Page 3 of The Music of Love

“I can hardly send her packing in the middle of the night, can I ma’am?”

“I suppose not,” she said, grudgingly. “But you must do so first thing tomorrow.”

Stacy raised his eyebrows at his aunt’s strident tone and she flushed under his silent stare and looked away.

Although his aunt had raised him from infancy, she’d always accepted he was master of both himself and Whitethorn Manor. Stacy couldn’t recall the last time she’d told him what he must or mustn’t do. She must be far more agitated than she appeared.

He gave her a reassuring smile. “There’s nothing to worry about, Aunt Frances. I shall take care of everything in the morning.” He took out his watch and glanced at it.

His aunt saw the gesture and stood. “I beg your pardon, my dear, I shall leave you to your port.”

Stacy met her at the dining room door and opened it for her. “I’ll join you shortly,” he promised before shutting the door behind her.

He extinguished all but one candle and poured himself a larger than average glass of port, taking a sip of the tawny liquid before removing his dark spectacles. The bridge of his nose ached from a day of wearing glasses and he absently massaged it while staring at the dining room ceiling, on which sly cherubs lolled and cavorted on clouds, avidly viewing human folly from a safe distance.

He supposed he should have expected something like this. Not that a woman would show up, of course, but that it would be impossible to engage a musician of Stefani’s caliber with such ease. When the employment agency wrote to tell him the famous pianist was seeking a teaching position, Stacy had wondered if it might be some sort of mistake.

Apparently it had been.

He couldn’t believe the reputable and well-regarded Stark agency would have lied about Ivo Stefani applying for the position. No, it must have been Mrs. Stefani.

Stacy shook his head. What manner of woman would embark on a long journey under such false pretenses? A bold one? A confident one? A desperate one?

He snorted; certainly a dishonest one.

Stacy could guess why she’d deceived him—no doubt she believed he would not engage a woman. He swirled his glass and stared into its warm depths. Would he? His lips twisted at the thought. No, he would not hire a female, although not for the reasons she might suspect.

While men might gawk and stare at him, they tended to overcome their curiosity—eventually. Women, on the other hand . . . Well, let’s just say he’d learned the hard way that women were not so forgiving—especially when it came to his eyes.

Stacy could do nothing about their reactions, but he could minimize his exposure to their fear or scorn. Other than his tenants’ wives, a few women in the village, and his female servants, he managed to avoid most women. Well, except for the women he visited in Plymouth; those women he generously compensated to ignore his appearance.

It said something about the state of his life that he’d so anticipated the arrival of a music teacher. Perhaps this debacle was a way of telling him his hobby was a foolish waste of time? God knew he had plenty on his plate managing his estates and businesses. But was his life to be devoid of any personal pleasure? He’d already accepted that he could never marry and have a family. Must he also give up playing the piano—one of the few things he loved—just because of his freakish appearance? Was he asking too much to engage a music teacher without fuss and bother? People did it all the time. True, it was usually for their children, but why should that matter?

Stacy put down his glass with more force than necessary, and the crystal clattered on the polished burl wood surface. The more he thought about the woman’s deception, the angrier he became. How dare this female muck up what was supposed to be a simple business transaction? His aunt had been correct. Stacy should have summoned the woman before him, no matter how exhausted she was, and called her to account for her outrageous deception.

Thinking about his aunt made him realize it had been unkind to send her away when she was only concerned for his welfare—no matter how unnecessary her concern might be. She worried about him as if he were still a little boy rather than a man of five-and-thirty. Frances Tate was his only relative and had been mother and father to him, burying herself in the country and devoting her life to raising him. She’d never been married or even had a beau, as far as Stacy knew. Not for the first time did he feel guilty that she’d built her life around him. Poor Frances, at slightly over six feet tall, she was almost as great a misfit as he was.

Stacy pushed away his glass, picked up his spectacles, and stood. He would make up for his abrupt dismissal by playing for her—that always soothed her.

The butler’s reaction to Portia’s arrival had been so comical she would have laughed if her future did not hang in the balance. Indeed, if Mr. Harrington’s horror was a fraction of his servant’s, Portia would have been out in the road with her bags right now—or standing in front of the local magistrate.

Instead, she was in the middle of a luxurious suite comprised of a sitting room, a bedroom, and an enormous dressing room complete with a copper tub. The rooms were airy and spacious and decorated in a soothing combination of icy blue and warm chocolate brown. Portia sank into a wingback chair, took off her sturdy black ankle boots, and stretched her feet on the plush Aubusson carpet. Her body ached, she was dusty and gritty, and her brain was beyond sluggish. Thank God she didn’t have to face her prospective employer in this state.

She’d been both stunned and grateful when Mr. Harrington decided to postpone their encounter until morning. Tonight she’d take advantage of her brief reprieve and forget about whatever the master of the house had planned for her; tonight she’d enjoy the luxurious comfort of these rooms.

Portia had just opened her portmanteau and was searching for her nightgown when a maid entered with a large tray of food. The girl gave her a shy smile before carrying the tray to the sitting room and arranging the dishes on a table. She bobbed a curtsey when she’d finished, her large brown eyes brimming with curiosity.

“Mr. Soames said I should help you unpack or ask if you wished for a bath, ma’am.”

Portia had the good grace to blush; dinner in her room and an offer of a hot bath? Mr. Harrington was treating her with kindness and courtesy despite her deception.

There was no point unpacking but Portia couldn’t turn down a chance to bathe in the beautiful copper tub.

She smiled at the young woman. “I am Signora Stefani. What is your name?”

“Daisy, ma’am.”

“I shan’t need any help unpacking, Daisy, but I would love a bath after my meal.”