Page 13 of Seducing Sophia (Scholars of Seduction)

He eyed the page and read the name inscribed at the top. “Carl Czerny!” he exclaimed.

“You know of him?”

“I do,” he said. “A master pianist to whom any true proficient should aspire. If I recall, Herr Beethoven was not averse to having Czerny on his list of protégées.”

She turned her gaze on him and smiled. The light illuminated her eyes, bringing out the shades of green and brown, punctuated by flecks of gold. There seemed such a purity about her delight—not unlike the innocent wonder of a child.

Guilt warred with the lust swirling in his blood. How could he seduce her? Widow or not, she didn’t deserve to be part of Peterton’s scheme.

But the flame in her eyes suggested she’d not be averse to a dalliance—or, at the very least, a little flirting.

“Are you an admirer of Czerny?” he asked.

She turned the page to reveal a simple-looking composition. “Yes, I am,” she replied. “Not only is he a great proficient, but he is also committed to furthering the cause of good music by sharing his talents with others. Too often, these days, the proficients among us guard their talents with jealousy, as if they view others as deadly rivals. Czerny understands that to enhance the talents of others, he can increase the pleasure for the whole world.”

“Is that why you teach the pianoforte yourself?” he asked.

“It is what I aspire to,” she said, “but the outcome rather depends on the pupil.”

“Then I trust I shall not disappoint you,” he said, “at least, with respect to my musical abilities, though I cannot compare to Czerny.”

“He is a rare talent,” she said, sighing. “To think—so young, and yet he’s already achieved so much!”

“Have you heard him play?”

“Papa travelled Europe before he died and had the fortune to hear him play in Vienna,” she said. “I have not had the pleasure yet. But I should like to take Henry, when he’s old enough to appreciate it. I have always wanted to tour Europe.”

“Did your father not take you with him?”

“No,” she said. “Henry was a baby at the time, and I couldn’t leave him.”

“Your husband, then?”

She stiffened and her smile disappeared.

“Perhaps we should proceed with the lesson,” she said, her voice sharp. “Neither of us is here to indulge in idle chatter.”

“Forgive me,” he said, “I didn’t mean to…”

“It was nothing.”

She placed her hands on the keyboard and nodded at him to do likewise. “Shall we?”

“Mrs. Black…” he said, lowering his voice so their chaperone couldn’t hear.

“Please…” she whispered.

“Of course.” He nodded and placed his hands where she indicated.

Beneath the veneer of the stern tutor, he detected an aura of distress.

Mrs. Black carried a secret—a painful secret, if his instincts were to be believed.

She was clearly an educated woman and her accent spoke of breeding. How the devil had she ended up at Harridan House?

He glanced over his shoulder to their chaperone. Mrs. Huntington sat demurely in an armchair, a book on her lap. As if she sensed him, she lifted her gaze and frowned.

He’d not make any headway with his quarry while that hellion was in the room with them. But he would find out what had distressed her. The delectable Mrs. Black was an enigma he intended to solve.

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