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.

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.