Her smile was wry. “I see where you are going. But your uncle did this to create a tree that would live here. Geist’s offspring would survive no matter what mare he was bred with.”
“True. But survival isn’t the only point of selective breeding—there is also a desire to maintain certain characteristics, perfect others, and eradicate dangerous flaws.”
“I’m afraid you and I will have to agree to disagree on this subject, Mr. Harrington. As a person who has been referred to as a mongrel because of my mixed heritage, I’m biased.”
Stacy frowned. “I’m sorry to hear you’ve had to endure such insulting, foolish words, Signora. Horses and magnolia trees are not people and no sane person would ever advocate selective breeding for human beings.”
“The English aristocracy do.”
Her tart, spirited answer surprised a laugh out of him. “Touché, Signora, touché.”
“Oh look,” she said, gesturing with her chin. “We are nearing town.”
He realized that was her way of ending their conversation.
“Won’t you please bring the gig into the inn so I do not run down the poor ostler?”
Stacy opened his mouth to urge her to try it on her own, but when she turned her magnificent—and imploring—dark eyes on him, he found himself doing her bidding and reaching for the ribbons. He’d spent less than half an hour with her and already he was having difficulty denying her.
Yes, he thought grimly as her soft, warm, fragrant body pressed against him, this trip into town has been a mistake. The woman’s fiery persona and attractive person were proving to be far too enticing. Being in her presence made him forget she was his employee, and that was something he needed to keep at the forefront of his mind: she was pleasant to him because he was her employer, and that was all.
The truth was that spending time with Mrs. Stefani would only yield one result: infatuation at best, and, at worst, deeper feelings. As he’d learned long ago, either result would likely end in disappointment and pain for him.
Chapter Seven
Portia waited three days after her far-too-stimulating gig ride with Mr. Harrington before accepting his offer to use the library.
She didn’t want to encounter him—or rather, she was a bit too interested in another tête-à-tête—and had the feeling that he’d been avoiding her, as well, since their brief trip into town.
It turned out that his business had kept him late that day so she’d not ridden back to Whitethorn with him, but rather a groom from the inn. She’d been of two minds about that. Part of her yearned to feel his hard body wedged up against hers, wanted to inhale the faint, intoxicating hint of cologne, and was eager to talk to him about a rather scandalous topic like breeding, even if it was only horse breeding they were discussing.
But seeing him at lessons and dinner was already tempting enough. She needed this position too badly to upset the delicate balance between them, so she’d kept her willful nature in check.
But she was out of books to read and she knew Mr. Harrington rarely left his private chambers before noon so she went directly after breakfast.
She dithered about whether she should just march up to the room and fling the door open even though she knew he wasn’t in the room.
He told you to use the library.
That was true, he’d told her that more than once. Portia laid her ear against the thick door; no sound came from within. Not that that meant anything. He was hardly likely to be making a racket in his library.
She knocked before her nerve deserted her.
Nothing.
She waited a bit and then opened the door. The room was pitch-black so she left the door open to cast some light while she made her way to the heavy damask drapes and pulled them aside.
The morning light bathed the room and Portia gasped: the ceiling was at least twenty-five feet high, a coffered masterpiece that glinted with aged gilt which picked up the rays of sunshine and warmed the giant space. Floor-to-ceiling bookshelves covered all but two walls, the south-facing wall of windows and the interior wall opposite it, which boasted one of the largest fireplaces she’d ever seen. A mezzanine around the top third held yet more books. It was magnificent and Portia could understand why Mr. Harrington spent so much time in the room.
It took her a few minutes to understand the library’s organization and she’d just located the section she wanted when a voice behind her made her jump.
“Good morning, Signora.”
She whirled around and found Eustace Harrington in the doorway she’d left open. He looked as inscrutable as ever and it was anyone’s guess what he thought about finding her in his sanctum.
“I thought the library would not be in use at this hour.” Her tone was abrupt, as it always was when she felt at a disadvantage. “I will return another time.”
He gestured to the books in her hand as he came toward her. “May I?”
She handed him the slim volumes and, as usual, took the opportunity to study him while he studied the books. And—as usual—he looked up and caught her staring. He raised the thinner of the two books.
“Have you read anything else by Paine?”
“Only his famous pamphlet—he has many admirers in my part of the world.”
He handed her the two volumes and she clasped the books in both hands.
“Thank you. These will serve to keep me busy for a while. I shall leave you.”
He gestured to the left side of the room. “You have no novels and I know from our dinner conversations you enjoy them. They are on this side.” He gestured to the area she’d just located, but not yet perused. “Let me find you the ones my aunt recommended last night.
“Well, if it is no bother.”
“It is no bother at all, Signora.”
Portia looked at the sunlight pouring through the window and bit her lip. “Should I close the drapes?”
“That is not necessary,” he said without turning.
The pillars that flanked the fireplace were taller than Portia and topped by marble foxes, on whose heads the mantelpiece balanced. She ran a finger across a fox’s snout. “Your house is fascinating. When was it built?”
“It was designed and built by Inigo Jones, who completed it 1647.”
“It reminds me of one of Palladio’s buildings in Vincenza.”
“The Palazzo Chiericati?”
“You know it?”
“I’ve seen pictures. It is well known for its design, which is based on musical ratios.” He was running an elegant finger across the oxblood spines, as if searching for a particular title.
“Has the house been in your family long?”
“It belonged to a great uncle, a bachelor who died before I was born. My aunt brought me to live here after my parents died in a fire. I was with my aunt at the time, or I, too, would have perished in the fire.” He delivered the tragic story with a detachment that made her heart clench.
“I’m sorry.”
He glanced at her, his expression amused. “It was a long time ago, Signora, and I was not even a year old. I don’t recall either of them.”
“Even so, it is a very unfortunate story.”
He plucked a book from the shelf and transferred it to his left hand, where he had two others.
Portia squirmed in the heavy silence. “This room must be lovely with a fire on a chilly evening.” She could not take her eyes from his hands, even though she saw them every day during their lessons. They were broad across the back with long, well-shaped fingers. They looked like the hands of a concert pianist, but Portia knew that was mere romance on her part. Ivo’s hands had been rather ugly, stubby with large joints and square palms, and yet they’d produced music that caused grown men to weep.
A vision of Mr. Harrington’s beautiful hands brushing across her body the way they were moving over the leather-clad books flitted through her mind and she shivered. Her entire body tingled and became more aware, as if her nerves were too close to the surface of her skin.
Portia. . .
I’m not doing anything, she protested, feeling like a fool for arguing with herself.
Mr. Harrington took another book from the shelf, unaware of the turmoil he was causing with his innocent actions. Not until he had four volumes did he turn to her, his spectacles glinting as he handed her the small stack.
She took the books and glanced down at the spines to hide her burning face.
“Are you enjoying your time here thus far?” His question forced her to look up. He motioned to one of the chairs that stood in front of the enormous fireplace. “Have a seat. Tell me your impressions of Cornwall. We are a proud people and love to hear how others view our little corner of Britain.”
Portia could feel the pulse at the base of her throat pounding. Could he see it? Why did he want to talk to her? Why was she behaving like such a half-wit? She cleared her throat and lowered herself rather inelegantly into the chair he’d indicated.
He sat across from her, his body relaxed and graceful, a politely interested expression on his face. Portia couldn’t recall speaking with a person more difficult to read. Or perhaps he wasn’t. Maybe he really was as bland and emotionless as he appeared. But no, she could not believe that after hearing his playing.
She realized he was waiting. “I enjoy my rambles here; in London it was not so easy.”
“Walking in Rome was easier?” He sounded genuinely interested rather than polite.
“I knew Rome very well and was much more comfortable there than I ever was in London.” She didn’t tell him how she’d wandered every inch of the ancient city by herself when she was young, something a well-bred English girl would never do. Such behavior was frowned upon in Rome, too, but Portia’s father had been too busy working to keep track of his willful adolescent daughter.
“Do you ever think of returning to the Continent now the War is over?”
“My father was an only child and we were never close to any of his relations. There is nothing for me there.” There was actually too much there, but she could hardly tell him that.
“Do you have plans to travel to Europe, Mr. Harrington?”
“I am not fond of traveling.”
Portia opened her mouth, caught herself, and closed it. But naturally it didn’t stay closed. “Because of . . . because of your condition?”
To her surprise, he smiled. “That is part of the reason.”
Portia knew her face was the color of the oxblood books she held. “People can be ignorant and cruel.”
“That is true, Signora.” He was still smiling, but his tone had cooled and Portia felt she’d been put in her place.
She got to her feet, her heart pounding with mortification. “I will keep you no longer, Mr. Harrington.
He didn’t argue with her this time. Instead, he preceded her to the door. “Until this afternoon, Signora.”
Portia inclined her head. It was a struggle to move at a dignified pace, especially with his gaze on her until she turned the corner.
The day after her visit to the magnificent library Portia met Mr. Harrington’s old nurse, Nanny Kemble, for the first time. She’d been out on her usual afternoon ramble and decided to take the path into the woods she’d seen Mr. Harrington emerge from that first night. The trail was narrow but fairly well-travelled, proving that her employer was not the only one who used it. The canopy blocked out a good deal of light and made the air cool and damp.
She’d been just about to turn around when the sound of the surf became louder so she kept going.
On the other side of the small wood was a gently sloping hill that led down to a small cottage that seemed dangerously close to the cliffs.
Nanny Kemble was pottering in her small garden when Portia trespassed on her land. The ancient woman greeted Portia as if they were old friends.
“Why, you must be the piano teacher!”
“Yes, I am Portia Stefani.” She was no longer surprised that everyone in the area knew of her after having similar experiences in Bude each time she went.
I’m Nanny Kemble, Master Eustace’s nanny. I’ve been hoping you’d visit.”
Portia quickly learned Mr. Harrington—or Stacy, as she called him in the privacy of her mind—had not only given his old nurse the snug cottage, but also supplied her with servants to see to her needs. He wasn’t just generous with his money; he also called on the old woman weekly, as did Miss Tate. Nanny had no near neighbors and the only other people she saw on a regular basis were the Fants, the dour husband and wife caretakers who lived on the property.
“Miss Tate engaged them,” Nanny said, when Portia commented on how efficient the married couple seemed. “They’re from The North,” she said the two words the same way another person might say under a rock. “They certainly don’t come from where the rest of her people live.”
“Frances Tate’s people?” Portia asked, somewhat surprised. “I was under the impression there was no other family?”
Nanny blinked. “I’m sorry my dear, did I say she had people?” She shook her head. “Miss Tate and Master Eustace are the only two left. It’s such a pity.” The old lady’s mind drifted frequently and some days were better than others. The woman was close to ninety and had come to Stacy, her final and favorite charge, late in her life.
The next time Portia took her walk through the woods the old lady was waiting for her.
“I had Master Stacy from the day he was born.” They were having tea in Nanny’s cozy sitting room and the older woman was working on a section of intricate lace, which she could make without watching her hands. She stared at Portia with cloudy blue eyes. “What a tiny angel he was. He never cried or fussed, not at all like his brother.”
Portia had been winding the thin thread Nanny used to crochet and looked up. “But I thought Mr. Harrington was an only child?”
The old lady’s brow wrinkled and her lips parted.
Just then her housekeeper, Mrs. Fant, entered. “I hope you’re not overtiring yourself, Mrs. Kemble?” The Fants were the only people who did not call her Nanny.
“Eh?” Nanny appeared startled by the sudden appearance. Indeed, sometimes Portia thought the Fants listened at the door.
“You did not sleep well last night, did you Mrs. Kemble?” Mrs. Fant asked rather loudly. Portia knew the question was meant more for her benefit, as if to say Portia’s visit was tiring the old woman and she should take her leave. She glanced at the small watch pinned to her dress.
“What a lovely watch,” Nanny said, just as she’d said the first time they met.
Portia gave the same answer. “Thank you, Nanny, it was my mother’s. I’d better go if I am to make it back for Mr. Harrington’s lesson.” That was a bit of a fib. She had at least an hour, but she did not feel comfortable with Mrs. Fant standing watch.
“Will you come back tomorrow, my dear?” Nanny’s face was pinched and hopeful.
“Of course I will.”
Mr. Fant was doing something beside the cottage as Portia left. He didn’t meet her eyes, but she felt his gaze on her back. It was quite gothic the way the Fants drifted about the property, their eyes always narrowed with suspicion. They really belonged in a big, draughty castle.
Portia was still smiling at the vision of Mrs. Fant as the castle chatelaine when Miss Tate came over the rise on a magnificent white horse—some of Mr. Harrington’s bloodstock, she supposed.
“Hello Signora Stefani. You are quite a walker to have come so far.”
Portia would have sworn her presence at the old nurse’s cottage discomposed the other woman.
“I enjoy Nanny’s company.”
“Yes, she is a delightful old lady but her mind, unfortunately, is not what it used to be. I believe all her charges run together on some days.”
“Yes, she mistook me for an old friend and a deceased sister and told me about Mr. Harrington’s siblings.”
Miss Tate gave a nervous high-pitched laugh and her mount fidgeted. “Well, she is very well taken care
of; my nephew treats her like a queen.”
“Yes, he does. That is commendable.”
Miss Tate looked pleased by her comment. “I should get along. Selene is quite restless today.”
The horse wasn’t the only one who was anxious.
Portia smiled. “Selene, goddess of the moon. The name is perfect.”
“My nephew has his fanciful side. There is a Hecate and Artemis, as well.” She nodded at Portia. “Good day, Signora. I shall see you at dinner.” She urged her mount into a canter.
Frances Tate was as good a rider as her nephew and dismounted gracefully when she reached the cottage. Both Fants came to greet her and Portia was just about to turn away when all three looked in her direction. They stood grouped together, unmoving until she gave them a jaunty wave. Miss Tate waved back but the other two stood like statues. Portia shivered, almost afraid to turn her back on them.
She laughed at her fanciful thoughts. Really, she did tend to let her imagination get the better of her sometimes.
Portia was reading in her room a few evenings later when she heard voices below her balcony. She set aside her book and went to the casement window, which she’d left open. Her employer stood below. He’d changed from his dinner garb into riding clothes and was talking with Hawkins, who turned and walked toward the stables. Mr. Harrington glanced up at her window, as if he knew he’d find her there.
“Ah, Signora Stefani. Did our chatter disturb you?” His lips curved into a knowing smile that reminded her that she was wearing a concealing and remarkably ugly dressing gown.
Portia’s face heated. “It’s still too light out and I was not sleeping yet.” She tugged on her sash—even though it was already tight—and glanced toward the stables, where Hawkins was now talking with another man.
He saw her inquisitive look. “Hawkins and I are preparing to introduce Geist to Snezana, my new mare.”
“You are breeding horses tonight?” She stuttered a little over the word breeding.
His enigmatic face shifted into an expression she’d not seen before: mischievous.
The Music of Love Page 6