Page 6 of The Music of Love

He ignored her attempt at levity. “Why have you come to Whitethorn Manor?”

Portia took a deep breath and commenced the speech she’d rehearsed all the way from London.

“You wished to engage a music tutor with superior talent—I am such a person. I trained at the Accademia Nazionale di Santa Cecilia, the most respected music school in the world. My father was an instructor there for many years and I was one of his pupils.” She paused. When he didn’t speak, she continued. “The Accademia doesn’t admit women, but I am, nevertheless, a classically trained pianist. I’m not Ivo Stefani, but I’m good. Very good.” Portia stopped before her crushing anxiety got the better of her and leaked through her carefully constructed façade.

The white face across from her remained motionless. Had he expected her to apologize? To beg? Something very close to terror spread through her chest, making it difficult to breathe. Perhaps she should—

“When did your husband die?” he asked the question coolly, much as he might ask what time it was or whether she preferred tea to coffee.

Portia swallowed her irritation at his calm, deliberate manner—which made her feel like a recalcitrant schoolgirl standing before a headmistress. She reminded herself that he was the injured party in this transaction; she deserved cool treatment, at the very least.

“A little less than a year ago.”

“So it was you who responded to my original advertisement and then sent me a letter, signing your husband’s name.”

Her hot face became even hotter. “Yes.”

“If you are so highly qualified, why did you not apply under your own name instead of lying?”

The word lying was like a spark on dry tinder.

Portia opened her mouth, but the shrill voice of reason stopped her. Be humble, Portia! Grovel! Only last night you promised no more impetuous behavior and—Portia shoved the voice aside. After all—what did she have to lose by speaking her mind? The man was obviously not going to hire her.

“Tell me, Mr. Harrington, would you have engaged a woman tutor?”

He leaned back in his chair, his mouth pulling into a slight smile. “That’s hardly the point, is it?”

The man was toying with her and feeding off her humiliation and fear. She shot to her feet and he stood with her.

“Are you leaving, Signora Stefani?”

“Why should I stay? You’ve made your opinion of female musicians quite clear.”

“Oh? I thought we were speaking of your deception rather than your musical abilities.”

Portia ground her teeth, furious that he was correct. Again.

He gestured to her chair. “Please, won’t you be seated? I’ve gone to a great deal of effort and expense to bring you here. Won’t you extend me the courtesy of a few minutes of your time and perhaps some answers?”

Everything he said was fair—maddeningly so—but for some reason that did nothing to mollify her unreasonable anger.

“And what will you do if I refuse, Mr. Harrington? Summon the local magistrate?’

He sighed. “I am the local magistrate, Signora Stefani.”

Portia gave a short, mirthless laugh and dropped into her chair. “Ask whatever you like.”

He resumed his seat, ignoring both her rude behavior and angry words. “I’m curious why there was no mention of your husband’s death in the papers, Signora?”

She’d expected this question much sooner, but that didn’t mean she was eager to begin telling even more lies.

“My husband did not die in England.” She paused, “Perhaps you heard of his accident?”

“Yes, his arm was badly crushed and he could no longer play. I assumed that was why he responded to my advertisement.”

“I’m afraid my husband found teaching an unbearable reminder of everything he’d lost.” That much was true. “He needed to get away from the memories of his past and do something meaningful with his life. He decided the best way to do that was to join the army.” Lies, lies, lies. Luckily her face couldn’t get any hotter.

Pale eyebrows shot up above his dark glasses, a reaction that could mean surprise, disbelief, or some other emotion. Portia assumed it was surprise. After all, he hadn’t known Ivo. If he had, he’d be doubled over with laughter right now: Ivo Stefani had not entertained an altruistic thought in his entire life.