Page 18 of The Music of Love

He nodded, hesitated, and then said, “Perhaps I shall accompany you. I have business at the inn.”

Portia’s fertile imagination leapt ahead to sitting beside the gorgeous man on the very small bench. “Er—”

“If that is acceptable to you,” he asked, with a slight smile.

“Yes, yes of course it is. Mr. Hawkins was just saying that I should have somebody with me.” Of course he was suggesting a boy, and not a paragon of masculine perfection.

“I think that is probably wise the first few times.”

Hawkins stepped back from Buttercup “She’ll be a right hand with the ribbons soon enough, master.”

“I’m sure she will, Hawkins.” His nostrils flared slightly. “Signora Stefani strikes me as the kind of woman who is good at everything she turns her hand to.”

Portia couldn’t see his eyes, but she swore she could feel his gaze and her body heated; if looking at him did this to her, what would sitting beside him do?

She was about to find out.

Stacy stared at the very woman he’d been avoiding for days. What the devil am I doing?

Apparently you’re avoiding her company, the dry voice in his head answered.

He handed her up onto the narrow bench and once she was settled he swung himself up. She’d squeezed all the way to the metal railing that surrounded the seat, yet still his thigh, side, and buttock pressed against hers. She felt good; too good.

Stacy glanced down to find her staring up at him, her face a fetching shade of pink. “Is this uncomfortable for you, Signora?”

“No, of course not.” She whipped around and faced forward. And then she sat there.

Stacy’s lips twitched. “You need to give Buttercup some indication you are ready to proceed.”

“Oh!” Her small hands tightened on the reins and she made a clucking noise with her tongue. Buttercup’s head came up, but she didn’t move.

“Perhaps you might give her a bit of slack, Signora.”

“Oh,” she said again, and then loosened her grip so much the reins slid through her fingers.

Stacy’s hand shot out and caught them before they could tangle in the harness.

Buttercup, freed from restraint, ambled forward.

“Oh dear.” The woman grimaced, cutting him a quick, mortified look. “I’m sorry.” Her face had gone from pink to crimson.

“There is nothing to apologize for, you are just learning. Here, take the ribbons.”

She shook her head vigorously. “I’d rather you do it.”

He continued to hold them out for her and she finally heaved a sigh and took them, this time holding them loosely.

“Is this all right?” she asked when Buttercup had plodded along for a moment.

“It’s perfect.”

“I suppose she knows the way and doesn’t require much steering.”

Stacy decided not to tell her that one guided, not steered, a horse. “Buttercup could walk to Bude in her sleep—backward.”

Mrs. Stefani laughed, a low, sensual sound he’d heard once or twice before. A sound that he decided he liked hearing far too much.

“Your horse—Geist—is lovely.”