“Please, don’t be alarmed. I’m not dangerous and won’t harm you.”
Her face flamed, both at her foolish reaction and his mocking tone. She could see now that the two black spots were merely dark spectacles and the skull was just a very pale face—the same face she’d seen last night. The moonlight hadn’t been playing tricks: Eustace Harrington’s hair and skin were as white as freshly fallen snow. Only his frowning lips had any color.
“I have albinism, Signora Stefani. That means I suffer from a lack of pigment. You needn’t worry, it’s not contagious.”
Portia laughed and his expression shifted from scornful to haughty.
“I’m not laughing at you, Mr. Harrington,” she hastened to assure him. “I’m laughing because I’m perfectly aware you’re not a contagion. I’ve heard of your condition before.” Portia didn’t tell him the only other person she’d heard of had been stoned to death by superstitious peasants in a village outside Rome.
“Then I don’t have to worry you will faint or scream?” he asked, his tone caustic.
“Not unless you give me good reason to do either, sir.”
He ignored her attempt at levity. “Why have you come to Whitethorn Manor?”
Portia took a deep breath and commenced the speech she’d rehearsed all the way from London.
“You wished to engage a music tutor with superior talent—I am such a person. I trained at the Accademia Nazionale di Santa Cecilia, the most respected music school in the world. My father was an instructor there for many years and I was one of his pupils.” She paused. When he didn’t speak, she continued. “The Accademia doesn’t admit women, but I am, nevertheless, a classically trained pianist. I’m not Ivo Stefani, but I’m good. Very good.” Portia stopped before her crushing anxiety got the better of her and leaked through her carefully constructed façade.
The white face across from her remained motionless. Had he expected her to apologize? To beg? Something very close to terror spread through her chest, making it difficult to breathe. Perhaps she should—
“When did your husband die?” he asked the question coolly, much as he might ask what time it was or whether she preferred tea to coffee.
Portia swallowed her irritation at his calm, deliberate manner—which made her feel like a recalcitrant schoolgirl standing before a headmistress. She reminded herself that he was the injured party in this transaction; she deserved cool treatment, at the very least.
“A little less than a year ago.”
“So it was you who responded to my original advertisement and then sent me a letter, signing your husband’s name.”
Her hot face became even hotter. “Yes.”
“If you are so highly qualified, why did you not apply under your own name instead of lying?”
The word lying was like a spark on dry tinder.
Portia opened her mouth, but the shrill voice of reason stopped her. Be humble, Portia! Grovel! Only last night you promised no more impetuous behavior and—Portia shoved the voice aside. After all—what did she have to lose by speaking her mind? The man was obviously not going to hire her.
“Tell me, Mr. Harrington, would you have engaged a woman tutor?”
He leaned back in his chair, his mouth pulling into a slight smile. “That’s hardly the point, is it?”
The man was toying with her and feeding off her humiliation and fear. She shot to her feet and he stood with her.
“Are you leaving, Signora Stefani?”
“Why should I stay? You’ve made your opinion of female musicians quite clear.”
“Oh? I thought we were speaking of your deception rather than your musical abilities.”
Portia ground her teeth, furious that he was correct. Again.
He gestured to her chair. “Please, won’t you be seated? I’ve gone to a great deal of effort and expense to bring you here. Won’t you extend me the courtesy of a few minutes of your time and perhaps some answers?”
Everything he said was fair—maddeningly so—but for some reason that did nothing to mollify her unreasonable anger.
“And what will you do if I refuse, Mr. Harrington? Summon the local magistrate?’
He sighed. “I am the local magistrate, Signora Stefani.”
Portia gave a short, mirthless laugh and dropped into her chair. “Ask whatever you like.”
He resumed his seat, ignoring both her rude behavior and angry words. “I’m curious why there was no mention of your husband’s death in the papers, Signora?”
She’d expected this question much sooner, but that didn’t mean she was eager to begin telling even more lies.
“My husband did not die in England.” She paused, “Perhaps you heard of his accident?”
“Yes, his arm was badly crushed and he could no longer play. I assumed that was why he responded to my advertisement.”
“I’m afraid my husband found teaching an unbearable reminder of everything he’d lost.” That much was true. “He needed to get away from the memories of his past and do something meaningful with his life. He decided the best way to do that was to join the army.” Lies, lies, lies. Luckily her face couldn’t get any hotter.
Pale eyebrows shot up above his dark glasses, a reaction that could mean surprise, disbelief, or some other emotion. Portia assumed it was surprise. After all, he hadn’t known Ivo. If he had, he’d be doubled over with laughter right now: Ivo Stefani had not entertained an altruistic thought in his entire life.
“Please continue.”
“There’s not much more to tell. He went to Naples and died shortly afterward in the Battle of Tolentino.” Would he dare to ask which side her husband fought with? Or would he assume the worst and dismiss her on the spot for being the widow of a man some in England might consider a traitor?
“Tell me, Signora,” he said, resting his elbows on his desk and leaning forward, the action bringing his fascinating face closer to the light. “What did you think would happen when you presented yourself to me under false pretenses?”
She’d asked herself the same thing—but in more brutal words—countless times. Why, then, was she so angry when he asked her a question he had every right to ask?
Because you’re ashamed of what you’ve done and nothing is more agonizing than knowing one is in the wrong.
The annoying little voice was correct, but that didn’t mean Portia had to like it. Still, she could control her behavior better.
“I’m sorry for my deception and I apologize.” She clamped her lips shut. But then her mouth opened and more words tumbled out. “If you tell me what you spent to bring me here, I will gladly repay you.” She stunned herself with the foolish words; just where would she get the money?
Pride goeth before destruction, and a haughty spirit before a fall.
Portia ground her teeth at the smug, but apt, observation.
Mr. Harrington’s features shifted into an expression of mild distaste. “We could haggle like costermongers over repayment for your journey or you could give me a demonstration of your musical ability.” His pale lips twisted into a mocking smile. “I know which I would prefer.”
Portia bristled at his sarcasm but hope surged in her breast. Would he consider engaging her? Or was this some petty form of revenge?
She studied his unreadable face. He reminded her of the famous stone she’d seen in the British Museum—the one named after the Egyptian port city of Rosetta. He bore no physical resemblance to the black chunk of rock, but he emanated the same inscrutable quality. Was he toying with her? Raising her hopes just so he could—
Portia seized control of her whirling thoughts. The truth was, she didn’t care what his motivations were. Playing the piano was far better than answering questions for which she had no answers or at least none that were palatable.
She inclined her head with hauteur to match his. “You are entitled to a demonstration of my abilities. What would you like me to play?”
“I will leave that to your discretion. You are, after all
, the expert,” he added wryly. “Shall I take you to the music room right now or do you need time to prepare?”
Portia heard the challenge beneath his taunting question and smiled; what a pleasure it would be to shove his scornful words down his throat. She stood. “There is no time like the present, Mr. Harrington.”
Chapter Three
Portia stole glances at Eustace Harrington as he led her down the long hall. His aquiline nose, shapely lips, and chiseled jaw were the stuff of classical sculpture and his skin and fashionably cut hair were whiter even than alabaster. Only his glasses disturbed the vision of a male version of Galatea come to life: Eustace Harrington was the most fascinating-looking man she’d ever seen.
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, th
e 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.
A Second Chance for Love: A Bachelors of Bond Street Novella Page 12
