Chapter Thirteen

Stacy was dozing when Jewell's—his coachman—frantic shout woke him. He'd been enjoying one of those very rare moments in life: a moment of pure contentment.

The Plymouth trip had been a success in all but one area. He'd purchased the common license and then gone to the jeweler he favored. It hadn't taken him long to decide on a large emerald-cut diamond. The stone was exquisite and the setting simple yet elegant. He'd given the man a glove of Portia's that Daisy had filched and then arranged to come by the following morning to collect the ring. On his way out of the shop he'd spied some lovely diamond hair pins and had the man to add a dozen to his order.

He'd then gone to Kitty's and suffered her gloating and preening, as if she, rather than Stacy, was the one who was getting married.

"Was it dreadful when you proposed? Did you stutter like the greenest of boys?" she teased.

"I actually fainted, Kitty. I believe that is the only reason she accepted me, she was too embarrassed to do aught else."

Kitty's shout of joy had almost deafened him when he'd told her Portia was with child.

"Oh Stacy, she sounds like a marvelous woman, perfect for you—fiery and fearless. She won't let you give her that haughty look you specialize in and quiver in her slippers."

Stacy rolled his eyes. "Good God, Kitty, you are an idiot."

His words only made her laugh harder. But she stopped laughing when Stacy invited her to the wedding.

"You're daft—you should be locked in Bedlam. Invite a whore to your wedding?"

Stacy gave her one of the frosty looks she'd just mentioned. "It would please me if you did not refer to yourself with that word, Kitty."

"That look does not work on me, your highness. I know what a pussy cat you really are."

"I can see I've been too lenient with you in the past." He gave her the severest of his glares.

But she just shook her head. "I cannot come to your wedding, Stacy. It would not be a good way to start a life of domestic harmony. Have you told her about me—about us?"

"Not yet, but we've hardly had time to talk about much other than wedding arrangements. Besides, there isn't anything to tell other than you are my best friend."

Kitty heaved a sigh. "There is the fact I work in a brothel. There is the fact we were lovers."

Stacy shrugged, refusing to give ground. "We've not been lovers for years."

"Oh, men are so stupid. Trust me, Stacy, she wouldn't welcome my presence at her wedding; she would be insulted. If she is as fierce as you say, you would not survive the wedding night intact. Indeed," she bit her plush lower lip and then said, "you should not visit me again."

They'd argued in earnest after that; through dinner and then through tea, Stacy using every argument he could muster—and no small number of threats—to get Kitty to agree to come.

And all for nothing.

But at least she had relented on ending their friendship.

"I will receive you again—you must know I will, Stacy—but you will jeopardize your marriage if you continue our friendship." When he'd opened his mouth to argue she'd embraced him fiercely. "My dearest, dearest friend. I am so pleased for you. You deserve nothing but the best and it sounds as if you have found it. I wish you everything that is good and happy."

Stacy pondered her words during the long carriage ride home. Was it an insult to Portia to invite his closest friend? He'd been agonizing over the question for a good two hours when Jewell shouted and a gun discharged, the sounds pulling him rudely from his reverie.

Powell, his valet, was ever at the ready, and handed him a pistol even as the carriage began to slow.

Stacy opened the vent and called out, "What is it?"

"Three men that I can see, sir."

"You're loaded, Baker?" Stacy yelled to the groom seated beside his coachman.

"Aye, sir, so is Freddy," he said, referring to Stacy's footman, who rode on the small perch on the rear of the coach.

Stacy peered out the window but could see little. It was just past dusk and the trees to the west of the road blocked the last rays of daylight. They'd begun their journey early in the day but had stopped to help a wagon that had collided with a gig. There had been two rather nasty injuries and no way to transport the victims other than load them into Stacy's carriage.

As a result of their Good Samaritan actions they'd been hurrying against the darkness.

Stacy chewed the inside of his mouth as he considered the logistics. The lack of light would work in Stacy's favor but not those of his men.

"Can you see well enough to get a good shot off?" Stacy asked his driver.

"Not any worth taking, sir. They're all behind us still."

"Did they hit anything with their shot?"

"No, sir. I believe they were aiming at young Freddy."

Stacy cursed. Freddy was utterly exposed. He took a deep breath. "Listen carefully, here is what we will do."

***

Portia was running before Soames finished speaking and almost trampled the elderly butler. Stacy was between Powell and Jewell, his arms around their shoulders, his booted feet dragging. His face, cravat, shirt, and hair were caked in blood.

She whirled on Soames, who'd shadowed her steps. "Send for a doctor."

"Baker has already gone, ma'am."

"Bring him into the drawing room," she ordered, hurrying alongside the men.

For once Stacy was without his dratted glasses. His eyes were half closed and his lips were curled into a smile.

"Hello, Portia." His voice was slurred and drowsy.

"Where is he hit?" she demanded.

"In the neck and in the leg."

Portia let out a string of the vilest Italian curse words she could think of.

Soames, Powell, and Frances gaped.

Stacy laughed weakly. "Fiery and fierce," he murmured.

"Bring more light," Portia told Soames once they reached the drawing room. She motioned to Powell, "Put him on the settee, Jewell, and then go fetch a basin of hot water. Powell, get me a glass of brandy. Frances, you will help me." She saw Daisy hovering anxiously in the open doorway. "Daisy, find old bedding or something we can use for bandages." Daisy and the men scattered and Frances dropped down beside her, already unbuttoning Stacy's coat and waistcoat.

The men had tied a tourniquet around his leg wound—which was leaking slowly—but the one on his neck only had his bloody cravat pressed against it. Portia removed it and hissed; the bullet had not severed an artery, but the wound was bleeding freely.

Powell came with the brandy.

"Lift his head," she ordered, holding the glass to his lips, which were now as white as the rest of him. "Drink, Stacy, it will help with the pain."

They poured a little down his throat but she was afraid to choke him with more and handed Powell the glass before turning to the other woman. "We've got to stop the bleeding. How are your needle skills, Frances?"

She glanced at the gash, grimaced, and then shook her head. "I am not afraid of blood—but this. . . No, I cannot do it. Are you sure it needs to be done now? Can't we wait for—"

"I will do it."

Frances's jaw wobbled with shock. "Are you sure?"

"I volunteered in soldiers' hospitals in London and I've seen it done many times." Although she'd never done it herself—but why mention that? "It needs to be done quickly."

Frances pressed her lips into a grim line and nodded. "I'll go fetch my embroidery bag."

The next half hour was one of the worst of Portia's life. It took five people to hold Stacy down while she sewed the bleeding wound shut. He was weak from a lack of blood but swore like a sailor. By the time she was finished Stacy was hoarse from yelling but at least the bleeding had stopped.

The injury in his thigh was another matter entirely; the bullet was lodged in the flesh. She had packed the wound with clean cloths before beginning work on his neck, but they were soaked through from all his thrashing, even with the tourniquet.

Portia grimaced and looked up at Frances, whose blue eyes were red from weeping. "How long until the doctor comes?"

"He should be here by now." Soames said. "He only lives on the other side of Bude."

"He must be out on a call. It could be hours." Portia chewed her lip ragged. "It needs to come out. The flesh is becoming more swollen by the minute. It will only get worse."

Frances swallowed audibly and then nodded. "Right, then. I'll clean the wound and make it ready, Portia, you get some of that brandy down his throat." She took the basin of fresh, hot water Soames was holding and began to cleanse the area.

Portia knelt beside the settee and smoothed the damp hair from his forehead. His eyelids flickered. "Stacy, can you take some brandy? We've got to remove the bullet. It will go better for you if you can take some." He opened his mouth and she tipped the glass, dribbling the liquid in slowly, until he'd finished it. "Can you take more?" He nodded and she turned to Powell. "Bring the bottle." While he went to fetch more she looked down at her patient. "How are you?"

"You planned this so I'd take off my spectacles." His voice was a hoarse croak.

Portia laughed, the sound hysterical. "Let that be a lesson to you. Perhaps next time you won't tease me."

Powell handed her another glass just as Soames entered with another basin of steaming water—and the doctor right beside him.

"Thank God!" Portia wiped away the tears that had begun to make their way down her cheeks.

The doctor was a calm, older man who was not about to be flapped by a mere bullet. He commended Portia on her stitchery and substituted a laudanum draught for the brandy. Within half an hour the bullet had been extracted and Stacy was in his bedroom, where the doctor and Powell could go about any business too delicate for females to witness.

Portia realized somebody had ordered tea and took a cup, her hands shaking. Nobody spoke for a very long time. It was Frances who finally broke the silence.

"You are very . . . resourceful, Portia." Her voice held a mixture of reverence, respect, and fear.

"No, merely half Italian." Portia laughed when she saw Frances's confusion. "Stabbings were far too common in Rome. I was nine the first time I helped my father tend a victim. And of course I saw far worse in the hospitals."

The door opened and the doctor entered. "Well, ladies, I hope you don't decide to set up a surgery in my neighborhood or I shall go out of business." He smiled at Portia and Frances, both of whom were liberally smeared with Stacy's blood. "The wounds are fairly shallow and should heal quickly. He appeared much worse because of the blood loss from the neck wound. That was fast thinking on your part ma'am. Powell has a second laudanum draught for our patient if he needs it. Based on what I know of Mr. Harrington and his constitution, he'll be up and about tomorrow. I'll come and see him first thing."

"Tomorrow?" Frances repeated. "Surely he should not be up tomorrow?"

"No." The doctor laughed. "But I doubt you'll be able to stop him. It won't hurt him to get dressed and sit up, as long as he doesn't try to resume his normal activities and rip his stitches. Just try to get him to rest, if you can—even if it's just for a few days."

Portia felt a grim, determined smile settle on her face. "Don't worry, Doctor. He'll rest."

***

Portia would remember that promise often over the next few days.

The doctor had been correct, both when it came to Stacy's injuries and his constitution. When Portia came down to breakfast the following morning Frances had just come from her nephew's room.

"How is he?" Portia asked.

"Eating and complaining in equal amounts."

Portia laughed. "I suppose that is promising."

Frances shook her head, her expression one of frustration and despair. "He said he would stay in bed until Doctor Gates paid a visit."

"I suppose that will have to do. Did he tell you what happened?"

Her expression shifted from frustrated to furious. "No, and when I asked him, both he and his valet could not stop laughing."

"Laughing?"

"Laughing."

What in the world could that be about?

"I spoke to Jewell," Frances said, "but he wasn't talking, either. He said Mr. Harrington should be the one to tell the story."

The legend of what happened had plenty of time to grow before Stacy put everyone out of their misery. He told the story two days later at the dinner party Frances gave. In addition to the three of them, there were the vicar and his wife—Mr. and Mrs. Lawson—and their son Jeremy, who was a doctor in the neighboring town of Stratton. Jeremy was Stacy's age and Portia had spoken to him several times after church. He was unmarried, attractive, and personable and she felt as if he'd been on the verge of asking her to go walking with him on more than one occasion. She was relieved things had never gone that far or it would have been awkward now. While she liked Jeremy Lawson well enough, he was not Stacy.

Portia wasn't surprised that it was Jeremy—who was friendly, although not friends with Stacy—who demanded to know the truth.

"I say, Harrington," Jeremy asked with a challenging grin, "won't you give over already? We're all dying to know what happened. There is an entire page devoted to the mystery in the book at the Castle." He was referring to the betting book at the inn, which monitored anything interesting in Bude—and plenty that wasn't.

Stacy looked as impeccable as ever. The cravat hid his neck wound and his deliciously snug pantaloons barely showed the surprisingly slim bandage on his leg. He looked at Portia and smiled, clearly enjoying the opportunity to keep them all—her in particular—on tenterhooks.

Portia crossed her arms. "I, for one, refuse to beg."

She was loudly booed by everyone else at the table.

"Very well, very well," she said, heaving an exaggerated sigh. "Will you please tell us what happened, Mr. Harrington?"

"Are you sure, Mrs. Stefani?" Portia narrowed her eyes and Stacy laughed and raised one staying hand. "Very well, as you command. You all know it was highwaymen. We had four pistols to their three, and we also had something they never expected." He smirked. "Me."

Portia groaned. "I'm not sure I want to hear this."

"Me either," Frances said.

But Stacy would not be stopped now that he'd started. "Jewell stopped the carriage and gave over his gun, Baker kept the other pistol hidden beneath his coat and so did Freddie. When the robbers demanded we open the carriage Jewell tried to persuade them they'd better not open the door. It was fortunate for us that the sun was almost completely gone.

"Finally, when the three men were threatening to start shooting if they weren't allowed inside, I flung open the door and leapt out of the carriage. I had scruffed up my hair and made it as wild as possible and removed my glasses. The poor men did not have a chance. Our only miscalculation was that their fingers might spasm in fear." He shrugged. "The closest man shot one of his companions by accident and the other two shot me." Stacy took a drink of wine, his black lenses glinting in the candlelight. He didn't notice, until it was too late, that the only one smiling with appreciation was the young doctor.

"Are you mad?" Portia demanded when she found her voice.

Stacy raised his eyebrows. "I didn't think so," he said mildly.

"I agree with Portia—you are mad."

It was the first time Portia had ever seen Frances angry. Perhaps it was the first time his aunt had ever shown Stacy the emotion either, because his lips parted in surprise as he took in her flushed face and flashing eyes.

"That was beyond foolhardy, Stacy, and we will speak of this later," she promised.

Portia gave the startled man a hard look and nodded. "Yes," she said, nodding with menacing slowness, "we most certainly will."

***

Portia was not surprised when Stacy insisted the wedding proceed as planned.

"It makes no sense to postpone things. I still have a few more days to recuperate and am more than capable of standing before a tiny group of people and eating breakfast afterward."

He was, in fact, eating breakfast as he delivered his ultimatum. He glanced up from the impressive pile of food on his plate and smiled at Portia. "I thought perhaps you and I might walk over to see Nanny today."

Portia opened her mouth—

"The leg wound is barely even visible and the one on my neck has almost disappeared."

"That is a bald lie."

He cut her a sly smile. "Your needlework is adequate, Portia, but do you think Daisy might add a flourish or two?"

Portia laughed, in spite of herself. "I don't know about Daisy, but Frances is ready to sew you to your bed."

He cut a piece of ham and swabbed it in egg, clearly unbothered by his aunt's persistent anger at his reckless behavior. He paused in the act of levering the food to his mouth. "I would like to visit Nanny. Will you go with me today?"

"Should you walk so far?"

"The good doctor was the one to advise walking."

Portia wasn't sure she believed he'd meant a walk as far as Nanny's cottage.

"I'll take my cane with me. Will you accompany me, Portia?"

He really was accustomed to having everything his way. Luckily they would have years together to sort that out.

But for now, she capitulated. "I would like that."

Stacy frowned at her plate of dry toast and turned to the footman. "Are there any strawberries?"

"Cook has the last of them and said she was thinking to make a tart for dinner."

"Ask her if we might have a small portion and some cream?" He turned to Portia once the footman left. "You must eat something."

She grimaced down at her plate; she'd woken up sick again this morning and the food that filled the sideboard held no appeal.

"The last berries are always the best," he added, as if that settled the matter. Portia had visions of him sitting on her and making her eat them, a berry at a time. He saw her speculative look and cocked an eyebrow. "What is it?"

"I believe you always get your way, Mr. Harrington."

He smiled but refused to be drawn. "Shall we leave for our walk after breakfast?"

***

Portia changed into her walking dress and half boots before going to meet Stacy in the library. He was waiting for her and took something from a drawer in his desk. She hesitated and bit her lip; he was going to give her something else.

He saw her hesitation and shook his head. "Please tell me you are not one of those tiresome people who do not feel as though they deserve gifts? Come here, Signora Stefani."

"You must stop giving me things, Mr. Harrington."

"Give me your hand," he demanded.

"Don't you know the word ‘please'?" He ignored her question and unbuttoned the two tiny buttons that held her glove closed and then pulled it off, finger by finger. He was wearing his walking glasses and she reached up with her free hand to remove them. She stared at his ridiculously long eyelashes, lust pounding through her veins like a torrential river. Something cool slid onto the third finger of her left hand and she looked down. An enormous emerald-cut diamond sparkled up at her.

"Oh Stacy, it is beautiful." She looked up to find his gorgeous eyes on her. "It is also enormous."

"Why thank you." His slight smile was beyond wicked.

Portia flushed, loving his playful flirtation more than the expensive gift. "Please, do stop giving me such lovely things." She gazed down at her hand and tilted it from side to side, the gem catching the light from the window and sparkling. "Not that I have any intention of returning this," she muttered.

Stacy took her chin in strong, warm fingers and forced her to look at him. "I did not get it because I like you, Portia. I bought it hoping it might get me a kiss."

"What an indecent proposal, Mr. Harrington. I'm afraid you'll have to wait a few days for your kiss."

She had the satisfaction of seeing a completely new expression cross his face, one of utter surprise at being denied something he wanted, and then he threw back his head and laughed. She snatched her hand away and plucked her glove off the desk before taking a few steps to a safe distance. When she'd closed the two buttons she looked up to find him watching her with an intensity that made her body tighten. His violet eyes burned and it was all she could do not to fling herself at him. But the next time flinging was done, she resolved that it would be him doing it.

"Are you ready, Mr. Harrington?" she asked coolly, cocking one eyebrow at him. He really needed a lesson when it came to expecting her to fawn all over his person. Just because he was all she thought about did not mean she had to give in to her impulses. Denying him might be just as enjoyable.

But somehow she doubted it.

***

Stacy walked with a cane beside Portia as they entered the section of forest that led to Nanny's bluff-top cottage. His leg was stiff and forced him to amble slowly. They walked in companionable silence while he thought about a recent conversation they'd had. Spurred by the realization that he really knew very little about her Stacy had asked her about her friends—the six teachers who used to work at her school.

The tongue of jealousy that had licked at him upon learning that one of them—Miles Ingram—was a handsome young lord had been a surprise, and not a pleasant one. It also made him recall Kitty's warning when he'd invited her to their wedding. Perhaps she'd been correct about Portia not wishing to meet one of his ex-lovers. How could he ask her to accept such a situation when he became jealous just hearing about a mere friend?

Stacy was learning many things about himself, and not all of them pleasant. His possessive feelings toward his bride to be were uncomfortable. He'd never been troubled by such emotions before and his reaction made him realize how bloodless his feelings for Penelope had been.

He watched Portia pick a daisy that was growing in a narrow strip of sunlight beside the path. She tucked the flower in the velvet band of her bonnet and looked up at him. "There, how is that?"

"Hideous," he lied.

She laughed and resumed walking. "I'm so sorry my friend Annis is not able to come."

"Is she the closest of your friends?"

"No, that would probably be Serena. But Annis is so gentle and sweet I was rather thinking she would enjoy meeting Jeremy Lawson."

"Ah, playing matchmaker?"

"Perhaps a little." She sighed.

Stacy privately thought young Lawson was half in love with Portia. Stacy could not blame him; he was half-way in love with her himself. Maybe a little more than half.

"Lawson is a personable and biddable young man. I am sure he'll find a female eager to manage him when he decides the time is right."

She clucked her tongue at him. "You make it sound so romantic, Mr. Harrington."

Romantic? Stacy supposed he wasn't.

"You know him better than I do, Portia, but I daresay Lawson has more than enough romance in his bosom for two. He needs a wife like his mother—somebody shrewd."

"You think Mrs. Lawson is shrewd? She seems so…gentle and vague."

"Do not mistake her lightness of manner for a lack of shrewdness, my dear. Mrs. Lawson manages the vicar with the skill of a military commander. I daresay the vicar needs that," he hastened to add.

Stacy, however, did not. Although Mrs. Lawson was a charming woman she had a distinctly managing gleam in her eyes. He much preferred the look in Portia's eyes: amorous.

"You sound disapproving, Mr. Harrington. Do you dislike ambition and intelligence in a female?" There was an edge in her voice that made him smile.

"You willfully misunderstand me, Signora Stefani. You know very well I recognize and appreciate both qualities—neither of which are the same as managing. Not that I disapprove of managing qualities, although they are not something I seek in a mate."

"No, I believe you possess that characteristic in abundance."

"I daresay I do; does that worry you?"

She pursed her lips as she considered the question. "I'm afraid my temperament is not always amenable to following orders."

He put his hand on her arm and stopped her, waiting until she met his eyes. "I do not expect to be issuing orders, Portia." Did she think he was some sort of tyrant?

She gave him a rather suspicious look, as if she was only half convinced. "What happens when we disagree on a subject?"

"Then I would try to persuade you."

"And if I remain unpersuaded?"

Stacy paused. What would he do if she did not agree with him? "I suppose it would depend on how strongly I felt on the matter."

She gave a small nod and began walking.

"Portia," he said, waiting until she turned back to him to continue, "We are to be married and I wish to please you in every way. I would never impose my will on you. I would not wish to make you unhappy."

Her shapely mouth curved into a smile. "I know that, Stacy. I suppose I should have warned you how stubborn I can be before you offered for me. My father used to say I could be unmanageable when I got the bit between my teeth."

Stacy could well imagine. She'd shown fire on more than one occasion, the last of which had been the way she'd handled his injuries the night he'd been shot. He'd been groggy, but not too delirious to recall how she'd issued orders to everyone and handled his wounds with impressive efficiency. He'd been very grateful—and always would be—but the steel in her had made him realize she had a will of her own. Stacy knew there had been few instances in his life when anyone had thwarted his will. Both his aunt and Nanny had spoiled him dreadfully as a child, no doubt feeling he deserved indulgence because he lived such a solitary existence. But while he might like his own way, he was no monster.

Was he?

He took a step toward her. "It is true that I am master of Whitethorn, Portia, but you will find that I am gentle with the ribbons." When she flushed and bit her lower lip he knew she was thinking about horses and the first night they made love. Just thinking about that evening made him harden. And the expression in her eyes as she looked up at him only enflamed him more.

But the tenuous voice of reason held him in check: You've already behaved badly enough. Another few days and you can have her properly. Or improperly—however she wants it.

Stacy leashed his desire and put his hand on the small of her back, giving her a gentle push before he succumbed to his urges and mounted her against a nearby tree.

They walked in silence, his gaze on her hips, which swayed tantalizingly. He wrenched his eyes from her backside and forced his thoughts in another direction.

"I will teach you to ride," he said, and then realized how autocratic he sounded. Did he always speak with such arrogant certitude? He tried again. "You will be able to explore far more territory than either walking or in a gig."

"I should love to learn to ride. Is it difficult?"

"Not for someone as naturally graceful as you."

"Charmer," she said, but he could hear the pleasure in her voice.

"It will be more pleasant with a good horse and I will enjoy finding you a proper mount." Indeed, Stacy was more than a little excited at the idea of spending time teaching her something.

"You mean I can't ride Geist?"

He laughed.

"You are wretched, Mr. Harrington. Perhaps I should have snickered when you first played the piano for me?"

They bickered good naturedly about pianos and horses until they came to the rise that overlooked the cottage.

"It's such a lovely house, Stacy. But wouldn't you rather have Nanny closer? At Whitethorn, maybe?" She took his proffered arm and they walked down the gentle hill.

"My aunt thinks Nanny wants a place of her own."

"I think she wants to be close to you more than anything else."

"Oh?" The warmth in her voice startled him. Was she saying that was what she wanted? "We can certainly ask her if she would like to move back to Whitethorn."

Just then Gerald Fant came storming out of the small shed that stood off to the side of the house. He looked furious. His wife stood in the doorway, hands on her hips, and watched him for a long moment before she noticed Stacy and Portia. She raised one hand in a belated greeting and then smoothed her skirt, giving her husband's retreating back a last glance.

What was that about? Stacy mentally shrugged. Probably just a domestic dispute—something he would soon get to experience himself if his wife's confession about her passionate nature was true.

"We've come to see Nanny," Portia called out. "How is she today?"

The older woman gave Portia a stiff, rather sour, smile and curtseyed to Stacy. "She is sitting down to tea. There's a bit of a breeze today so she's in the sun room."

Nanny Kemble was waiting for them at the front door and threw her arms around Stacy as though she'd not seen him in a year. He held her birdlike body in a gentle embrace before releasing her.

"Well, Nanny. I guess you've missed me?"

She squeezed his arm tightly with her slender, claw-like hand. "I thought you'd been killed. Miss Frances would only say you were fine and wouldn't tell me what had happened." Her face wore the bitter look it always did whenever she spoke his aunt's name. Stacy had never understood why she disliked his aunt so much. Especially as Frances had been the one to engage her and did everything in her power to see to her comfort and care.

"I daresay she didn't want to alarm you, Nanny. As you can see, I am fine," he held out his arms and turned around and she laughed.

"I'm so pleased you've come to see me, Master Stacy, even though you should be home resting," she scolded.

"Signora Stefani would agree with you, Nanny."

The old lady gave Portia an affectionate look. "You've a good woman in Signora Stefani."

"I know, Nanny. I'm fortunate." He smiled at Portia and the wicked woman crossed her eyes at him, quickly, so that Nanny never saw. The playful gesture touched him more deeply than he would have expected; how wonderful to have a wife who wasn't only a mate, but also a companion and friend and lover.

He turned to his old nurse, disconcerted by the sudden surge of emotion. "Come, Nanny, I need some sustenance after that grueling walk. I am a wounded man yet Signora Stefani drove me before her most cruelly."

While they sat and enjoyed their tea Stacy told his old nurse a less remarkable version of his shooting. By the time they'd finished the second cup he could see she was tired and had begun to mistake him for some long-past child, murmuring about his sister Miss Mary and how she ate bonbons until she cast up her accounts in the drawing room.

"She is such a dear lady," Portia said as they began the walk back. "I wish she did not suffer from such confusion."

"So do I, but at least she does not seem much disturbed by it. I believe most of the time she forgets about the brief episodes almost as soon as they happen."

"Did you know the family she was with before you?"

"I only know she was married to Mr. Kemble for barely a year before the poor man died in some tragic accident. She was with child at the time and miscarried from the shock." He shook his head. "It's a shame she never married again. She is the kind of woman who needs children of her own."

"Oh, what kind of woman is that, sir?"

He smiled down at her. "The loving kind."

The look in her dark eyes was unreadable and they walked in silence, each occupied with their own thoughts.

Stacy wondered how she felt about carrying his child, a man she barely knew. He wondered if she'd yet realized their baby might very well be born with his condition. He would need to broach the topic eventually.

"Is your leg paining you?" she asked, interrupting his thoughts.

"Not a bit," he lied. "I believe you must have magic hands, Signora." He held one of those magic hands in his as they came to a part of the trail wide enough to walk side-by-side.

"No, that would be Doctor Gates who has magic hands. If you will recall, all I did to that particular wound was clean it and cause you to scream."

"I do recall that, actually."

She shivered.

"Are you cold?"

"No, just remembering what you looked like when they brought you into the house that night." She stopped abruptly and looked up at him, taking his hand, her eyes wide. "It was terrifying, Stacy. There was so much blood you looked as though you'd been mauled by a beast."

Stacy ran a finger down the sweet curve of her jaw, the worry he saw in her eyes making it difficult to swallow; she cared for him, at least a little. Perhaps that feeling would grow?

"You had incredible presence of mind, Portia. I knew that even in my groggy state."

She squeezed his hand hard enough to hurt. "Please never do that again, Mr. Harrington. Next time I shall be forced to present you with a bill for services."

"I'll keep that in mind." He kissed her hand and they resumed walking. "Tell me, Signora Stefani, what do you charge for making a man scream?"

She laughed and the mood lightened for the remainder of their walk.