Page 13 of The Music of Love

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.”