Page 41 of The Music of Love

“If you change your mind about inviting your friends I shall be happy to send my traveling carriage for any who might need it.”

Portia blinked at the offer. “That is very generous of you.”

“Incidentally, I gave Daisy instructions to wait on you until we can engage a proper maid. She is a pleasant girl and eager to please.”

The offer surprised her. “I’ve always tended to my own needs. Indeed, I should hardly know how to keep a personal servant employed.”

His smile was gentle, but firm. “No doubt you will become accustomed to it.” He walked toward the door as he spoke and held it open, as though the topic was no longer under discussion.

For the first time Portia realized she was marrying a man who had a mind of his own. He was gentle and soft-spoken, but, she realized now, his servants all obeyed him quickly and without question. She recalled his aunt’s words from all those weeks ago: He was a benevolent despot. Portia was fairly certain Miss Tate had spoken in jest, still . . .

Once you are married, he will be your lord and master.

The thought struck her with some force, even though it shouldn’t be a new one to her. After all, she’d been married to Ivo for most of her adult life. But she and Ivo had managed their marriage like two squabbling children and there had been no master in their relationship. They’d each constantly struggled to impose their will on the other.

Portia glanced up at Eustace Harrington’s handsome, impassive face and a frisson of something—excitement? Fear?—shot through her body as she stared into his dark lenses.

It occurred to her that she actually knew very little about her husband-to-be.

He took her hand, the one not holding the extravagant gift he’d just given her, and lifted it to his lips. “I look forward to seeing you at dinner, my dear.” His kiss was hot on the thin skin of her hand. It felt very much like a brand.

When Portia saw the way Daisy dressed her hair that evening—a sleek French twist—she was considerably more sanguine about engaging a maid.

“You’ve worked a miracle, Daisy.”

Daisy laughed. “’Tis easy when a body has hair like you. I’ve got eight sisters, ma’am, and we all have these same straight as straw mops.” She gestured to her own hair, which was braided into two heavy honey-blond ropes.

Portia opened the marquetry box. “Will you help me fasten the necklace?”

“Oh ma’am, I never!” Daisy stared at the glowing pearls with wide eyes.

“Mr. Harrington gave them to me as a wedding gift. Evidently they belonged to his mother.” She picked up the heavy strand and draped it around her neck. It did look fine with the low-cut flame silk. While Daisy fastened the necklace Portia screwed on the earrings and clasped the bracelet around her wrist.

“My goodness but you look lovely.” Daisy stared open-mouthed at Portia’s reflection. So did Portia. She’d never looked better.

On impulse, she said, “I shall be pleased to keep you as my maid, Daisy, if that is what you would like.”

“Oh above all things, ma’am. I know Mr. Harrington said it was just temporary-like.”

“He has left the choice to me, and I choose you.”

“Thank you, ma’am, you won’t regret it.”

Portia left Daisy humming to herself while she examined Portia’s rather pitiful wardrobe.

One of the two footmen, Charles, was waiting at the bottom of the stairs. “Mr. Harrington is in the yellow drawing room, Mrs. Stefani.”

“Thank you, Charles.”

Stacy was seated at a small writing desk when she entered and he’d just finished sanding something. His lips parted, but it was a moment before he spoke. “You look ravishing, Portia.”

Her face heated at his quiet homage. “Thank you.” She looked around at a room she’d only seen once before, the day Soames gave her a tour of the house.

“Do you care for something to drink?”

Portia had actually been feeling quite queasy, but it felt uncivil to say no. “Thank you, perhaps a sherry—a very small one.” He strode toward a table holding several decanters and Portia couldn’t help staring at his muscular legs, encased in black pantaloons that fit him like a second skin. They’d only ever made love clothed and Portia had yet to see most of his body. The memory of the part she had seen made her mouth dry. Perhaps it was just as well she’d asked for the sherry.

He turned and caught her staring, as usual.