Page 5 of The Music of Love

Portia inched closer to the balcony as he approached, hoping to catch a glimpse of his face as he passed beneath the lantern that hung nearby. The drapes moved with her and the light from the candle behind her escaped and cast a dim line across the cobble drive that was like an arrow pointing toward her window.

Horse and rider swung around as one toward the balcony.

Portia gasped, stumbled back into the room and slammed the casement shut, fumbling with the lock. She pulled the drapes and collapsed against them, her heart pounding as if she’d been running.

Good Lord! How was that possible?

Chapter Two

It was after eleven o’clock by the time a servant arrived to escort Portia to her interview with the master of the house.

She’d been awake, dressed, and waiting for hours—in spite of the fact she’d not had much sleep. She’d tried, but every time she’d closed her eyes a haunting ivory face had flashed into her mind.

And those eyes . . .

Of course she knew it had been a man on the horse and not a ghost or demon. Even so, sleep had evaded her. She’d stared into the darkness above her bed, where phantom images formed and dissolved endlessly.

She’d tried to count sheep or think of other more pleasant things. Like the friends she’d left behind, the five women and one man who’d once been her employees but were now her family. Now her friends were scattered to the four winds, each forced to scratch out an existence on society’s fringes. It was probable—likely, in fact—that Portia might never see some of them again.

So here she was; alone, once more.

The thought left her morose, restless, and full of self-pity, and she tossed and turned until the pink fingers of dawn crept over the horizon. Only then had she fallen into a shallow, fitful sleep.

Splinters of bright sunlight penetrated the gap between the velvet drapes and woke her just before eight o’clock. The face that greeted her in the mirror had blood-shot eyes with bags beneath them. Portia wanted to cry when she saw her reflection, but that would have made her nose red, too.

So she’d dressed herself and combed out the frightful mess that was her hair, pulling it back into a knot that was so tight it actually seemed to diminish the bags beneath her eyes.

And then she’d placed a cool cloth on her forehead and fretted until a knock jarred her from her worries.

It was the butler, Soames.

“Mr. Harrington will see you in the library, ma’am.” In contrast to last night, when the old man had appeared almost frantic, this morning his wrinkled face and rheumy blue eyes were the epitome of butleresque impassivity.

They descended a different set of stairs than the one she’d come up the night before. Soames turned right when they reached the bottom and led her down a wide, dimly lit hall before stopping in front of a set of double doors.

He flung open the door on the right and motioned her inside. “The library, ma’am.”

Portia peered into the room, the interior of which was hardly visible. The only light came from a single candle on the far side.

“Thank you, Soames.” The deep voice came from the same direction as the light. “Please, come in and take a seat, Signora Stefani.”

Portia took a hesitant step inside the room and jumped when the door snapped shut behind her.

“I suppose you find it rather dark.” A flare of light followed his words and a pale hand lit three more candles. The nimbus of light grew until a skull with two black eye sockets materialized beside it. Portia gasped and the skull shifted into a mask of scorn.

“Please, don’t be alarmed. I’m not dangerous and won’t harm you.”

Her face flamed, both at her foolish reaction and his mocking tone. She could see now that the two black spots were merely dark spectacles and the skull was just a very pale face—the same face she’d seen last night. The moonlight hadn’t been playing tricks: Eustace Harrington’s hair and skin were as white as freshly fallen snow. Only his frowning lips had any color.

“I have albinism, Signora Stefani. That means I suffer from a lack of pigment. You needn’t worry, it’s not contagious.”

Portia laughed and his expression shifted from scornful to haughty.

“I’m not laughing at you, Mr. Harrington,” she hastened to assure him. “I’m laughing because I’m perfectly aware you’re not a contagion. I’ve heard of your condition before.” Portia didn’t tell him the only other person she’d heard of had been stoned to death by superstitious peasants in a village outside Rome.

“Then I don’t have to worry you will faint or scream?” he asked, his tone caustic.

“Not unless you give me good reason to do either, sir.”