Page 79 of The Music of Love

“Very well,” he said. “We shall go to Thurlstone Castle.”

Chapter Twenty-Two

It was less than seventy miles to Thurlstone but Stacy decided they would break the journey in Plymouth.

“You will need your rest,” he told Portia in his cool, implacable way. She was tempted to argue—just because—but he spoke the truth: she did tire easily lately.

He rode alongside the carriage with his valet, hatted and gloved and scarved, leaving Portia and Daisy to entertain each other inside the traveling coach. When they reached Marlborough House, they found it crowded with revelers who’d come to watch a mill that was to take place that night.

“We just have the one room, Mr. Harrington. If you’d like, I could move one or two of the gentlemen who—”

“That won’t be necessary,” Stacy assured the haggard innkeeper. “We’ll take the room you have.”

Stacy sent the servants to a nearby inn, clearly preferring to wait on himself rather than have Powell and Daisy view their frigid interactions in such an intimate space. Not that either servant could have failed to notice their master and mistress no longer visited each other’s beds.

Portia lay down on the bed they would share for the first time in weeks and rested while Stacy arranged their meal. Would he go to the brothel tonight—where he’d claimed to have done nothing more than visited a friend? Jealousy burned hot in her belly at the thought.

She heard a sound and opened her eyes.

Stacy stood in the open doorway. “I’m sorry—I didn’t realize you were sleeping.” He turned on his heel to go.

She scrambled up onto her elbows. “I was only resting. I daresay you wish for a bath after a day on horseback.”

He gave her a faint smile and Portia saw new lines of strain around his mouth. As usual he wore glasses; she’d not seen his eyes in weeks. The realization brought an odd, painful lump to her throat. He’d found the perfect way to punish her: depriving her of every last form of contact, even looking into his eyes. Did he know ignoring her was the best punishment he could conceive? She doubted it. Her nature was so different from his. She needed contact, interaction—even if it was only conflict. He seemed to need nothing; nothing from her, in any case.

He rang for a bath and busied himself in the small dressing room adjacent to the bedroom. She listened to the normal sounds of domesticity and pondered her life. How much longer would this continue? Each day that passed made telling him one notch more difficult. He was an impenetrable wall of ice: hard and cold and unyielding. Not for a second had he melted toward her or given any sign that he missed their nights of passion or their days of friendship.

It is your fault you are estranged, the prim schoolmistress in her head scolded.

Shut up.

Tell him the truth.

Portia groaned and sat up; trying to rest was pointless.

A parade of servants passed through the room to fill the large bath and she busied herself with the contents of her valise until the last servant deposited his steaming bucket and departed. She flopped onto the bed with a book and then noticed the door to the dressing room was open a sliver, just enough that she could see Stacy as he disrobed.

She lowered the book and stared, silently willing him not to notice the door. By the time he bent to remove his buckskins and drawers she had difficulty breathing normally. He stepped out of the clothes, leaving them strewn on the floor while he leaned back and stretched. He extended his muscular arms over his head, cords and sinews rippling like steel beneath white silk as he worked the soreness out of his body. When he finished stretching, he absently scratched one perfect buttock and then lifted a foot to test the water. He jerked his foot back before lowering it again and slowly easing into the tub.

It took him a full minute before he submerged himself. It was the best minute of the past month and Portia wished it would go on forever. But all too soon the only things she could see were his shoulders and head.

She was shaking when she stood, the place between her thighs every bit as wet as his body. She unfastened her carriage gown as though she were in a daze, never taking her eyes from the narrow slit between the door and frame. He was splashing about while he soaped his body, and by the time she removed her chemise and stockings he’d submerged his head. She paused to watch as he emerged, the water flowing off snow-white hair and beading on flawless skin.

He turned when she pushed open the door and his translucent red gaze swept her naked body and kindled. They took one another’s measure, probing without touching, looking for secrets, lies, the truth, anything other than the terrifying detachment that had settled between them. His eyes left a scorched trail in their wake until every inch of her body was on fire.

“Come here.” The words were quiet and controlled, just like his face—just like everything except his eyes. His eyes told the truth about what he was feeling, his pupils huge and black and bottomless. She closed the distance between them.

“Straddle the tub.” His words were clipped and his lids lowered as he reclined against the high, slanted backrest.

She raised one leg over the side and his eyes dropped to the curls between her thighs. His lips tightened and his chest expanded as he inhaled. She lowered both thighs until they rested on warm metal, holding herself upright by gripping the metal rim behind her, leaning back slightly to do so.

“Come closer.”

She pushed herself closer, the motions awkward, like a crab forced to walk forward.

“Closer.” The single guttural word made her shudder and Portia scooted until she was close enough to feel the heat of his uneven breathing on the sensitive skin of her thighs. He lifted wet hands and parted her lips, his touch warm and feather-light. When he looked up the red was no more than a ring around swollen black pupils. He slid low in the water before leaning into her, his eyes holding hers while the very tip of his tongue found her peak.

She gasped and gritted her teeth to keep from giving orders; or worse, begging.