Page 67 of The Music of Love

His sensual lips twisted in a way that used to make her heart throb faster a long, long time ago. His eyes were the color of brandy, warm and intoxicating. But Portia knew they masked a man who thought of only one thing: Ivo Stefani.

“You look well, Portia. Very well for a grieving widow.” Her stomach lurched as his smile twisted into something unpleasant. “You did not grieve for me, did you? It made you happy that I was not just pretend dead, but real dead? You simply moved on, eh?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “Imagine my surprise when I showed up in London and found my school closed and our house empty.”

“Your school? The only thing you ever gave to the school was your name—and debt.”

Ivo squeezed her wrist until she cried out.

“What a harpy you are, Portia, always on about the same thing.” He yanked her close, his eyes dark with fury. “Mrs. Sneed did not turn a hair when I showed up on her doorstep. That is when I knew you never told the newspapermen either the tale of my hero’s death in the War or my unfortunate demise at sea. Even when you thought I was dead you didn’t mind keeping me alive to use my name and status.” He made a clucking sound as he pushed her down onto a pile of mossy stones that must have once been part of the wall. Portia tucked her feet beneath her skirt and buried her hands in her cloak. Ivo sat beside her, his hand like an iron manacle around her wrist.

“It took some work to get your address from Mrs. Sneed without looking like a fool. I told her I was just back from a family emergency and had lost my baggage in a shipping debacle. Ha!” He slapped his thigh, clearly amused by his own cleverness. The suit of clothing he wore had once been one of his better ones. Now the cuffs were ragged and shiny patches showed the coat had been cleaned and pressed to within an inch of its life. His cravat was yellowed and knotted carelessly. And his once beautiful boots—boots he’d commissioned from the great Hoby himself—were a scuffed, battered disaster.

“What happened, Ivo?” Portia prepared herself for the web of lies he would no doubt spin. Ivo could not tell the truth even if it would help his cause. She’d learned long ago, and to her detriment, that he lied for the pure joy of manipulating his listener.

“I might ask you the same thing, cara.” He reached out to take her chin and she jerked out of his reach. He laughed. “I hear you are married to a very rich man.” His pupils shrank and she noticed the deep grooves beside his mouth and nose. He looked older than he’d done a mere eighteen months ago but he was still a very handsome man. Portia hated him. She wished—God have mercy on her soul—that he really was dead at the bottom of the ocean. The only things he’d ever given her were pain, humiliation, and a miscarriage.

“What business is it of yours, Ivo, we were never even married. You are less than nothing to me. Where is your wife?” Rage made her body shake. But beneath her rage was fear. Why had he come back?

He laid his right hand over his breast and cast his eyes skyward. “Alas, poor Consuela! She really did perish this time.”

Portia gave a rude snort. “I suppose you were the only survivor out of an entire ship?”

Ivo smirked, pleased to illicit emotion from her, no matter what it was. “Not just me, gattina. When we saw which way the wind was blowing, pardon my inexcusable pun, another gentleman and I took one of the two lifeboats. My darling Consuela refused to get into such a small craft. I tried coaxing her but she was adamant. She could not swim, you see, and believed that staying on a larger ship that was headed for calamity would somehow save her.” He shrugged, demonstrating the same depth of emotion for his wife that he’d felt for Portia.

“We had a few nasty moments, my companion and I, but we were fortunate in that we had ample supplies and encountered propitious currents. We did not have very much remaining to us by the time we made landfall but it was enough that we could bring our few possessions ashore and convince a local fisherman to give us shelter.” He stopped and gave her a look of disbelief. “I must tell you, my love, that you and I were fortunate to have left Rome when we did. The Corsican made a bloody mess of the entire Continent. Banditti run rampant and it is worth a man’s life to travel anywhere. Unfortunately, it was worth my companion’s life. I’m afraid he did not make it to Grenoble—the home of his lovely widow.” Ivo’s smile made Portia’s flesh crawl. When had he become this man? Was it the loss of his hand or had he always been unscrupulous and his beautiful gift had merely masked it?

“I remained with the grateful widow until her officious brother arrived from Paris and made my position untenable. I’d begun to miss you in any case, my pretty Portia.” He squeezed her, his hand like a vise. “It breaks my heart to learn you do not feel the same.”

Portia didn’t bother trying to pull away. That was what he wanted, a struggle. He’d always become violent when thwarted.

“What do you want, Ivo?”

“I want my wife back. But what did I learn? That you were spreading those white thighs for some other man. That you were already carrying some other man’s brat, and a freak of a man by all I’ve heard.” He laughed and grabbed her hand before it could make contact with his face. “I’ll hit you back, gattina, and I’ll do it twice as hard.”

She wrenched her arm away. “What do you want?”

His features twisted into an expression that was half rage and half something else—jealousy? Portia found that difficult to credit. It was more likely pique that she’d not wasted away after he left her, brokenhearted.

“What would your wealthy freak say if he knew you were already married and that your long-lost husband had returned?” He pushed a finger against her midriff and she flinched back. “And the child in your belly is legally mine?”

Fear clamped around her chest until she could barely breathe. She could not show Ivo how terrified she was, it would be the end of her. She pulled from his grasp and sneered at him.

“You forget we were never legally married, Ivo.”

“And how will you prove that, my dove? We held ourselves out to the world as blissfully married for almost a decade. It just so happens I have our wedding lines to prove it.”

That made her laugh. “Our wedding lines just so happened to survive a shipwreck?”

His smug, ugly smile chilled her. “Oh, darling.” He laughed, and it actually sounded genuine. “You don’t think I planned to stay away from London forever, did you? I only humored Consuela to get her out of England. One way or another, I was coming back so I tucked away money and valuables in my bank in London.” He grinned. “Too bad you did not declare me dead, eh? Perhaps then the bank officials would have sought out my unfortunate widow?”

Portia’s head throbbed with such rage she could not speak.

“In that bank box I put money, your mother’s lovely jewelry, and a few important documents. I’m afraid I had to sell the jewelry, and I’ve run low on the money, but I still have my documents. So, what will your new husband believe when he sees our marriage lines, eh? I’ll bet you were too ashamed to tell him about Consuela, weren’t you?” He laughed at whatever he saw on her face. “And now it is too late to disclose the truth without it sounding suspiciously self-serving.”

A strange humming noise filled her head. His lips kept moving but Portia could no longer hear his words. She would kill him before she let him claim her child and ruin her life. She would kill him.

He grabbed her shoulders and shook her until her teeth rattled.

“Are you listening to me, you mad bitch? I will not put up with one of your crazy rages, do you hear me?” He slapped her so hard her head snapped back and the metallic tang of blood flooded her mouth. And then he shook her. “I tolerated you for a bloody decade—you will give me recompense, or I will claim what is in your belly for my own.”