Page 93 of The Music of Love

He took the seat across from her and stretched out his long legs. Her eyes were drawn to the flexing muscles beneath the snug-fitting pantaloons, her hands itching to touch him.

He took a sip and then set down his glass. “I would like to put an end to the strain between us, Portia. I know you were acquainted with the Italian man who died in Bude. Who was he to you?”

Her lips parted and Stacy realized he’d surprised her. Indeed, he’d surprised himself with his directness. Her skin flushed a shade of red that shrieked of guilt.

“It was Ivo.”

He snorted and momentarily closed his eyes before facing her. “Why did you not tell me this before?” All the fury and fear he’d held in check for weeks broke free.

Rather than look contrite Portia’s eye’s blazed at him. “Because I was ashamed, Stacy, that is why.”

“Ashamed your husband was alive?” Ashamed was not the word he would have chosen. Appalled or stunned he could have understood—even overjoyed, although he wouldn’t have liked it—but ashamed?

“Ashamed he wasn’t my husband!”

Stacy realized his mouth was open and shut it.

“I can see what you are thinking,” she accused.

“What a wonderful skill you possess, Portia. But have you ever thought you might sometimes misread my mind?” Stacy had no interest in her answer. “Would you please do me the honor of explaining what happened before condemning me?” He was one step away from escorting her back to her room and locking the damn door.

For a moment he thought she might do the same thing—after hurling something at his headfirst—but she sighed.

“The explanation is simple, if sordid. Ivo was married before we met. I did not know this until his first wife—his legal wife—came to England to find him. Ivo claimed he’d believed her dead or he never would have married me.” She snorted. “It made no difference to me what he knew or when he knew it. The only thing that mattered was that it would destroy me if it were made public. So, I gave him the tiny bit of money I’d saved and he promised to change his name and leave quietly and never, ever come back to England.

“We agreed I’d wait a few months and then claim he’d died during the War. I knew how the news of his death would damage the school so I was in no hurry. And then, a few weeks after he departed, I read about the shipwreck. The paper listed the names of those who’d died and Ivo’s assumed name was among them. Part of me could not believe it, but there it was, in print.”

She smoothed her skirt over her lap, the motion abrupt. “I didn’t bother to spread the story—the newspapermen would have seized on it like ducks on breadcrumbs and the school, already in trouble, would have collapsed. Oh, I know I should have told the truth when I closed the school but it was hardly a priority.” She pulled her eyes away from the past and looked at him, her creamy cheeks tinting. “I never told you this, but I had less than two pounds when I showed up at Whitethorn. I was truly desperate.”

Her full lips compressed into a grim line but she continued. “Ivo turned up at Whitethorn not long after we married. He claimed his wife died in the shipwreck.” Portia shrugged. “Maybe she did, maybe she didn’t. Who knows? He said he would tell you we were still married and that you would never believe me because he had our marriage lines.” Her eyes flickered around the room as if she sought the words. “Even without such damning proof I doubted you would believe me. After all, you and I were just beginning to know each other.” She exhaled and tipped her head back, staring at the ceiling.

Stacy studied the column of her throat and his heart ached for her. It was everything he could do not to take her in his arms. But he wanted to hear the rest of her story—no matter how much he dreaded it.

“I could not take the risk you might believe him, so I paid him the money and he promised to leave. I knew he would probably come back but I thought the next time he came our marriage would be . . . stronger.

“I took the jewels to Plymouth in case I did not have enough money in the account you created for me.” She gave him a wry smile. “I’m afraid I did not listen when we discussed the settlement you generously bestowed on me.” Her smile disappeared. “I returned the jewels to the safe that night after paying Ivo the two thousand pounds.”

Stacy sucked in a breath at the sum and held it for a long moment before letting it out slowly.

Portia continued. “Whoever found Ivo’s body must have taken the money. Or perhaps he showed it to someone and that was why he was killed. I don’t know. Two thousand pounds would be enough to tempt anyone.”

“Is that . . . all?”

Her eyes came back into focus and she arched her shapely brows. “Are you asking if there are there more non-husbands I haven’t told you about? Or are you asking if I am the one who shoved him off the cliff?” She stood and closed the distance between them before sinking gracefully to her knees beside his chair. “I should not jest; the subject is not funny. I am so sorry I did not tell you. I was scared at first and stupidly lied to you. And then I became hurt and furious at you for treating me so coldly and my temper seized control.” She took his hand. “I calmed down and was about to confess everything and then Ivo’s body was discovered. Given what you saw that night, I was even more terrified of what you might think.” She squeezed his hand. “I should have confessed everything even though I was ashamed. But my temper—” she shrugged, her expression one of resignation.

Stacy looked down at her glossy dark hair, warm brown eyes, and lush pink mouth and became as aroused as he always did whenever she was near.

“I’m sorry about deceiving you, but Ivo was such an accomplished liar, I just thought—” she bit her plump lip. “I swear I won’t keep anything from you again.” She slid one hand from his knee up his thigh, her eyes holding his, one eyebrow arched, as though daring him to stop her. “Do you forgive me?”

“Of course I forgive you—I only wish you’d trusted me. I also owe you an apology for my stubborn, childish behavior, and also for how I acted at the inn. Do you forgive me?”

She chuckled. “I forgive you for part of it.”

Stacy knew this discussion was far from over, but he was a besotted fool and powerless to stop her wicked, questing hand as she reached for him.

Stacy collapsed beside her after a particularly impressive display of sexual prowess, his hair damp and curly around his face, his chest slick with sweat.

“What do you think of my brother and his wife?” he asked, his chest heaving.