The Music of Love

by Minerva Spencer

  His slight smile told her she’d been less than effective when it came to concealing her distaste.

  “I do not hunt, Signora Stefani.” He reached out to smooth the pup’s wrinkled forehead and the motion brought his hand to within inches of her body. Portia held her breath; for one mad moment she envisioned leaning into his touch and competing with the dog for his caresses.

  Idiot!

  She wrenched her eyes away from his finger and looked up to find twin reflections of her flushed face staring back at her. He continued stroking, his face unsmiling.

  Behind him, John skidded to a halt in the doorway. “Oh, Mr. Harrington, sir.”

  Eustace Harrington removed his hand from the dog, picked up his discarded crop, and stood. His sudden absence left Portia feeling light-headed, as if he’d taken all the air with him.

  “What have you there, John?”

  John held out a brown ceramic bowl, his eyes darting between Portia and his employer. “Milk and bread, sir. For the little ’un.”

  “Ah, it is feeding time.” Mr. Harrington inclined his head. “I will leave you both to it.”

  Portia inhaled deeply as he left the stall, the spell broken. Good Lord he was attractive; too attractive. She’d be wise to limit their contact to his lessons and meals.

  Yes, that would be wise. But when have you ever been wise, Portia?

  Stacy had planned to pay only a brief visit to the Wilson farm and inspect the roof. But afterward, Mrs. Wilson invited him to share a glass of homemade wine to celebrate the birth of their grandson.

  He liked the Wilsons, who were kind, gentle people and seemed to accept him for what he was—an excellent landlord—rather than what he looked like. But today the visit left him restless. He chalked it up to either his unfortunate attraction for his new employee or an unchristian covetousness of the Wilsons’ happy home—or both.

  Stacy might have far more money than the humble farmer, but he would never have the love of a woman or know the joy of children—he’d learned that painful lesson a decade ago, or at least he thought he had; yet when he’d encountered the intriguing music teacher nestled in the straw he’d been tempted to linger near her. Her snapping brown eyes and the fiercely protective way she’d cradled the small animal to her generous bosom had been more than a little appealing. He’d even experienced a stab of envy for the lucky dog privileged to nestle against her.

  Stacy snorted; he’d been reduced to envying runty pups.

  On impulse, he turned Geist toward the coast. He’d planned to look in at the wheelwright’s today but he was just too damned restless to conduct business. He rarely rode for pleasure during the day, preferring his nighttime jaunts, when he could ride unencumbered by glasses, coats, scarves, and hat. His moonlit rides were his salvation. The only other time he felt so carefree was at the piano. But that had changed in the last year, when an invisible barrier had descended between him and the music. As much as he’d practiced, he hadn’t been able to find his way past it.

  He’d need to keep reminding himself about that barrier in the days to come—his real reason for hiring the woman. An unsolicited image of the music teacher nestled in the straw invaded his mind.

  “Bloody hell,” he muttered. He flexed his thighs, urging Geist into a gallop, as if he could outrun the distracting vision in his head.

  Stacy barely had time to bathe and change before his lesson. He’d ridden until he and Geist were lathered, hoping he’d thrashed his lustful urges into submission.

  Signora Stefani was already in the music room when he arrived. She’d lighted the room using two small branches of candles, one on the writing desk where she sat and one near the piano.

  She looked up when he entered. “Welcome, Mr. Harrington. I’m ready to get right to the best part of each lesson—the playing.”

  “I hope you still believe that after hearing me play, Signora.”

  She laughed and the sound was low, warm, and inviting. “I’m an optimist by nature. I’ve put out several pieces for you, but first I’d like to hear what you’ve been working on.”

  Stacy located the sheet music he wanted and ran a few scales. He forced himself to pretend there was no one else in the room, especially not an attractive woman who was also a virtuosa on the piano. He took a deep breath and began a piece of music that was already part of him.

  For a short time, he forgot himself; he wasn’t Eustace Harrington the ghostly, violet-eyed freak, he was only sound and sensation. The music worked its magic, feeding his soul and rejuvenating him. The notes drove away his worries, concerns—and yes—even his loneliness, leading him toward a state of being that was sublime.

  But all too soon the piece was over.

  He removed his hands from the piano and looked up to find Signora Stefani standing beside it. Her flushed cheeks and sparkling eyes spoke volumes; she knew exactly what playing did to him. It was like sharing an intimate secret with a complete stranger.

  Stacy looked away from those knowing eyes, his gaze dropping to her mouth. The generous curve of her full lips made his abdomen clench, as if his body was tensing to protect itself from something. Stacy frowned at the bizarre thought. Protect him from what? What the devil was wrong with him?

  “Mr. Harrington?”

  He looked up. She’d said something while he’d been staring at her mouth. An unaccustomed heat crept up his neck.

  “I beg your pardon, Signora?”

  “I asked how long you’d been working on the piece?”

  “Perhaps four months.”

  “I am pleased to find you so advanced. With your skills there will be very little beyond your reach.”

  If Stacy had possessed a tail it would have been thumping wildly against the piano bench. As it was, her praise was causing unexpected responses from other parts of his body. He closed his eyes, once again grateful he could hide behind his spectacles. Was his pathetically grateful behavior what came of keeping too much to himself? Was he now unable to be in the presence of any attractive woman without becoming excited or wanting to bed her?

  Truly, he must be one of the most pathetic men in Great Britain.

  “I put several exercises out for you, Mr. Harrington. Would you please begin with the one on top and work your way down?” She’d gone back to her desk and her low, slightly accented voice, floated toward him from the gloom.

  Bloody hell. Her face, her body, and now her voice?

  Stacy stared at his hands as they rested on the keys, briefly tempted to use them to pummel some sense into his skull.

  Instead, he played.

  Chapter Five

  The two-hour lesson felt more like twenty minutes. While Portia’s new pupil did not demonstrate that rare spark of genius, he was an exceptionally talented musician and it would be a pleasure to help him hone his skills.

  “Hawkins told me you had your first lesson in gig handling. How was it?”

  Portia looked up from the notes she’d been making. He’d come to stand by her desk and loomed large over her, the light from the candles on the desk illuminating his stark features.

  “I think I may have frightened your poor stable master.” Portia didn’t see any reason to mention that she’d also run the small cart into one of his rosebushes. Or that she’d come perilously close to crushing Mr. Hawkins’s foot with one of the wheels.

  “Hawkins is a man of great patience.”

  “And fortitude. And bravery.”

  “I shouldn’t worry too much about it, Signora. You are not the first to test his mettle. He put me on my first pony when I was six.” He smiled, exposing a charming dimple in his right cheek.

  A dimple. Portia wanted to weep. How very, very unfortunate. She wished she could see his eyes; did he wear his wretched spectacles all the time?

  He bowed abruptly, the gesture making Portia realize she’d once again been staring, probably gawking with her mouth hanging open. Blast and damn!

  “I shall see you at dinner, Signora Stefani.”


  His elegant figure was quickly swallowed by the gloom that held sway beyond the piano. He lived so much of his life in darkness, or near enough. What was that like?

  That is none of your business, Portia Stefani.

  Portia ignored the hectoring thought. She’d always been insatiably curious about the people around her, even when they weren’t gorgeous, mysterious men. Why deny she found him attractive? It wasn’t as if she had any plans to act on her attraction. Indeed, she had no plans to act on any such attraction to any man as long as she lived. If her experience with Ivo had taught her anything, it was that her volatile, sensual nature was not something that decent, God-fearing men appreciated.

  She assembled her notes and stacked them neatly on the corner of the desk. Dinner was still two hours away, so she would have ample time to review her wardrobe and decide what to wear. Fine clothing was one of the few things she retained from her marriage. It was too bad she no longer had her mother’s jewels to go with her gowns.

  Portia pushed away the foolish yearning to look attractive and the unwise reason behind it. The man was her employer, not a prospective lover. A wealthy, handsome man like Eustace Harrington would not be interested in what his music teacher wore—especially an older, homely music teacher. Even in her youth she’d never been more than passably attractive, and now she was close to thirty and well past her bloom: a veritable crone.

  And finished with impetuous behavior, especially when it comes to men, the nagging voice reminded her.

  Portia sighed. Yes, yes, and finished with impetuosity when it comes to men.

  This was a very well-paying position and she would do well to remember she was an employee here. The only thing her high spirits had ever done for her when it came to the opposite sex was get her in trouble. Look at what had happened the last time she’d acted on her romantic impulses—she’d ended up married to Ivo. Portia snorted. Now she was impoverished, humiliated, and stranded in a country she considered foreign, even though she was half English.

  No, this time she’d listen to her brain instead of her body.

  The gown Portia wore for her first dinner was seven or eight years old but it was her most flattering. It was a lovely carmine silk with dropped shoulders and the bodice was trimmed only with a wide sash in the same shade. She wore a pair of filigree earrings, one of the few pieces of jewelry Ivo had not taken when he left—only because they’d been in Portia’s ears at the time.

  Mr. Harrington was in the dining room when she entered and, as usual, Portia had to remind herself not to stare. He was breathtaking in evening clothes, the unrelieved black and white a stark but effective foil for his pale beauty.

  He took her hand and bowed over it, his lips curving into a welcoming smile. Portia’s breath caught and she hoped he did not bandy that dangerous look about too often.

  “Good evening Signora Stefani, how elegant you look. You will put our country fashions to shame.”

  “You do not look like a victim of rural fashions, Mr. Harrington,” she said dryly as he pulled out a seat for her.

  “We have this ludicrously long table but buck convention and dine only at one end of it, en famille, if you will.”

  “Do you speak French, Mr. Harrington?”

  “You’ve just heard a quarter of my French vocabulary.” Portia laughed and he poured her a glass of wine before filling his own and taking his seat. “We English are horrible when it comes to learning foreign languages. I daresay you speak several.”

  “Naturally I am fluent in Italian and French.”

  “Naturally.”

  “I only say naturally because my father was born on the border and French was his first language. Even so, my accent was deemed horribly rustic by most Parisians.”

  The door opened and the tallest woman Portia had ever seen entered. When Mr. Harrington stood to welcome her Portia saw the two were almost the same height.

  “I would like to introduce my aunt, Frances Tate. Aunt Frances, this is Signora Stefani.”

  The towering, whippet-thin woman inclined her smooth, sandy blond chignon. “It is a pleasure to meet you, Signora. My nephew says you are an extraordinarily skilled pianist. I look forward to hearing you play.”

  Regardless of her pleasant smile, Portia felt the woman was not happy to see her. Perhaps she was not as forgiving of Portia’s deception as Mr. Harrington?

  “I’m happy to play for you anytime you wish. Do you also play?”

  “I took lessons as a young girl, but never achieved more than a mere competence.”

  Mr. Harrington made a small sound of surprise. “Why Aunt Frances, you never told me you had piano lessons.”

  “I purposely kept that information from you, Stacy. You would have forced me to play if you’d known.” She turned to Portia. “My nephew was an implacable youth, Signora. Once he got an idea in his head he could be quite tenacious and always managed to get his own way.”

  Stacy? The name suited him better than Eustace, which was too stolid for such an elegant man.

  “Tsk, tsk, Aunt Frances, you will make Signora Stefani think I am a tyrant.”

  The older woman’s eyes glinted with love and affection. “You are—a benevolent one.”

  The dinner conversation ranged from politics to local affairs to the arts and her host seemed very well informed in all areas.

  “I receive a number of newspapers each week, from both London and the Continent. If you should care to read any of them please feel free to do so. The same goes for anything else in the library.”

  Mr. Harrington signaled the footman to refill her glass of wine. It was her second; she really must slow down.

  “My nephew prides himself on his library. You must explore his impressive catalogue of books.” Miss Tate’s words were warm, but her blue-gray eyes were shrewdly assessing.

  “I should like that very much. I was a member of a circulating library in London and feared I would lack for books while here.”

  Mr. Harrington waved away the footman’s proffered tray of desserts and Portia glanced down at her own selection of sweets and flushed; she’d taken a zabaglione as well as several biscuits. If she ate this well every day she’d be in danger of growing out of her clothing.

  She took a taste of the frothy desert and barely resisted moaning. It was as delicious as any she’d had back home. When she looked up from the dish she saw Mr. Harrington watching her, a slight smile on his lips. Portia flushed, as if she’d been caught enjoying something carnal.

  “What sort of books do you enjoy, Signora?”

  “I enjoy anything from gothic novels to travel books.”

  He turned to his aunt. “What was the novel you just finished reading, Aunt Frances?”

  Portia could see behind his spectacles when he turned: thickets of long white eyelashes fringed his lids.

  “Have you read it, Signora?”

  She blinked, too busy gawking to have heard his aunt’s reply “Er, I’m afraid I have not yet had the opportunity.”

  “You mentioned one of her other books earlier, but I can’t quite recall—which one was it, Signora?” His smile was mocking; he knew she had no idea what he was talking about. And he knew why, too. It was mortifying to know she’d joined the ranks of rude people who goggled at him.

  “I think it was Delphine,” Miss Tate interjected, unknowingly saving Portia.

  Mr. Harrington’s smile grew, exposing his dangerous dimple. “Ah, yes, that was it. Thank you, Aunt Frances.”

  Portia looked from his amused face to her food, her skin warm. This would be the very last time she was caught staring at the man.

  “Your English is very good, Signora, I hardly detect any accent,” Miss Tate said.

  “My father was Italian but my mother was English. As I was telling Mr. Harrington, I grew up speaking several languages at home.”

  “How long have you lived in England?”

  “I moved to London seven years ago.”

  “Do you have family here?”


  Portia couldn’t help feeling she was being interrogated, no matter how gently. Still, she supposed she owed them her history, as she’d come here under false pretenses and was living under their roof.

  “My father taught the Earl of Marldon’s five daughters piano and eventually married the earl’s second eldest daughter.”

  Miss Tate’s eyebrows arched so high they almost met her carefully coiffured hair. “You are Marldon’s granddaughter?”

  Portia smiled at the woman’s obvious amazement. “Yes, that is correct.”

  “Have you seen your mother’s family since returning to England?” Mr. Harrington asked.

  “My mother’s family was not pleased with her elopement and ceased all communication. When she died my father sent a message to her family but received no response. After I came to England I learned my grandfather had died and the title passed to a distant cousin. The new earl showed no interest in acknowledging our connection.” A taut silence followed her disclosure and she almost felt sorry for her hosts. What response could a person have to such information?

  Miss Tate’s piercing stare didn’t waver. “I believe I knew one of your aunts—Cicely.”

  It was Portia’s turn to stare. “Yes, my mother’s oldest sister. How did you meet her?”

  “We were at school together but were not well-acquainted.”

  Mr. Harrington cocked his head. “Why, Aunt, you never told me you went away to school.”

  “It was a long time ago, Stacy, and I was not there above a year.”

  “What a coincidence. It’s a very small world,” Mr. Harrington said.

  Small world, indeed; Portia could only hope this was the only connection to her past that would rise to the surface.

  After dinner Portia played more Bach at Mr. Harrington’s request. Both he and his aunt were very complimentary and it was a joy to play such a glorious instrument. Nights like tonight were as close as she would ever come to performing in public. That realization no longer caused her the heartache it had when she and Ivo were together.