He stroked her hair and stared into the darkness, too exhausted to think and too anxious to sleep. She’d looked almost mad when she’d stormed into the room—as if she’d been bent on murder. He was bloody fortunate she’d aimed her passion toward pleasuring him rather than strangling him.
Stacy laughed weakly as he held her close; God help anyone who truly roused her ire.
Chapter Sixteen
The morning after their first marital argument Stacy gave Portia her horse, a dainty black mare she immediately named Dainty.
She threw her arms around him and thanked him. “A black horse, Mr. Harrington?” she teased, covering his face with kisses.
“If you continue in this manner I shall have to take off my glasses and bat my eyelashes and you will never learn to ride.” He kissed the side of her nose where her freckle lay.
“I already know how to ride,” she murmured, reminding him of the second time they’d made love that morning.
His hands tightened. “Mmm, Mrs. Harrington.”
She laughed and shoved him away. “I’d like my lesson first.”
Stacy grunted and adjusted himself.
By the end of the first week she was comfortable enough on horseback to join him on rides and by the end of the second week she was able to gallop, at least for a short distance.
Now, a month later, she was going on her longest ride to date. Stacy was taking her to inspect one of the tenant cottages at the far edge of his property. They had a picnic hamper and Portia’s morning sickness had recently been replaced by a voracious appetite, as if her body was making up for all those weeks of sickness.
Last week they’d finally shared the news about the baby with Frances and Nanny—not that she believed the two women hadn’t already guessed the truth. But if they had, neither woman showed any disapproval.
Portia was relieved at no longer having to hide her condition and today’s excursion was a perfect way to celebrate. But by the time they rode up to the Humbolts’ cottage, she realized she’d reached the limit of her riding ability. Stacy, of course, noticed her fatigue even before she did.
“I should never have suggested such a long trip.”
“I will be fine.”
He lifted her off Dainty and she slid down the hard length of his body in a way that made him smile.
“None of that here,” he murmured, swatting her on her bottom just as Mr. and Mrs. Humboldt approached.
Stacy greeted the older couple in his quiet, dignified way and smiled down at the plump, slightly flustered woman. “Could I impose on you to take my wife inside and force her to rest, Mrs. Humboldt? She is in a delicate way but will not believe her husband knows anything of such matters.”
His words struck exactly the right note and the older woman bristled with pride at his request. Portia glared at Stacy’s triumphant smile as she was borne off to have cake and some of Mrs. Humboldt’s restorative potion.
She was actually grateful for a rest in the coolness of the cottage as the day had become warm. She spent a little over half an hour with the pleasant woman, who was delighted to expound, in vivid detail, on the gory trials of childbirth, having gone through the process no fewer than nine times. By the time Stacy came to fetch her, Portia was ready to scream.
The two men took a glass of homemade wine while they discussed the matter of roof repair and it was another quarter hour before Stacy stood and begged the Humboldts’ leave to get his wife home.
Portia made a frustrated growling noise as they waved to the beaming couple and rode away.
Stacy laughed.
“You are wicked, Mr. Harrington. I spent a good half hour listening to the most blood-curdling stories I’ve ever had the misfortune to hear.”
His smile drained away in an instant. “Childbirth tales? I’m sorry, Portia, I did not think.”
“Oh, hush. I am only teasing. I am starving again, however. I ate three tea cakes but feel hollow. I shall be the size of a cow soon.”
He chuckled. “There is a lovely spot about half an hour ahead if you can wait?”
“Barely.” But she was very glad that she did when she saw the tiny glade in the woods Stacy found for them. “Why Mr. Harrington, if I didn’t know better I’d think you had ideas in mind.”
He lifted her from her horse, kissed her hard on the mouth, and went to untie the hamper. “I have lots of ideas, Mrs. Harrington. But you’d better eat first. What I have in mind will require energy.”
Three-quarters of an hour later, as she gasped for breath, Portia realized he hadn’t been exaggerating.
“That was divine.” She lay on her back and stared up at the cloudless sky as the last tremors of her climax rolled through her. Stacy slowly emerged from beneath her skirt, straightening her clothing as he came up alongside her.
“I believe I’ve found my new favorite way to stay out of the sun, Mrs. Harrington,” he said, collapsing by her side with a happy sigh.
“I’m a wickedly lazy wife, Stacy. I can barely keep my eyes open. How selfish of me.” A huge yawn stopped her speech.
“Don’t worry, darling. I’ll get what I want from you tonight. Take a nap while I pack our belongings.”
Portia was asleep before he’d even finished speaking. Stacy put the remains of their picnic into the basket and went to the edge of the clearing to enjoy one of his cigars, far enough away that the smoke would not disturb her.
He’d just taken the first puffs when he saw George Fant and another man approaching on the road that led toward Bude. He was about to step out from under the trees and greet them when their raised voices drifted toward him. It sounded like the two men were having a disagreement, so he stayed where he was. The road followed the woods where Stacy was standing and soon he could hear them clearly.
“You talk to her ladyship. I’m not here to discuss matters with the likes of you,” the stranger yelled. His accent was heavy—perhaps French or Spanish—and he was gesticulating in a wild, jerky way that made his mount jumpy.
“You’ll bloody well do as I say or you’ll get nowt,” Fant shouted in his own heavily accented voice.
The other man let out a long string of something that could only have been curse words and Stacy realized he’d heard something very similar from his wife the night he’d been shot; the man was speaking Italian. Or at least he was cursing in Italian.
“I want half now,” he demanded, breathless from his yelling.
“You’ll get paid when the woman is gone and not a second before—just as you promised. And if both of you ain’t gone by the end of—” the rest of whatever Fant said was cut off when the men disappeared around the bend.
Stacy stared at the empty road, tendrils of unease snaking through his body. What the bloody hell was that all about? It hadn’t sounded like anything good. He puffed on his cigar and considered the odd scene he’d just witnessed. First thing tomorrow he would go to Nanny’s and see if Fant had brought the man back to her cottage. If he had, it would be a perfect time to discharge the pair and move Nanny back to Whitethorn as Portia had suggested.
Portia was still sleeping when he returned to the blanket. Stacy never should have taken her on such a long ride. In fact, he would have to curtail her riding altogether, soon. It was far too dangerous for a woman in her condition. She looked so peaceful he hated to wake her but they needed to leave if they were going to make it back to Whitethorn by dinner.
It took a while for Portia to shake off her grogginess, but he was willing to wait; he didn’t want her in the saddle without all her faculties sharp.
As they left the glade Stacy recalled Fant’s foreign guest and considered asking if she’d ever met the man at Nanny’s. But he shrugged the thought away; after all, Portia would have mentioned a stranger—especially an Italian one.
Stacy escorted Portia to her room directly after dinner. “You need rest,” he said, pulling the bell for Daisy. For once, she didn’t argue.
“Come to me tonight, Stacy,” she murmured into
his chest, her soft, voluptuous body pressed against his.
“You need sleep, darling.” He stroked her hair, unable to resist plucking out the pins and releasing the black, glossy coils.
“Mm. Come to me anyhow.”
He lightly massaged her temples and she purred, rubbing herself against his quickly stiffening cock in a way designed to destroy his best intentions.
“Very well, I will sleep with you. But don’t think for a minute that you will entice me into doing anything else.”
“Mmmm.”
He turned when the door opened. “Please put her to bed directly and make sure she drinks a glass of warm milk before going to sleep.”
Daisy grinned. “Aye, Mr. Harrington, I’ll see to it.”
A stack of mail awaited him in the library. He’d been spending so much time with his new bride that his business had gone wanting. Tonight he would work through as much of it as he could while she slept.
He’d gone through a good half of the pile when he came across a letter franked by a very spidery old hand—was that the Earl of Broughton? Stacy’s brow wrinkled as he studied the name. Now where had he heard that name before?
The letter was brief and signed by Viscount Pendleton, not an earl. The viscount said he would be in the area on Thursday and asked if he might call on Stacy. The letter had arrived several days ago and tomorrow was Thursday. Perhaps the man would not come since Stacy had not answered? He shrugged. Either way, he had no objections to receiving him, indeed, he was even a little intrigued.
It was almost three by the time he went up to bed. He undressed himself, having sent Powell off earlier. When he went into Portia’s room it was to find her reading.
“Stacy.” She smiled up at him and set aside her book, tossing back the covers to welcome him. Her open joy at seeing him made his entire body throb. He leaned toward the candle to extinguish it but her voice stopped him.
“No, leave it, please. I want to watch you undress.”
He looked down at her eager, waiting face and his breathing became something of an effort. As he slid out of his robe her eyes dropped lower, her lips parted, and he heard the sudden intake of breath that always made him hard—or harder, in this case. He climbed in beside her and her warm arms slid around him.
“I couldn’t sleep without you,” she murmured into his neck.
“Oh? I make you sleepy, do I?” He cupped her jaw and brought her closer for a lingering kiss. “Odd how you have the opposite effect on me.” Her hand slipped between his legs and he sucked in a breath. “What did I tell you earlier, Mrs. Harrington?” he chided, even as his hips began to move.
“That a slate roof was the most durable kind of roof for this climate?” Her voice was muffled as she ducked beneath the covers.
He laughed and then gasped. “You are very naughty, Mrs. Harrington.”
“Yes, I know.”
And then she proceeded to show him just how naughty.
They’d just finished breakfast the following morning and Portia was gathering her things to take the gig into town.
“Please take Daisy with you, my dear,” Stacy murmured absently as he looked up from the paper.
She laughed. “I don’t need an escort to go to town.”
“Yesterday I realized how quickly you become fatigued. I would like you to have somebody with you when you go out, just in case you need help.”
“I’m not a piece of glass.”
He nodded, amused. “Even so, bring Daisy with you.”
Her face settled into mulish lines. “Is that an order, Stacy?”
“Does it need to be, Portia?” He immediately regretted the tinge of annoyance in his voice. But he was annoyed, annoyed she couldn’t see he was only doing this for her own safety. He suppressed his annoyance and tried again. “It would make me less anxious if you allowed her to accompany you.”
Her jaw moved back and forth, as if she was chewing on gristle. She finally nodded. “Very well.”
Stacy was more than a little relieved. While he had no wish to argue with her, he would not live under the cat’s paw, scared to say anything that might make her angry. “Thank you for understanding, Portia.”
She kissed him on the cheek and whispered in his ear, “Thank you for caring so much about my well-being, Mr. Harrington.”
Stacy put aside his paper after she left. He would need to work on the way he delivered his requests or they would bicker constantly. She required more careful handling than he’d realized. The thought surprised him; handling? Was that how he dealt with people—by managing them? He shrugged the question away. If he was managing her it was for her own good.
Portia and Daisy returned from town to find a large, elegant traveling coach waiting in the courtyard.
Soames opened the front door before they reached the top of the steps.
“Who does that belong to, Soames?”
“Viscount Pendleton, the Earl of Broughton’s heir. The family’s name is Harrington, ma’am,” he added, obviously pleased about his employer’s connection to such an illustrious visitor.
Portia was curious about what a viscount was doing here but she could hardly barge in on the two men without an invitation.
“I’ll be up in my chambers if Mr. Harrington wants me.”
When they reached her rooms Portia and Daisy spent half an hour looking through her garments, picking out some that Daisy could alter to fit her increasing size.
After they’d finished the men were still closeted in the library, so she decided to walk over to Nanny’s and bring her the tatting thread she’d requested. Portia had hoped to walk to the cottage with Stacy but she had no idea when he would be free.
Soames was nowhere to be found, but Daisy knew where she was going so Portia pulled on her gloves, glancing at the darkening sky. She considered waiting to see if the clouds passed but decided she could beat the rain if she hurried.
Portia was hurrying through the thickest part of the woods when the first drops of rain hit her. “Drat!” she muttered. Stacy had shown her the ruins of a very old cottage not far off the trail and she headed for that, lifting her skirts high to scramble over stumps and fallen limbs. It was farther than she remembered and her cloak was wet in spite of the shelter of the tree canopy. For a moment she thought she must have mistaken the spot but then saw a stone wall and a mossy section of roof just beyond several large trees. The rain began to pelt down heavily as she rounded the corner of the building and ducked under the bit of roof.
She stopped short; a fire smoked in a small pit and some bedding and clothing hung over an old table in the opposite corner. Somebody was living here, a man by the look of the clothing.
Portia started to back up and ran into something: something warm, hard, and human.
Chapter Seventeen
Stacy gaped at the tall blond man seated across from him. “Twin brother?” he repeated for the third time.
Viscount Pendleton nodded for the third time.
Stacy laughed, but not with amusement. “You’ll have to excuse me if I sound rather skeptical.”
Robert Harrington, Viscount Pendleton, raised a hand. “Please, don’t apologize. I did the very same thing when I heard.” He ran his hand absently through his thick blond hair. “I’m afraid I rather made a mess of things. Perhaps I should start from the beginning?”
“Perhaps you should. Would you like a drink?”
“God, yes.”
After they’d both taken long pulls from their glasses, Robert Harrington began his story.
“Our mother was Victoria Standish, the second wife of the Earl of Broughton—our father. The earl’s first wife bore him three daughters and died when the girls were well into their early twenties. The earl remarried exactly a year after his first wife’s death. Our mother was younger than the earl’s daughters, only seventeen to our father’s fifty-three. A year later the two of us arrived. I was born first and seventeen minutes later you came. Our mother died that night.” He drained his g
lass and Stacy refilled it without being asked.
“I’m afraid our father is . . .” He grimaced. “Well, let’s just say he is a man of narrow understanding. When he saw your, er, condition, he went to my mother’s family and confronted them. Our grandfather, our mother’s only surviving parent, confessed he’d known there was a possibility his daughter might bear a child with your, uh, affliction.” He took another gulp. “He admitted his infant brother, who’d died before he was a year old, was like you.” He frowned and stared at the floor, turning his glass round and round.
Stacy couldn’t help wondering why the man was so nervous. Or perhaps it was just his face that made the viscount uncomfortable, as it did so many others?
Pendleton resumed his story. “Our father was livid. He accused our grandfather of sabotaging his lineage, jeopardizing the Harrington bloodline, and all other manner of rubbish.” He gave Stacy a pained look. “I learned all this when I confronted our grandfather.” He must have seen the surprise on Stacy’s face. “Yes, he still lives.” He snorted. “He is younger than our father. He’s rather a wastrel and he bartered away his daughter to cover gambling debts—and he has accumulated even more in the last thirty odd years.” He sighed heavily. “Our father’s decision to banish you was appalling and I am aggrieved and angered at having missed the opportunity to know my brother, not to mention the disservice he has done to you. He’s old now, nearing ninety. He stands by his decision and insists I would not have been able to marry the daughter of a duke if you were known to exist.” His mouth twisted bitterly. “My wife is the daughter of the Duke of Rotherham. My father believes the illustrious connection vindicates his behavior.” His bitter tone indicated he felt otherwise.
Stacy stared at the man—his brother—not sure where to begin, or even if he wanted to begin. He’d lived thirty-five years without a father; a father who’d rejected him like an ill-bred calf. Why bother with him now? He looked at the stranger across from him and saw real pain in his eyes. Robert Harrington had been hurt by their father’s actions, not as badly as Stacy, perhaps, but just as deeply.
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