Page 4 of The Music of Love

“Very good, ma’am.” She dropped another curtsey and left, closing the sitting room door behind her.

The smell of food made her mouth water and Portia hastened to examine what the maid had brought: roasted fowl, whipped parsnips, fresh bread and butter, a carafe of wine, and clotted cream with fresh berries. It was the perfect meal for a weary, hungry traveler and she descended on it like a ravenous beast.

She had just popped the last berry into her mouth when Daisy opened the door.

“Your bath is ready, ma’am.”

Portia followed her to the copper tub, which was full of steaming water. Beside it was a marble-topped table with a stack of fluffy towels and several crystal decanters.

“Can I help you with your dress, ma’am?”

“Thank you, Daisy, but I shall manage.” She waited until the door closed behind the maid before unbuttoning the row of fasteners that ran down the side of her worn, brown traveling costume.

Portia glanced around the room as she undressed. A lovely Chippendale cabinet stood against one wall, rich brown velvet drapes flanked floor-to-ceiling windows, and a massive four-poster bed dominated the bedchamber.

She absently ran a hand over the blue silk counterpane, which felt like a cloud when she pressed her hand into it. A sharp pang shot through her as she considered her surroundings. The housemaid was sweet, the rooms were lovely, and the simple meal had been delicious—what a pity she would most likely have to leave all this tomorrow.

Portia had never received such grand treatment before, not even when she and Ivo had stayed in some of the finest houses in Europe. Her husband had been hailed as a great artist and had been much feted before the accident which had ended his career. Men had paid generous sums to have Ivo Stefani play for their peers, and women had fawned over his olive-skinned good looks and warm bedroom eyes.

But the wife of the great artist had not received the same treatment. For the most part, Portia had stayed in tiny garrets and endured the grudging, slighting treatment of servants while Ivo had bedded the mistress of the house, spent a fortune on expensive frippery, and gambled away most of the money he’d earned.

Portia realized she was gritting her teeth.

Relax, she told herself. Relax and enjoy the unexpected splendor, because the local magistrate will probably be waiting for you in the morning.

She pushed away the thought and added a generous splash of lavender-scented bath oil to the steaming water before lowering her tired body into sheer heaven.

By the time she finished washing her hair, her eyelids were heavy with fatigue and she lay back against the warm copper and closed her eyes.

I will rest my eyes. Just for a minute…

Portia woke with a start to cold bathwater, pruned fingers, and pebbled skin. It was all she could do to pull her stiff, aching body from the tub and dry herself. She barely had enough strength left to drag a comb through her damp hair and don her threadbare nightgown before burrowing into the decadent bed. She closed her eyes and was immediately in the grip of a tedious half-dream that revolved around an unending carriage ride.

She was drifting in a deep, dreamless sleep when something awakened her. She pushed aside a tangled mass of curls and squinted at the candle she’d left burning across the room. The clock on her nightstand showed it was just past two.

Portia groaned and dropped her head onto the pillow. In addition to leaving the candle burning, she’d forgotten to draw the curtains, and moonlight flooded the room. She would need to extinguish the candle and close the drapes if she hoped to get any sleep.

Grumbling, she pushed off the blankets, heaved herself out of bed, and padded across the thick carpet to the window. She was about to pull the drapes shut when she noticed a small stone balcony beyond the rippled glass. The well-oiled window latch turned without a sound and she opened the casement and stepped out into a wonderland.

A cool breeze stirred her nightgown and the moon cast a magical glow, illuminating the countryside for miles around. It was one of those moons that hung so low in the sky you felt you could reach out and touch it. Even more light came from a series of lanterns that ran from the corner of the house half-way down the drive.

Portia wondered who would need such a brilliant display of light in the middle of the night but shrugged the thought away. Who knew what country folk did, and why?

Although the night was chilly, it was too beautiful to resist. Portia leaned against the cold stone and filled her lungs with crisp, non-London air, a temporary queen of her moonlit kingdom.

To the west lay a sliver of ocean; the shimmering waves were visible, but too far away to hear them crashing against the shore. Formal gardens surrounded the house to the west and south and beyond them lay a wood large enough to be called a forest.

Portia closed her eyes and drank in the quiet of the night. What a lovely, lovely place this was. And what a terrible shame this would probably be her only night to enjoy it. Her regret was so bitter it left a bad taste in her mouth; she never should have lied. She should’ve written to Mr. Harrington using her own name. She could’ve provided him with proof of her training, which was every bit as impressive as Ivo’s, not to mention her experience operating a school—not that a closed school was a ringing endorsement.

She’d done them both a disservice by not giving him the truth and allowing him to make his decision. Now her deception would stand between them, and rightly so.

Portia gnawed at her lower lip until it was raw, furious at her impetuosity. She was almost nine-and-twenty, would she never learn to think before she acted? She must have been mad to think this would work, and even if—

A slight sound intruded on her misery and Portia opened her eyes. Something white and ghostly flickered in the trees at the edge of the woods. She took a step back and stood in the shroud of the heavy velvet drapes, pulling them closer around her body. A figure emerged from the woods and Portia caught her breath as the white blur solidified: It was not a ghost, but a person on a large white horse.

Horse and rider picked their way past the line of trees before exploding into a gallop and blazing across the rolling parkland like a shooting star, closing the distance between the woods and the house in a matter of moments.

The spectral pair slowed as they approached the drive, the bright lanterns affording Portia a better look. No, most certainly not a ghost, but a very substantial-looking man. He wore no coat or waistcoat, only a white shirt that must have become damp from his exertions and now adhered to his torso like a second skin. He controlled his mount with long, muscular thighs encased in breeches and tucked into dark boots. The moonlight turned both horse and man and an eerie silver white.