Chapter Nine

The days passed in an uncomfortable blur.

Portia was stilted and correct around her employer—as if that might somehow make him forget she'd spread her legs and then scratched, bitten, and cursed at him—and it was awkward to communicate even the most innocent information.

Stacy—why not think of him that way after what she'd done—on the other hand, appeared as cool and unruffled as ever. His behavior was so normal she might have thought she'd imagined their tryst if she hadn't woken up so deliciously sore the following morning.

Their first lesson had been the most trying. Portia stared at his face, lips, hands—everything—and hadn't been able to stop remembering that evening. Look, he'd said, a fierce expression on his chiseled features while his body thrust deep into hers, over and over.

Portia simply couldn't help herself; whenever she looked at him, she remembered how he'd looked when he'd come undone and filled her with his seed: his pale beauty fierce, cruel, and magnificent.

The only times they saw each were at lessons and dinner. Lessons were all business and dinner was pleasant conversation with his aunt present. When they weren't in lessons she took care to avoid accidental encounters and suspected he did the same.

The nights, however, were far, far different. At night she welcomed his presence in her head as she lay in her big bed and allowed her imagination to run wild. At night he rode her with the same skill, passion, and confidence he'd shown during their oh-so-brief interlude.

The end of her trial period was only days away and Portia fully expected him to present her with a month's pay and send her packing. It wasn't that he treated her any differently than he had before their tryst, but their interactions were so stilted she couldn't believe he wanted them to continue. Besides, he could easily hire another teacher for the money he was offering. The only reason she was here in the first place was because he thought he was hiring Ivo.

On the thirtieth day he came to her desk after he'd finished playing. She was making notes and recommendations for future work. She replaced the quill in the stand and looked up.

"I am very pleased with my progress and would like you to stay."

Portia's mouth opened, but nothing came out.

"I will understand if you'd rather return to London. I will pay you two months' wages and arrange your transportation." His face was a rigid, emotionless mask—but surely he wouldn't ask her to stay if he didn't want her here? Perhaps he even liked her a little.

Her heart pounded foolishly hard at the thought and she ruthlessly shoved it aside. This was a second chance he was giving her and she would not make the same mistake again.

Portia ignored the mocking laughter in her head. "I would like to stay, Mr. Harrington," she said, proud there was hardly a quaver in her voice. She opened her mouth, and then closed it.

"Yes?" he prodded.

"I hate to ask, but I'm afraid I left things rather unresolved in London." She grimaced. "I didn't know if I'd be staying in Cornwall or returning." They both knew what she meant.

His expression was thoughtful. "A break would actually suit me as I have to take trips to Plymouth and Barnstaple. You'll need at least ten days for your journey—or perhaps even two weeks."

"Ten days will be sufficient." It would mean a very short stay in London, but Portia could not justify a longer visit.

"Shall we finish out this week? Will that give you enough time to make travel arrangements?"

"Yes, thank you. Monday would do nicely." Portia was so relieved it was difficult to think straight. She waited until the door closed behind him before dropping her head onto her arms and fighting back her tears of joy.

Thank God. She wouldn't need to leave here. She wouldn't need to leave him.

***

Portia couldn't pay for her trip to London without an advance on her wages.

She decided to get the unpleasant task out of the way the following morning after breakfast and went in search of Soames. She found the butler supervising a trio of maids in the dining room.

"Could you tell me if I might speak to Mr. Harrington?"

"He is in the library with his steward." Before she could answer he frowned at the maid who was scrubbing the blackened metal dogs in the fireplace. "No, no, Sally, you will need to use salt on that." He turned back to Portia. "Should I tell him you'd like a word?"

"Don't disturb him. I'll try again later."

"I'll let him know once his steward leaves, ma'am." The stiff butler actually gave her a smile. The Whitethorn servants had unbent toward her when they realized she didn't add much work to their lives and had no plans to steal the silverware.

Portia decided to see Nanny before she departed for London. The last two times she'd gone to the cottage Mrs. Fant had told her the old lady was not feeling well.

When Portia crested the rise that overlooked the cottage she saw both Fants doing something near the shed on the far side of the cottage. Nanny herself was in the small garden on the other side of the house and Portia headed toward her, feeling as though she were racing against the clock—or at least the Fants—to reach the old lady. Perhaps it was just her over-developed imagination, but she suspected they disapproved of her visits.

Luckily, Nanny saw her before the Fants did. "Signora Stefani." She began to stagger to her feet.

"Please, Nanny – don't get up. How are you feeling today?"

"I'm excessively well, Signora." Nanny's blue eyes twinkled, making her resemble a good fairy from some children's tale. She was so tiny a stiff breeze would carry her away.

"You've recovered from your illness?"

"Illness? What illness? Why, I've never been ill a day in my life! I come from fine country stock, you know."

Just then Mrs. Fant came around the corner of the cottage and Portia was positive she saw dismay, quickly followed by annoyance, on the woman's face.

"Hello, Mrs. Fant." Portia gave the sour-looking servant a pleasant smile.

"I have a visitor, Mrs. Fant. Please see to tea for the Signora and me."

"Are you sure you're feeling up to entertaining, Mrs. Kemble?"

The look Nanny turned on her must have been one she'd developed for recalcitrant charges. "Of course I'm well enough." Her voice was icy with displeasure and the housekeeper was wise enough to scuttle off to make the tea. Nanny shook her head before speaking in a stage whisper, "I cannot abide those people."

"Why don't you dismiss them? Or ask Mr. Harrington to do so? He dotes on you, Nanny. He wants you to be happy."

Any mention of Stacy always put a large smile on her face.

"He does love me, doesn't he?" She preened for a moment and then her lips trembled. "The poor little mite—sent away so young."

"Sent away? By whom?"

"Why the earl, of course; he couldn't abide him." She looked as though she might cry and Portia couldn't bring herself to pursue the subject, even though she was more curious than she should be. Instead she changed the topic.

"Tell me about your childhood, Nanny. What part of the country did you grow up in?"

"I grew up just outside Thurlstone, but you know that Miss Mary. I've known all you girls since you were born. Our family has worked for Harringtons since The Conqueror, my pa used to say."

Before Portia could respond, Mrs. Fant returned with the tea tray. "I thought you might like this calf's foot jelly Lady Watley left for you, Mrs. Kemble."

Nanny's vague gaze sharpened when it landed on the Yorkshirewoman, who was holding said jelly. She gave a dismissive sniff at either the jar or her servant. "Signora Stefani will pour, Mrs. Fant. You may go." She made a shooing motion.

Mrs. Fant could hardly argue with such a direct dismissal, but she did give Portia an accusatory look, as though to say it was all her doing.

While Portia let the tea steep she picked up the jar.

"The nerve of that woman bringing me her wretched calf's foot jelly."

She looked up at the venom in the older woman's voice. "Who is Lady Watley?"

Nanny's eyes narrowed, making her resemble a rather evil little fairy. "She's nothing but a harlot."

Portia's eyes widened, but Nanny didn't notice.

"She had a chance to marry the best man in Britain and picked that—that, oaf, instead."

Portia didn't have to stretch her imagination too far to guess who Nanny considered the best man in Britain. "Do you mean Mr. Harrington?"

Nanny nodded her head vigorously, her eyes glinting with spite. "Wanted him for his money, she did." Her chin quivered and a single tear rolled down one cheek. "Oh how she hurt him. He isn't one to wear his heart on his sleeve, but I know him like he was my own."

Portia wanted to ask her in the worst of ways what this woman had done, but Nanny blinked and seemed to come to herself. "I don't want that," she said, looking at the jar. "The Fants can have it."

The rest of their conversation revolved around Nanny's garden and there was no more mention of imaginary earls or Lady Watley.

The older lady was so chipper that Portia stayed too long and had to hurry to get back in time for her lesson. She'd just entered the foyer when Soames found her.

"Mr. Harrington will see you now, Signora."

"Thank you, Soames." Portia wished she could go up to her room and tidy her hair but she satisfied herself with a quick glance in a mirror before making her way to the library.

Stacy was leaning over his desk when she entered. "Ah, good afternoon, Signora." He gestured to one of the chairs in front of the desk. "Please, have a seat."

The top of his massive desk was piled high with ledgers and rolls of paper. "I hope I am not interrupting you; I shan't take up very much time."

"It is a welcome interruption, Signora." She heard a slight weariness in his modulated tone.

This man has been inside me. The thought sprang from nowhere and Portia's legs went rubbery at the sudden, graphic image that accompanied it. She gratefully lowered herself into the chair.

"How may I help you, Signora?"

"Would it be possible to have an advance on my wages?" Portia swore he looked relieved, as if he'd thought—or feared—she might say something else. But what?

"Of course. I should have thought of that myself, Signora."

"I do not require all of the money, perhaps the amount for two months?"

"I should be very glad to pay you all of it. I trust you enough to render the services promised."

Portia's face heated at the word ‘services' and she knew she must look very much like a brick wearing a day dress.

Fuck me, Stacy.

The words ricocheted around in her head, amplifying the heat that was already spreading through her body.

"Two months will be sufficient, Mr. Harrington." Her voice cracked on his name.

He removed a strongbox from a drawer and counted out a sum she assumed to be two month's pay. He rose and walked around the desk to hand it to her. Portia stood and was immediately aware of how close the action brought her to his body. Close enough to smell him, only faintly, but enough to stoke her yearning for him, which seemed to burn hotter every day.

She took the money from his hand, careful not to touch him, as if that might create a dangerous spark. "Thank you."

He propped his hip against his desk and crossed his arms. "Is there anything I can do to help with your travel plans?" His cool, conversational tone convinced Portia that his insides were not tying themselves in knots. He was a man; likely bedding her once had been enough to get her out of his system. If she'd ever been in his system to begin with.

"Thank you, but I've already seen to everything."

A heavy, uncomfortable silence hung between them and stretched . . . and stretched.

"Will it be just business in London, or will you have some time for pleasure?"

"I am staying with friends, so it will not all be business."

"I'm pleased to hear it." He hesitated and then said, "I understand you went to visit Nanny this afternoon?"

"Yes, I wanted to see if she felt better before I left."

"Better?"

"She was not well the last two times I stopped by."

His brows drew down. "I wasn't aware of that. I'll have to speak to the Fants."

"I do not believe Nanny cares for the Fants."

He smiled. "Well, they are from Yorkshire and thus geographically suspect. But Miss Tate selected them and I have absolute faith in her judgement." He uncrossed his arms and pushed off the desk, signaling the conversation was over.

"Thank you for the advance on my wages."

"It is my pleasure, Signora Stefani." He took several long strides toward the door and opened it for her. "I shall see you at four."

Portia nodded and left the room without looking back.

***

Stacy watched until Signora Stefani disappeared down the hallway. She moved with a sensual grace which he knew was more than mere promise. Her hips shifted enticingly beneath her simple cotton gown and he couldn't help wondering if she was wearing stockings or if she routinely went without them.

This is not a subject that will lead you anywhere good.

That is certainly true—but it is a subject that brings me pleasure. Even so, Stacy shut the door on both her and his lascivious thoughts.

But when he resumed his seat he found he was no longer in the mood to contemplate the new parcel of land he'd just acquired, a matter that had interested him greatly before the woman had made it impossible to think. He poured a brandy, took off his glasses, and checked his watch: two hours until his lesson. Lord, he was pathetic to look forward to those two hours the way he did.

He slid his hand behind his neck and brutally massaged the taut cords, his mind sneaking back to that night in the stables. Indeed, his mind rarely went anywhere else of late. He doggedly dragged his attention back to the true purpose of that evening, which had not been to seduce his employee, but to breed his newest mare. That endeavor, at least, had proven successful and Snezana was in foal, which Thompson said was not always the case after a young mare's first cover—

"Good God!" Stacy sat up so fast he knocked his leg against his desk. He yelped and then rubbed his throbbing knee. Could Mrs. Stefani be pregnant? How could he not have thought of that possibility until now? He stared unblinkingly across the dim room, his spinning brain yielding very little of use on the subject. He'd only bedded prostitutes—how pitiful was that—and they were taught how to prevent conception. Mrs. Stefani was a widow, but did that necessarily mean she knew how to take precautions? What if she were carrying his child? Would his children be like him?

His aunt had told him long ago that his mother and father had both been fair, but not white like him. Lord. How had he not thought of this until now? He reached for the brandy decanter but stopped; he liked to have his wits about him when he went into a lesson.

He slumped back in his chair; he would have to talk to Signora Stefani. It would be a bloody uncomfortable conversation, but he needed to reassure her that she'd not face such an eventuality alone.

Stacy groaned at even the thought of such an agonizing discussion.

Surely it was early yet? Their talk could wait until she returned. Most likely it would never be an issue. While he knew little about human reproduction, he knew it usually took more than one coupling for horses and other livestock.

Thoughts of coupling inevitably brought her image to mind.

She'd looked delectable today and he cursed himself for not having the forethought to open the drapes on one window so he could've seen her better. He'd not seen her in natural light for days—which he knew was a product of them both avoiding each other.

As gorgeous and sensual as her body had felt, what he thought of most often were her eyes: how could eyes so dark—almost black—burn with such emotion?

Of course, he also thought about her expressive, kissable mouth and how she smiled so easily. Indeed, she seemed to feel easily, unhampered by the need to moderate her emotions like the typical staid Englishperson—like him, in other words. Watching the parade of emotions that marched across her face was fascinating. In the course of their brief conversation he'd seen curiosity, embarrassment, desire, anger, happiness, sadness, and a host of other emotions he could not define.

When it came to music her face was even more eloquent. Music turned her into a creature of pure passion: driven, confident, and magnificent. Had that passion threatened her husband? Or had he shared the same temperament? Had her talent been something Ivo Stefani viewed as a challenge or something to unite them?

Stacy had no thoughts of competing with her when it came to music. He played well enough, but she elevated the notes into the realm of the divine. Her mastery of the piano was erotic and the lessons had become a two-hour block of delicious agony. Listening to her play was bloody torture, but it was the high point of his days.

He was becoming stiff just thinking about her.

Stacy scowled at his body's base reaction. He'd become the sort of predator who lusted after his employee—and that is exactly what she was: a dependent.

Not only had he engaged in reprehensible behavior with a subordinate, but it was possible she would suffer greatly from those few moments of careless passion. How would she feel about having a child who looked like him or needing to marry a man who looked like him?

Stacy could not imagine her being happy with either eventuality. A momentary indiscretion with a human novelty was one thing, spending the rest of your life with somebody like him was another matter entirely.