Chapter Twenty-Four

Portia's screams joined Honey's as the reins flew from her hands and the horse surged forward. Voices rang out behind her as she fumbled for a handful of Honey's mane. She grabbed for the reins and almost flew over Honey's head. By some miracle she managed to snag one of the reins. She pulled back with all her might but the horse had the bit and no amount of yanking would stop her.

The forest flickered past in a green-brown blur and a low-hanging branch ripped painfully at her hair. She hunkered low just in time to feel Honey gather her strength, bunch her hind legs, and sail over something that lay across the path.

Portia screamed as they flew. She wanted to squeeze her eyes shut but suppressed the foolish urge and stared with wide, tearing eyes as they burst from the woods and entered a gently sloping vale. Emboldened by the lack of obstacles, Honey doubled her speed.

Something wet hit Portia in the face, blotting the vision in one eye and she gripped Honey's mane in one hand and the solitary rein in the other, blinking rapidly to clear her vision.

A dark shape thundered into her peripheral vision and a hand shot out and grabbed Honey's bridle, pulling the horse to a stop so abruptly Portia had to hug the horse's neck to keep from flying over her head.

Portia buried her face in Honey's hot, damp mane until a strong hand grabbed her shoulder and pulled her upright. She brushed at her eye and saw blood on the York tan glove.

"Are you all right?" Frances's face was white except for two slashes of color over her high cheekbones.

"Blood." Portia held up her hand as if Frances might not believe her without proof.

"It is Honey's, she's been shot. The bullet clipped your hat and hit her ear. That is what set her off."

"Shot?" Portia repeated, her voice sounding oddly sleepy.

Rowena came cantering up on her other side. "Are you hurt, Mrs. Harrington? My heart was in my mouth when I saw you bolt."

Fury distorted Frances's normally impassive features as she whirled on the viscountess. "Somebody shot at her, Rowena."

Rowena flushed at the accusation in the other woman's tone. "It must have been somebody shooting hares or wood pigeons, a poacher. I daresay they never even realized we were there or that anyone had been hit. It looks as though Honey has lost the tip of her ear." Her pale eyes moved from the horse to Portia. "You are extremely fortunate, Mrs. Harrington, the bullet passed less than an inch from your head."

Portia's mouth fell open. Why, in the name of all that was holy, would the woman feel the need to reiterate such a horrible thing?

Frances must have wondered the same thing and made an irritated noise and pushed her horse closer. "I will take you back, Portia. You must be scared witless and poor Honey will need her ear seen to." She turned her back on Rowena and leaned over to grab Honey's reins.

The return trip took forever and the entire way through the woods Portia's scalp itched, as if waiting for another bullet. She was shaking so badly by the time they reached the house the groom had to lift her off the horse.

"Carry her up to the house," Frances ordered.

Portia rebelled at the thought of being carried anywhere. "Oh, no, please, Frances. I am perfectly able to walk. I am just a little shaky but will be fine in a moment." Portia turned to the strapping groom who'd already bent down as if to scoop her up. "I shall be fine, really." She was ashamed by the wobbly sound of her voice.

"I will go and arrange that a bath and tea be sent up immediately," the viscountess said.

Frances watched her depart with a hard look before taking Portia's hand. "Come, Portia, you will feel far better once you are in a nice hot bath."

***

Portia was lying in the bath and wondering if she would ever stop shaking when the door flew open so hard it bounced off the wall.

Stacy crossed the floor in a few long strides, dropped down beside the enormous tub and took her wet soapy hand in his. "Good God! I just heard. Are you all right?"

She thrilled at his worried expression and the unrestrained anxiety in his voice.

"I am unharmed, it is the poor horse who lost a piece of her ear."

Stacy exhaled noisily, as though he'd been holding his breath. He lowered his head and reached up to take off his glasses with a shaking hand. When he looked up, she could see the terror in his arresting eyes. He squeezed her hand so hard it hurt.

"Robert thinks it was a poacher they've been having trouble with lately. He has men combing the woods." He shook his head, his lips thin. "I should never have allowed Lady Rowena to choose your horse. She has no idea of your skill level." He frowned. "But I cannot stay. I should go and help them search. I just wanted to make sure you were unharmed first."

Now that the immediacy of the moment had passed, he looked awkward.

"The child . . ?"

"I do not feel anything amiss, either with the child or myself." She gave him a teasing look, hoping to lighten the mood. "Does this mean I'm forbidden to ride from now on?"

His expression became even haughtier. "It means I'm not going to let you out of my bloody sight."

Portia's mouth fell open. Was he blaming her because some idiot poacher shot her horse?

She glared up at him. "That won't be an easy task—not with the connecting door locked and you on the other side of it." Portia wished she could bite off her tongue. The last thing in the world she wanted him to think was that she missed him in her bed, even if it was true. Especially because it was true.

He slid his glasses over his eyes. "If you lock the door you'd better expect it to be broken down," he promised, striding from the room.

Portia threw her wash cloth at him but it missed him by several feet and smacked wetly against the wall. "It wasn't me who locked it in the first place!" she yelled, not caring who heard.

His answer was to slam the door.

***

In spite of everyone's urging, Portia went down to dinner that night. What was the point of lying around in her room when she was not injured? Besides, she did not feel like being alone. She hated to admit it, but she was horribly shaken by the episode.

Stacy came to her room just as Daisy was leaving. Neither of them spoke and the walk to the dining room seemed to take two hours. It was Stacy who finally broke the silence. "You look beautiful tonight, Portia." He issued the compliment with an aloofness which annoyed her.

"Life-threatening situations must flatter me."

She felt him turn to look at her but she refused to look up at twin reflections of her own face.

"Please tell me you will not make a habit of such situations."

Portia stopped, yanked her hand from his arm, and spun to face him. "I am to tell you that I will not make a habit of being shot at?" She gave him no time to answer the question. "Hmm," she said, taking her chin between thumb and forefinger, as if giving the matter serious consideration. "No," she said. "No, I'm afraid I do not feel comfortable promising that." She turned on her heel and strode down the hall.

"Portia."

She refused to stop.

"Portia, you are going back the way we just came." Even from twenty feet away she could hear the amusement in his voice. She wanted to scream and was sorely tempted to just keep walking. She would have kept going but she knew she'd never find her room. She stopped, too furious to turn. Instead, she closed her eyes and counted to ten. A light, warm, touch settled on her arm.

"Come, let us go to dinner before they send out men with dogs and torches. You must know I am not angry with you, Portia. I was merely very frightened." Portia felt herself weakening toward him and took a breath to say something rude. But when she opened her mouth nothing came out.

"Yes?" His voice was close to her ear, his breath warm and ticklish.

She placed her hand on his arm and they resumed their trek. "Did they find anything in the woods?"

"Nothing. No doubt the poacher heard the commotion and hastened to get as far away from the scene as possible."

That was what Portia had expected. It was probably some farmer with a failed crop trying to feed his starving children.

When they reached the drawing room, they found the entire family awaiting the arrival of the other dinner guests and Portia suddenly recalled this was the first dinner they would have with outsiders. She grimaced. Perhaps she should have stayed in her room.

Robert approached her without outstretched hands, his forehead furrowed with concern. "I am so sorry this happened to you, Portia, of all people."

Portia laughed. "Well, I suppose there isn't anyone here who would have enjoyed it, my lord."

"You're determined to be a good sport about it. That is what your husband said you would do."

Portia shot a startled look at Stacy. The annoying man remained his usual impassive self.

"How is Honey faring? She is the true victim."

"She will be fine, although minus the tip of her ear. No doubt it will lend her a certain gravitas among her fellows. Her bravery will be spoken of in the equine world for decades to come."

Portia bit back a smile. "Perhaps she should append something to her name that proclaims her battle worthiness?"

Robert laughed. "Yes, did not the Vikings distinguish themselves in such a manner?"

"Perhaps something like Honey Cleft-Ear would be suitable," Stacy suggested with a straight face.

The men laughed and Portia shook her finger in admonishment, hardly able to suppress her own laughter. "You are terrible to make fun of my valiant mount."

They were making up additional, equally ludicrous, Viking names when Constance approached them. All Stacy's sisters were shy but Constance was the most retiring.

"Father wonders if you would join him, Mrs. Harrington." She gave Stacy a fearful look as she delivered her message, as if she were worried that he might insist on joining his wife.

"Will you excuse me?" Portia murmured to Robert and Stacy.

The earl sat in state beside the massive fireplace, his back to his family. He looked up when Portia approached and gestured to the chair a footman had just placed across from him. She sat, able to see not only the earl but the rest of the family behind him. She looked at the old man and they locked eyes. His were a very different color from his son's but they were shapely and long, set deep beneath well-marked brows. There was not even a particle of softness in those eyes. They raked, weighed, and assessed her as efficiently as a piece of meat at the butchers. His mouth curled into a contemptuous smile, as if he'd found something to entertain him.

"I heard your husband play once." His voice was deep and hollow, the clipped consonants elegant.

Portia smiled slightly but did not respond. She loathed what he'd done to his family and the way he was behaving toward Stacy.

He watched her face like a raptor sizing up a potential kill and one corner of his thin mouth twitched. "You are recovered from today's mishap in the west wood." It was not a question.

"I was not hit. The bullet clipped the ear of one of your horses. I daresay she will not forget the incident any time soon."

That drew a sharp bark of laughter. "Horses are stupid creatures, much like most people. They forget what they choose. You are new to riding, Frances tells me. Grew up in Rome, did you?" Something about that seemed to amuse him.

"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 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 fa?ade."

"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 na?veté 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: admiration, 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?