Chapter Twenty-Three

By his third day at Thurlstone Stacy realized he genuinely liked his brother. Indeed, it would have been difficult not to. Robert did everything in his power to make their visit enjoyable and comfortable. When Stacy contrasted his brother's behavior with his father's, Robert's kindness was even more noticeable.

Stacy hadn't been expecting much from the man who had banished him at birth and that turned out to be a very good thing. The Earl of Broughton was an old man but the years had done nothing to soften him. At first Stacy thought his father's conspicuous absence was because the old man was ashamed of his behavior; it had taken only a few minutes in the earl's presence to dismiss that thought.

He doubted the earl even knew the meaning of the word shame. Or love. Or kindness. He treated Stacy with the same contempt he displayed toward all his children. Even Robert, his heir, appeared not to merit any interest or kindness. If anything, the earl seemed to like Robert's cold wife best. That didn't surprise him—father-and daughter-in-law were stamped from the same mold: aristocrats more concerned with position than anything else.

Like his sons, the Earl of Broughton was tall and broad-shouldered, or at least he had been. His big frame had been ravaged by time and he was now confined to a wheeled chair. Not even the chair and his bone-thin body could diminish his presence, however. He resembled an ancient falcon that had been hooded but was still dangerous if one came within range of its razor-sharp beak and talons.

His gray eyes were the only part of him that looked alive and they burned with fierce loathing whenever they rested on Stacy. The Earl of Broughton hated him; the realization did not sadden him, but it did confuse him. Why had he disclosed Stacy's existence if he despised him so much? Stacy pondered that question far more than he wished. He knew his father was a twisted, bitter, hateful old man who deserved nothing from him. Yet he was fascinated by him all the same.

The earl might ignore his children, but he was not immune to Portia—at least not to her music.

The second night of their visit Portia played the Beethoven sonata Stacy loved. By the time she was finished there wasn't a dry eye in the room and that included the harsh gray eyes of his parent.

"I say!" Robert exclaimed, clapping his hands hard enough to leave bruises. "You are absolutely brilliant, the best I've ever heard."

Portia accepted his brother's words—the praise of a person who knew next to nothing about music—with a tolerant smile.

Not only had she played magnificently but she looked good enough to eat. She had on the red gown that enflamed him every time she wore it. The red made her hair and eyes look even darker and her skin was the ivory velvet of a magnolia blossom. Around her elegant throat were his mother's pearls. Stacy saw his father's raptor-like eyes rest on the jewels and wondered if he was recalling his long-dead wife.

He'd seen the portrait of his mother—a full-length painting by no less than Gainsborough—his first day at Thurlstone. The portrait had been done only a few months after her marriage to the earl. She hung in the gallery, depicted in life-sized brilliance beside a portrait of the earl. Even at half a century Broughton had been a powerful, formidable man, his lips twisted into a cruel, confident smile, his cold gray eyes scorning the viewer.

The second Countess of Broughton had been fair and fragile with startling blue eyes—heartbreakingly lovely. Stacy was stunned by how extremely young she'd been: only seventeen.

And she'd married the monster who hung beside her, borne him two sons, and then died.

Stacy wondered if she ever knew she'd given birth to twin sons. He hoped for her sake that his demon eyes had not been the last thing she'd seen before dying.

He shook away the disturbing, pointless thought and looked over at his older brother, who rode beside him on an elegant bay hack. They were accompanying the ladies on a shopping trip to Plymouth. The women rode inside the Broughton coach, which rumbled along beside them.

"Let us go with them, Stacy," Robert had said last night when the plan came up at dinner. "I know of a pub in Plymouth where they have remarkable homebrew. I will stand you a pint while I thrash you at darts."

Stacy smiled now as he remembered his brother's boastful threat. Darts were something he'd always enjoyed and played often with Hawkins and the grooms. They kept a board in the barn and had a game or two most weeks. Stacy rarely beat Hawkins, but then his stable master was a pub champion in their part of Cornwall and he'd taught Stacy well.

Pendleton was in for a surprise.

"You've got a mare in foal by your Geist?" Robert asked him, eyeing the big stallion enviously. Robert's mount was a fine piece of horseflesh but could not compare to Geist.

"Yes, it will be her first." Thinking of Snezana always made Stacy recall that night in the stables. He grimaced. The last thing he needed right now was to think of Portia and what had transpired between them that night—or any other time they'd made love. He wasn't sure how much longer he could take the distance between them. Portia seemed to become more remote and resolute by the hour. He'd hoped she would have sought rapprochement by now, but he was beginning to believe it would have to be him—especially after the way he'd behaved in Plymouth. She'd been stubborn before, but his appalling behavior that night had served to make her doubly so.

Stacy knew he should not admire her ability to be more stubborn than he could be, but he did.

"Will you come to town for the Season?" Robert asked, interrupting Stacy's unproductive musings.

"I've never gone in the past."

"Then it is time you do come. Surely your wife would like to experience a London Season?"

Stacy had no idea what Portia wanted. Well, other than to make him suffer and eventually come begging.

"Portia enjoys the country."

"But she's lived most of her life in cities. She told me she's been to fourteen European capitals."

Stacy felt a stab of jealousy that she'd never shared that fact with him. He glanced through the carriage window and saw her laughing about something. The sight made his temples ache. What the devil were they doing? They'd already wasted an entire month of their lives engaging in a pointless argument.

"I believe she has things to hold her at Whitethorn," Stacy said. "She has made friends in the area and is also very close with my old nurse. I doubt Portia would want to leave her life in Bude."

"Your nurse lives with you?"

"In a cottage on my land. She came from around here, I believe. I don't know her maiden name but she married a man named Kemble." Thinking about Nanny made him recall how she'd cried with joy when he told her he knew the truth behind his birth. It seemed to have knocked ten years off the old woman's age. She'd never wanted the deception but as an employee had had no choice but to lie. Not like Frances. Stacy's jaw tightened at the thought of his duplicitous sister.

"Hm, Kemble? No, I've not heard that name." Robert sounded uninterested in the provenance of Stacy's nurse and the conversation moved to the topic of Plymouth, each of them apologizing in advance for annihilating the other at darts.

***

A few days after their arrival in Plymouth—where Portia found a particularly lovely mauve silk for her first ball gown—she finally gave in to one of Lady Rowena's many offers to go riding. At first, Portia had begged off going with Rowena, an excellent horsewoman, but she couldn't continue to do so after the viscountess caught her talking about going riding with Frances.

She took a last look in her mirror as Daisy placed the high-crowned riding hat on her head. Her habit, if not her riding skills, was flawless. Stacy had presented her with three outfits when he'd given her Dainty.

The stark black was only relieved by a burgundy cravat that matched the feather in her hat. Portia believed she looked better in her riding habit than any other clothing but that might be because Stacy had selected it for her. It aroused her to think of him taking the time and effort to choose things that would touch her body, even if he no longer wanted to do so.

She'd just shut the door to her chambers when she encountered the man who was never far from her thoughts. He must have just returned from his own ride. When he saw her, he stopped in front of his door and looked her up and down, tapping his crop absently against his boot as he did so. Something about his cool inspection set her back up.

"You are going riding?" he asked, his eyebrows arched.

"As you see."

"With whom?"

She resented his tone but refused to let him see her irritation. "Lady Rowena." She turned to go but his voice stopped her.

"The viscountess is a bruising rider, Portia. Make sure you don't let her lead you in above your head."

She swung around. "I appreciate your concern for my welfare, Stacy, not to mention your confidence in my riding skill and overall intelligence."

His mouth tightened and the crop stilled. "Must I remind you that it is not only your welfare I am concerned with?"

"I believe you just did," she snapped, furious at his impassivity, his superior attitude, and the nearly overwhelming desire she felt for him no matter how much she hated him.

He closed the gap between them with two long strides, until their bodies were mere inches apart. She swallowed and took a deep breath, refusing to step back or look away. He smelled of horse, sweat, and leather and it brought to mind vivid memories of their first coupling.

"I should hate to have to restrict your riding privileges, my dear." The words were softly spoken but she heard the threat beneath them. She felt something on her leg and looked down. He was lightly tapping his crop against her thigh. The message was clear: it was he who had the whip hand and she would do well to remember it. Her breath caught at the blatantly dominating gesture and she looked up into his unsmiling face, her eyes reflected back at her.

Her heart was pounding, doing its best to betray the desire she felt for him.

"I should hate to make you issue a restriction I'd be forced to ignore," she said just as softly and then spun on her heel, forcing herself to walk at a leisurely pace when all she wanted to do was run from his brooding stare.

When she reached the stables, it was to find Rowena already mounted on a gray stallion who matched Geist for size, magnificence, and enthusiasm. The woman sat her horse as if she'd sprung fully formed from the saddle.

"Heavens," Portia murmured as the big gray pawed the ground. "Please tell me you've got something a bit less . . . volatile for me?"

The viscountess laughed, the first time Portia had heard her do so. The sound was light and musical but held no warmth or mirth.

"No, I believe Frost would be a bit much for you. I've had Watts saddle Honey. You'll like her; we give her to visiting children. Please excuse me for a moment." She turned away and trotted over to one of the grooms before Portia could reply. That was just as well. What could she say about her ladyship's cutting words when they were true? No doubt all the children who came to Thurlstone already rode far better than she ever would.

The groom led a placid-looking honey-colored horse up to her.

"This is Honey, ma'am. She's a good girl, eh?" This last part he addressed to the horse, who gave Portia a sly look as if to say, Maybe I am, or maybe I'm not.

He helped Portia into the saddle and handed up her whip.

Lady Rowena called over her shoulder, "I thought I would take you through our small wood."

They'd hardly left the stables behind when Honey decided to test Portia's mettle, ambling off the trail and grabbing a mouthful of what was probably one of the earl's prize topiaries.

Portia hauled on the reins, but Honey continued chewing her treat. "You villain," she hissed.

Her sister-in-law half-turned, an amused look on her face. "Honey," she said, not even raising her voice. The blasted creature released the shrub and hurried forward.

"Hateful, odious beast," Portia muttered beneath her voice as the horse trotted up beside the other woman's massive horse.

The viscountess glanced down at her. "Don't worry, the ride we'll take today is quite gentle." Her thin lips twisted while her pale eyes glinted. Could that be humor?

Rowena's gray habit was exquisite, just as all her clothes were. Portia wouldn't be surprised to learn she had a habit to match each horse. With her pale skin and light blond hair she looked and rode like a Valkyrie. Portia tried not to hate her but the woman did not make that an easy proposition.

"You did not grow up around horses, Mrs. Harrington?"

"I grew up in Rome. Horses were neither feasible nor necessary." Portia wasn't entirely able to keep the sharpness from her voice. "You, I see, are an expert. You said your father keeps a hunting box; do you hunt?"

"Yes, I quite enjoy hunting."

Portia wasn't surprised to hear it. "Do you go often to your father's property?"

"A few times a year."

"It is close to here?"

"It is almost directly inland from here—in the hunting country, north of Modbury." The viscountess turned away, clearly not interested in making conversation.

Portia couldn't help wondering why the woman had been so insistent on dragging her out riding if she didn't wish to speak to her. No doubt she'd just wanted to humiliate her on horseback. They took a narrow path that led toward the nearby woods. The trees swallowed them up and the castle disappeared from view. The air was humid and heavy and sound was muffled by the lush canopy of greenery. Portia quickly realized the small forest was more extensive than it appeared. Most of it was below the level of the park and sloped toward the stream.

"Do you feel it?" Lady Pendleton asked her.

"Feel it?" Portia repeated.

"This wood is ancient—some of these trees are hundreds and hundreds of years old. Many were here long before the Harringtons and they'll be here after we're gone." Portia could not see her face but her voice throbbed with hushed reverence.

Interesting. Here, it seemed, was something the disdainful daughter of a duke appreciated: land, the badge of the English aristocracy. Before Portia could pursue the topic the viscountess spoke.

"How are you enjoying your visit to Thurlstone so far?"

"Very much, thank you. Your hospitality means a great deal to both my husband and me."

"You must forgive the earl if he seems rather rigid in his behavior. I'm afraid he is not a demonstrative man."

Portia was tempted to point out he was very demonstrative when it came to exhibiting his disdain, but held her tongue. She could well believe this cold woman thought such haughty behavior admirable. Indeed, she was rather undemonstrative herself, except when it came to demonstrating scorn.

The path narrowed and the viscountess slowed. "You go ahead of me, Mrs. Harrington. This is wide enough only for one. It is also somewhat steep, but only for a short while."

The branches of the surrounding trees almost touched them and the path sloped sharply. They rode in silence for a few minutes as the trail cut back and forth, zigzagging down the steep hill. The trail had just begun to straighten when the sound of hooves came from behind them.

Portia tensed, hoping the rider would see them before they ended up on top of them. She risked a quick glance behind her even though she was terrified of the steep, narrow path ahead.

"Do you hear—"

"Hallo! Hallo, Portia!" a voice called.

Portia sighed with relief: it was Frances, and the hooves thundered to a halt.

"Frances, what are you doing here?" Rowena asked, sounding irritated.

"I ran into Stacy and he said you were going for a ride with Portia. I thought I'd join you as I missed my usual ride this morning."

Portia couldn't help smiling. So, she'd actually exchanged words with Stacy? Good for Frances! She was about to tell Frances she was glad she'd joined them when she heard a loud crack and her hat was torn from her head. Honey reared and made a noise that sounded very much like a baby screaming.

And then she bolted.