A Companion for the Count: A Regency Romance

by Britton, Sally

  Alice pursed her lips and turned just enough to look at both of them from the corner of her eye. “I am surprised either of you care about the outcome of the race.”

  Josephine colored. “I don’t care who wins, you understand. As long as it isn’t Sir Andrew. Though I suppose I ought to cheer for my brother.”

  The men had nearly reached the far side of the lake, rowing in unison.

  “Lady Josephine?” Lady Addington turned to peer at them. “Where did your brother find boats built for rowing teams?”

  “My father had them made, but shorter and more suitable for a lake than the long boats used in the river races.” Josephine’s benevolent smile, the one she reserved for people for whom she had no personal affection yet knew she must treat with respect, seemed to please the baroness. And act as an invitation to more chatter.

  “His Grace is always so thoughtful of others. The invitation for today’s event said it was meant to be a welcome for the new ambassador from Sicily. Though I know the baron met him, we have not yet had the opportunity to introduce my darling Elizabeth. Do you think—when the race is over—you might correct that oversight?”

  Emma saw the way Josephine bristled, even if it was too subtle for others to notice the way the corners of her eyes and mouth tightened. Josephine’s polite smile widened. “I am certain we can arrange that, my lady.”

  Directing her gaze away, Emma had to bite her tongue. It wasn’t enough for Miss Finchley to go after Simon, but she had to pursue a foreign count, too?

  “He’s very dashing,” Miss Finchley said, and Emma could well imagine how the young woman would bat her eyelashes as she spoke. “Though quite old, I think.”

  Why did everyone think him old? Emma huffed quietly.

  “I thought so, too,” Josephine said, surprising Emma by agreeing with anything Elizabeth Finchley had to say. “My father informed me, when I asked, that he is eight and twenty. Nearly a decade our senior.”

  The baroness laughed airily. “A decade isn’t too terrible. Not when he possesses such a charming accent, as foreigners usually do. The baron is a dozen years older than I am. I think it a good thing for a girl to marry someone older and wiser. It gives her greater direction.”

  Josephine’s response was carefully neutral. “What an interesting idea, Lady Addington.”

  Direction? A man, giving a woman great direction? Emma gripped her parasol tighter in an attempt to avoid grinding her teeth into powder. Why did people insist on treating women of her age as though they still needed looking after? She had been looking after Josephine for years. And had managed quite well at it, too.

  “Perhaps the ambassador would like to visit us while he is here, Mama. We could invite him to dinner,” Miss Finchley said, her voice as pinched as her heart.

  “An excellent idea, Elizabeth. Yes, we will have your father extend the invitation today,” the baroness fairly cooed.

  Emma looped her arm through Josephine’s. “My lady, would you like to go nearer the dock so we might congratulate the winners when they arrive?”

  Though Josephine blinked with surprise, she hastily followed Emma’s lead. “Yes. I think, as one of the hostesses, that would be right.”

  As they walked down the line of observers, Josephine smiling and nodding to her guests as regally as any queen, she spoke quietly to Emma. “Only think, if we could get all the mothers in the county to invite Lord Atella to dinner, I might not have to see him at all.”

  Disappointment in her friend stuck Emma like a thorn through her stocking. It surprised her, and a rebuke rose all the way to her tongue. But she didn’t voice it. Her first loyalty was to the duke’s family and to Josie. She tempered her response, wording it carefully. “I cannot think it would give him a good impression of England and the English if he dined with certain members of our neighborhood.”

  “Oh, bother England.” Josie widened her eyes, far too dramatic. “I suppose you are right. I’ll warn Papa so he can help Lord Atella make his acceptances to the correct houses and leave the rest with his regrets.”

  Emma nodded once, then looked across the lake. One of the men waved an oar in the air, then sat back with his fellow. “That must be the signal for the baron—”

  A shot rang out in the air, startling Emma. She ought to have paid more attention, but with the race underway, her gaze didn’t leave the boats or the oars. And her eyes naturally settled upon a dark head. Lord Atella.

  Emma barely breathed as she watched, the boats seeming evenly matched.

  She hoped his team won.

  * * *

  Though Luca hadn’t found himself kindly disposed to Sir Andrew during the walk to the village, the baronet had coaxed Luca into participating in the boat race with a few simple words and a wide, knowing grin.

  “Come, Lord Atella. You must race. Think only on how it will impress the ladies.”

  Thus, he was seated facing Lord Farleigh, with his back to the opposite shore, waiting for the signal to begin. Farleigh would shout instructions which, he assured Luca, were easily followed.

  “Rowing is all about keeping a rhythm. If you can play an instrument or dance, you can row,” the duke’s son had insisted.

  Luca ought to have known better. First, how would rowing from one side of a lake to another gain a lady’s favor? Especially with Luca untried in the sport. Second, rowing proved far more complex, given how he had to avoid the oars of the other men, dip his starboard-side paddle at the same depth as the rest of them, and then repeat the cycle over and over until his arms burned.

  A shot traveled across the water to signal the start of the race, and Farleigh started shouting his commands. “Row!”

  Luca rowed. In a moment, Luca received a command.

  “Atella, your stroke is early!” Then he yelled to someone else, “Blanding, slow the slide!”

  They were moving across the water with such speed, Luca couldn’t imagine the others going any faster. He glanced over his shoulder, expecting to see Sir Andrew’s boat behind them. Instead, he saw a wake in the water. Luca snapped his gaze forward—Sir Andrew’s boat had already pulled half a boat-length ahead.

  Gritting his teeth, Luca pushed himself harder.

  “Atella,” Farleigh snapped, “Stroke slow, or we’ll turn port side.”

  Starboard side, port side—Luca wanted to get ahead of the baronet. He corrected himself, and Farleigh started yelling with greater enthusiasm. “That’s it, men! We’ll overtake! Keep heads down and arms moving. Stroke! Stroke! Stroke!”

  Risking another glance up, Atella’s heart lightened. They had pulled nearly even with Sir Andrew’s team again.

  Farleigh shouted, “Atella, touch it up!”

  What the blazes did that command mean? Luca adjusted, trying to fall in line with the other rowers again. Someone at the bow received a rebuke next, and Luca dared not look up or away from Farleigh again. Every time he tried to find the other boats, his team suffered. Keeping his head down and minding his own work must see him through.

  They drew near to shore, given that Luca could hear the bird-like cheers of women. Calls for one team or another hit his ears, and then the voices raised louder. A moment after, Farleigh relaxed. “Hold water, men. We passed the finish.”

  Luca remembered the explanation for that call. He lowered his oar to drag through the water perpendicularly, as did the other men, bringing the boat to a stop. He turned to look at the dock, his pulse thudding with excitement and exertion—

  Sir Andrew’s team had won, and Mr. Whitfield’s team came last.

  His heart sank, and his gaze swept the land looking for the reactions of the on-lookers. Everyone seemed cheerful, with ladies clapping gloved hands, a few of the younger crowd bouncing up and down, while gentlemen were slapping backs and likely collecting on wagers.

  He found Lady Josephine’s dark green spencer, but she had turned to speak to the woman in rose-pink at her side. Miss Arlen. Despite the distance between them, he felt it when their gazes collided.
His shoulders fell, his disappointment keen, though ridiculous, he knew. He watched as she lifted one shoulder, tilted her head to the same side. The simple movement conveyed a sympathetic understanding—or so he thought.

  No one could read emotion across that much distance. Could they?

  He sighed and dropped his head, following the last of Lord Farleigh’s instructions to bring the boat back to the dock. When he finally climbed out, someone handed him his hat and coat. Though the day was cool, his exertion left him uncomfortably warm. He draped the coat over his arm and walked down the boards to shore, where the victorious crew accepted congratulations from the onlookers.

  Luca added his praise to others, to men he had met only that morning. Then he came to Sir Andrew, who grinned broadly and put his hand on Luca’s shoulder.

  “An excellent race, Atella. You did well enough that I’m surprised you thought yourself unequal to the event. I dare say, should we race again, it is your team that would come out ahead.” The easy way Sir Andrew spoke, his tone friendly rather than boasting, deflated Luca further.

  Good form meant accepting a loss graciously. He knew that.

  “Thank you, Sir Andrew. I enjoyed the exercise, though I am not certain I will take up the sport any time soon.” He gave a slight bow. “Congratulations on your victory.”

  Lady Josephine and Miss Arlen appeared, and Miss Sharpe nodded her own greeting before skirting the knot they formed in search of her betrothed.

  Sir Andrew’s demeanor changed the moment the duke’s daughter paused at his side. His grin turned crooked, and he folded his arms over his chest. “Ah, Lady Josephine. I believe you wagered against my win today.”

  “Of course I did.” She narrowed her eyes at him. “I had high hopes of your pride being lost upon the lake.” She gestured to the water. “But no. You have prevailed, though that overlarge head of yours should have sunk your boat.”

  Luca drew back slightly, surprised at the acidic words spoken in such sugared tones. Neither baronet nor lady gave him the barest attention as they lobbed their insults at one another. The noise around them rose as more excited conversation exchanged among other members of the party.

  Rather than take offense, the baronet chuckled and spoke louder. “Perhaps it would have, had I not been determined to win merely for the pleasure of you losing a few pence.”

  Miss Arlen moved closer to Luca, and he bent toward her when he realized her intention to speak to him without shouting. “Lord Atella, would you help me by the tree a moment?”

  Though curious, Luca immediately agreed. He did not even bother taking his leave of Lady Josephine and Sir Andrew. They seemed content to amuse themselves with their witty exchange of words for the moment.

  He followed Miss Arlen, noting the way she twirled her parasol upon her shoulder, and caught up to her at the edge of a rug beneath a large tree. Cushions lay about everywhere, and a large bowl with apples and pears set in the center of the carpet. He’d seen her there before the start of the race, too, with other ladies.

  “Please, won’t you sit?” Miss Arlen gestured to the rug. “And take some lemonade. Here, I will pour you a glass.” She gestured and a footman appeared, dressed in clothing suitable for working out of doors, though it was impeccably clean. He brought a tray with cups and a large pitcher of lemonade.

  The duke’s guests need never want for comfort or convenience, it seemed.

  Luca lowered himself to a cushion, dropping his coat beside him and setting his hat atop his head. He accepted the cup from her and drank, the drink sweet and refreshing.

  She settled across from him, tucking her legs to one side and adjusting her shawl. “We have a moment to speak in private, Signore, while the others celebrate.”

  “Have we a need to speak in private?” he asked, lowering his cup. They had already done so, though quite by accident, a few times already. He sipped at the lemonade thoughtfully.

  She pursed her lips and drew her eyebrows down as she studied him. “I think we must. You will forgive me for this observation, Signore, but I must make it. Based upon your actions and gestures, I believe you are attempting to win my lady’s favor.”

  Luca nearly choked, lemonade burning the back of his throat, then he forcefully held the cup out toward the servant. The uniformed man hurried to take it, bowing before backing away again. Miss Arlen simply stared at him, one eyebrow arched, not the least distressed by his distress.

  “There is no need to deny it,” she said before he could deny her supposition. “I have seen many a man attempt to win her favor. As you have seen, she is not eager to flirt or even entertain suitors. My lady has no wish to take part in courtship with anyone at present.” Miss Arlen appeared most serious and spoke with gentle practicality. “I do not mean any disrespect by telling you this. I only wish to save you the time of pursuing her.”

  He looked down at the carpet, then over to the dock where Lady Josephine stood speaking with Miss Sharpe and Mr. Gardiner. And Sir Andrew.

  “I am certain your words are kindly meant,” he murmured, then met Miss Arlen’s gaze again. “But I am not dissuaded, Miss Arlen.”

  She appeared ready to ask why. Instead, her expression softened, and she released a tired sigh. “Very well, then. If your attentions toward her are honorable, I suppose I must do my part and offer my assistance.”

  He put a hand on his knee and leaned toward her, narrowing his eyes. “Your assistance? Miss Arlen, I am not certain what you mean. You cannot try to warn me away with one breath and offer help in the next.”

  A bright smile grew upon her face, causing her dark eyes to lighten. She spun the handle of her parasol and raised her gaze heavenward. “Oh, Lord Atella. A woman may change her mind as often as she wishes. Surely, with three younger sisters, you know this?”

  Yes. Unfortunately, he did.

  “No one knows Lady Josephine the way I do,” Miss Arlen continued, her matter-of-fact tone returned. “You know nothing of her likes or dislikes, or how best to approach her with your offer of courtship without frightening her away.”

  That was a possibility?

  “What are you proposing, Miss Arlen?” he asked, lowering his voice. The crowd was drifting their direction. “Nothing dishonorable—?”

  Her eyes widened, and she raised one hand and hastened to assure him. “Not at all. Lady Josephine is as dear to me as a sister. I mean only to help your chances by educating you in how to approach my friend in a way that will gain you positive attention.” Given the wide-eyed way he gaped at her, the man wasn’t ready to take anyone’s advice or admit he needed the guidance. “You may take your time to consider my offer. You will be a guest in the duke’s home for many months. Perhaps you will not need me. If you change your mind, do let me know. My lady is my friend, but her tastes are…peculiar.” Miss Arlen’s smile returned, along with a hint of amusement in her tone. “I hope you enjoyed the lemonade.”

  She stood and walked away without another word, and the other guests returned and began settling under trees and in chairs once more. The talk was of the race, with men retelling their part of it in excitement.

  Luca hardly understood how anyone could work themselves into such a frenzy over rowing a boat. He let out a sigh at the same moment Miss Sharpe sat down next to him, Mr. Gardiner on her other side.

  “You did well in the race, my lord,” the woman said, kindness in her voice and expression. She glanced around the rug as the other ladies settled. “Did Miss Arlen leave?”

  “Yes, I believe so.” He adjusted his hat, settling it more firmly in place. Straight. Precise. Very English. He slid his coat on, too.

  Miss Sharpe sighed and looked to her betrothed. “I wasn’t finished with her portrait.” She opened the book in her hands, revealing sketches. “Look, Rupert. What do you think?”

  She held the book out before her.

  Mr. Gardiner took her book, though he spoke to her with teasing words. “You know I am no judge of human form in art. Show me a beetle or a m
oth, and I will give you every bit of praise you deserve. Yes. She looks pretty in the sketch.”

  “Oh, you horrid man.” She spoke with obvious affection rather than censure, then she took her book from him. “My lord, what do you think? Is it a good likeness?” Miss Sharpe pushed the book into his hands the moment they were through the sleeves of his coat. He caught the book somewhat awkwardly and looked down, his eyes falling upon Miss Arlen in repose.

  He studied the lines of her cheekbones, the sweep of her eyelashes, the curve of her jaw. Her profile was perfect, but the look of vulnerability she wore in the sketch had never appeared on her face while in his presence. His gaze rested on the expression, trying to puzzle it out.

  Gardiner’s voice interrupted his study. “Ah, Alice. The poor ambassador. He doesn’t know what to make of it, either.”

  Luca felt his cheeks burn, as though he had been caught staring at the real Miss Arlen, and he handed the sketchbook back to Miss Sharpe. “No, no. It is most excellent, Miss Sharpe. Quite lifelike. You have a talent for more than drawing insects, I am certain.”

  Miss Sharpe’s smile broadened. “There, Rupert. You see? That is how one compliments a lady’s drawings. Thank you, Lord Atella.” She stared up at him, her gaze behind her spectacles contemplative. “Miss Arlen is a most handsome woman, is she not?”

  Perhaps he had put his coat on too soon. The discomforting warmth made him clear his throat. “I think I need another glass of lemonade.” He signaled one of the servants holding a tray.

  Miss Arlen’s attractiveness was absolutely none of his affair. He needn’t speak on it to others. Especially when Miss Sharpe turned such speculative eyes upon him when she asked her question.

  The only woman he needed to concern himself with was the duke’s eldest daughter. Lady Josephine. Even if she had spent most of the day acting as though he did not exist.