Chapter Ten
Giancarlo had been in no hurry to leave his bed, warm and full as it was with two rather talented women. As a result, he was in a better mood than usual when he finally sent for his secretary far later into the day. But what was the use of being a marchese if one couldn’t take one’s pleasures at will?
Giancarlo gazed out over the piazza, sipping his strong, hot espresso as he listened to his secretary’s report, the contentment of his mood evaporating with each line. His secretary set aside the letter and waited while the news settled in. The bottom line was this: after two weeks of searching, Sofia was nowhere to be found. His man had lost her. Or perhaps she’d never been found. The evidence to the latter was starting to mount; she had not returned to her ruined home and she had not filed a complaint with the London constabulary. Both non-actions begged several questions: did she know about the house? Was she in London? Had she received his earlier letters? Did she even know he was hunting her?
Of all the questions raised, it was this last that bothered him most. He shifted uncomfortably in his chair. The only joy in this whole tiresome process of bringing her home was the knowledge that she’d be terrified. Now that was in question. She might be blithely going about her life in England, wherever that might be, oblivious to the trouble she was causing him. He thought about the studded crop in his wardrobe. It had a way of making a woman less oblivious to him. When he had her back, it would teach her the folly of ignoring him.
‘She can’t have disappeared.’ He fixed his secretary with a sharp gaze. ‘Was there an appointment diary at the house? A calling card from a friend? Notes? Letters? Anything that might indicate where she spends her time or who she spends it with?’
‘I don’t know, Marchese,’ the secretary said with no small amount of trepidation. Good, at least one person had the sense to respect his authority. ‘The letter doesn’t say.’
The letter. Not a telegram like last time. Telegrams were so much faster, so much more immediate. A wave of anger surged. This was delayed news! ‘When was the letter sent?’ he snapped, reaching for the paper. Giancarlo scanned the report. It had been two-and-a-half weeks since this useless tripe was written. His grip tightened about the handle of his espresso cup. This was just another failure in a series of failures.
‘Che palle!’ Giancarlo swore loudly. How hard could it be to track down a woman alone, a woman in disgrace who had no one to support her? He’d tracked her this far, he wasn’t going to lose her scent now when he needed to curry the monarch’s favour. He had not necessarily liked the old King, but the man had been far more progressive than his son in regards to marital arrangements. His son did not favour divorce under any circumstance. Much had changed in the past three years.
He sighed and eyed the remaining pile of post with disappointment. ‘Have we heard from her family?’ It was long odds that he had, although he’d written to them immediately after Victor Emmanuel had issued his personal edict. Her family had been quite malleable the first time he’d approached them thirteen years ago with enough money to dazzle them. He’d chosen his quarry well: a family of landed gentry who lived far above their station and, consequently, struggled financially. He’d hoped they’d be malleable again. Sofia’s father spent money at an alarming rate. No doubt the man would be eager for more by now, eager enough to return his daughter to her rightful husband if she was with them. The last was the gamble. Would Sofia go home to Yorkshire? Or had she finally taken her family’s measure and washed her hands of them? He preferred the latter. Fewer people to deal with, fewer people to bribe. Even if her father was willing to turn her over to him, the greedy English bastard would want to use it to his advantage. Giancarlo would have no choice but to pay a second time for what he’d already purchased once at fair market value—a wife who’d caused him nothing but trouble.
Giancarlo rose and stuffed his hands into the deep pockets of his satin dressing gown. The solution to his situation was obvious and disappointing. He’d wanted to avoid this. ‘Send for my valet and make the necessary arrangements. I will have to sort this out myself.’ He was going to England. When he found her there would be hell to pay with interest. He smiled coldly to himself, feeling marginally better. He preferred immediate gratification when it came to his pleasures, but pleasure deferred had its merits, too, if one knew just how to extract them.
* * *
Sofia was procrastinating. She slid a guilty glance sideways on the gig seat, watching Conall at the reins, the early summer breeze pushing at his hair. He seemed happy and content this morning, but she knew she didn’t have much time remaining. It had been over a week since the celebratory dinner announcing the purchase of the mill. She could have produced the contracts at any time. All she had to do was write them out and she had. She just hadn’t told Conall they were done.
Now, here it was, day nine since he’d agreed to her partnership and the contracts still needed to be finalised. She kept coming up with details: a visit to the mill, another meeting with the mill’s owner while she claimed one more day of peace.
This morning, she’d run out of legitimate particulars. Even now, the contract and other papers were drawn up and signed, lying safely in a drawer in the Dower House while she went fishing with Conall.
It was not plausible for the contract to be delayed any longer, nor was it fair. She was keeping too many secrets from him as it was. It wasn’t only secrets and time that were running against her. For all his contentment this morning, Conall was getting edgy, too, although he tried to hide it. She saw the disappointment etch itself in small ways about his eyes and the tightness of his mouth each passing day that didn’t bring the contracts to a close. She didn’t want to cause him anxiety, yet she didn’t want to go. One more day. She wanted one more day with his family, one more day in this beautiful world of his and, most of all, she wanted one more day with him. Why not take it? She hadn’t had word from Giancarlo for over a month. She was starting to feel safe. Even as she allowed herself to think it, she chastised herself. That kind of thinking was dangerous. The one moment she didn’t look over her shoulder was the one moment she should. She knew better than that. She had signed the contracts this morning and arranged to have them sent up to the house while she and Conall were out. They’d be waiting for him when they returned. She’d promised herself today would be the last.
The gig hit a rut in the road and she gripped the seat rail to steady herself, laughing as her other hand reached up to catch the brim of her hat. ‘We’re nearly there.’ Conall chuckled at her efforts and pointed to the river, glittering in the distance.
Sofia slanted him a smile. Nearly there and still so far. What did she want from this man? He had not kissed her since their outing to the alpaca meadow. But he’d wanted to, she had seen as much in his eyes when they walked in the gardens of an evening after she and Freddie held their nightly backgammon game. Instead, he’d held himself in check. Perhaps out of respect for her, perhaps because he guessed at what lay beneath the surface of her marriage, or maybe because there was no point in kissing her again, as much as they’d both enjoyed it. She would be leaving soon. There could be nothing serious.
Perhaps the better question was what did she want for herself? Was she ready to pursue a sampling of intimacy? Marriage had not recommended physical intimacy to her. Giancarlo had been mentally and physically cruel to her. She was coming to understand, through Helena’s marriage, and Conall’s own innate courtesies, that what had passed for intimacy in her marriage was a false representation. She didn’t know intimacy at all. Did she want to? Did she want to trust a man again? Her critical mind assessed the risk. If the opportunity presented itself, perhaps she should pursue it, especially if she could control it as she had the kiss. If it disappointed her, she was leaving anyway. And if it suited her? her conscience asked, already putting forth the idea that Conall would likely not disappoint. Well, she’d still have to leave, but at least she’d know.
Would Conall be open to that experiment? He was not the sort of man who would make love to a woman not his wife under his family’s roof with his family in residence. But today was different. Today, they were alone, they weren’t under anyone’s roof, maybe not under anyone’s codes but their own. Sofia sighed and smiled to herself. She’d wondered what it would be like to receive the affections of a good man. Now she knew—those affections were both generous and frustrating.
* * *
The Tone was a wide, placid silver ribbon that ran south-east after leaving Taunton. These particular six miles of its twenty-one-mile run, were, according to Conall, the best stretch of fishing on the river. ‘There’s carp, tench, grayling, sometimes even a salmon.’ Conall gave her a wide grin, finding a shady place to park the gig. ‘We should be able to set up our camp right over there.’ He was all easy authority, gathering up their supplies from the bed of the gig with an alacrity that spoke of experience.
‘You’ve done this before.’ Sofia laughed, reaching for the basket. ‘Let me carry something. I want to make myself useful.’
They were efficient and in a few minutes the camp was made, a small fire burning in anticipation of a fish lunch and blankets spread on the ground beside a hamper and two empty creels waiting to be filled. ‘Are you ready?’ Conall handed her a pole which she took gingerly.
Conall eyed her for a moment, realisation dawning with a healthy dose of incredulity. ‘Have you never been fishing?’
‘No...’ She hesitated, feeling entirely at sea with the admission. Perhaps she should have disclosed that earlier before they’d left the house but if this was to be their last day together, she’d been determined to enjoy it to the fullest.
Sofia held out the pole for him to take back. ‘I can watch you fish, though. That will be just as much fun.’ Especially for her. She could look at him all she liked, storing up a hundred different mental pictures of him. He was clearly anticipating a day of fishing and she didn’t want to ruin his excitement. He was boyishly handsome in his enjoyment. This was a different side of the handsome, well-dressed Viscount and she liked this earthy version.
‘No,’ he said simply. He cocked his head, studying her. ‘Watching is not as much fun.’ He thrust the pole back at her. ‘You’re going to learn to fish and I’m going to teach you. Are you game?’
He didn’t wait for a response; perhaps he knew her well enough by now to know there was only one answer. He bent down and opened one of the creels. ‘Lesson one, you have to bait the hook.’ He held up a small piece of fish. ‘Chubb pieces are perfect for this river.’
He did all the baiting, but she watched dutifully, admiring the deftness of his hands setting hooks and organising lines. Mental picture one, she decided, would be of his hands. He had wonderful hands, long and well-boned, competence mixed with elegance.
Hook baited, he turned to her. ‘Now, we wade. You’d best get those shoes and socks off, miss.’ He gave orders with a twinkle in his eye, his gaze moving to the river. ‘And tie up your skirts. It’s still spring and the water’s higher than it is in the summer.’ Conall was already pulling off his boots and rolling up trousers to reveal tanned well-muscled calves.
‘This is highly unorthodox behaviour, my lord,’ Sofia teased. She sat down on a log and removed her footwear, her gaze sliding to Conall’s bare legs. Naughty assumptions flitted through her mind. Was the rest of his body as tanned and as muscled? Certainly there was evidence to support that from their dance at Cowden’s. There was other proof, too. She looked away, blushing, remembering their kiss. His chest had been granite hard where she’d pressed against it.
Sofia gathered her skirts to one side and tied them in a knot, doubly glad she hadn’t worn a gown requiring crinolines of any sort, and Conall reached out a hand. ‘Ready to fish?’ He grinned.
‘Absolutely.’ She gripped his hand and let him lead her to the water, which was cold, but it didn’t faze Conall so she went doggedly in, refusing to back down from this friendly challenge. The cold water was worth it. Conall moved behind her, wrapping his arms about her, those competently elegant hands covering hers as they held the pole, the heat of him filling her.
‘We’ll start with a simple overhead cast,’ he instructed, putting her left hand over the butt of the pole, drawing it against her body and positioning her right hand further up. The rod bent. ‘It bends because it’s baited. The chubb weighs it down. Now, we cast.’ In a fluid movement, he directed the line over their shoulders and out into the river where the line and rod promptly straightened and the lure swiftly sank. ‘Not bad. The trick to a good cast is to get the line out to where the fish are. It’s not so hard in a river like this, but in a wider river where you can’t go out as far as you’d like, you have to let the line do the work for you.’ His voice was low at her ear, playing all nature of havoc with her senses. Good heavens, she’d not thought fishing could be so sensual.
‘Now what?’ Her voice was husky, a betrayal of how intoxicating she found this moment. He surrounded her in all ways: the smell of him, the sound of him, the touch of him. Had it ever felt this good to be with a man? This easy? She didn’t have to please him, didn’t have to flirt with him. She simply had to be. No games. It would be better if there were. Games had rules, outcomes, clear winners and losers. She was off balance here.
‘Now, we wait.’ There was laughter and mischief in his voice. His hands flexed over hers. ‘A fisherman might stand in the river all day waiting for the right fish.’ She liked the sound of that. She could stand here all day with his arms about her. How novel, given that she’d never been this close to a man outside a dance, or outside her husband’s bedroom. The old fear tried to grip her. This time, she pushed back. She would not let those thoughts insinuate themselves into this glorious day. Not all men were her husband. Not all touch was meant to denigrate. Conall had never pressed her.
‘What do you do while you stand here and wait?’ Her feet were either numb or they’d acclimated to the temperature.
‘Hmm. I think. I sort through my thoughts. It’s quiet out here. I cannot be disturbed, my thoughts cannot be polluted with contingencies and interruptions. Many fishermen are self-prescribed philosophers.’ He chuckled. ‘Do you think you can handle it from here?’ She was tempted to say no, wanting to keep his body close, but that would be a lie. She was more than capable of standing in the water by herself.
He stepped apart from her, then, brandishing his own pole with an expert’s relish. He cast out his line in a fluid motion that belied the notion anyone could fish. Anyone could stand in a river, she was proof of that, but he was something else: graceful, athletic, his movements smooth. He cast again, and again, a mesmerising dance of line and man. The act consumed him entirely like the Palio riders she’d seen once in Siena, at one with their horses, deaf to the cries of the crowd, to everything except the rhythm of their mounts. And sweet heavens it was...arousing...to watch him fish. It made a woman wonder what it would be like to be the recipient of such attention. Her earlier thoughts in the gig lapped at the shores of temptation. Did she dare take the experiment? To have him lose himself in her as he lost himself in the river. Where was his mind now? What thoughts claimed his attention today?
A tug pulled at her line. ‘I’ve got something!’ Sofia cried.
‘Stay calm, we want to bring it in slowly,’ Conall directed from where he stood. ‘Turn the handle to bring in the line and let’s see what we have.’
What she had was a beautiful, silvery iridescent carp that fought her efforts every tug of the way, its breathing laboured as its watery habitat gave way and its struggles grew more futile, but no less persistent. No matter how it fought, it couldn’t free itself.
She couldn’t do it. Sofia dropped the line and fell to her knees in the water, her hands groping for the carp. ‘Help me, help me.’ She was splashing aimlessly, making a hash of the line as she sought the fish.
‘Freeing him. I have to save him.’ Panic rose in her voice. She couldn’t take its life. She knew what it meant to be forced, to know that all of one’s efforts meant nothing in the end.
‘I’ve got it, he’s safe now.’ Conall’s voice was calm, his competent hands freeing the fish, the carp swimming off. Then he was lifting her out of the river, carrying her to the blankets and the little fire. She was starting to shake. ‘He’s safe, but you’re soaked.’ Conall reached for the spare blanket and wrapped it around her shoulders. ‘There, that should help. You’ll be warm in a moment.’
‘I couldn’t kill it. That’s what reeling a fish in is, it’s killing. All because they dared to grab the brass ring, because they dared to reach for more. They didn’t know.’ Her voice was a whisper now as she struggled not to go to pieces. ‘They didn’t know the brass ring was just an illusion.’ Conall’s arm was about her and she gave in to the temptation of his shoulder.
She really oughtn’t to have done it. Every bone in her body knew it, screamed with the reality of it. Conall was an illusion, too. There were no brass rings, there were no safe havens. Not for her and, if he truly knew her, there would be none for him either. She’d lured Conall with lies and façades. She could not have him, could not keep him. She could only steal a few moments. Besides, even if she could have him, the price would be more than she wanted to pay.
She trembled against him. The enormity of the last six weeks caught up with her, overwhelming her. She’d entered society, however briefly. She’d faced her husband’s threat to reclaim her, a threat juxtaposed against the awakening of her own unlooked-for desires for another man. The timing was beyond inconvenient. She’d promised herself she would never belong to any man again. Perhaps one day she would revisit that promise, but it could not be now. She could not break that promise when she was hunted by a man who would drag her back to hell, who would not free her from the hook, and another who teased her with glimpses of heaven.
A Marriage Deal with the Viscount--A Victorian Marriage of Convenience Story Page 10
