Page 47 of The Music of Love

“Are you mad?” Portia demanded when she found her voice.

Stacy raised his eyebrows. “I didn’t think so,” he said mildly.

“I agree with Portia—you are mad.”

It was the first time Portia had ever seen Frances angry. Perhaps it was the first time his aunt had ever shown Stacy the emotion either, because his lips parted in surprise as he took in her flushed face and flashing eyes.

“That was beyond foolhardy, Stacy, and we will speak of this later,” she promised.

Portia gave the startled man a hard look and nodded. “Yes,” she said, nodding with menacing slowness, “we most certainly will.”

Portia was not surprised when Stacy insisted the wedding proceed as planned.

“It makes no sense to postpone things. I still have a few more days to recuperate and am more than capable of standing before a tiny group of people and eating breakfast afterward.”

He was, in fact, eating breakfast as he delivered his ultimatum. He glanced up from the impressive pile of food on his plate and smiled at Portia. “I thought perhaps you and I might walk over to see Nanny today.”

Portia opened her mouth—

“The leg wound is barely even visible and the one on my neck has almost disappeared.”

“That is a bald lie.”

He cut her a sly smile. “Your needlework is adequate, Portia, but do you think Daisy might add a flourish or two?”

Portia laughed, in spite of herself. “I don’t know about Daisy, but Frances is ready to sew you to your bed.”

He cut a piece of ham and swabbed it in egg, clearly unbothered by his aunt’s persistent anger at his reckless behavior. He paused in the act of levering the food to his mouth. “I would like to visit Nanny. Will you go with me today?”

“Should you walk so far?”

“The good doctor was the one to advise walking.”

Portia wasn’t sure she believed he’d meant a walk as far as Nanny’s cottage.

“I’ll take my cane with me. Will you accompany me, Portia?”

He really was accustomed to having everything his way. Luckily they would have years together to sort that out.

But for now, she capitulated. “I would like that.”

Stacy frowned at her plate of dry toast and turned to the footman. “Are there any strawberries?”

“Cook has the last of them and said she was thinking to make a tart for dinner.”

“Ask her if we might have a small portion and some cream?” He turned to Portia once the footman left. “You must eat something.”

She grimaced down at her plate; she’d woken up sick again this morning and the food that filled the sideboard held no appeal.

“The last berries are always the best,” he added, as if that settled the matter. Portia had visions of him sitting on her and making her eat them, a berry at a time. He saw her speculative look and cocked an eyebrow. “What is it?”

“I believe you always get your way, Mr. Harrington.”

He smiled but refused to be drawn. “Shall we leave for our walk after breakfast?”

Portia changed into her walking dress and half boots before going to meet Stacy in the library. He was waiting for her and took something from a drawer in his desk. She hesitated and bit her lip; he was going to give her something else.

He saw her hesitation and shook his head. “Please tell me you are not one of those tiresome people who do not feel as though they deserve gifts? Come here, Signora Stefani.”