Page 14 of The Music of Love

“I only say naturally because my father was born on the border and French was his first language. Even so, my accent was deemed horribly rustic by most Parisians.”

The door opened and the tallest woman Portia had ever seen entered. When Mr. Harrington stood to welcome her Portia saw the two were almost the same height.

“I would like to introduce my aunt, Frances Tate. Aunt Frances, this is Signora Stefani.”

The towering, whippet-thin woman inclined her smooth, sandy blond chignon. “It is a pleasure to meet you, Signora. My nephew says you are an extraordinarily skilled pianist. I look forward to hearing you play.”

Regardless of her pleasant smile, Portia felt the woman was not happy to see her. Perhaps she was not as forgiving of Portia’s deception as Mr. Harrington?

“I’m happy to play for you anytime you wish. Do you also play?”

“I took lessons as a young girl, but never achieved more than a mere competence.”

Mr. Harrington made a small sound of surprise. “Why Aunt Frances, you never told me you had piano lessons.”

“I purposely kept that information from you, Stacy. You would have forced me to play if you’d known.” She turned to Portia. “My nephew was an implacable youth, Signora. Once he got an idea in his head he could be quite tenacious and always managed to get his own way.”

Stacy? The name suited him better than Eustace, which was too stolid for such an elegant man.

“Tsk, tsk, Aunt Frances, you will make Signora Stefani think I am a tyrant.”

The older woman’s eyes glinted with love and affection. “You are—a benevolent one.”

The dinner conversation ranged from politics to local affairs to the arts and her host seemed very well informed in all areas.

“I receive a number of newspapers each week, from both London and the Continent. If you should care to read any of them please feel free to do so. The same goes for anything else in the library.”

Mr. Harrington signaled the footman to refill her glass of wine. It was her second; she really must slow down.

“My nephew prides himself on his library. You must explore his impressive catalogue of books.” Miss Tate’s words were warm, but her blue-gray eyes were shrewdly assessing.

“I should like that very much. I was a member of a circulating library in London and feared I would lack for books while here.”

Mr. Harrington waved away the footman’s proffered tray of desserts and Portia glanced down at her own selection of sweets and flushed; she’d taken a zabaglione as well as several biscuits. If she ate this well every day she’d be in danger of growing out of her clothing.

She took a taste of the frothy desert and barely resisted moaning. It was as delicious as any she’d had back home. When she looked up from the dish she saw Mr. Harrington watching her, a slight smile on his lips. Portia flushed, as if she’d been caught enjoying something carnal.

“What sort of books do you enjoy, Signora?”

“I enjoy anything from gothic novels to travel books.”

He turned to his aunt. “What was the novel you just finished reading, Aunt Frances?”

Portia could see behind his spectacles when he turned: thickets of long white eyelashes fringed his lids.

“Have you read it, Signora?”

She blinked, too busy gawking to have heard his aunt’s reply “Er, I’m afraid I have not yet had the opportunity.”

“You mentioned one of her other books earlier, but I can’t quite recall—which one was it, Signora?” His smile was mocking; he knew she had no idea what he was talking about. And he knew why, too. It was mortifying to know she’d joined the ranks of rude people who goggled at him.

“I think it was Delphine,” Miss Tate interjected, unknowingly saving Portia.

Mr. Harrington’s smile grew, exposing his dangerous dimple. “Ah, yes, that was it. Thank you, Aunt Frances.”

Portia looked from his amused face to her food, her skin warm. This would be the very last time she was caught staring at the man.

“Your English is very good, Signora, I hardly detect any accent,” Miss Tate said.