“Not for another hour at least.” She grinned at him and gestured to the stairway. “Perhaps I had better join you, or risk wasting away to nothing before she wakes.”
A twitch of his lips hinted at a smile, but the ambassador’s stoic mask remained in place. He offered her his arm. “It would be a pleasure to escort you.”
Emma held her sketchbook against her chest while looping her hand through the crook of his arm. “Very gallant of you, conte. Will you defend me against any dragons we meet between here and the table?”
His eyebrows lifted. “Will there be many?”
Though she could not tell for certain if he mocked her or joined in her game, Emma answered with a quick tongue. “Most assuredly. As well as lions, and perhaps a bear.”
There went his mouth again, his lips tilting upward on one side, as though he fought the urge to smile away. “Those are not as fantastic as dragons.”
They started down the stairs without incident, Emma inwardly sorting through the conversation topics she had considered all morning. “I wonder, my lord, how you are enjoying your time here in the country.”
“I am enjoying it very well.” His tone had changed; his words sounded less personal and more rehearsed. “The countryside is beautiful. I think the English word for it is verdant.”
“I think that is what most people have to say about England, those who are not familiar with it. Everything is always very green.” She paused on the stair, necessitating he do the same. “And we cannot help but boast of it, I think. See that painting?”
He humored her by glancing at the wall, and then he tilted his head back. “Is that a dragon?”
Emma allowed herself a laugh. “I warned you, did I not?”
The painting on the wall depicted St. George’s dragon, sans the sainted knight, asleep between two green hills.
He shook his head, and when he looked down at her, she caught the twinkle in his eyes. “You did warn me. Does that mean we will come upon lions and bears in a similar manner?”
“Of course.” She grinned at him as they continued down the steps to the ground floor. The family only had a handful of rooms on the ground floor, as most of it was taken up by the grand entrance and the servants’ kitchens and passages. The breakfast room had an impressive pair of glass-paned doors which opened into the rose gardens, where the duchess preferred to take her breakfast in the summer. The rest of the year, the view into the lush greenery was still quite beautiful.
When they stepped onto the black and white stone of the ground floor, Lord Atella pointed to the carving of a lion guarding the top of a doorway. “You have a refreshing sense of humor, Miss Arlen.”
“Thank you.” Emma kept pace with him, allowing a moment of quiet to lie between them. “Her Grace, the dowager duchess, does not find my humor endearing. She believes that women of rank, including Lady Josephine, ought to be more austere. It is not the fashion in England to be seen laughing or smiling too much.”
“It is much the same in our court,” he answered, his severe expression returning. “The years of hardship are perhaps to blame, but there is always the thought that one must protect their thoughts from others.”
“That might also be blamed on years of political uncertainty.” Emma gave him a sympathetic smile. “But I believe we are entering a new age, my lord. Tyranny replaced with prosperity, and uncertainty with light-hearts. We all ought to smile more.”
The conte regarded her with an unchanging expression, but she detected a hint of something in his eyes. Curiosity, perhaps. “What does your Lady Josephine think? I have been in her company but little, and I cannot say whether she is more of your mind or her grandmother’s.”
Turning the conversation back to Josephine, to an aspect of her character in particular, confirmed to Emma the conte’s interest in her dearest friend. She had rather hoped Josephine’s suspicions were overdramatic and unfounded. This meant Emma had to keep her promise to distract the ambassador.
They were nearly to the breakfast room. The footmen on either side of the doors had reached for the handles to pull them open.
“Lady Josephine prefers comedies to tragedies, Signore. She would always rather laugh than frown.” Emma released his arm to precede him through the open doors, though she stopped mid-step not even partway into the room.
The duke sat at the head of the small rectangular table, Simon at his right, and another familiar nobleman on the duke’s left. That man stood upon seeing her and came around the table. “Emma! Look at you—you haven’t changed one whit.”
“How terribly rude,” she said with a laugh, hastening toward him. “One ought never to remark on a lady’s inability to alter in only a year’s time.”
Sir Andrew, Simon’s oldest friend and Emma’s cousin, immediately opened his arms to give her a warm embrace. Then he stepped back and looked her over, eyes narrowed critically. “Ah, forgive me. I forget how particular you are about compliments. What I meant to say is that you are as lovely as ever, of course.”
“Reserve your flattery for your admirers, Andrew.” Emma stepped back and eyed him critically. “You have changed. You’ve had a haircut.”
He laughed, then looked over Emma’s shoulder to where the conte stood, likely thinking Emma had lost her mind along with her grasp on propriety. She looked to the duke who had stood along with Simon, and, at his nod, made the introductions herself.
“Forgive me, Lord Atella. Please allow me to introduce my cousin, Sir Andrew Wycomb. Sir Andrew’s baronetcy is in Bytham, though he is lately returned from Ireland. Dear cousin, this is His Excellency, Conte di Atella, di Regno delle Due Sicilie.” When the ambassador darted a glance at her before he bowed to her cousin, Emma saw surprise lighten his eyes.
Perhaps she shouldn’t have tried so hard to speak his title in his native language. Her accent might have offended him.
“It is a pleasure, Your Excellency.”
“I am pleased to meet you as well, Sir Andrew.” The ambassador gestured to the table. “Might we join you for breakfast?”
“Of course, Lord Atella. Please do.” Sir Andrew pulled a chair out next to him for Emma, which she took with murmured thanks. The conte settled across from her, next to Simon. “Emma, does your mistress not follow behind? I suppose it is still far too early for her to rise.”
Emma tsked at her cousin. “No one disapproves of Lady Josephine’s habits as much as you do, Andrew. You ought to stop teasing her so.” She pointed to a covered platter. “Worry less about Josie and more about filling a plate for me, or I am liable to bite out of hunger.”
The duke raised his eyebrows but said nothing about the banter, while Simon snorted outright before covering his mouth and feigning a cough. The conte stared at her like she had gone mad.
“You mustn’t mind Sir Andrew and Emma,” Simon said, before Emma could make her own excuses. “They are as brother and sister, closer than cousins, and torment each other out of fondness rather than any desire to inflict wounds.”
“Though they often see fit to inflict the rest of us by making us listen,” the duke said, quirking an eyebrow upward. “Miss Arlen, we were just discussing your plans for the day with Sir Andrew. I have other guests arriving this afternoon, but there is no reason for your cousin to wait upon them for entertainment.”
“I am not certain how entertaining our plans are, Your Grace.” Emma paused to nod in approval as her cousin served a breakfast of cold ham and fruit onto her plate. “But Andrew is welcome to join us. As is Simon. Josephine and I planned to walk to Lambsthorpe with Lord Atella, to introduce him to our village as well as take a little exercise.” She turned her smile to the ambassador to see him filling his plate with far more dignified a manner than such an activity deserved. “That is, if Lord Atella still wishes to walk with us?”
He paused, a serving spoon midway to adding a heap of sugared strawberry preserves onto his plate. “I cannot think of a better way to spend the afternoon than in company with Lady Josephine and you
, Miss Arlen.”
“I can think of a dozen better things to do than watch the two of you buy ribbons,” Andrew muttered, but he winced when Emma cast him a glare. “Oh, all right. I’ll come.”
“Only if you will be nice to Josephine,” Emma insisted. “The two of you are far too much like warring cats, forever hissing and spitting at one another. If you were not friends with Simon, I should think the family would cast you out of the castle at once.”
“Does being your cousin count for naught?” he asked, placing a hand on his chest as though her words had wounded him.
Emma sniffed. “You might be my cousin, but Claivoir is my home, and I shall defend those inside from the battlements if I must.”
The duke’s eyes shone with good humor, and perhaps approval, too. “Thank you, Miss Arlen. If ever we must face a siege, I shall know exactly where to place you for our defense.”
Simon leaned close to the conte again, stage-whispering to him. “It is incredible you went this long without seeing some ridiculous occurrence in our home. I hope we do not alarm you.”
The conte had apparently arranged his plate to his liking, as he held his fork as though ready to stab at his meal. “Not at all, Lord Farleigh. I only hope, should we fall under attack from Sir Andrew or anyone else, that I should be allowed to fire the cannon in the entry hall. I have been contemplating the idea since first laying eyes upon it.”
For the space of a second, Emma gaped at the Italian, then she choked on a laugh and had to cover her mouth with a napkin. She hadn’t at all expected him to join in their ridiculous conversation.
Andrew annoyed her by clapping a hand hard upon her back between her shoulders. “Choking, Emma?”
She shook her head, her eyes full of tears as she glared at him. “Contemplating battle plans, Cousin.”
He chuckled and turned to the conte. “You must tell me more about where you are from, Lord Atella. I visited Rome in my boyhood, but I have not seen much of the rest of your country.”
Emma recovered after sipping at her tea, then gave most of her attention to her meal. She had heard Lord Atella’s polite answers to the most basic of questions about himself and his homeland. Really, no one seemed all that original in what they asked him.
The poor man would be dreadfully bored of English hospitality in next to no time. Especially if Josephine bent her mind to avoid him rather than make him comfortable, as her father wished. While boredom would not necessarily lead to an international incident, Emma’s insides twisted uncomfortably at the realization that Lord Atella would leave the castle with a poor view of the English way of life.
Hemmed in as she was by her duties and Josephine’s wishes, there wasn’t much Emma could do. She sighed, cut a triangle of cold ham, and popped it in her mouth. Politics, as much as she enjoyed them, were not meant for her. Such a pity.
* * *
Luca adjusted his glove, tugging at the dark leather to ensure it stayed put. Then he tucked an unruly curl beneath his hat, before straightening his posture as he waited for the rest of the walking party. He had arrived by the grand doors in the entry hall first, though the waiting footmen holding the hats and gloves of the other gentlemen reassured him that they were not far behind.
A door somewhere above closed, and the echoing voices of men reverberated down another hall before Lord Farleigh and Sir Andrew appeared where the cannon waited at the other end of the hall. They were talking with animation as they approached.
“…finest horse I’ve ever seen. Spanish stock. Can’t think of why I’ve never purchased one before now,” Lord Farleigh said. Then he gestured to Luca. “Our ambassador friend can tell you all about it. We went riding yesterday afternoon.”
“If you mean to ask what I think of your Andalusian, I will confess myself most impressed,” Luca said, tucking his hands behind his back to avoid fiddling with his gloves. “I cannot think I have ever seen its equal.”
Lord Farleigh struck Sir Andrew in the shoulder. “There, you see? I am not a braggart.”
Sir Andrew rubbed at his shoulder, then accepted gloves and hat from one of the attending servants. “Perhaps not, but you do seem to dwell on topics which make you appear an expert.” He nodded to Luca. “Are you certain you want to wander about the countryside like a rustic, Lord Atella? The ladies might take pity on us and call for the carriage.”
Luca’s stomach rejected the idea of the carriage more swiftly than his words could, twisting about itself uncomfortably. “I think I can manage the walk, and I should not like to disappoint Lady Josephine or Miss Arlen.”
“You needn’t mind Sir Andrew.” Lord Farleigh had popped his own hat onto his head and taken up a walking stick, too. Though it was obviously for ornamentation rather than practical use. “He hates walking.”
“It doesn’t strike me as a practical way to go anywhere, especially if one has so much as a mule to spare.” Sir Andrew shrugged almost impudently. “Aside from which is the trouble of arriving at your destination perfectly well, then being obliged to return home without half as much energy as you had when the exercise began.”
“Lazy.” Lord Farleigh cast the accusation over his shoulder.
“Practical,” Sir Andrew retorted. “I take exercise in a dozen different ways. Walking needn’t factor into my health. Do you fence, Lord Atella?”
The sudden address made Luca take a mental stumble, but his English righted itself quickly enough. “Sì. I fence.”
“And row?” Sir Andrew added, lifting an eyebrow at his friend.
“Row?” Luca narrowed his eyes, trying to determine what the baronet meant. “Ah. The sport—rowing. No, I do not.”
“Shame.” Sir Andrew looked Luca up and down critically. “We have the picnic at the lake tomorrow. I had hoped to add you to my team. You have the shoulders and arms for it.”
Luca looked to Lord Farleigh with the hope the duke’s son would translate Sir Andrew’s meaning. The young nobleman glowered at his friend, though, and missed Luca’s confusion.
“You cannot form your team the day before. We agreed we would choose our fellows tomorrow, at the lake, depending on who wished to participate.”
A light scuff against the marble preceded Lady Josephine’s voice, calling out to them from the end of the hall. “Oh dear. Are we turning the picnic into some sort of competitive event?” She wore a cream-colored gown with a dark blue jacket and a slim-brimmed bonnet tied beneath her chin with a matching blue ribbon. The ideal picture of a lady, of course.
Miss Arlen walked at her side, dressed all in green and wearing a broader bonnet. The two of them together were quite lovely, and so different. The duke’s daughter wore yellow gloves and shoes, her companion, soft brown leather of both. They were elegantly dressed, with no disparity that Luca could detect in the quality of their clothing.
Luca stiffened. To appear to best advantage, he squared his shoulders and lifted his chin just so. “Lady Josephine. It is a pleasure to join you on this outing.” It was the first time he had so much as glimpsed the duke’s eldest daughter that day.
“Lord Atella, good afternoon.” She curtsied when she drew near but kept her gaze on her brother and his friend. “I apologize for our tardiness if it meant you had to listen to my brother and Sir Andrew quibble over their boating.”
Luca returned her gesture with a deep bow and the slightest of smiles. “It is of no consequence, my lady, for you are here now.”
While the lady appeared too distracted to make eye contact, her companion never glanced away. Watching him. Luca raised his eyebrows at her, wondering what she meant to convey with her stare.
Lady Josephine spoke abruptly, fretting with her bonnet’s ribbons. “Do you have our list, Emma? We had better start on our way.”
That secret amusement appeared again in Miss Arlen’s eyes as she darted her gaze away from his to her mistress. “It is in my reticule.”
“How far is Lambsthorpe?” Luca asked, directing the question to Lord Farleigh.
“Not even two miles away.” Lord Farleigh gave his walking stick a twirl, then gestured to the doors. Two footmen opened them in unison.
As Luca passed beneath the entry, he glanced back at the men dressed in the duke’s livery. What must it be like to have grown up in a way that meant having every whim seen to and every order obeyed? Luca’s family, while not poor, had gone through too many lean years for him to take servants for granted.
He looked forward at the others—all younger than him by several years—and experienced a moment of pure envy for their serene smiles and laughter. As he watched, Lady Josephine fell into step with Miss Arlen, their bonnets tilted toward one another as they conversed. The two noblemen followed behind, their many-caped coats teased by an autumn breeze.
Somehow, Luca had already fallen behind, missing his chance to walk next to Lady Josephine unless he ran like a fool to catch up to her. With a stretch of his legs, he managed to come abreast of the other men, at least.
A half hour’s walk to the village would mean an excellent opportunity to observe all of them and better determine his course in wooing Lady Josephine. Before long, he realized she cast her gaze backward fairly often, though she made no attempt to join the men’s conversation.
She seemed to only look back when Sir Andrew said something which annoyed her.
Miss Arlen kept her bonnet turned forward, until they turned down a dirt path away from the road.
“We cut through here,” Sir Andrew explained, falling back a step. “It’s narrower than the road but takes a quarter mile off when we go down the farm tracks.”
“The walk is more shaded, too.” Miss Arlen gestured to the trees above them. “They are not trimmed so much as those which hang over the main roads.”
Sir Andrew gestured elaborately to the women. “We must watch over your pretty complexions, ladies.”
Lady Josephine sniffed in reply.
A Companion for the Count: A Regency Romance Page 6
