Page 21 of The Music of Love

“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.