Page 11 of The Music of Love

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.