The Music of Love

by Minerva Spencer

  “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.

  Portia was seated between a local squire and a rather handsome widowed baron. Conversation with both men was lively and, after her uncomfortable grilling by the earl, pleasant.

  Stacy sat at the far end of the long table between two blushing young women. Over the course of the meal Portia watched them go from terrified awe of the pale god between them to competing for his attention and rare smiles. Her husband looked magnificent. He wore a waistcoat she’d never seen before, ivory silk embroidered with pale violet roses, the same shade as his eyes. He wore his dark spectacles, which seemed to be causing an almost paralyzing giddiness among the women. Portia looked at his elegant, chiseled profile as he bent his head to listen to one of them and realized her jaw was clenched. She lowered her eyes and swept the table beneath her lashes. The only person looking at her was her father-in-law, who was watching her with gleeful amusement.

  Portia scowled at the extremely unpleasant old man and turned her attention to her food.

  Once the last course had been removed, the women left the men to their port and retired to the big drawing room that connected to the music room.

  The viscountess hovered beside her before she could sit. “I trust you are recovered enough to play for our guests tonight, Mrs. Harrington?”

  Portia had asked the woman to call her by her first name at least a half-dozen times. “Of course, my lady, have you anything particular in mind?”

  “I’m sure your taste is far superior to mine in such matters.” The viscountess’s eyes flickered over her dark blue gown as if to say Portia’s taste needed to be superior in some way. Portia almost applauded her performance. She really was a virtuosa when it came to casting aspersions with a smile on her face.

  “Most of the house guests begin to arrive tomorrow?” Portia asked, hoping the harmless question might cause the woman to sheath her ever-ready claws.

  “Yes. We shall have a full house over the next few days.” She gave a laugh that contained no humor. “Well, not entirely full. Thurlstone contains many rooms which are, I’m afraid, no longer habitable.”

  The admission surprised her. Not only did the castle look well-maintained, but the haughty duke’s daughter did not seem like the kind of woman who would admit to either a lack of perfection or the money to achieve that state.

  “I would love to see the house.”

  Her sister-in-law’s thin lips twitched into an indulgent smile. “Perhaps I could give you a tour tomorrow?”

  First the horse ride and now this? Maybe the woman really was trying to be friendly but didn’t know how.

  “That would be lovely, if you are not too busy preparing for your guests.”

  “I have servants to see to all that, Mrs. Harrington.” The words were spoken gently but the meaning was clear: If you were not such plebian speck you would know that.

  Portia almost laughed at the stunning set-down.

  Frances approached with the two young women who’d been flirting with Stacy at dinner.

  “Portia, I’d like to introduce Lady Elizabeth, the Duke of Beaconridge’s daughter and Miss Jennings, Sir Jerome Staunton’s daughter. Lady Elizabeth is visiting Miss Jennings.”

  Curtseys were exchanged all around.

  “We are very excited to hear you are going to play for us tonight, Mrs. Harrington,” Lady Elizabeth gushed, her soft brown eyes glowing with admiration. Well, here was one duke’s daughter who did not radiate contempt for lesser beings.

  “Do you play, Lady Elizabeth?” Portia asked the obligatory question, resigning herself to spending the next ten minutes engaged in a conversation that moved as torpidly as a carp.

  “I adore the piano! My piano instructor says I am the most promising of his pupils.”

  Portia could imagine. She’d frequently told the same lie, particularly after Ivo left and her pool of pupils began to shrink. It was Portia’s experience that a student’s skill was usually inversely proportional to their wealth.

  “Perhaps you will play for us tonight?” Portia asked, aware she’d said the
correct words when Lady Elizabeth smiled enchantingly.

  Portia could not recall how it felt to blush in such innocuous circumstances. Once you’d begged a man to fuck you, most other situations seemed tame by comparison. Her lips twitched at the thought.

  “Oh, I couldn’t,” Lady Elizabeth demurred, looking at the viscountess expectantly.

  “You absolutely must, my dear. You can play something before Mrs. Harrington entertains us.” The not very subtle point of her suggestion being it would be a disaster to go after Portia. Lady Elizabeth’s thoughtful frown made her look like rather like a kitten that had just been kicked.

  Rowena turned to Miss Jennings. “And you, Miss Jennings?”

  Miss Jennings, unlike her friend, was no fool. “I hurt my wrist riding the other day.”

  “Oh? Was that the day I saw you riding Thunder?”

  Miss Jennings blushed. “Yes, I knew I shouldn’t have, but Jonathan dared me.”

  Rowena laughed and it almost sounded genuine. “You should never let a brother lead you into imprudence, my dear.”

  Miss Jenkins’s rather plain features twisted with mortification. “I know, but he is so dreadfully teasing.” She stopped, her expression becoming more serious. “I say, just after we saw you, we ran across a rather frightening man in the woods. Did you see him, too?”

  “Frightening?”

  “Yes, a stout, lurching sort of man. He was headed in your direction.”

  “No doubt it was just another trespasser who’d gotten lost in the woods looking for the path to the old flint mine.”

  “Oh yes, we are always discovering them crawling about our land. Father believes the old mines should not be mentioned in guidebooks. He says it attracts the wrong sort.”

  Portia found it difficult to keep from laughing at the notion that guidebook-toting tourists were “the wrong sort.”

  The men entered the drawing room and Lady Elizabeth as well as two other females were prevailed upon to play. Stacy, naturally, declined to play when his sister-in-law approached him. Portia knew it was not worry that his father would sneer that stopped him, but that her husband played only for those he liked.

  The footmen opened the doors to the music room and the guests arranged themselves on the various settees and chairs. Portia found herself seated beside her brother-in-law on the small sofa she’d chosen at the back of the room. Stacy was seated between Miss Jennings and a woman who could only be her mother. Both women wore nervous, pleased grins, their bums barely resting on the settee, as if they were too excited to sit. Stacy turned in her direction but his expression didn’t alter. Even so, Portia could practically hear his thoughts.

  “Stacy looks resigned,” Lord Pendleton said.

  “You have learned to read him quickly, my lord. Most people have difficulty seeing past his façade.”

  “Yes, he does look rather like a marble statue, doesn’t he?”

  Portia was tempted to tell him that he sometimes behaved like one.

  Instead she said, “It is deceptive, my lord. He has an exceptionally warm and generous heart, although, like most men, he would shudder to hear himself described thus.”

  The viscount laughed. “You have us poor males properly sorted, I see.”

  Portia did not answer as the playing had begun. They listened in silence for a few moments before Pendleton leaned toward her and whispered. “Is this painful for you, Mrs. Harrington?”

  It was, but Portia was not rude enough to say so. “Are you worried I might rush across the room and smack her knuckles with a ruler, my lord?”

  He snickered. “I was more concerned you might suffer some sort of aural hemorrhage.”

  “You are very cruel, my lord. Besides, my eardrums are as hardened as a rake’s conscience.”

  His body shook with suppressed laughter and it was a few moments before he spoke. “Won’t you please call me Robert? I feel like I know you after listening to Stacy talk of you.”

  Portia’s eyes moved to her husband. Although she could not see them, she felt his eyes on her.

  “I would be honored, Robert. You must call me Portia.”

  “Your name suits you down to the ground, Portia.”

  Portia again wondered why a man as pleasant and affectionate as Robert had sought the hand of such a frosty woman. And then she dismissed the foolish thought. Naturally he’d married at his father’s direction. It was clear the earl thought Rowena the perfect broodmare, although one could not help wondering what he felt about his son’s childless state. Was that because they could not stand to bed one another? Portia could not recall a single instance when she’d seen the two speaking to each other. It did not look like a happy marriage but, then again, neither was hers just now.

  They listened to the remainder of Lady Elizabeth’s competent but uninspired performance in respectful silence. The two women who followed her were much the same. Neither would lead an audience to tears—either from joy or agony.

  Rowena stood up. “We will have a brief intermission before Mrs. Harrington entertains us.”

  “What will you play, Portia?” Robert asked, leaning close to her on the small settee.

  “What would you like me to play, Robert?” She echoed his teasing, flirtatious tone.

  “What do you have music for? Will that not decide the matter?”

  His naïveté charmed her. Portia could play for twelve hours without opening her eyes. So could any musician worth their salt. “I’ve committed a few things to memory. What do you like?”

  “Bach?” he said with a hopeful smile.

  “I believe I can accommodate your request.”

  Stacy approached and held a glass toward her. “I thought you might enjoy something to sustain you.”

  Portia took the glass of lemonade. “Thank you.”

  He turned to his brother. “Sorry old man, I should have brought you a brandy.”

  Robert grinned. “I want nothing that will dull my senses. I wish to be astoundingly alert when Portia plays. She has allowed me to choose the music.”

  Stacy’s brows rose at his brother’s use of her Christian name.

  Portia sensed an odd tension between the two men, as though they’d gone a lifetime without brotherly competition and were now taking up their roles with a vengeance. She’d heard them taunting one another about the dart games they’d played in some Plymouth pub. They had been playful but there was rivalry beneath the laughter.

  A footman rolled her father-in-law’s chair to a halt not far from them and Portia realized he’d not been in the room for the earlier playing. The man really was objectionable and took no pains to hide it. He glanced over at her and gave her a sneering smile, as if he’d heard her thoughts.

  Portia ignored him and turned to the other guests, all of whom were taking their seats and looking expectant. She handed Stacy her glass and stood. She never felt nervous performing, whereas Ivo became so sick before some of his performances it had been unclear whether he’d be able to go on. Of course he’d played before monarchs all over Europe, not in family drawing rooms.

  Portia surveyed her small audience. “I’ve had a request for Bach.”

  She sat at the piano, stretched her hands, closed her eyes, and played.

  Stacy could hardly tear his eyes away from his wife long enough to look at the faces in the room. His brother was thoroughly captivated and Stacy could not blame the man, especially given the iceberg he’d married.

  The desiccated old man in the wheeled chair sat with his eyes closed, a beatific expression on his gaunt, age-ravaged face. The quote “music hath charms to soothe a savage breast,” came to mind. Not that the old bastard deserved soothing of any kind: physical, spiritual, or emotional. A twinge of shame shot through him at the uncharitable thought and Stacy ruthlessly suppressed it. The Earl of Broughton deserved no pity and surely did not want any.

  He turned away from the bitter old man and back to the piano, the usual chaos of emotions assaulting him as he studied his wife: admir
ation, pride, frustration, possession, lust, desire, regret, and on and on.

  Portia looked magnificent. She wore dark blue tonight and the color created yet another version of her. Red turned her into human fire but this dark shade of blue made her precision and grace personified. Her arms were delicate yet strong, drawing notes of surpassing beauty from the instrument before her. He drank in her gently sloping shoulders, her elegant throat, and her distinctive, kissable nose. Stacy’s body heated and his vision blurred; as usual, he became hard just looking at her.

  He would end the foolishness between them tonight. The door between their rooms would not remain locked any longer. He felt eyes on him and turned. His father was staring at him. It was perhaps the first time he’d looked the man square in the face. The amount of malice he saw took his breath away. This man—his father—hated him.

  For the first time Stacy truly understood: there would be no tender father-son reconciliation; there would be no apology forthcoming for his banishment; there would only be unrelenting loathing. This was a man who’d discarded his own child the way other people discarded rubbish. How could Stacy ever expect anything other than contempt from such a person? He smiled at the foolish thought and saw his father recoil, as if he’d not imagined such a freak was capable of humor.

  When Portia’s final notes settled over the room the applause was deafening for such a modestly sized audience. Even the earl raised his hands for a few seconds.

  “She is magnificent!” Robert sprang to his feet, his eyes blazing with admiration.

  Stacy smiled up at his older brother, yet another man who’d fallen under Portia’s spell. Well, he thought, rising to his feet beside him, who could blame the man for showing excellent taste?

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Portia had just given her earrings to Daisy to put away when the connecting door to Stacy’s room opened and her husband entered. He’d not yet undressed as they’d just come from the drawing room minutes before.