Luca leaned forward, elbows on his knees, and put his face in his hands. He muttered between his fingers. “Sono ridicolo. This is the most ridiculous conversation. I am not a prize horse at an auction.”
“Neither is Josephine,” Miss Arlen said, tone even and firm. “You are both people with individual goals, thoughts, and talents.”
“Sì, I know. I only thought this would be simpler.”
Miss Arlen tilted her head to an angle which suggested she well understood that he’d revealed something he had not intended her to know. Perhaps she recognized the desperation in his voice. Perhaps she thought him pathetic. What sort of man needed this much assistance in the early stages of a courtship? A foolish one. He ought to forget the whole thing and take a vow of celibacy. The monks who had educated him for five long years would approve.
* * *
Never had Emma seen a man as open and vulnerable as the conte. Lord Atella had not held himself with the arrogance she and Josephine abhorred in others, but he had been closed and solemn. Here she began to understand why. Somehow, the poor man had never learned the trade secrets of Society. In some cases, that would put him at a disadvantage. In others, such as this moment, it made him most endearing.
It was almost a shame that Josephine had no romantic interest in him. She could only count such openness in a husband to his credit.
Perhaps Emma could keep her word to Josephine and help Lord Atella.
If she provided a distraction to him by helping him acclimate to the world of flirtations and courtships, she would do him a service. If Josephine liked what came out of it, she might grant Lord Atella an opportunity, at least.
On his end of the bench, the man’s entire posture indicated defeat.
“Surely you have entertained a tendre for a woman before, my lord,” she said, somewhat hesitantly.
“I am afraid there have been few opportunities for me to exchange more than a few pleasantries with the wives and daughters of other dignitaries. I was educated first in a Sicilian monastery and then at the university in Vienna. Then I lived at the Spanish court, learning all I could about the politics between the Two Sicilies and Spain. There has been little time for anything else.”
“You have put aside all personal pursuits for your political passion.” The single-minded dedication might be admirable, and it explained what she had already observed. “Which means you do not know how to enjoy yourself in a more informal environment.” Poor man.
He lifted his head, glancing at her, then abruptly resumed his severe posture and frown. “I enjoy many things outside of the political arena, Miss Arlen.”
“Do you enjoy other people?”
He stared at her. “What do you mean by that?”
“Do you enjoy being near people? Interacting with them?”
“I am an ambassador—”
“That is your position, yes.” Emma tried to sound encouraging. “Part of your role is to understand people. But do you enjoy being around others? At social functions, at balls, at parties? Or do you only enter each new situation with a view to how to use it politically?”
She saw when he understood, as his eyes slowly widened in comprehension.
“I—I have not ever—that is to say—” He wiped a hand down his face, and his frustration slipped out in his native tongue. “Sono ridicolo.”
Emma regarded him quietly, sorting out her initial impression of the conte with what she now knew of him. The new picture she formed of him gave her pause. He needed a great deal of help.
“All right. Let us begin with something simple. The picnic yesterday—you enjoyed it?” she asked.
He nodded but did not speak, his gaze trained on the floor.
“And you enjoy literature, based on our previous conversations. And music.”
“Sì, certo,” he agreed, quietly.
“Then I suppose you are not a complete monster.”
His head finally came up, his wide-eyed gaze colliding with hers. Emma grinned at him without reserve, then laughed when his expression relaxed with his understanding.
“And you do not mind when others jest.”
“No. Not when it is in good taste.” He gestured to her. “But is this enough for English women?”
“For some. Is it enough for Lady Josephine? We will have to see.” She stood, and he hastened to do the same. Then Emma crossed her arms and examined him again, peering into his dark eyes. If only she knew of a lady who would suit him. Then she could turn his attentions and his talents in another direction entirely. “Lord Atella, what is something you do well? Something interesting or entertaining. Do you ride? Sketch? Play an instrument?”
“I ride. And I fence. I sing.”
“Sing?” Her eyebrows came up. “That could be useful during an evening of music. Fencing is excellent, too. Simon and Andrew both fence, so there would be opportunity to show that off.” Emma tapped her fingers along her arm. “There are races in October, the same week that we have our harvest market.”
“Harvest market?” He realized the loose lock of his hair had fallen onto his forehead, for he suddenly began to brush at it. Trying to make it stay upon the top of his head.
“Yes. There are markets every month, of course, but this one is special. His Grace always pays for minstrel shows and hosts the games and races.”
“That is generous of him, to pay to entertain the entire community.” The ambassador dropped his hand to his side. “You think I should race?”
“I do.” Emma’s grin grew slowly. “Among other things.”
For a moment, the man’s eyes widened, and she saw in them some measure of alarm. Rather than reassure him, Emma turned away and paced to one of the young trees kept indoors, away from the changeable weather. Let him be uneasy for a time. Perhaps a little more alertness would help him.
“How will doing these things win the favor of Lady Josephine?” he asked while her back was turned.
Emma stroked a leaf on the tree, rubbing its soft velvety texture in her hand, and considered what she might say and still maintain honesty. “You will draw her attention for the best reason—you will enjoy yourself. In short order, you might invite her to join you.”
“Is there anything more…?” he asked, sounding plaintive.
“Yes.” She turned to him, pulling her shawl tighter. “You are a handsome man, my lord. But everyone’s appearance only improves with a cheerful countenance. You always appear solemn. Is there anything that makes your heart lighter?”
When he did not immediately answer, Emma sighed. “Please think on it. Now, if you will excuse me, I had better return to Lady Josephine.” She started to curtsy, but he took a step toward her with a hand raised.
“Wait, Miss Arlen. Please. I am lost in these matters. I am not certain what to do next.”
“You aren’t?” She blinked at him, surprised. “You are to ignore Lady Josephine and enjoy your time at the castle. That is what is next. And do not fear. I will help where I can.” She bestowed a final smile upon him. “Until dinner, my lord.”
He let her take her leave of him, appearing almost as confused as when they’d first begun their conversation. “Good afternoon, Miss Arlen.”
As Emma walked through the castle, making her way back to Lady Josephine’s sitting room, she couldn’t help thinking on the man. She chewed her bottom lip as she went, a touch of guilt in her heart.
She wasn’t hurting anyone. She was helping. Helping Josephine avoid unwanted attention. Helping the conte improve his chances in English society. Truly, he seemed a kind man. Honest to the point of vulnerability. Intelligent. Educated.
But in great need of a little whimsy in his life. Something beyond the manly pursuits that served more as a way for men to measure themselves against each other rather than offer real enjoyment. Perhaps she should apply to Andrew for ideas. She didn’t know anyone so light-hearted as her cousin.
Then again, Josephine couldn’t really stand more than a quarter hour of Andrew’s company.
Emma’s smile returned with that thought. Perhaps that made Sir Andrew her best possible resource for assisting Lord Atella.
Chapter Ten
Sir Andrew didn’t seem at all amused by Emma’s request. “You are doing what?”
She had ambushed him outside of the billiard room before dinner. They were both in their evening finery, though he had only just replaced his coat. His hair was mussed, artfully so, and his freckles stood out more than usual after his time in the sun the day before. Her cousin always gave off the appearance of being windblown, in Emma’s opinion.
“I am helping Lord Atella become more comfortable in our society,” she repeated, one fist going to her hip. It wasn’t a very ladylike posture, but her cousin hardly cared. “He is a guest in the duke’s household. A foreign diplomat. You must see why this is important.”
Andrew wrinkled his nose. “He is a grown man and a politician. I doubt he needs the help of a woman barely out of girlhood.”
Emma gasped and punched him in the arm with the fist that had been upon her hip. “How dare you? I am one-and-twenty this December, and I am a great deal more mature than you will ever be.”
“Then why do you need my help, little cousin?” he asked, folding his arms and leaning against the doorway to the billiard room. “If you are the paragon of wisdom and maturity.”
She scowled at him but disregarded his mockery. “I do not understand why you are resistant. You care about the duke, don’t you?” Emma asked, poking her finger into his chest.
For the first time, Andrew appeared thoughtful. “Yes. I respect His Grace, especially for all he’s done for you and then for me when my father died. What does that have to do with anything?”
“I just told you.” She huffed and dug the finger a little deeper into his chest. The thick coats men wore likely gave him too much padding to make it uncomfortable. Pity. “We want to give Lord Atella a favorable impression of English Society. We want His Grace to be a successful host to an important foreign guest. Some of our ways are strange to him. Will you help me or not?”
The considering stare her cousin fixed her with made Emma shift away, somewhat uncomfortably. If Andrew knew this had anything to do with Josephine, he would outright refuse his help just to antagonize the duke’s eldest daughter. If he suspected it had something to do with Lord Atella finding a wife, Andrew might laugh at her and walk away. He was of the opinion no man should marry before the age of forty.
“Very well. Atella seems a good enough fellow. I’ll do what I can during my visit to make him feel welcome.”
“Good.”
“Why aren’t you pestering Simon about this?” he asked, standing upright and brushing off his sleeves. “Shouldn’t the duke’s heir be the one taking this much of an interest in their guest?”
“I am certain Simon is under his father’s direction. He likely is more focused on the political aspects of Lord Atella’s visit.” And Simon wouldn’t humor her the way her cousin did.
“Do you think we could go to dinner now?” Andrew gestured down the hall. “Or do you intend to starve me by keeping me out in the hall?”
Emma looped her arm through his. “I am not without mercy, dear cousin. Let us go to our meal.” They were nearly to the parlor, talking of other things, when Josephine turned a corner ahead of them. She looked beautiful as ever, with her hair piled high and flowers peeping out from her curls.
Andrew stiffened when Josie joined them on Emma’s free side, but he didn’t do more than nod a greeting to her.
Honestly, these two. Emma refrained from making the comment out loud, but only just. Her two dearest friends always being at odds made it difficult to enjoy herself with them. All she could do was ignore the tense atmosphere they created.
“Has your father finalized his plans for the harvest races?” Emma asked, knowing the subject would please both of them.
Josephine’s posture relaxed, and she released a light laugh. “I believe he has spoken to the squire and the innkeeper, and the orders have gone to the kitchens. I think Father enjoys the event more than anyone, given how far in advance he sets the plans in motion.”
“Good. I was telling Lord Atella about the events this afternoon.”
“Is that where you disappeared to? I wondered. I thought for certain you would want to spend a few hours with me reminiscing on Mr. Gardiner and Alice’s wedding.” Josephine’s eyes brightened at the same moment they passed through the doors to the parlor. “They appeared absolutely radiant with their happiness.”
“How long do you think it will last?” Andrew asked, and Emma immediately jabbed him in the side with her elbow. He didn’t even give her the satisfaction of appearing affronted, only stepped out of her reach and released her arm. “It’s a fair question. They are enamored with each other now, but will the level of affection remain at such a high point?”
Josephine glowered at him. “You obviously know nothing about love.”
“And you know so much more?” he countered, smirking down at her.
Emma’s head started to ache. She knew all the signs of their verbal battles, and she had lost the patience for them years ago. Rather than stay standing between the two as they exchanged fire at one another, she crossed the room to where Lord Atella stood with his secretary.
“Lord Atella, Mr. Torlonia. Good evening.” She dipped a curtsy, and when she rose, Torlonia was already peering behind her.
“Is your mistress upset this evening, Miss Arlen?” the secretary asked, frowning darkly.
“Not at all.” She cast an amused smile to Lord Atella, whose expression held curiosity. “My lady and my cousin often spar verbally before a meal. I am under the impression it increases their appetites.”
The secretary wrinkled his nose. “The ways of youth, ci credo.” He sniffed and gestured to one of the visiting barons. “Mi scusi, signorina. I must continue a conversation with Baron Ghellen.” He cast a look to the ambassador. “Are you joining me, Signore?”
Lord Atella shook his head, his expression firm as ever. “Not at present.”
The secretary’s frown deepened, but he bowed and departed from them.
“He is most serious,” Emma murmured, taking her fan from her wrist to snap it open. The room was quite warm, given that the duke had twenty guests currently inside of it. The duke himself stood in a corner with his mother. “I think your secretary would get on well with our dowager duchess. They have matching scowls.”
For one incredible moment, Lord Atella laughed. He quickly strangled the sound with a cough and a gloved fist over his mouth. But the hint of sound had been enough for Emma to decide he ought to laugh more. If only she could inspire more levity in the man.
“He means well,” Lord Atella told her, tucking his hands behind his back and appearing as solemn as ever. “But I think he has forgotten we have months ahead of us in the castle rather than days. While it is true we have much to accomplish and learn, we need not rush through the experience.”
“I would think your primary aim would mean speaking with those possessing a more direct influence over foreign trade and tariffs.” Emma considered Baron Ghellen and the secretary in animated conversation with each other across the room. “I cannot think the baron troubles himself over such things. In a fortnight, Viscount Castlereagh comes to visit. Have you met him yet?” The British Secretary of State for Foreign Affairs wasn’t known to visit many house parties. His drop in general popularity made him reclusive, Emma knew, from reading the duke’s newspapers.
Only the duke’s reputation for fairness could draw out a man used to being mocked in newspapers by caricatures and verse.
She looked up when the ambassador didn’t answer at once. He stared down at her, his eyebrows raised. “I have not had the pleasure.”
“Given Lord Castlereagh’s sympathies toward those nations Napoleon harmed most, I think he would take great interest in speaking to you of your countrymen and their hopes. Especially with the close connection t
o Spain that your kingdom enjoys.”
“You do not think his lack of popularity—as you call it—would make such a connection unwanted?”
“Public figures must weather the worst of a nation’s blame and censure.” Emma moved to stand shoulder-to-shoulder with him, the bare skin of her upper arm nearly brushing his sleeve. “Those in positions of influence understand this. He still has many friends, the Prime Minister among them.”
The conte did not speak immediately, but she felt his eyes upon her profile. Emma lowered her head on the pretense of examining her fan as she flicked it closed, then open again. What must he think of her, a little no one in the wide world of politics, offering him advice? He—whose entire career revolved around knowing the personal lives and political views of everyone around him—could not possibly care for her opinion on such matters. Even if the duke enjoyed engaging her in debates now and again, that did not mean any other man would take an interest in what she had to say.
“Thank you, Miss Arlen. Your insight is helpful.”
Emma raised her head, nearly squeaking in her surprise. “Really?” Then she hastily forced a laugh. “I am afraid I give my opinions too freely, my lord. Thank you for humoring me.”
His eyebrows lowered sharply, and he opened his mouth either to protest her words or reassure her. She did not find out which.
“Dinner is served,” the duchess’s clear voice sung through the room.
Emma tilted her head down again, curtsied, and stepped away from the ambassador. Unmarried and untitled, she waited for the man of the lowest rank to escort her into dinner. Her place at the bottom of the social ladder usually comforted her. That evening, watching as Lord Atella escorted a visiting noblewoman into the dining hall ahead of her, Emma’s stomach twisted uncomfortably.
How many times would the lines blur as she tried to keep both the conte and Josephine happy? The months stretched ahead of her, longer than before and far more intimidating.
A Companion for the Count: A Regency Romance Page 10
