Joss and The Countess (The Seducers Book 2)

by S. M. LaViolette

  Stacy put down his glass with more force than necessary, and the crystal clattered on the polished burl wood surface. The more he thought about the woman’s deception, the angrier he became. How dare this female muck up what was supposed to be a simple business transaction? His aunt had been correct. Stacy should have summoned the woman before him, no matter how exhausted she was, and called her to account for her outrageous deception.

  Thinking about his aunt made him realize it had been unkind to send her away when she was only concerned for his welfare—no matter how unnecessary her concern might be. She worried about him as if he were still a little boy rather than a man of five-and-thirty. Frances Tate was his only relative and had been mother and father to him, burying herself in the country and devoting her life to raising him. She’d never been married or even had a beau, as far as Stacy knew. Not for the first time did he feel guilty that she’d built her life around him. Poor Frances, at slightly over six feet tall, she was almost as great a misfit as he was.

  Stacy pushed away his glass, picked up his spectacles, and stood. He would make up for his abrupt dismissal by playing for her—that always soothed her.

  ***

  The butler’s reaction to Portia’s arrival had been so comical she would have laughed if her future did not hang in the balance. Indeed, if Mr. Harrington’s horror was a fraction of his servant’s, Portia would have been out in the road with her bags right now—or standing in front of the local magistrate.

  Instead, she was in the middle of a luxurious suite comprised of a sitting room, a bedroom, and an enormous dressing room complete with a copper tub. The rooms were airy and spacious and decorated in a soothing combination of icy blue and warm chocolate brown. Portia sank into a wingback chair, took off her sturdy black ankle boots, and stretched her feet on the plush Aubusson carpet. Her body ached, she was dusty and gritty, and her brain was beyond sluggish. Thank God she didn’t have to face her prospective employer in this state.

  She’d been both stunned and grateful when Mr. Harrington decided to postpone their encounter until morning. Tonight she’d take advantage of her brief reprieve and forget about whatever the master of the house had planned for her; tonight she’d enjoy the luxurious comfort of these rooms.

  Portia had just opened her portmanteau and was searching for her nightgown when a maid entered with a large tray of food. The girl gave her a shy smile before carrying the tray to the sitting room and arranging the dishes on a table. She bobbed a curtsey when she’d finished, her large brown eyes brimming with curiosity.

  “Mr. Soames said I should help you unpack or ask if you wished for a bath, ma’am.”

  Portia had the good grace to blush; dinner in her room and an offer of a hot bath? Mr. Harrington was treating her with kindness and courtesy despite her deception.

  There was no point unpacking but Portia couldn’t turn down a chance to bathe in the beautiful copper tub.

  She smiled at the young woman. “I am Signora Stefani. What is your name?”

  “Daisy, ma’am.”

  “I shan’t need any help unpacking, Daisy, but I would love a bath after my meal.”

  “Very good, ma’am.” She dropped another curtsey and left, closing the sitting room door behind her.

  The smell of food made her mouth water and Portia hastened to examine what the maid had brought: roasted fowl, whipped parsnips, fresh bread and butter, a carafe of wine, and clotted cream with fresh berries. It was the perfect meal for a weary, hungry traveler and she descended on it like a ravenous beast.

  She had just popped the last berry into her mouth when Daisy opened the door.

  “Your bath is ready, ma’am.”

  Portia followed her to the copper tub, which was full of steaming water. Beside it was a marble-topped table with a stack of fluffy towels and several crystal decanters.

  “Can I help you with your dress, ma’am?”

  “Thank you, Daisy, but I shall manage.” She waited until the door closed behind the maid before unbuttoning the row of fasteners that ran down the side of her worn, brown traveling costume.

  Portia glanced around the room as she undressed. A lovely Chippendale cabinet stood against one wall, rich brown velvet drapes flanked floor-to-ceiling windows, and a massive four-poster bed dominated the bedchamber.

  She absently ran a hand over the blue silk counterpane, which felt like a cloud when she pressed her hand into it. A sharp pang shot through her as she considered her surroundings. The housemaid was sweet, the rooms were lovely, and the simple meal had been delicious—what a pity she would most likely have to leave all this tomorrow.

  Portia had never received such grand treatment before, not even when she and Ivo had stayed in some of the finest houses in Europe. Her husband had been hailed as a great artist and had been much feted before the accident which had ended his career. Men had paid generous sums to have Ivo Stefani play for their peers, and women had fawned over his olive-skinned good looks and warm bedroom eyes.

  But the wife of the great artist had not received the same treatment. For the most part, Portia had stayed in tiny garrets and endured the grudging, slighting treatment of servants while Ivo had bedded the mistress of the house, spent a fortune on expensive frippery, and gambled away most of the money he’d earned.

  Portia realized she was gritting her teeth.

  Relax, she told herself. Relax and enjoy the unexpected splendor, because the local magistrate will probably be waiting for you in the morning.

  She pushed away the thought and added a generous splash of lavender-scented bath oil to the steaming water before lowering her tired body into sheer heaven.

  By the time she finished washing her hair, her eyelids were heavy with fatigue and she lay back against the warm copper and closed her eyes.

  I will rest my eyes. Just for a minute…

  Portia woke with a start to cold bathwater, pruned fingers, and pebbled skin. It was all she could do to pull her stiff, aching body from the tub and dry herself. She barely had enough strength left to drag a comb through her damp hair and don her threadbare nightgown before burrowing into the decadent bed. She closed her eyes and was immediately in the grip of a tedious half-dream that revolved around an unending carriage ride.

  She was drifting in a deep, dreamless sleep when something awakened her. She pushed aside a tangled mass of curls and squinted at the candle she’d left burning across the room. The clock on her nightstand showed it was just past two.

  Portia groaned and dropped her head onto the pillow. In addition to leaving the candle burning, she’d forgotten to draw the curtains, and moonlight flooded the room. She would need to extinguish the candle and close the drapes if she hoped to get any sleep.

  Grumbling, she pushed off the blankets, heaved herself out of bed, and padded across the thick carpet to the window. She was about to pull the drapes shut when she noticed a small stone balcony beyond the rippled glass. The well-oiled window latch turned without a sound and she opened the casement and stepped out into a wonderland.

  A cool breeze stirred her nightgown and the moon cast a magical glow, illuminating the countryside for miles around. It was one of those moons that hung so low in the sky you felt you could reach out and touch it. Even more light came from a series of lanterns that ran from the corner of the house half-way down the drive.

  Portia wondered who would need such a brilliant display of light in the middle of the night but shrugged the thought away. Who knew what country folk did, and why?

  Although the night was chilly, it was too beautiful to resist. Portia leaned against the cold stone and filled her lungs with crisp, non-London air, a temporary queen of her moonlit kingdom.

  To the west lay a sliver of ocean; the shimmering waves were visible, but too far away to hear them crashing against the shore. Formal gardens surrounded the house to the west and south and beyond them lay a wood large enough to be called a forest.

  Portia closed her eyes and drank in the quiet of the night.
What a lovely, lovely place this was. And what a terrible shame this would probably be her only night to enjoy it. Her regret was so bitter it left a bad taste in her mouth; she never should have lied. She should’ve written to Mr. Harrington using her own name. She could’ve provided him with proof of her training, which was every bit as impressive as Ivo’s, not to mention her experience operating a school—not that a closed school was a ringing endorsement.

  She’d done them both a disservice by not giving him the truth and allowing him to make his decision. Now her deception would stand between them, and rightly so.

  Portia gnawed at her lower lip until it was raw, furious at her impetuosity. She was almost nine-and-twenty, would she never learn to think before she acted? She must have been mad to think this would work, and even if—

  A slight sound intruded on her misery and Portia opened her eyes. Something white and ghostly flickered in the trees at the edge of the woods. She took a step back and stood in the shroud of the heavy velvet drapes, pulling them closer around her body. A figure emerged from the woods and Portia caught her breath as the white blur solidified: It was not a ghost, but a person on a large white horse.

  Horse and rider picked their way past the line of trees before exploding into a gallop and blazing across the rolling parkland like a shooting star, closing the distance between the woods and the house in a matter of moments.

  The spectral pair slowed as they approached the drive, the bright lanterns affording Portia a better look. No, most certainly not a ghost, but a very substantial-looking man. He wore no coat or waistcoat, only a white shirt that must have become damp from his exertions and now adhered to his torso like a second skin. He controlled his mount with long, muscular thighs encased in breeches and tucked into dark boots. The moonlight turned both horse and man and an eerie silver white.

  Portia inched closer to the balcony as he approached, hoping to catch a glimpse of his face as he passed beneath the lantern that hung nearby. The drapes moved with her and the light from the candle behind her escaped and cast a dim line across the cobble drive that was like an arrow pointing toward her window.

  Horse and rider swung around as one toward the balcony.

  Portia gasped, stumbled back into the room and slammed the casement shut, fumbling with the lock. She pulled the drapes and collapsed against them, her heart pounding as if she’d been running.

  Good Lord! How was that possible?

  Chapter Two

  It was after eleven o’clock by the time a servant arrived to escort Portia to her interview with the master of the house.

  She’d been awake, dressed, and waiting for hours—in spite of the fact she’d not had much sleep. She’d tried, but every time she’d closed her eyes a haunting ivory face had flashed into her mind.

  And those eyes . . .

  Of course she knew it had been a man on the horse and not a ghost or demon. Even so, sleep had evaded her. She’d stared into the darkness above her bed, where phantom images formed and dissolved endlessly.

  She’d tried to count sheep or think of other more pleasant things. Like the friends she’d left behind, the five women and one man who’d once been her employees but were now her family. Now her friends were scattered to the four winds, each forced to scratch out an existence on society’s fringes. It was probable—likely, in fact—that Portia might never see some of them again.

  So here she was; alone, once more.

  The thought left her morose, restless, and full of self-pity, and she tossed and turned until the pink fingers of dawn crept over the horizon. Only then had she fallen into a shallow, fitful sleep.

  Splinters of bright sunlight penetrated the gap between the velvet drapes and woke her just before eight o’clock. The face that greeted her in the mirror had blood-shot eyes with bags beneath them. Portia wanted to cry when she saw her reflection, but that would have made her nose red, too.

  So she’d dressed herself and combed out the frightful mess that was her hair, pulling it back into a knot that was so tight it actually seemed to diminish the bags beneath her eyes.

  And then she’d placed a cool cloth on her forehead and fretted until a knock jarred her from her worries.

  It was the butler, Soames.

  “Mr. Harrington will see you in the library, ma’am.” In contrast to last night, when the old man had appeared almost frantic, this morning his wrinkled face and rheumy blue eyes were the epitome of butleresque impassivity.

  They descended a different set of stairs than the one she’d come up the night before. Soames turned right when they reached the bottom and led her down a wide, dimly lit hall before stopping in front of a set of double doors.

  He flung open the door on the right and motioned her inside. “The library, ma’am.”

  Portia peered into the room, the interior of which was hardly visible. The only light came from a single candle on the far side.

  “Thank you, Soames.” The deep voice came from the same direction as the light. “Please, come in and take a seat, Signora Stefani.”

  Portia took a hesitant step inside the room and jumped when the door snapped shut behind her.

  “I suppose you find it rather dark.” A flare of light followed his words and a pale hand lit three more candles. The nimbus of light grew until a skull with two black eye sockets materialized beside it. Portia gasped and the skull shifted into a mask of scorn.

  “Please, don’t be alarmed. I’m not dangerous and won’t harm you.”

  Her face flamed, both at her foolish reaction and his mocking tone. She could see now that the two black spots were merely dark spectacles and the skull was just a very pale face—the same face she’d seen last night. The moonlight hadn’t been playing tricks: Eustace Harrington’s hair and skin were as white as freshly fallen snow. Only his frowning lips had any color.

  “I have albinism, Signora Stefani. That means I suffer from a lack of pigment. You needn’t worry, it’s not contagious.”

  Portia laughed and his expression shifted from scornful to haughty.

  “I’m not laughing at you, Mr. Harrington,” she hastened to assure him. “I’m laughing because I’m perfectly aware you’re not a contagion. I’ve heard of your condition before.” Portia didn’t tell him the only other person she’d heard of had been stoned to death by superstitious peasants in a village outside Rome.

  “Then I don’t have to worry you will faint or scream?” he asked, his tone caustic.

  “Not unless you give me good reason to do either, sir.”

  He ignored her attempt at levity. “Why have you come to Whitethorn Manor?”

  Portia took a deep breath and commenced the speech she’d rehearsed all the way from London.

  “You wished to engage a music tutor with superior talent—I am such a person. I trained at the Accademia Nazionale di Santa Cecilia, the most respected music school in the world. My father was an instructor there for many years and I was one of his pupils.” She paused. When he didn’t speak, she continued. “The Accademia doesn’t admit women, but I am, nevertheless, a classically trained pianist. I’m not Ivo Stefani, but I’m good. Very good.” Portia stopped before her crushing anxiety got the better of her and leaked through her carefully constructed façade.

  The white face across from her remained motionless. Had he expected her to apologize? To beg? Something very close to terror spread through her chest, making it difficult to breathe. Perhaps she should—

  “When did your husband die?” he asked the question coolly, much as he might ask what time it was or whether she preferred tea to coffee.

  Portia swallowed her irritation at his calm, deliberate manner—which made her feel like a recalcitrant schoolgirl standing before a headmistress. She reminded herself that he was the injured party in this transaction; she deserved cool treatment, at the very least.

  “A little less than a year ago.”

  “So it was you who responded to my original advertisement and then sent me a letter, signing your hus
band’s name.”

  Her hot face became even hotter. “Yes.”

  “If you are so highly qualified, why did you not apply under your own name instead of lying?”

  The word lying was like a spark on dry tinder.

  Portia opened her mouth, but the shrill voice of reason stopped her. Be humble, Portia! Grovel! Only last night you promised no more impetuous behavior and—Portia shoved the voice aside. After all—what did she have to lose by speaking her mind? The man was obviously not going to hire her.

  “Tell me, Mr. Harrington, would you have engaged a woman tutor?”

  He leaned back in his chair, his mouth pulling into a slight smile. “That’s hardly the point, is it?”

  The man was toying with her and feeding off her humiliation and fear. She shot to her feet and he stood with her.

  “Are you leaving, Signora Stefani?”

  “Why should I stay? You’ve made your opinion of female musicians quite clear.”

  “Oh? I thought we were speaking of your deception rather than your musical abilities.”

  Portia ground her teeth, furious that he was correct. Again.

  He gestured to her chair. “Please, won’t you be seated? I’ve gone to a great deal of effort and expense to bring you here. Won’t you extend me the courtesy of a few minutes of your time and perhaps some answers?”

  Everything he said was fair—maddeningly so—but for some reason that did nothing to mollify her unreasonable anger.

  “And what will you do if I refuse, Mr. Harrington? Summon the local magistrate?’

  He sighed. “I am the local magistrate, Signora Stefani.”

  Portia gave a short, mirthless laugh and dropped into her chair. “Ask whatever you like.”