Page 12 of The Music of Love

Yes, that would be wise. But when have you ever been wise, Portia?

Stacy had planned to pay only a brief visit to the Wilson farm and inspect the roof. But afterward, Mrs. Wilson invited him to share a glass of homemade wine to celebrate the birth of their grandson.

He liked the Wilsons, who were kind, gentle people and seemed to accept him for what he was—an excellent landlord—rather than what he looked like. But today the visit left him restless. He chalked it up to either his unfortunate attraction for his new employee or an unchristian covetousness of the Wilsons’ happy home—or both.

Stacy might have far more money than the humble farmer, but he would never have the love of a woman or know the joy of children—he’d learned that painful lesson a decade ago, or at least he thought he had; yet when he’d encountered the intriguing music teacher nestled in the straw he’d been tempted to linger near her. Her snapping brown eyes and the fiercely protective way she’d cradled the small animal to her generous bosom had been more than a little appealing. He’d even experienced a stab of envy for the lucky dog privileged to nestle against her.

Stacy snorted; he’d been reduced to envying runty pups.

On impulse, he turned Geist toward the coast. He’d planned to look in at the wheelwright’s today but he was just too damned restless to conduct business. He rarely rode for pleasure during the day, preferring his nighttime jaunts, when he could ride unencumbered by glasses, coats, scarves, and hat. His moonlit rides were his salvation. The only other time he felt so carefree was at the piano. But that had changed in the last year, when an invisible barrier had descended between him and the music. As much as he’d practiced, he hadn’t been able to find his way past it.

He’d need to keep reminding himself about that barrier in the days to come—his real reason for hiring the woman. An unsolicited image of the music teacher nestled in the straw invaded his mind.

“Bloody hell,” he muttered. He flexed his thighs, urging Geist into a gallop, as if he could outrun the distracting vision in his head.

Stacy barely had time to bathe and change before his lesson. He’d ridden until he and Geist were lathered, hoping he’d thrashed his lustful urges into submission.

Signora Stefani was already in the music room when he arrived. She’d lighted the room using two small branches of candles, one on the writing desk where she sat and one near the piano.

She looked up when he entered. “Welcome, Mr. Harrington. I’m ready to get right to the best part of each lesson—the playing.”

“I hope you still believe that after hearing me play, Signora.”

She laughed and the sound was low, warm, and inviting. “I’m an optimist by nature. I’ve put out several pieces for you, but first I’d like to hear what you’ve been working on.”

Stacy located the sheet music he wanted and ran a few scales. He forced himself to pretend there was no one else in the room, especially not an attractive woman who was also a virtuosa on the piano. He took a deep breath and began a piece of music that was already part of him.

For a short time, he forgot himself; he wasn’t Eustace Harrington the ghostly, red-eyed freak, he was only sound and sensation. The music worked its magic, feeding his soul and rejuvenating him. The notes drove away his worries, concerns—and yes—even his loneliness, leading him toward a state of being that was sublime.

But all too soon the piece was over.

He removed his hands from the piano and looked up to find Signora Stefani standing beside it. Her flushed cheeks and sparkling eyes spoke volumes; she knew exactly what playing did to him. It was like sharing an intimate secret with a complete stranger.

Stacy looked away from those knowing eyes, his gaze dropping to her mouth. The generous curve of her full lips made his abdomen clench, as if his body was tensing to protect itself from something. Stacy frowned at the bizarre thought. Protect him from what? What the devil was wrong with him?

“Mr. Harrington?”

He looked up. She’d said something while he’d been staring at her mouth. An unaccustomed heat crept up his neck.

“I beg your pardon, Signora?”

“I asked how long you’d been working on the piece?”

“Perhaps four months.”

“I am pleased to find you so advanced. With your skills there will be very little beyond your reach.”

If Stacy had possessed a tail it would have been thumping wildly against the piano bench. As it was, her praise was causing unexpected responses from other parts of his body. He closed his eyes, once again grateful he could hide behind his spectacles. Was his pathetically grateful behavior what came of keeping too much to himself? Was he now unable to be in the presence of any attractive woman without becoming excited or wanting to bed her?

Truly, he must be one of the most pathetic men in Great Britain.

“I put several exercises out for you, Mr. Harrington. Would you please begin with the one on top and work your way down?” She’d gone back to her desk and her low, slightly accented voice, floated toward him from the gloom.

Bloody hell. Her face, her body, and now her voice?

Stacy stared at his hands as they rested on the keys, briefly tempted to use them to pummel some sense into his skull.

Instead, he played.