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 dessert 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.

"Why do you torment yourself, cara?" he'd ask when he found her practicing, his caramel-colored eyes amused and condescending. "Is not my genius enough for the both of us?"

He'd been considerably less amused about her practicing after his accident, which had left his hand usable, but unable to play. Then he'd become vicious, rather than mocking, when he'd caught her at a piano. Portia hadn't minded so much; he'd attacked her because he could no longer make music. As a musician, she could imagine how dreadful that would be.

She went up to her room not long after she finished playing. Her body was tired but her mind was still in a whirl so she took Voltaire's Zadig from the small collection of books she'd brought with her. But her eyelids became heavy and she abandoned the book and blew out the candle after a quarter of an hour.

Just like the night before, she slept for a few hours before waking. This time she went directly to the window and drew back the curtains. She didn't have long to wait before he appeared, thundering across his land on his magnificent horse, two ghosts under the moonlight.

She kept hidden, unable to tear her eyes away as man and beast moved as one. As he'd done the previous night, he ended his ride by coming beneath her window. Portia didn't think she'd moved and there was no light from a candle, but just as he rode past her balcony he looked up. She froze. He was not wearing his spectacles and under the combined light of the torch and bright moon she caught a faint glimpse of violet.

Not until he'd gone past did she realize he'd been smiling.

***

"Did you see the nosy music teacher tonight, Geist?" The majestic horse's ears twitched at the sound of Stacy's voice. He removed Geist's saddle and began the horse's rubdown. Stacy tsked. "You probably think she stays up to watch you?" The stallion pawed the floor with one of his forelegs and Stacy chuckled. "I don't think so, my friend. I think she stays up to stare at me."

It was the same morbid interest women always showed in him. Usually their inquisitive stares did not amuse him and never before had he wanted to satisfy a woman's curiosity by exhibiting his eyes—at least not since his debacle with Penelope. He frowned at the memory of his former fiancée and the night he'd learned just how well a woman could hide her disgust at his person in pursuit of his money.

Geist leaned heavily against Stacy's shoulder as he toweled first one foreleg and then the other. Geist made a low grumbling noise.

Stacy laughed softly. "You like that, do you, you greedy thing?"

After he was done he slipped on Geist's halter and led him down the long corridor. Other white heads poked out as Stacy and Geist passed, one his newest mare, Snezana.

The stallion's body stiffened and he stopped and whickered, stomping one hoof on the plank floor outside her stall. Snezana tossed her head but then retreated into the dark recesses of her stall.

Stacy clucked his tongue and patted Geist's rump. "She's not ready for you yet, my friend." Geist followed him with obvious reluctance, his large dark eyes rolling as they left the silent mare behind.

He led the agitated stallion toward his big corner stall, soothing him as they went. "It's difficult to wait, I know. But she wouldn't take you now. I promise, when the time is right, she will come to you."

Another pair of dark, expressive eyes flashed through his mind's eye as he calmly stroked the big horse's flank.

Stacy wasn't sure whether his soothing words were for the anxious stallion or for himself.