Page 82 of The Music of Love

“My wife has to say that. She is, after all, my teacher.”

The siblings laughed and Stacy looked at Portia and smiled. How oddly competent he was at behaving as though they were a loving, happy couple. Portia wanted to throw her teacup at his head.

“Indeed. Stacy is my most promising student.” She smirked to demonstrate that she, too, could behave with amused sophistication.

“You still teach music?” The viscountess could not have sounded more surprised if Portia had confessed to running naked through the streets of Mayfair.

“My wife is jesting. I am her only pupil and a very demanding one.” Stacy gave Portia the first genuine smile she’d seen in a month while his sisters and brother laughed with more enthusiasm than the comment merited. Still, it served to lighten the atmosphere and the seven of them broke into smaller, more conversable groups. Portia found herself with the four women while Stacy and his brother spoke quietly together.

“How are the plans for the nursery progressing?” Frances asked, the yearning in her voice making Portia even angrier at Stacy for banishing the woman from Whitethorn.

“Very well. Nanny helped me pick out the colors for the new drapes and wall hangings and Daisy has been stitching her fingers to nubbins.”

“How are Mr. and Mrs. Lawson? Has Jeremy’s new assistant arrived?”

“They are well and Jeremy is pleased with the young man who has joined his practice.”

Rowena must have decided the conversation had gone on long enough without the mistress of the house contributing.

“Is this a physician you are speaking of?” Something in the way the viscountess said ‘physician’ made Portia’s hackles rise.

“He is also a friend”

“Yes, he is,” Frances agreed. “He’s the vicar’s son.”

The viscountess looked amused. “Ah. The vicar’s son.” She took control of the conversation after that and it revolved around the entertainments she’d planned for their two-week visit. The first week was for family but more guests would arrive the following week. There were to be alfresco parties, dinners with local luminaries added to the pool of guests, shooting for the men, a riding party to the Bishop Caverns, and other activities usual at country house parties.

“His lordship has not been well so we’ve not had such an entertainment at Thurlstone Castle in years—not since before my arrival,” the viscountess told her, an odd gleam in her eyes.

Portia could only assume Stacy’s return was the reason for the sudden change and wondered if that irritated the woman.

“A grand ball will take place next week, after the guests have arrived.”

As she listened to her sisters-in-law discuss the ball, she realized she did not have a suitable garment.

Frances leaned toward her. “Did you bring a ball gown?”

“I have never owned one. Is there a modiste nearby?” The area on the way to the castle had looked as remote as that around Whitethorn.

“We’ll take a trip into Plymouth. My sisters and I go to a woman who does lovely work.” She shot a glance at the others to ensure they were not listening and then asked, “How is he?”

They both looked at the man in question, who was engaged in a conversation with his brother. A stranger might overlook the subtle signs of tension, but Portia knew him well enough to see the tightness around his mouth and the stiffness in his shoulders. He was far from relaxed.

“He is hurt, but I know he misses you. It will take time.” Her words were inadequate but there was not much more she could offer given her own position. “This visit is a very good sign, in my opinion.”

“And you? Are you still ill in the mornings?”

“I am no longer sick, but now I eat everything in sight and tire very easily.”

“This is your first child, Mrs. Harrington?” The viscountess’s voice startled her and Portia looked up to find her rather avid green eyes boring down into her. Why did Portia feel like Lady Rowena was trying to make some obscure point with everything she said?

She decided to see what effect raw honesty would have on the noblewoman’s supercilious demeanor. “I’ve had a disappointment in the past.”

Mary and Constance murmured soft platitudes but the viscountess merely raised her pale eyebrows. “I feel certain you will be successful this time. After all, life in the country must be so much healthier than the hectic life you led with your first husband.”

What kind of musician did she think Ivo had been—a strolling minstrel?

Portia held the woman’s cold green stare. “Yes, life at Whitethorn is quite lovely and relaxing. Are you from this part of England, my lady?”