Page 7 of The Music of Love

“Please continue.”

“There’s not much more to tell. He went to Naples and died shortly afterward in the Battle of Tolentino.” Would he dare to ask which side her husband fought with? Or would he assume the worst and dismiss her on the spot for being the widow of a man some in England might consider a traitor?

“Tell me, Signora,” he said, resting his elbows on his desk and leaning forward, the action bringing his fascinating face closer to the light. “What did you think would happen when you presented yourself to me under false pretenses?”

She’d asked herself the same thing—but in more brutal words—countless times. Why, then, was she so angry when he asked her a question he had every right to ask?

Because you’re ashamed of what you’ve done and nothing is more agonizing than knowing one is in the wrong.

The annoying little voice was correct, but that didn’t mean Portia had to like it. Still, she could control her behavior better.

“I’m sorry for my deception and I apologize.” She clamped her lips shut. But then her mouth opened and more words tumbled out. “If you tell me what you spent to bring me here, I will gladly repay you.” She stunned herself with the foolish words; just where would she get the money?

Pride goeth before destruction, and a haughty spirit before a fall.

Portia ground her teeth at the smug, but apt, observation.

Mr. Harrington’s features shifted into an expression of mild distaste. “We could haggle like costermongers over repayment for your journey or you could give me a demonstration of your musical ability.” His pale lips twisted into a mocking smile. “I know which I would prefer.”

Portia bristled at his sarcasm but hope surged in her breast. Would he consider engaging her? Or was this some petty form of revenge?

She studied his unreadable face. He reminded her of the famous stone she’d seen in the British Museum—the one named after the Egyptian port city of Rosetta. He bore no physical resemblance to the black chunk of rock, but he emanated the same inscrutable quality. Was he toying with her? Raising her hopes just so he could—

Portia seized control of her whirling thoughts. The truth was, she didn’t care what his motivations were. Playing the piano was far better than answering questions for which she had no answers or at least none that were palatable.

She inclined her head with hauteur to match his. “You are entitled to a demonstration of my abilities. What would you like me to play?”

“I will leave that to your discretion. You are, after all, the expert,” he added wryly. “Shall I take you to the music room right now or do you need time to prepare?”

Portia heard the challenge beneath his taunting question and smiled; what a pleasure it would be to shove his scornful words down his throat. She stood. “There is no time like the present, Mr. Harrington.”

Chapter Three

Portia stole glances at Eustace Harrington as he led her down the long hall. His aquiline nose, shapely lips, and chiseled jaw were the stuff of classical sculpture and his skin and fashionably cut hair were whiter even than alabaster. Only his glasses disturbed the vision of a male version of Galatea come to life: Eustace Harrington was the most fascinating-looking man she’d ever seen.

He opened the door to a room every bit as dark as the library and turned to her, a Sphinx-like smile curving his lips. “Pardon my rudeness Signora, but I’m going to precede you and light the way.” He lit five candles in the candelabrum beside the piano before taking a seat as far from the light as possible, effectively hiding himself from her view.

Portia approached the instrument and stopped abruptly. “My goodness.”

“What is it, Signora?”

“You have a Schmidt.” She ran her fingers reverently across the glossy case.

“You approve?” His voice held the first hint of warmth she’d heard.

“It’s a piano worthy of a concert dais.” Even Ivo had never played on finer.

“There is sheet music in the cabinet behind you.”

It was Portia’s turn to smile mockingly. “That won’t be necessary.” She seated herself and ran through a few scales to loosen her hands. The instrument was easily the finest she’d ever played. The pianos her father had used to teach his students had been well-made, but most of them had been abused by hundreds of hands and years of constant use. This piano was exquisite, the sound immaculate.

She launched into Bach’s Goldberg Variations, beginning with “Variatio 14. a 2 Clav.”

The piece was lively—almost giddy—and the multitude of cross-overs was a perfect way to demonstrate her technical ability for the man who sat in judgment of her.

Portia could claim, without exaggeration, that she’d been Ivo’s superior when it came to Bach.

“Of course you favor him,” Ivo had taunted her in a fit of pique. “He has no passion, only mathematics—perfect for your English soul.” He’d often flung the fact she was half-English at her as if that were some sort of flaw.