A Companion for the Count: A Regency Romance
Page 12
“You are marvelous in your sacrifice.” Josephine stood and dropped the cushion back in place. “I will owe you a thousand favors for this.”
“Not at all. His company isn’t truly horrible. If it were, I would not be so willing a sacrifice.”
Josephine laughed and accompanied Emma out of the room, though they parted ways long before Josephine met Lord Atella at one of the castle doors leading out to the gardens. He had dressed as warmly as she, his elderberry coat of fine wool making her rather envious for a moment. Men’s clothing always looked warmer than what women might commission from their seamstresses.
He appeared as skeptical of her costume weathering the elements as she was. “Will you be warm enough, Miss Arlen? We could limit ourselves to the conservatory, if you prefer.”
Then they would only have a quarter of an hour in a room where anyone might interrupt or overhear them. No, they must brave the wind if Emma had any hope of keeping him away from the salon long enough for Josie to appear and disappear.
“I will be warm enough, my lord, though I thank you for your concern.” She tucked the ends of her scarf more tightly beneath the neck of her coat. “A little wind will do us no harm.”
He politely offered his arm to her, which she took with gratitude. The additional warmth of human touch, limited though it was, would be of help.
They left the castle through a side door and crossed the open lawn along a broad pebbled walk. An opening between two hedges let them into the first level of gardens, just below the castle with stone steps taking them down into the rose garden. Here, four different paths met at a small fountain, which they skirted to continue downhill.
They passed beneath trees and hedges both, and the wind that had nipped at their heels tapered off. The conte slowed their pace.
“The day began with such promise,” he said, looking through the branches above them. “A blue sky, a bright sun.”
“That is the way of things in England. The weather is most unpredictable, and one must always consider whether to carry an umbrella.” Emma released his arm to check that her bonnet remained correct atop her head. Josephine hadn’t exaggerated the effect that the force of the wind might have upon her headpiece.
The ambassador tucked his hands behind his back and looked down at his boot-tips. “Your cousin has kept me company many times the last several days. Do I have you to thank for that?”
Emma nearly denied having anything to do with Andrew’s sudden friendliness, but one look at the ambassador’s shrewd expression made her give the idea up. “I did ask that he treat you with hospitality. Is he a great nuisance? Shall I call him off?”
“I must admit that I did not care for him at first.” The ambassador’s lips tilted upward at one corner. “I find that I enjoy his sense of humor. He has a playful nature.”
“He does.” Emma tied her bonnet ribbons tighter beneath her chin. “He likes people, too.”
They said nothing as they turned a corner on the path, passing deeper into the hedges. Emma had prepared herself to offer counsel, but it took her a little more time than she thought it would to arrange the introduction of the topic. Lord Atella said little, though he kicked the occasional pebble out of his path.
He spoke first, delaying her presentation of her idea further.
“I received a large trunk from my family yesterday.”
“Oh, yes. I did hear about that.” Emma snatched onto this topic happily. “Is your family well?”
“Yes. They are quite content. One of my sisters, the second of the three, is now engaged to be married.” His expression softened, from the gentle press of his lips to the light in his eyes. “To a friend of mine I met during my time at the Austrian university. He is a fine man. I think they will be happy together.”
“Are you sorry you will miss the wedding?” she asked, lowering her gaze to the walk. “I cannot imagine you could return home soon enough to suit them.”
“No. It would not be practical. Instead, I will send them gifts. Many, many gifts. And a letter to my friend filled with the dire consequences he will suffer if my sister is not happy.”
Emma’s gaze shot to his like an arrow, her mouth gaping, and then she saw a glint in his eye that she had only glimpsed before. The man had made a joke. She laughed, as surprised by his efforts as amused by them. “You are a fierce protector.”
He nodded sharply, a smile teasing at his lips again. “Very fierce. A lion in the defense of my family.”
“A lion.” She cocked her head to the side, pretending to appraise him. “Do lions wear such fine suits, my lord?”
He held out his arms and looked down at his clothing. “I suppose they must. How else do they command the respect of all the other creatures?”
“I generally thought it would be through roaring and gnashing teeth.”
“Hardly polite. Not at all befitting an ambassador.”
She shook her head. “An ambassador lion would be rather ridiculous.”
He chuckled and faced forward again. “I cannot think they have the ability to compromise, which is necessary for one in my position.”
“Ah. So you are the first of your kind. A politically intelligent lion. I would not tell the Regent. I have heard he rather likes adding exotic creatures to his menagerie.”
Lord Atella’s remarkably charming smile rewarded her silliness. Had he finally grown easy enough in her company that she would see more of that expression?
“Then I am even more grateful for the things my family sent me, if I am to be locked up in a menagerie. The trunk—everything in it was like a taste of my homeland.”
Of course—Emma bit the inside of her cheeks. It was his family that had put him in good humor, not her banter. The poor man would cheer up with word from home. She turned away from him, down a path that went deeper into the trees.
The leaves overhead trembled with the breeze. There was only one place in the garden where they might be completely free of the wind. She led them that direction.
“You must miss your family.”
“Very much.” He fell into step beside her. “They also sent many things I could give as gifts to those who are my hosts. Seeds from our gardens. Books of poetry. Perfumes made from my mother’s roses. Instructions—ricettas—for food from our kitchens.”
Emma supplied the English word without pause. “Recipes.”
“Recipes, ecco la parola giusta.” He moved closer to her when the wind whipped around them, dipping his head to hold on to his hat. “This is not a day for a walk, Signorina Arlen.”
“We are nearly at a more protected garden.” A break in the trees revealed a stone grotto tucked into the hedges. Emma pointed at the small, dome-shaped building. “The duchess’s garden. Have you seen it yet?”
“No.” Several leaves fell from above, twisting as the wind snatched them away. “The building is a garden?”
“An entrance. Come.” Emma hastened her steps, one hand clamping the bonnet to her head while the other snatched at his sleeve. “Hurry, before the wind dashes us to pieces!” Then she laughed, to assure him she wasn’t the least bit worried, and ran forward.
The grotto was artificial, built to look like an old stone hovel with ivy growing up around its sides. They passed through it, the echoes of their footfalls bouncing off smooth walls, and then they came through to the other side. The garden had been created in a natural dip in the landscape, surrounded by a wall covered in vines on the inside and hidden by tall hedges and trees on the outside.
In the duchess’s private garden, everything was silent. A tranquility rested within its walls, the wind kept out, and Emma stood still to drink in the moment’s peace. She glanced up at Lord Atella, noting with pleasure the shock upon his face. Even in the autumn, when most of the plants and flowers had been put to bed by the gardeners, it was a beautiful place.
“The garden was a gift,” she told him, keeping her voice soft. “After the duke and duchess married, she found out that his mother had fash
ioned most of the estate’s gardens to her specific desires. She wanted to keep the peace with her mother-in-law and did not make any changes to a single seedling. Then one day the duke brought her to the walled-in garden and gave it to her to do whatever she wished with it.”
He spoke with reverence. “It is a beautiful gift. The duke must care for his wife’s happiness.”
“From what I have seen, there is more to it than care and kindness. They have a genuine regard for one another, the likes of which those of high birth find so rarely.” Emma blinked when his gaze met hers, his expression stern once more.
“Because most of high birth marry for other reasons, yes?”
“Yes.” She lifted her head and walked deeper into the garden. Though they were out of doors, the privacy they enjoyed could also be their downfall if she did not keep them in motion. Not that she thought anyone in the duke’s household would force anything upon her if they were found in such innocent circumstances. But one must consider appearances.
“I have been thinking about other ways you might impress Josephine.” Emma immediately chastised herself for blurting out what she’d been trying to say with more tact. Subtlety wasn’t usually this difficult for her. She bit her own tongue and hoped Lord Atella wouldn’t think her odd.
* * *
The quiet of the garden had sunk into Luca’s soul, easing the muscles in his shoulders and the tautness of his thoughts. Until Miss Arlen mentioned her mistress to him. Yes. Lady Josephine. He needed to impress her.
“But still from a distance,” he said, measuring the words carefully. He had kept his distance, as Miss Arlen suggested, not going out of his way to speak to or be in company with the duke’s daughter.
“Yes.” Her smile returned briefly, and her eyes dimmed as she disappeared into her thoughts. “The race at the harvest market is one place where all eyes will be upon you, even hers, but there are other things we might do. Lady Josephine and I were discussing Sicily and Rome, and how it would be wonderful to travel there one day. She mentioned that she has had the cuisine of your homeland only rarely. French cooking is what most households serve when they wish to impress His Grace’s family.”
Such a simple thing to note, a detail he might not have picked up himself in conversation, but his mind followed Miss Arlen’s course with enthusiasm.
“Perhaps if I provide a Sicilian menu to the duke’s cook, we could enjoy an evening feasting on meals from my homeland—”
“Thus putting you at the center of the evening.” She finished the thought for him, coming out of her thoughts and wearing a look of such pleasure that he smiled merely to see it. “You said your family sent recipes.”
“Sheets and sheets of them.” Luca paced from her to a tall, thin-branched tree, looking up into its bright orange leaves. “Pasta al pesto e pesce. My favorite meal.” He turned to find her watching him. “Other courses, too. I will give them all to the cook, after I speak to Her Grace about taking over her dining table.”
When Miss Arlen laughed, her cheeks turned a soft shade of pink. “I am delighted at your enthusiasm. Most men would think arranging a menu beneath them.”
“Pah.” He made the same sound his mother made when she felt particularly dismissive. “In my country, food is a language of its own. Everyone must speak it, consider it, and enjoy it. Our breads, sauces, pasta. It is important.”
She came to stand beneath the tree, leaning against its trunk as she watched him speak. “Does everyone feel that way about it?”
He shrugged. “There is pride in providing food for the table. Only the monks I lived with did not express it so—but even they said that food ought to be prepared with joy and thanksgiving. There are some dishes that tell our whole history.” He paused, studying her expression. “I am boring you, sicuramente. The English do not care so much.”
She arched one eyebrow at him. “I am not the least bored, my lord.”
A breeze passed far overhead, loosening the leaves at the top of the tree enough that a few fluttered down, flickering like flames in the air around them. Luca put a hand to one low limb, steadying himself as his mind reached backward to the lessons he had learned at tables heavily laden and those nearly bare.
“When Rome was the capital of the world, so much wealth came from agriculture. From grain, used to make bread. Then Christianity rose while Rome declined, and the Holy Sacrament taught us to see our Lord’s sacrifice in the bread we ate to live. Grain is a symbol of prosperity. When my people learned of pasta—of eating it fresh, of preparing it with few ingredients, and the possibility of drying it for storage and travel—we took it into our lives and upon our tables with enthusiasm. Even the poorest family can find enough flour, a little salt, eggs, and make a meal that will feed their children and fill them.”
He caught a leaf as it fell through the air and twirled it idly between his fingers. “There is even a factory in Venice—far from my home, but I have heard of it—that makes pasta in enormous batches and sells it on the streets and exports it to other countries.”
“How incredible. I cannot think of any way that we distribute food on such a scale.” She came closer, no longer leaning against the tree but peering up into his face with her wide, intelligent eyes. “Pasta is a sign of prosperity.”
“Yes, but there is more.” Luca opened his arms, his hands gesturing as he spoke—a habit learned from his father. “When you sit at a table in my country, it is a show of trust. No decisions are made between neighbors who have not first broken bread together. When you are invited to eat with a family, it is a show of acceptance. Even affection.” He paused with one hand still in the air, looking down into her gaze and finding curiosity and interest.
“Affection?” she repeated. “Food shows affection? The French believe it is an art form, and so do the English. A meal on a well-laid table is a chance to impress others.”
He snorted. “I have noticed.” Then he realized his mistake and hastily lowered his arms, resuming the appropriate posture of a diplomat. An imitation of an English lord’s stance. “Forgive me. I forget myself. I meant no disrespect—”
She made a dismissive gesture with one hand. “I am learning, my lord. You are introducing me to your culture. Is that not what an ambassador is meant to do?”
Luca gazed into her earnest expression, her eyes lively with interest, and leaned closer to her. “You would be amazed at the food upon my family’s table, Signorina Arlen. My mother, though a fine lady, watches over the kitchen with care. Sometimes, she prepares our favorite pastas alongside our cook.”
“Do you know how to make it, too?” she asked, and Luca realized quite suddenly how close they stood.
Close enough that they shared the same breath.
Close enough that if he leaned forward only a little more and if she tilted her chin upward a mere inch—
Too close. They were too close.
He stepped back, confused at his wandering thoughts. She remained silent. Waiting for him to speak.
What had she asked?
Oh, yes. Did he know how to make pasta?
“I have seen it done many times.” But he had never done it himself. He had watched in his mother’s kitchen as a boy, then watched the monks while he took on the less important kitchen duties that would not dishonor the son of a prominent family. “I could do it, I think,” he muttered, rubbing at the back of his neck.
Had he nearly kissed Signorina Arlen? The flicker of thought had come and gone so quickly.
Because we were talking about food, he told himself firmly. Somehow, speaking of his native food had brought about a moment of passion. Passion for food. Not for kissing. For tasting the cuisine of his home country. Not tasting Signorina Arlen.
What would kissing her taste like?
The sudden curiosity alarmed him. He needed to court Lady Josephine. That could not be done if he entertained ideas of kissing her lady’s companion.
“That is a singularly wonderful idea,” she murmured quietly.
“You could make a portion of the pasta,” Miss Arlen said with a wave of her hand, her gaze directed elsewhere. “Think of it—you could tell all the duke’s dinner guests of how you made it. The traditions behind it. Not only would that be an impressive thing for you personally, but would it not further your goals as ambassador? It would show how you trust the duke, preparing food for his table. A strong political gesture.”
“A political gesture,” he repeated dumbly. She was talking about pasta. Not kissing. Good. But— “You want me to make pasta?”
“Or at least oversee the process.” She faced him again, brimming with excitement given the way she bounced forward on her toes. “Lord Atella, the idea is marvelous. Might I accompany you to watch the pasta be made?”
He considered the request as well as he could, his mind muddled. All the talk of food had confused him. Had he eaten breakfast? Had tea? He couldn’t remember. Perhaps he was only hungry. “You—yes. I suppose—”
“Thank you. This will be marvelous. Then I can tell Lady Josephine about it, too. But first you must speak to the duchess, and then the cook, to have things arranged.” She shivered and wrapped her arms about herself. “I think that is enough planning for this afternoon. There is no need to rush things.”
“No need,” he murmured in agreement. “Then ought I escort you back to the castle?”
“I think that would be best. Those clouds look like they wish to make it rain.” She pointed upward to the west, where light gray clouds had been replaced by obvious thunderheads.
“Then we had best hurry,” he said, and gestured for her to precede him through the grotto entrance. They did not speak again, with the wind snatching away their very breath and the threat of rain imminent, until they parted ways in the corridor, with servants taking their things.