Page 8 of The Music of Love

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.”