The Music of Love

by Minerva Spencer

  He opened the door to a room every bit as dark as the library and turned to her, a Sphinx-like smile curving his lips. “Pardon my rudeness Signora, but I’m going to precede you and light the way.” He lit five candles in the candelabrum beside the piano before taking a seat as far from the light as possible, effectively hiding himself from her view.

  Portia approached the instrument and stopped abruptly. “My goodness.”

  “What is it, Signora?”

  “You have a Schmidt.” She ran her fingers reverently across the glossy case.

  “You approve?” His voice held the first hint of warmth she’d heard.

  “It’s a piano worthy of a concert dais.” Even Ivo had never played on finer.

  “There is sheet music in the cabinet behind you.”

  It was Portia’s turn to smile mockingly. “That won’t be necessary.” She seated herself and ran through a few scales to loosen her hands. The instrument was easily the finest she’d ever played. The pianos her father had used to teach his students had been well-made, but most of them had been abused by hundreds of hands and years of constant use. This piano was exquisite, the sound immaculate.

  She launched into Bach’s Goldberg Variations, beginning with “Variatio 14. a 2 Clav.”

  The piece was lively—almost giddy—and the multitude of cross-overs was a perfect way to demonstrate her technical ability for the man who sat in judgment of her.

  Portia could claim, without exaggeration, that she’d been Ivo’s superior when it came to Bach.

  “Of course you favor him,” Ivo had taunted her in a fit of pique. “He has no passion, only mathematics—perfect for your English soul.” He’d often flung the fact she was half-English at her as if that were some sort of flaw.

  Portia moved without pause to “Variatio 15. Canone alla Quinta. a 1 Clav.: Andante.” It was sheer pain and coiled itself around her and squeezed and squeezed, leaving her battered and bruised by the time she moved to the last selection.

  “Variatio 5” was sweetness and light and it washed over her like a healing rain, soothing her with its gentle, caressing tranquility.

  When the final notes left her fingers, Portia folded her hands in her lap and looked into the darkness. A long pause followed, which was something Mr. Harrington appeared to excel at.

  “Your playing is exquisite.” An almost undetectable tremor ran beneath his cool voice and Portia didn’t bother to hide her triumphant smile. Good! Bach should never leave a person unmoved.

  “It appears your claims were not hyperbole, you are a very good musician.”

  Portia refused to acknowledge such faint praise; she was beyond good.

  “I was going to suggest a trial period to see if we might suit . . .” his words trailed off, as if he’d surprised himself with the offer. He’d certainly surprised Portia—rendered her dumbstruck, in fact. “But since you appear to have taken me in dislike—”

  “I would be honored,” Portia blurted before he could retract his offer. “And very grateful.” She squirmed in the agonizing pause that followed. The distant ticking of a clock was the only sound and Portia was just about to start babbling when his cool, unhurried voice pierced the darkness between them.

  “I think a month would be sufficient. At the end of the trial period I will either extend an offer for the full term of employment or I will pay you for the month and arrange for your journey back to London.”

  Portia’s pride rebelled at the not-so-subtle threat behind his words: She’d better perform to his liking if she wanted to stay.

  Fortunately, this time she seized control of her pride, wrestled it into submission, and swallowed her irrational temper. “That sounds more than fair, Mr. Harrington.” She hesitated, “A month will give me time to see if I like living in such a remote location.”

  He chuckled at her small show of defiance, the sound warm and inviting and at odds with his chilly manner and remote exterior. “You’ve never lived in the country before, Signora?”

  “I’ve done little more than drive through the countryside.”

  “Ah. Well, I should hate to keep you here now that you’ve seen how rural we are. Perhaps you would rather return to London?”

  Portia almost laughed; the clever snake had let her tie her own noose and then insert her neck. It was too bad for him she refused to hang herself.

  “I’ve come a long way, Mr. Harrington. It would be foolish not to give the situation a chance.” Her stomach churned in the taut silence that followed.

  “How shall you structure my lessons, Signora Stefani?”

  Dizzying relief washed through her body and Portia scrambled to gather her wits. “I will need to determine your level of skill to answer that question. Is there a time of day you prefer to play?”

  “I usually practice a few hours before dinner.”

  “Let us keep to your schedule. Today you can play whatever you’ve been working on, which will give me a chance to assess your strengths and weaknesses.”

  He emerged from the gloom and stopped short of the candelabrum. “I am less prone to eye strain if the light is dim. Will that be an issue?” He used one long, elegant finger to push his black spectacles up the bridge of his equally elegant nose.

  Portia wrenched her eyes away from his mesmerizing face and stared at his stylish cravat instead. “As long as you are able to see the notes on the page,” she said lightly.

  “Then I shall meet you here at four o’clock. That will leave you with two hours to rest before dinner. My aunt and I take our mid-day meals separately but meet for dinner. We dine at eight o’clock, which is rather late for the country. You will, of course, join us.”

  Portia flushed at the unexpected offer—although it was really more of a command—thrilled she wouldn’t be banished to her room for the next month.

  “I would be delighted.”

  “Do you ride, Signora?”

  “I’m afraid riding was not part of growing up in Rome. I am fond of walking, however, and the countryside looks lovely.”

  “We have our share of walking paths,” he agreed, “but a gig will allow you to access town more readily. I will instruct Hawkins, my stable master, to show you how to operate the conveyance.”

  “That is most kind of you.”

  Harrington inclined his head. “I shall see you at four, Signora.”

  Portia waited until he’d turned before closing her eyes, weak with relief. She could stay—at least for now—and wouldn’t have to beg and scrape her way back to London and live off her friends’ charity.

  “One more thing Signora.”

  Portia looked up and saw her new employer was standing in the open doorway.

  “Yes, Mr. Harrington?”

  “As far as I’m concerned the subject of your deception is closed. I will not bring it up again.”

  She smiled. “Thank you.”

  “However, I want you to understand I do not tolerate lying from the people I employ.”

  His cool rebuke crushed the gratitude Portia had been feeling and her hackles rose. But she triumphed over her nature and caught the angry retort before it left her mouth.

  “I understand, Mr. Harrington.”

  He nodded and the door clicked shut behind him.

  Portia stared into the dimness, the exhilaration of only a few moments ago now tainted by anger—and fear. His words echoed in her head and she ruthlessly pushed them to the back of her mind. She’d told him everything he needed to know. The truth about her past was none of his concern and made no difference to her teaching. All Mr. Harrington needed to know about her life with Ivo was that he was gone.

  Stacy sat down at his desk, extinguished the candles, and removed his glasses, letting his eyes rest in the velvety blackness of the library.

  What the bloody hell had he just done? He’d gone in there determined to give her a proper raking and send her packing; instead, he’d been stupefied by her playing and then offered her a damned job.

  He was still
awed by her brief performance—a masterful demonstration of passion and precision he could never aspire to.

  Don’t forget her person, a sly voice in his head reminded him.

  Stacy snorted. As if that were bloody likely.

  He’d caught only a glimpse of her last night, but it had been enough to pique his interest. She’d looked wild on the balcony, her eyes huge, her full lips forming a surprised O when he’d caught her spying. Untamed spirals of dark hair haloed her pale face, her thin garment rendered all but transparent by the candlelight behind her.

  Blood rushed to his groin at the memory of her voluptuous silhouette.

  Christ. Stacy shifted in his chair.

  Last night’s woman had been alluring, but so had this morning’s, although for entirely different reasons.

  Gone were the wild eyes and in their place was a haughty stare. She’d restrained her magnificent hair so brutally Stacy wondered if he’d only imagined her unruly curls. Her serviceable brown dress was high-necked and long sleeved, but it could not hide the enticing body he’d so briefly seen last night.

  Her nose, undoubtedly a gift from some Italian ancestor, was her most prominent feature and ensured she’d never be considered a conventional beauty. That said, her dusky hair, creamy skin, and voluptuous body made for a delicious—and dangerous—combination.

  But her attractive person wasn’t all that captured his interest.

  She’d entered the library prepared for battle, armed only with her pride and talent—but, oh, what formidable weapons those turned out to be!

  A fire burned inside her and Stacy had seen the flames—hell, he’d been scorched by them—when she spoke of her ability. She’d faced him with an arrogant confidence that had been damn near erotic, and, as it turned out, not at all unwarranted.

  And then he’d become aroused when she’d played.

  He should be ashamed by his body’s earthy reaction, but he wasn’t. A man would have to be dead from the neck down not to become hard. She’d swung from tightly laced to tempestuous and flushed—like a woman in the throes of passion—in the blink of an eye. The experience had not only been arousing, it had been soul-shattering: Stacy could practice for a hundred years and never play half as well.

  But that didn’t mean he couldn’t try.

  There was no doubt in his mind Signora Stefani had much to teach him—but would he be able to learn anything in her distracting presence?

  You are not some rutting buck sensing a mate. Surely you can control your urges?

  Of course he could control his urges, but control or lack of it was not the bloody question. The question was: Would he be able to concentrate on his music or would he spend his lessons fantasizing about bending her over the piano?

  Stacy grimaced. It sounded more than a little pathetic when put so baldly.

  But the truth was pathetic: He was randy. Terribly randy, in fact. He’d spent most of the last two months in Barnstaple, busy with the refitting of two new ships. As a result, it had been ages since his last visit to the Plymouth establishment where he satisfied such urges.

  Ha! Establishment?

  Fine. The brothel I frequent. Is that better?

  Stacy refused to be ashamed of what he did. Paying a prostitute was a far better practice than getting bastards on one’s servants or local maidens, a thing the local squire did with disgusting frequency.

  There is always a wife.

  He didn’t even bother to justify that ridiculous thought.

  The truth was that he should’ve set up a mistress long ago, but the notion left him cold. What a lot of bother not only for him, but also for some poor woman. What must it be like to sit around one’s house all day waiting for a man to arrive and mount you?

  Thoughts of mounting made his body tighten and he dropped his head against the back of his chair. A month was a bloody long time and he was already lusting after the poor widow, a woman who was only here to earn her bread.

  Stacy frowned, sobered by that thought. He’d always been sickened by men who preyed on their tenants, servants, or other dependents. So, all he needed to do for the next thirty days was think of Signora Stefani as just another servant. Just a month, and then he would do what he should have done this morning and send her away. Surely he could suppress his unseemly urges for a month?

  “Hell,” he muttered, squeezing his temples, it was going to be a long month.

  Chapter Four

  Portia returned to her room and unpacked her portmanteau before writing a brief letter to Serena Lombard—a woman as dear to her as a sister—who would disseminate the news to the rest of their friends.

  “Don’t do this,” Serena had begged when Portia told her about forging Ivo’s signature. “Come live with Freddie, Honoria, and me. You can teach piano from our house. There is plenty of room for you.”

  But Portia loved her friends and could not be a burden to them. It was doubtful she could earn enough to cover her room and board, not to mention make payments on the horrific mountain of debt Ivo had left her. Only a well-paying position like the one Mr. Harrington offered could cover such financial burdens.

  Portia wrote a second letter to her London landlady, a grasping woman who’d agreed, for a fee, to store Portia’s few possessions until she decided what to do with them.

  Ivo had taken everything of value when he departed and none of the items he’d left behind had any monetary worth, but they were all she had left of her parents.

  When she was finished, she felt far too restless to read or nap, even though she’d had very little sleep the night before. She gazed out the window beyond her writing desk. The lesson was hours away and it was sunny and crisp outside, a perfect day to seek out a lesson in gig-handling. She slipped on her cloak and tied the wide brown ribbon of her bonnet beneath her right ear before making her way to the stables.

  A stout older man was talking to a boy of nine or ten near the entrance to the stalls. He smiled when he saw her.

  “Tha’ll be Mrs. Stefani, I wager. Come to learn the gig, have ’ee?”

  “I have, if it is no bother. You must be Mr. Hawkins?”

  “Aye, I’m Ben Hawkins and this be John, my nephew.”

  “It’s a pleasure to meet you Mr. Hawkins, John.” Portia smiled at the boy, who flushed and doffed his cap.

  Hawkins turned back to his nephew. “Off ’ee go, now. See to master’s bitch and that wee ’un without any shilly-shally.”

  The boy darted off without a backward glance.

  “He’s good with the animals,” Hawkins said, putting aside the harness he’d been working on. “One of the bitches whelped and there be a runt that can’t find the teat.”

  “Oh, there are puppies?” Portia asked, sounding like an excited child to her own ears.

  Hawkins gave her an indulgent smile, his brown eyes creasing. “Aye, go to the last stall but one. I’ll ready up the gig while ye go back to see.”

  Portia followed the simple directions and found John kneeling in the straw beside an exhausted-looking hound.

  He smiled up at her. “Tha come to see the pups?”

  She crouched beside him. “Only if I won’t be in your way, John.”

  “Would ’ee like to hold one?” He offered her a squirming, almost hairless bundle.

  Portia glanced at the mother. “Do you think she’ll mind a stranger holding her pup?”

  John chortled, as if the idea of a dog minding anything was hilarious. “Wouldn’t matter if she did. Master wants ’em handled so they be easy with folk. This be the runt. If she don’t feed soon uncle will do for her.”

  “Do for her?”

  “Aye, put her down, like.”

  Portia held the tiny beast closer as the boy’s words sank in. “You mean he will kill her just because she is small?”

  The boy looked away, clearly uneasy with her flare of anger. “I mun fetch some milk and bread. Cook warms it special four times a day. Would tha care to help feed her?”

  Portia lifted
the little creature higher and kissed her wrinkled forehead. “I’d love to.”

  John left and Portia settled into the deep straw. The smell of horse, fresh bedding, and clean dog filled her nostrils. She was humming an Italian lullaby from her childhood when the little dog opened its eyes. Footsteps sounded outside the stall.

  “Come quickly, John, she’s just opened her eyes.”

  When John didn’t answer she looked up.

  Eustace Harrington filled the doorway. He was dressed for riding in tan buckskins and a black clawhammer coat. His glossy, highly polished boots were almost as reflective as his dark spectacles, which were slightly different from the ones he’d worn earlier. This pair was enclosed with leather along the sides, probably to keep out light. A high-crowned black hat sat at a rakish angle on his short white hair, completing his elegant outfit. He tapped the side of his boot with his crop as he took in the scene.

  “I thought you were John,” Portia said stupidly, her heart thudding as he came closer.

  He gestured to the dog with his whip. “That is the sickly one?”

  Portia looked down into the pup’s clear blue eyes. “She’s not sickly, merely small and different. Will you put her down because of that?” Portia bit her lip. Why, oh, why couldn’t she keep her mouth shut?

  He tossed his crop onto the straw and lowered to his haunches before extending large, leather-clad hands toward her. She gave him the dog and he held the little animal gently while inspecting its body with deft, sensitive fingers.

  “Her eyes appear clear enough and she has a good, solid heartbeat.” He looked up from the dog, his own eyes two unreadable black mirrors. “But she is half the weight of the others.” He handed the pup back to Portia. “If she survives she will always be small.”

  “These are foxhounds?” Portia asked, careful to keep the disapproval from her tone. She found such activities barbaric but knew the English gentry adored it.