Page 40 of The Music of Love

“I think the date we chose is best,” she said.

“Very well. I shall set off two days hence to secure the license. I daresay I’ll be back by the end of the week. I shall speak to the vicar tomorrow. I can also talk to my aunt about the wedding breakfast, unless—”

“I would like to discuss that with her, if that is all right with you?”

He gave her one of his rare smiles and she could see he was pleased. “Thank you, Portia, I appreciate your thoughtfulness. I know you will soon be mistress of Whitethorn and—”

“Actually, I’m dreadful when it comes to managing household affairs,” she lied. “I would love it if Miss Tate would consider continuing in her current role—if she doesn’t mind, of course.” That second part was not a lie. Portia had no interest in managing a huge house and could see it was important to Miss Tate. The woman would always live with them, so it behooved her to try and get along.

“Thank you,” he said simply.

The two-hour lesson—during which only music was performed on the piano—passed too quickly. When it was finished, Stacy came to the desk where she was assembling her notes.

“Will you join me in the library for a few moments, ma’am?”

His rather severe expression made her stomach tighten, but she ignored her butterflies. “Of course.”

When they entered the library Portia noticed one of the windows was uncovered. It was a window that faced north and was shaded by a large tree. Even so, it was brighter than he usually kept his rooms.

He followed her gaze. “It is my hope to allow a little more light into the house.” The words were simple, but the meaning was clear: he was doing this for her.

Portia took the same chair she’d sat in less than two months ago and Stacy withdrew a beautiful wooden box from his desk and handed it to her.

“How lovely,” she said, tracing the fine marquetry with her finger.

He leaned against the front of his desk. “The gift is actually inside the box, Portia.”

A little shiver ran down her spine at the sound of her name in his mouth. She bit her lip, afraid of what she would find inside. She had nothing to give to him in return.

“It will not open itself.” There was amusement in his quiet voice.

Inside the box was an exquisite pearl choker. The pearls were large and the color of fresh cream. There were earrings and a bracelet to match. Portia had never had anything even a fraction as fine.

“Oh, Mr. Harrington, how beautiful,” she breathed, touching one of the pearls, which actually felt warm beneath her finger. She looked up, embarrassed by his generosity. “How can I thank you for such a magnificent gift?”

“You can start by calling me Stacy.” He grimaced, “Or Eustace, if you must. As for thanking me?” His pale lips curved. “I’m certain I will think of something.”

Portia’s face became unbearably hot under his bespectacled stare.

“Will you take off your glasses, Stacy?”

“Tsk, tsk, tsk. You know what happens when I do that, Portia.”

She laughed. “I promise I shan’t launch myself at you like a wanton.”

He uncrossed his arms and placed both palms on the edge of the desk. “Then I hardly see the point.”

She rose, took the single step that separated them, and stood on her tiptoes to kiss him softly on the mouth before lowering back to her heels. He stood as still as the statue he so resembled.

“Thank you for the jewels, Stacy, they are lovely.”

He reached out and skimmed a finger down her jaw, the feather-light touch sending a pulse of desire directly to her core.

“You are welcome, Portia.” To her disappointment, he dropped his hand to his side. “They belonged to my mother. There are several other pieces you are welcome to use. We can go through them at some point but I thought this set would go particularly well with the red gown you’ve worn on occasion. It would please me if you wore it tonight.”

His quiet request took her breath away; there was just something very sensual about a man wanting to see her body wearing certain clothing.

He shifted slightly, as though he needed to put some distance between them, and Portia took a step back, resolving to keep her hands off his body. The next time they made love—or rutted like a pair of wild minks—it would be he who initiated it.