Page 32 of The Music of Love

“I do not believe Nanny cares for the Fants.”

He smiled. “Well, they are from Yorkshire and thus geographically suspect. But Miss Tate selected them and I have absolute faith in her judgement.” He uncrossed his arms and pushed off the desk, signaling the conversation was over.

“Thank you for the advance on my wages.”

“It is my pleasure, Signora Stefani.” He took several long strides toward the door and opened it for her. “I shall see you at four.”

Portia nodded and left the room without looking back.

Stacy watched until Signora Stefani disappeared down the hallway. She moved with a sensual grace which he knew was more than mere promise. Her hips shifted enticingly beneath her simple cotton gown and he couldn’t help wondering if she was wearing stockings or if she routinely went without them.

This is not a subject that will lead you anywhere good.

That is certainly true—but it is a subject that brings me pleasure. Even so, Stacy shut the door on both her and his lascivious thoughts.

But when he resumed his seat he found he was no longer in the mood to contemplate the new parcel of land he’d just acquired, a matter that had interested him greatly before the woman had made it impossible to think. He poured a brandy, took off his glasses, and checked his watch: two hours until his lesson. Lord, he was pathetic to look forward to those two hours the way he did.

He slid his hand behind his neck and brutally massaged the taut cords, his mind sneaking back to that night in the stables. Indeed, his mind rarely went anywhere else of late. He doggedly dragged his attention back to the true purpose of that evening, which had not been to seduce his employee, but to breed his newest mare. That endeavor, at least, had proven successful and Snezana was in foal, which Thompson said was not always the case after a young mare’s first cover—

“Good God!” Stacy sat up so fast he knocked his leg against his desk. He yelped and then rubbed his throbbing knee. Could Mrs. Stefani be pregnant? How could he not have thought of that possibility until now? He stared unblinkingly across the dim room, his spinning brain yielding very little of use on the subject. He’d only bedded prostitutes—how pitiful was that—and they were taught how to prevent conception. Mrs. Stefani was a widow, but did that necessarily mean she knew how to take precautions? What if she were carrying his child? Would his children be like him?

His aunt had told him long ago that his mother and father had both been fair, but not white like him. Lord. How had he not thought of this until now? He reached for the brandy decanter but stopped; he liked to have his wits about him when he went into a lesson.

He slumped back in his chair; he would have to talk to Signora Stefani. It would be a bloody uncomfortable conversation, but he needed to reassure her that she’d not face such an eventuality alone.

Stacy groaned at even the thought of such an agonizing discussion.

Surely it was early yet? Their talk could wait until she returned. Most likely it would never be an issue. While he knew little about human reproduction, he knew it usually took more than one coupling for horses and other livestock.

Thoughts of coupling inevitably brought her image to mind.

She’d looked delectable today and he cursed himself for not having the forethought to open the drapes on one window so he could’ve seen her better. He’d not seen her in natural light for days—which he knew was a product of them both avoiding each other.

As gorgeous and sensual as her body had felt, what he thought of most often were her eyes: how could eyes so dark—almost black—burn with such emotion?

Of course, he also thought about her expressive, kissable mouth and how she smiled so easily. Indeed, she seemed to feel easily, unhampered by the need to moderate her emotions like the typical staid Englishperson—like him, in other words. Watching the parade of emotions that marched across her face was fascinating. In the course of their brief conversation he’d seen curiosity, embarrassment, desire, anger, happiness, sadness, and a host of other emotions he could not define.

When it came to music her face was even more eloquent. Music turned her into a creature of pure passion: driven, confident, and magnificent. Had that passion threatened her husband? Or had he shared the same temperament? Had her talent been something Ivo Stefani viewed as a challenge or something to unite them?

Stacy had no thoughts of competing with her when it came to music. He played well enough, but she elevated the notes into the realm of the divine. Her mastery of the piano was erotic and the lessons had become a two-hour block of delicious agony. Listening to her play was bloody torture, but it was the high point of his days.

He was becoming stiff just thinking about her.

Stacy scowled at his body’s base reaction. He’d become the sort of predator who lusted after his employee—and that is exactly what she was: a dependent.

Not only had he engaged in reprehensible behavior with a subordinate, but it was possible she would suffer greatly from those few moments of careless passion. How would she feel about having a child who looked like him or needing to marry a man who looked like him?

Stacy could not imagine her being happy with either eventuality. A momentary indiscretion with a human novelty was one thing, spending the rest of your life with somebody like him was another matter entirely.

Chapter Ten

Portia had several days in the crowded mail coach to think about what she would tell her friends about Stacy, finally deciding she would tell them nothing. What was there to say? She could hardly disclose what she’d done in the stables, nor did she want to confess she was lusting for her employer day and night. So, yes, nothing was better.

When the hackney dropped her off in front of her friends’ townhouse Serena Lombard was waiting for her at the top of the steps.

“How lovely to see you, Portia!” The small Frenchwoman folded her into a very un-English embrace.

“I’ve missed you terribly,” Portia murmured, squeezing her friend hard enough to make her laugh.