“Oh. Well.” She pointed up near the top. “They are in order by author. Here is Daniel Defoe—Moll Flanders and Robinson Crusoe are both here. John Dryden’s books.” She pointed lower on the shelves. “Milton. Pope. Swift. Oh, and Pamela, by Samuel Richardson.” She let her gaze linger on English translations of the Iliad and Odyssey. “There are other books I enjoy, of course, but the more modern novels and poetry collections are in other rooms.”
“I see.” He bent to examine a lower shelf and removed Pamela.
“If you read that, you will need to read a later book by Richardson. You see, in this one, a moral woman reforms a rake. He wrote another later in which a good man does the same for a woman.”
He blinked at her. “A rake?” He straightened with the book in hand. “You do not mean a garden tool.”
Oh. He didn’t know that word? Emma’s cheeks warmed as she contemplated how to explain. “A—a bad man?” When his eyebrows pulled together in a frown, she realized her wording was too simplistic. “He tries to take advantage of her—she is lower than he in Society, and without protection, so he attempts to make her his—” She winced. “But she doesn’t—that is, she maintains her virtue.” Her cheeks positively burned as she realized how the book sounded. How she must sound, admitting she claimed a book with scandalous subject matter as a favorite.
“You enjoy this book?” he asked, his words slow and his tone giving away none of his thoughts. “Even though a man approaches a woman dishonorably?”
Releasing a nervous laugh, she shrugged helplessly. “I am explaining the story very poorly.” She rubbed at her temple, ordering her thoughts. “Pamela defends herself in a way that was—is still—somewhat revolutionary. In the end, she wins a place in the world above what most would deem appropriate for her station. It is not a perfect book—I do not think such a thing exists. But I believe it is one people ought to read and discuss.”
He stared at her, his dark eyebrows lifting at last. “You enjoy it for the controversy and discussion it inspires.”
She put a cool hand to her cheek and turned back to the shelves. “Yes. That is precisely it. I enjoy vigorous conversation and debate.”
A touch on her forearm had her turning her head to look at him, her cheeks still warm.
His dark brown eyes glowed with interest. He tipped his head to one side as he spoke. “I enjoy those things too, Miss Arlen. That is how I gained my king’s notice.” His smile reappeared, larger than before. “I will read this book if you promise to discuss it with me later.”
A knot in her chest formed and then tightened. “Yes. Of course. But if you would prefer to read something lighter—”
He shook his head, dislodging a lock of hair so it fell across his forehead, instantly giving a touch of boyish charm to his expression. “No, this will do.” He held the book against his chest. He appeared thoughtful a moment before speaking again. “Tell me. Does your mistress enjoy the same books as you?”
He meant Josephine. Emma had to laugh at that. “No. I am afraid not. Lady Josephine prefers adventure novels or love stories. Mrs. Radcliffe is a favorite of hers, and of late she is enamored with the books Persuasion and Rob Roy. If you wish to read those, I will find them for you.”
The ambassador’s smile tightened, then vanished. “Perhaps after I have enjoyed Pamela. I have not heard of these other titles.”
“They are quite entertaining.” She shrugged, then pointedly looked to the long case clock in the room, checking the time. “Oh, you must excuse me, Signore. I must prepare for a ride with Lady Josephine and Her Grace.” She dropped into a curtsy.
“Of course. Thank you for the book.” He bowed, but she did not meet his eyes again as she hurried from the room.
Despite his age, his position in Society, and his reason for being in England, he was just like all the other gentlemen she met: he spoke to her only to gain an understanding of the ducal family, and perhaps to get closer to Josephine, as her friend had suspected.
Not that it mattered to Emma. It never mattered to her. She would be loyal to the family, as always, and not give insult to the duke’s guest.
The conte wasn’t different or special. There was no need to feel insulted or used. This was simply the way things were.
The knot in Emma’s chest grew larger, making it difficult to swallow, as she went back to her room to change for her ride.
* * *
Luca stood before the long mirror in the dressing room adjacent his bedroom, with Bruno brushing off the coat he’d helped Luca into only moments before. His valet hummed an Italian love song to himself as he worked, the familiar tune and cadence soothing Luca’s troubled mind.
Not that anything had gone wrong that day. Quite the opposite. The conversation with the duke had proven fruitful, given the duke’s immediate desire to send for legal documents regarding trade between their countries. Luca’s literary foray with Miss Arlen had given him another excuse to speak to her and gain her trust, putting him one step closer to earning Lady Josephine’s interest.
Torlonia stuck his head through the doorway. “Are you finished yet, Signore? Bruno, it cannot take a quarter of an hour to see a man properly turned out for dinner.”
Bruno stopped humming and frowned, but he said nothing. He hadn’t forgiven Torlonia for suggesting Luca replace him with a younger valet.
Luca spoke over his shoulder, not moving from the spot where Bruno had put him. “If you wish me to make a good impression on a duke, whose shoes likely cost more than my entire ensemble, every moment before the mirror counts.” He winked when Bruno glanced at up him, making the old man smile.
Bruno spoke in Italian. “You belong at tables with kings and princes, I promise.” The old man went to a short velvet box and opened it, then selected an emerald stickpin for Luca’s cravat. “The last touch.” He fixed it in place.
With a snort of impatience, Torlonia removed himself from the doorway of the dressing room, backing into the bedroom. “Young men and politics—you are more worried about your appearance than your points of debate.”
“You know that is not true.” Luca nodded his thanks to Bruno, then went out to speak to his secretary. “And I advise you to remember who, here, is the ambassador and who is the secretary. If the king put his confidence in a young man, so too should you.” His words lacked any bite. He had asked for Torlonia to accompany him for a reason.
The older gentleman had successfully navigated a hostile court for years, and he knew more about the history of English trade negotiations with the former Italian Republic than Luca did. If only he had as much faith in Luca as Luca had in his secretary.
Torlonia sighed. “Forgive me, Conte Atella.” He rubbed at his wrinkled forehead. “I know you think part of your work is also to secure an English bride. Care for your appearance is important in this house, at the duke’s table and any other in this country.” Then he fixed Luca with a curious raise of his eyebrows. “Do you think the duke’s daughter has shown an interest in you?”
Luca didn’t allow himself to worry. “It is early in our acquaintance. I do not believe she wishes to come to know me yet, but if I can win the favor of her companion, Miss Arlen, that may help me to win Lady Josephine’s good opinion.”
“I fail to see your reasoning for this, Signore.” Torlonia, a confirmed bachelor, couldn’t possibly understand the way a woman’s mind worked.
“I have three sisters,” Luca reminded him. “If a suitor for the eldest snubbed my younger sisters, he gained favor with none of them. The man who won fair Angelina, who is now my brother-in-law, always had a kind word for the other two. Women trust other women, their friends and sisters, more than they trust any man.”
That bit of explanation did not impress Torlonia, given the way he sighed. “Let us hope you are correct. We must go down to dinner now, Signore.”
They arrived in the sitting room where the family had gathered the previous evening. This time, the duke’s younger daughters were not present. Instea
d, the duchess introduced him to Mr. and Mrs. Josiah Hepsworth and their daughters, Miss Maria Hepsworth and Miss Hannah Hepsworth.
Lord Farleigh, the duke’s eldest son, had one of his own friends in attendance to create even numbers between the men and women. But Luca barely had time to properly greet the guests before Miss Hepsworth and Miss Hannah stood on either side of him, batting their lashes and tossing blonde curls about as they giggled.
Why they were giggling he could not be certain, except that they seemed to think it would somehow please him.
When it came time to escort the women in to the table, he experienced a moment of hope that his separation from the overly enthusiastic Hepsworth sisters would grant him peace and sensible conversation.
His hope died swiftly when Mrs. Hepsworth, the mother, sat on Luca’s immediate right.
She used one hand to hold her fork delicately and the other to fluff the feather in her turban. “You must tell us all about Italy. Do you go to Venice often? I understand the canals are an incredible sight to see.”
“I have never been to Venice—”
“I have always wanted to see the Sistine Chapel, too. How far is that from Venice?”
“The magnificent chapel is in Rome, madam. They are on opposite sides of the peninsula—”
The woman squawked like an irritated hen. “That cannot be too far. If we planned a trip next summer, I should like to see both.”
Luca winced. “I am certain such a journey could be arranged, especially by boat, but I am afraid not many are permitted into the chapel itself, as it is part of the Vatican.”
“Pish. One only has to make the right friends for such excursions. You have seen the Sistine Chapel, have you not, Your Grace?”
Luca turned to the duchess who sat at the end of the tabled on his left. The regal woman, as beautiful as her daughters with only a hint of maturity in the wrinkles around her eyes, appeared momentarily taken aback. “No, Mrs. Hepsworth. I am afraid I have not had that honor. Of course, I have never ventured all the way to Rome. Monaco is as far east as I have been on the continent.”
Mrs. Hepsworth made a noise of discontent. “What a horrid shame. But then, I am sure nothing abroad rivals the beautiful works and buildings here in England. Westminster Abbey, for example, is a marvel.” She arched her eyebrows at Luca. “Have you visited Westminster Abbey?”
He had finally managed a small bite of food but hastily swallowed it before having much of a chance to diminish its size. “From the outside, yes. I have not yet entered it.”
“And how does it compare to your Catholic cathedrals in Italy?” She batted her eyelashes with more aggression than her daughters.
Had he been ten years younger, Luca would’ve squirmed in his seat and abruptly changed the subject. Catholics were still unpopular in England, with several laws in place which removed many of the rights of normal English citizenship. It was something his king had mentioned as a sensitive subject to address where and when Luca could.
Somehow, he didn’t think Mrs. Hepsworth would treat the political ramifications of being Catholic in England with any respect.
Luca cleared his throat uncomfortably. “I find that wherever I go, each country and even each city has their own traditions and cultures which make their buildings unique. It is impossible to compare them. That which is beautiful and perfect in London would be out of place in Italy, and the reverse is also true.”
A movement across the table caught his eye, and he met Miss Arlen’s gaze. She had that one eyebrow raised again, as she assessed his words.
“I see.” The woman at his side pursed her lips and frowned. “You are Catholic, I presume?”
He nodded once, a small dip of his head, and her eyes narrowed.
Did his religion disqualify him as a marital possibility? He hoped so, because even he could not have misunderstood the pointed attentions of first the daughters and then the mother. A foreign count, even if he was Catholic, might be a temptation to more than one English mother.
“Lord Atella,” Miss Arlen said, bringing his attention to her. “I wonder if you would like to play a game at our table? Mrs. Hepsworth has come close to winning.”
Luca caught a laugh-turned-cough from somewhere down the table, and he did not miss the way the duchess feigned disinterest in the turn in conversation.
What was this?
Miss Arlen smiled benignly at Mrs. Hepsworth. “Do tell him about the game, Mrs. Hepsworth.”
The matron flushed with pleasure. “Oh, I would not presume to take that honor—I know how His Grace enjoys presenting it to his guests as something of a challenge.”
Miss Arlen looked to the duchess, who finally raised her gaze from her plate. “His Grace will not mind, Mrs. Hepsworth, and it is only fair after your unflagging attempts that we allow you to explain the game to another honored guest.”
“Thank you, Your Grace. I am most honored.” She fluttered a hand over her chest and made a deep bow with her head—the feather in her turban nearly falling into a soup tureen with that movement. “Lord Atella, the game is quite simple. You see the tiles above? There are two that match, but only two. I have tried to find them a few times without success—dinner always ends before I can check them all carefully. Perhaps you will have better fortune.”
Luca narrowed his eyes at Miss Arlen, whose expression had turned far too innocent. If the search would prevent the continuance of the previous topic, he meant to devote his time to it. No matter his suspicions.
The plan proved sound. Mrs. Hepsworth did not wish to distract him from his purpose, and he could sneak bites of the delicious meal and immediately return again to matching tiles. The amount of detail in the designs was astounding, considering how rarely most looked upward.
Miss Arlen had told him during their first dinner that the duke played a game with his guests and those tiles. He hadn’t thought it so simple a thing as matching, like a child’s game.
Except he couldn’t find the matches. When the ladies rose from the table to go to the sitting room, Luca had to admit defeat. Mrs. Hepsworth was all kindness and disappointed on his behalf, but she left the room with her daughters and very few words.
The duchess had led the ladies out, but Miss Arlen lingered a moment longer to brush invisible crumbs from her gown. She met his gaze only after the other ladies had withdrawn, and the duke had already called for a stronger drink for the men to enjoy in private.
“I hope that was helpful, my lord.”
“The game? It was diverting.” And yes, helpful. But he didn’t want to admit it with her standing there, wearing that secretive smile.
She nodded, but then leaned slightly across the table to whisper to him, “There is no matching pair, my lord.” Then she turned and went to the door, looking over her shoulder once before a footman closed it behind her.
Luca’s jaw fell open. The game was a ruse—one which it seemed the whole family took part in. One that Miss Arlen had begun for his benefit. Surely, she would not tell him the truth if she meant to mock him. What had she said before? That the duke had commissioned the panels especially for some sort of amusement…
It wasn’t a cruel prank. Instead, Luca thought it incredibly useful.
He finally sat back in his chair and released a relieved laugh.
Miss Arlen had rescued him, and she wanted him to know it. But why?
Chapter Six
A woman skulking outside of a man’s bedchamber, no matter his rank or hers, would certainly beget gossip, if not ruin a lady’s reputation entirely. Therefore, Emma did not stand outside the conte’s rooms. Instead, she sat in a window seat at the end of the corridor, sketching the scene outside the window and not staring at his doors.
The ambassador’s half-hearted efforts at flirting, painful as they were to watch, left Emma embarrassed on his behalf. She had left a note for Josephine, excusing herself from going down to breakfast with Josephine as she usually did. Emma hoped to obtain the visiting nobleman’s good opini
on, and perhaps enough trust that she might be honest with him when it came to Josephine. How honest could she be without giving him offense?
After half an hour of waiting down the corridor, she wondered if he would rise as late in the day as his English counterparts. The duke always rose early. Why she thought the ambassador would do the same, Emma could not say.
Surely the man had a great deal to accomplish in a day, even if the months before Parliament convened were more relaxed in the countryside.
A door mid-way down the corridor opened, the sound of the latch’s release barely audible from her distant perch. Emma adjusted her posture and bent over her sketchbook while affecting a more diligent expression. At last.
Conte Atella stepped out of his chambers, closing the door behind him. He turned her direction, hands tugging at the hem of his jacket as he walked. His gaze cast downward for several steps before he raised it to the end of the corridor—and caught sight of Emma. She watched him from the corner of her eye, noting his reaction with interest.
His steps slowed, and he dropped his hands to his side before he tucked them behind his back. He came forward a few more steps and cleared his throat.
Emma tilted her head more to the side, enough to meet his gaze with hers, and shared what she hoped looked like a welcoming smile.
“Good morning, my lord.” She lowered her feet from the wide window seat to the ground and offered the customary curtsy. “Are you on your way to breakfast?”
“I am. Would you like to join me, Miss Arlen? Or have you already enjoyed a morning meal?”
“Oh, I haven’t been downstairs yet.” She tucked her pencil behind one ear—a most unladylike habit that always made the dowager duchess sniff. “Only His Grace and Lord Farleigh will be at the breakfast table this early. Usually, I wait for Lady Josephine.”
“I see.” He glanced at the top of the stair, then down the corridor the way he had come, as though the duke’s eldest daughter would spring out from another alcove. “When is it her habit to rise?”
A Companion for the Count: A Regency Romance Page 5
