Page 10 of The Music of Love

Of course he could control his urges, but control or lack of it was not the bloody question. The question was: Would he be able to concentrate on his music or would he spend his lessons fantasizing about bending her over the piano?

Stacy grimaced. It sounded more than a little pathetic when put so baldly.

But the truth was pathetic: He was randy. Terribly randy, in fact. He’d spent most of the last two months in Barnstaple, busy with the refitting of two new ships. As a result, it had been ages since his last visit to the Plymouth establishment where he satisfied such urges.

Ha! Establishment?

Fine. The brothel I frequent. Is that better?

Stacy refused to be ashamed of what he did. Paying a prostitute was a far better practice than getting bastards on one’s servants or local maidens, a thing the local squire did with disgusting frequency.

There is always a wife.

He didn’t even bother to justify that ridiculous thought.

The truth was that he should’ve set up a mistress long ago, but the notion left him cold. What a lot of bother not only for him, but also for some poor woman. What must it be like to sit around one’s house all day waiting for a man to arrive and mount you?

Thoughts of mounting made his body tighten and he dropped his head against the back of his chair. A month was a bloody long time and he was already lusting after the poor widow, a woman who was only here to earn her bread.

Stacy frowned, sobered by that thought. He’d always been sickened by men who preyed on their tenants, servants, or other dependents. So, all he needed to do for the next thirty days was think of Signora Stefani as just another servant. Just a month, and then he would do what he should have done this morning and send her away. Surely he could suppress his unseemly urges for a month?

“Hell,” he muttered, squeezing his temples, it was going to be a long month.

Chapter Four

Portia returned to her room and unpacked her portmanteau before writing a brief letter to Serena Lombard—a woman as dear to her as a sister—who would disseminate the news to the rest of their friends.

“Don’t do this,” Serena had begged when Portia told her about forging Ivo’s signature. “Come live with Freddie, Honoria, and me. You can teach piano from our house. There is plenty of room for you.”

But Portia loved her friends and could not be a burden to them. It was doubtful she could earn enough to cover her room and board, not to mention make payments on the horrific mountain of debt Ivo had left her. Only a well-paying position like the one Mr. Harrington offered could cover such financial burdens.

Portia wrote a second letter to her London landlady, a grasping woman who’d agreed, for a fee, to store Portia’s few possessions until she decided what to do with them.

Ivo had taken everything of value when he departed and none of the items he’d left behind had any monetary worth, but they were all she had left of her parents.

When she was finished, she felt far too restless to read or nap, even though she’d had very little sleep the night before. She gazed out the window beyond her writing desk. The lesson was hours away and it was sunny and crisp outside, a perfect day to seek out a lesson in gig-handling. She slipped on her cloak and tied the wide brown ribbon of her bonnet beneath her right ear before making her way to the stables.

A stout older man was talking to a boy of nine or ten near the entrance to the stalls. He smiled when he saw her.

“Tha’ll be Mrs. Stefani, I wager. Come to learn the gig, have ’ee?”

“I have, if it is no bother. You must be Mr. Hawkins?”

“Aye, I’m Ben Hawkins and this be John, my nephew.”

“It’s a pleasure to meet you Mr. Hawkins, John.” Portia smiled at the boy, who flushed and doffed his cap.

Hawkins turned back to his nephew. “Off ’ee go, now. See to master’s bitch and that wee ’un without any shilly-shally.”

The boy darted off without a backward glance.

“He’s good with the animals,” Hawkins said, putting aside the harness he’d been working on. “One of the bitches whelped and there be a runt that can’t find the teat.”

“Oh, there are puppies?” Portia asked, sounding like an excited child to her own ears.

Hawkins gave her an indulgent smile, his brown eyes creasing. “Aye, go to the last stall but one. I’ll ready up the gig while ye go back to see.”

Portia followed the simple directions and found John kneeling in the straw beside an exhausted-looking hound.