Joss agreed. The two got along better than ever now that they were free to become friends. They still had their reading salon every week and Alicia occasionally joined in.
She’d finally shared the truth about her problems reading and writing with Lizzy and Joss and she no longer felt so ashamed. They both loved her no matter how quickly she could read, and that, somehow, made the process of completing a book considerably less daunting.
“Where are we going?” she asked as he began to take the stairs, two at a time.
“For such a clever woman you ask some rather silly questions,” he said, not even winded as he reached the second-floor landing and began the ascent to the third.
“But it’s the middle of the day,” she protested laughingly.
“I know,” he said, swooping down to kiss her hard as he reached the landing. “I’ve already let the first half of the day go to waste.”
She relaxed in her husband’s arms with a sigh. “You’re correct—you’ve been horribly lax,” she chided. “I shall give you one last opportunity to make it up to me.”
“Ahh, well I suppose duty calls,” he said with an exaggerated, martyrish tone as he came to the bedchamber they shared.
This time Alicia opened the door without being asked.
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JOSS AND THE COUNTESS
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THE MUSIC OF LOVE, Book 1 in THE ACADEMY OF LOVE
Chapter One
Bude, Cornwall
1816
Portia Stefani pulled her gaze from the moonlit countryside beyond the carriage window and stared at the well-worn letter she clutched in her hand. She’d read it so often that she’d memorized it, but she still needed to look at the words.
She’d done the right thing, hadn’t she?
Dear Signore Stefani,
The Stark Employment Agency forwarded your letter of interest regarding the teaching position. Naturally your skills and experience are well above what I’d hoped for in a piano teacher. It is my privilege to offer you a one-year term of employment. I require only two hours of instruction per day, six days per week. The remaining time would be your own.
Whitethorn Manor is in a very remote part of Cornwall, so if country living is anathema to you the position would not suit.
Portia’s hands shook as she refolded the brief missive and tucked it into her reticule. It was foolish to submit to her nerves, especially after she’d already accepted the private chaise, the nights in posting inns, and the meals Mr. Harrington’s money had provided.
She groaned and rested her aching temple against the cool glass, exhausted by the relentless whirl of thoughts. Her head had begun to pound several hours earlier and the pain increased with each mile. Weeks and weeks of living with her deception had taken its toll on both her mind and body. Thank God it would soon be over, no matter what happened.
The argument she’d relied on most heavily—that this deception was her only choice—had lost its conviction the closer she came to Whitethorn Manor. But that didn’t make it any less true. Portia had no money, no family—at least none who would acknowledge her—and her few friends were almost as poor as she was. She had nothing but debt since she’d been forced to close the Ivo Stefani Academy for Young Ladies.
She laughed and the bitter puff of air left a fleeting fog on the carriage window. Even now the ridiculous name amused her; Ivo had always possessed such grandiose dreams. It was unfortunate his dreams had rarely put food on their table, even before he abandoned her and their struggling school.
Although the small academy had been his idea and bore his name, her husband had pouted whenever Portia asked for help teaching or tutoring.
“Such work is fine for you, cara, but my ear bones,” he would shudder dramatically at this point, “they are in danger of breaking and bleeding if exposed to such abuse.”
“And how will your ear bones feel when they have no place to sleep?” Portia had asked on more than one occasion.
But Ivo had only laughed at her fears—and then run off with a woman whose very existence meant Portia’s ten-year marriage was nothing but a sham. Not that any of that mattered now. Ivo was gone and the humiliating truth with him; it no longer signified what he’d done or with whom he’d done it. What mattered was that Portia needed to survive and the only way she could do so was teaching music.
She could have found work in London, but the prospect of starting all over again in the same city had left her feeling tired and hopeless. If she hadn’t been destitute she might have considered the offer to share a house with three friends: Serena Lombard, Honoria Keyes, and Lady Winifred Sedgewick, all teachers from her now defunct school.
Unfortunately, all Portia had to offer anyone was debt, and most of it not even hers. But to the dunning agents who dogged her day and night it hadn’t mattered that Ivo had generated the mountain of bills without her knowledge.
No, she’d done far better to accept this well-paid position, even though she’d resorted to despicable—and probably criminal—deceit to get it.
The chaise shuddered to a halt and her thoughts scattered like startled pigeons.
Portia peered out the window and caught her breath. It was not a country house; it was a mansion: an imposing Palladian-style structure that loomed over the carriage, its massive portico and immense Venetian windows dominating the moonlit sky.
She had arrived.
***
The footmen had just removed their plates when Soames entered the dining room.
“I beg your pardon, sir, it appears the music teacher has arrived.”
Stacy Harrington took out his watch. “It’s quite late and no doubt he’s exhausted after his long journey. I’ll wait until morning to speak to him. Show him to his chambers and have Cook send up a tray.”
His aged butler did not move.
“Is there something else, Soames?”
“Well . . .”
“Yes, what is it?”
“Well, the thing is, sir, it’s not Signore Stefani.”
Stacy frowned at his usually imperturbable servant. “What is it, Soames?”
“It’s Signora Stefani,” Soames blurted.
“Very well, so he brought his wife with him. I wish he’d let us know, but tonight they can stay in the rooms you have prepared and tomorrow we can move them to a larger apartment.”
Soames cleared his throat. “Er, it is only Signora Stefani.”
His Aunt Frances, who’d been inching closer to the edge of her seat with each new piece of information, could no longer contain herself. “What on earth does he mean, Stacy?” she asked, rattled enough to call him by his childhood pet name in front of a servant.
Stacy didn’t mind the slip. In fact, he preferred “Stacy” to “Eustace”—which he’d always thought sounded like an undertaker’s name.
He turned from his aunt to his hovering servant. “My aunt wishes to know what on earth you mean, Soames?”
The butler’s parchment-like skin flushed. “It appears Signore Stefani is . . . well, he is dead, sir.”
His aunt gasped and Stacy sat back in his chair.
“Are you telling me there is a dead body in the carriage, Soames?”
“Oh no, sir, no.” Soames stopped and stared a point somewhere beyond Stacy’s left shoulder, blinking owlishly. His brow creased and he fingered his long chin. “At least . . .”
“Well?” Stacy prodded when it seemed the ancient man had calcified.
“I understand she is alone in the carriage, sir. No maid or, er, body.” He glanced down at his hand. “She brought this with her and claims she is here for the music position.”
Soames held out a folded piece of paper and Stacy took it. His own handwriting stared back at him; it was the letter he’d sent Ivo Stefani offering the famous pianist the position. Stacy put the letter aside.
“Very well, show Signora Stefani to her room, have Cook send up a tray, and tell her I shall speak to her tomorrow.”
“Very good, sir.”
His aunt waited until the agitated butler left before speaking.
“Well.”
Stacy was amused by how much meaning she put into the single word.
“Well, indeed, Aunt.”
“Wouldn’t you rather speak to her now? Why wait until morning?”
“She’s been in a carriage for almost three days, Aunt Frances. I daresay she is exhausted. Whether I speak to her now or in the morning, she’ll still need someplace to spend the night.” Besides, the woman had availed herself of a costly journey at his expense; he would question her at his leisure.
“But why has she come, my dear?”
“You heard Soames, Aunt, she’s come to teach.”
“Was there any mention of this in the correspondence you exchanged?”
“Not a word.”
“Can she really expect you to offer her the position after she deceived you?” She stopped, her brow wrinkling. “Unless. . . do you think it possible the hiring agency deceived you?”
“Someone certainly has.”
His aunt pursed her lips. “You must send her away.”
“I can hardly send her packing in the middle of the night, can I ma’am?”
“I suppose not,” she said, grudgingly. “But you must do so first thing tomorrow.”
Stacy raised his eyebrows at his aunt’s strident tone and she flushed under his silent stare and looked away.
Although his aunt had raised him from infancy, she’d always accepted he was master of both himself and Whitethorn Manor. Stacy couldn’t recall the last time she’d told him what he must or mustn’t do. She must be far more agitated than she appeared.
He gave her a reassuring smile. “There’s nothing to worry about, Aunt Frances. I shall take care of everything in the morning.” He took out his watch and glanced at it.
His aunt saw the gesture and stood. “I beg your pardon, my dear, I shall leave you to your port.”
Stacy met her at the dining room
door and opened it for her. “I’ll join you shortly,” he promised before shutting the door behind her.
He extinguished all but one candle and poured himself a larger than average glass of port, taking a sip of the tawny liquid before removing his dark spectacles. The bridge of his nose ached from a day of wearing glasses and he absently massaged it while staring at the dining room ceiling, on which sly cherubs lolled and cavorted on clouds, avidly viewing human folly from a safe distance.
He supposed he should have expected something like this. Not that a woman would show up, of course, but that it would be impossible to engage a musician of Stefani’s caliber with such ease. When the employment agency wrote to tell him the famous pianist was seeking a teaching position, Stacy had wondered if it might be some sort of mistake.
Apparently it had been.
He couldn’t believe the reputable and well-regarded Stark agency would have lied about Ivo Stefani applying for the position. No, it must have been Mrs. Stefani.
Stacy shook his head. What manner of woman would embark on a long journey under such false pretenses? A bold one? A confident one? A desperate one?
He snorted; certainly a dishonest one.
Stacy could guess why she’d deceived him—no doubt she believed he would not engage a woman. He swirled his glass and stared into its warm depths. Would he? His lips twisted at the thought. No, he would not hire a female, although not for the reasons she might suspect.
While men might gawk and stare at him, they tended to overcome their curiosity—eventually. Women, on the other hand . . . Well, let’s just say he’d learned the hard way that women were not so forgiving—especially when it came to his eyes.
Stacy could do nothing about their reactions, but he could minimize his exposure to their fear or scorn. Other than his tenants’ wives, a few women in the village, and his female servants, he managed to avoid most women. Well, except for the women he visited in Plymouth; those women he generously compensated to ignore his appearance.
It said something about the state of his life that he’d so anticipated the arrival of a music teacher. Perhaps this debacle was a way of telling him his hobby was a foolish waste of time? God knew he had plenty on his plate managing his estates and businesses. But was his life to be devoid of any personal pleasure? He’d already accepted that he could never marry and have a family. Must he also give up playing the piano—one of the few things he loved—just because of his freakish appearance? Was he asking too much to engage a music teacher without fuss and bother? People did it all the time. True, it was usually for their children, but why should that matter?