Page 107 of The Music of Love

“She’s already agreed to go to dinner with me, old man.” Stacy cut Robert a look that should have brought him to his senses. Really, was his brother an idiot? Did he not see how his wife was watching? Did he not notice how Kitty was as fragile as glass? Stacy added in an undervoice, “You can talk to Mrs. Charring later, Robert.”

Stacy turned to talk to Portia, but she was walking away on the arm of a young man.

The dinner gong rang and Stacy gritted his teeth to keep from howling. Instead, he smiled down at Kitty and guided her toward the dining room.

“Thank you, Stacy.” Kitty’s voice was almost inaudible, but Stacy could feel the tremors shaking her delicate body.

“Don’t let her see your suffering.”

They both knew who he meant, and Kitty stiffened. “No, you’re right.”

He placed his hand over hers and smiled at another couple who approached the door. “I cannot imagine you will be seated near him at dinner,” he murmured, not really sure of any such thing. Who knew what his sister-in-law was up to? And Stacy was positive it must have been Rowena who’d invited Kitty here, luring her with promises of information about her child. And if she’d invited Robert’s old lover why would she draw the line at seating them together? He could only hope her respect for precedence superseded her desire for making mischief. He twisted around to look for Portia. She was taking her seat and smiling up at the young man beside her, laughing at something he said. She looked happy and seemed to be enjoying herself.

Stacy heaved a sigh of relief; he must have been wrong about her reaction to Kitty.

It was the longest meal of Portia’s life. Stacy sat directly across from her and she was forced to watch as he charmed his two dinner partners in between darting glances at Mrs. Charring, who was seated almost all the way at the other end, not far from Robert.

It was all Portia could do to make basic responses to the two men beside her as she doggedly ate her way through three courses, planning her escape.

As soon as dinner finished, she stood with unseemly haste, grateful for the brief escape from Stacy the thirty minutes of port and cigars would afford her. In the drawing room she planted herself between two matrons who were discussing their servant problems. Half an hour later the women had moved on to the subject of the best London warehouses to find draperies when Katherine Charring stopped in front of Portia, her smile uncertain.

Portia wanted to scream. Why in God’s name did the woman insist on attaching herself to Portia like a limpet? She resisted the urge to claw out her gorgeous green eyes and gestured to a vacant chair, her smile as brittle as glass.

“Please, join us.” What else could she say? “We are thrashing out the important topic of new draperies.”

Portia was still wondering how to escape ten minutes later when two footmen opened the enormous double doors that led to the grand ballroom and a hush fell over the group.

“My goodness,” one of the other women whispered.

Hundreds of candles burned in giant chandeliers—the light reflecting off the gilt ceiling and bathing the dark wood walls in a warm glow. The floor was breathtaking, an ornate design that looked almost Moorish and radiated out from a massive medallion in the center. An elevated pavilion off to one side held a full orchestra.

Katherine Charring shot to her feet, her eyes on something on the far side of the room. “Will you excuse me?” she asked, not waiting for a response before she fled. Thank God.

A few moments later the two matrons stood. “Shall we move closer?”

Portia followed them until she saw Stacy’s distinctive white head in front of them, and then she turned right, which conveniently led to the long bank of tables along the far side of the room that had been set up with refreshments. She looked at the heaping platters of food and her stomach rumbled. She had to laugh; dinner had ended less than three-quarters of an hour ago and her body was hungry, even though the mere thought of more food made her ill.

She looked out over the crowd and quickly located her husband. Right beside him was a distinctive redhead. She turned her back to the room, took a plate and filled it with cakes, no longer caring if she ended up weighing twenty stone.

Portia had just declined her second invitation to dance and was systematically consuming the contents of the buffet when a footman wheeled the earl toward her. Hysterical laughter bubbled up in her throat; this was exactly what she needed to make the evening completely miserable.

She resisted the urge to scream and run. Instead she swallowed her mouthful of cream cake and prayed he would bypass her and go somewhere else, perhaps America. But the poisonous old bastard rolled toward her as inexorably as bad weather. Portia was in no mood to tolerate his snide comments tonight. He’d better mind his nasty mouth or he might find himself the recipient of some of his own medicine.

“Good evening, Mrs. Harrington.” He smiled; the expression as festive as a funeral procession.

He was up to something.

She gave him a mockery of a curtsey. “My lord.”

Her terse greeting amused rather than insulted him and he chuckled. Portia stared at the dance floor, hoping he would go away if she ignored him. Unfortunately, the first thing she saw was Stacy leading Kitty out for the next set.

“That redheaded chit is causing quite a bit of heartburn tonight, eh?” He laughed and Portia turned to glare down at him. He gave her an ingratiating smile, as if they were partners in an amusing caper. Portia entertained herself with a vision of pushing his chair down the stairs with him in it and was able to smile back.

“I see your husband managed to get her for a waltz. Perhaps he has more of me in him than I gave him credit for.” His unpleasant cackling drew curious looks from several people standing nearby.

“My husband and Mrs. Charring have a prior acquaintance. They are friends,” she said in the most repressive tone she could muster.

“Is that what you call it in Italian? Friends?” He guffawed. “I believe Robert might be her friend, too. I believe she is the sort of woman who has lots of friends.”