Though an orphan, her position as the duke’s ward made her an enviable match. The perfect wife for anyone with a wish to maintain close ties with those in power.
What really mattered—the thing that made a bud of hope begin to grow in Luca’s chest—was that he liked her. Perhaps more than liked her, though he could not mentally commit to that. Not yet.
There had been that moment in the servants’ dining hall when he had nearly kissed her, when he had forgotten everything about his place as ambassador and a guest in the duke’s home. Lady Josephine hadn’t come into his thoughts once. Only Emma.
Everything that made Lady Josephine a suitable wife was matched in her companion, but Emma had the added qualities of showing a true interest in politics and other cultures and an understanding of what his duties entailed that had surprised him.
Might Emma be a match for him? A better match than her friend?
By the time the castle came in sight, standing on its hilltop with the setting sun turning it shades of orange and pink, Luca knew he had to speak to Emma. He needed to discover her true opinion of him. And soon.
Chapter Sixteen
Although Emma ate dinner with the family on the night of Luca’s return, she didn’t have the opportunity to have a private conversation with him. They barely spoke at all, and when they did speak, he seemed oddly reserved. As he had been when they’d first met. Perhaps she had imagined the way their relationship had shifted from mere acquaintance to friendship.
The day following his return, she lingered in the library, her fingers tracing the outline of countries on the enormous globe.
So many places in the wide world to see, and she had never left the little island tucked up near the European continent. Her world was so small. But Luca had already traveled from a little province in Sicily to Rome, Austria, and Spain. Where else might he go at the behest of his king?
She turned the globe. West to the Americas? She turned the sphere the other direction. Or east, to India or China? Perhaps he would venture to Cairo, in Egypt. Perhaps he would never travel further from home than England. Some ambassadors spent their service in one country for a few years or for the entirety of their lives.
A click echoed through the quiet room as the door between the duke’s study and the library opened. Emma stilled, her hand upon Egypt still, and watched from the corner of her eye as the ambassador’s secretary exited the room, his expression one of disgust. He caught sight of her and took several long strides into the room.
“Miss Arlen—what business do you have here? Listening at doors?”
Emma pulled her hand slowly from the globe, fixing the man with a stony stare she had learned from the dowager duchess. “That is not a kind thing to say, Mr. Torlonia.”
“Nor should you speak back to your betters. Do not think I have not noticed how you attempt to distract the ambassador from his purpose. While his pursuit of your mistress borders on the ridiculous, his time spent given in attention to you is far worse.”
Her face blazed with heat even while anger tightened her chest. “Mr. Torlonia, need I remind you that I am under the protection of His Grace, one of the most powerful men in England?”
His nostrils flared, and he opened his mouth with enough of a glare that she expected a rebuke rather than an apology.
The study door opened again.
“Miss Arlen—here you are.” Luca came out of the room. His expression was far different from his secretary’s—in fact, Luca appeared cheered by the mere sight of her. “I had thought I must search you out to continue our last conversation. Thank you for saving me that difficulty.” Then he looked at Torlonia. “You may finish the letter to His Majesty, and I will sign it when I return to my rooms. Good afternoon, Torlonia.”
The dismissal in his tone did not allow the secretary to argue or hesitate any longer in the formal library. He met Emma’s stare with a dark glare, then left the room, his heavy footfalls communicating his frame of mind quite clearly.
Emma rubbed at her left wrist with the opposite hand, lowering her gaze to the carpet. “You wished to speak to me, my lord?”
Never in her life had she felt such uncertainty, and she found she hated the feeling. Torlonia’s unexpected rudeness had shaken her. Usually when people spoke to her in that way she had but to tell the duchess or duke and that person found themselves in the ducal couple’s disfavor.
It was one advantage of people thinking her nothing more than a companion—she discovered the true character of many a person simply by being in the same room with them.
“Yes, Emma. I haven’t had a moment yet to tell you how good it is to see you again.” He came closer, his head ducked slightly as he examined her.
“What?” She laughed, disbelieving him. The awkwardness diminished somewhat with his use of her Christian name. “You cannot have missed my company when you were among so many important men.”
The study door had already closed. The duke was still inside—close, if she needed him—and she and Luca were alone. They had been alone several times before, yet this time Emma sensed a difference. A humming energy in the air.
“Ah, but I did miss it.” He lowered himself to sit on the arm of one of the chairs—a casual and comfortable move as though he were completely relaxed. She rather liked it. Perhaps she hadn’t lost any ground in their newly formed friendship while he’d been away. “You see, I was surrounded by men with political ambition and interests. All they wished to discuss was the law, and when they were not discussing the law, they were hunting, and when they were not hunting or discussing the law, they were eating.”
She stepped closer and tried to forget the reason she had wished to speak to him. “Isn’t that why you came to England?”
“To eat?” he asked with feigned surprised and raised eyebrows.
The feigned surprised in his tone made her laugh. “To speak of politics.”
He snorted and folded his arms. “I came to learn, to teach, and to change things for the better for both our kingdoms. Politics is an essential part of that mission, but it is not the whole of it.”
With him on the arm of the chair and her standing before him, they were nearly eye-level. The days he had spent in the fall sun hadn’t made him appear any the worse for wear. Luca’s aristocratic nose, high cheekbones, and dark curling hair were all as handsome as ever.
“Whatever shall we converse about to remove the unwanted thoughts of politics?” She tilted her head to the side, studying him, liking the way the corners of his mouth turned upward when he spoke and in the instant before he smiled.
Had he really missed her? The thought that he spoke the truth, not merely idle flattery, made her flush with pleasure. She turned away from him, lest he see and think her some green girl easily swayed by pretty words. That was not her. It would never be her.
But then why did her cheeks burn and her insides twist in delight with his words? In the short time he has been away, I have turned into a ninny.
Somehow they both ended up sitting in the library—he on the chair he had at first treated poorly and she on the couch across from him. She asked him about his time in Spain, and from there they visited a host of topics relating to his travels. When he discussed the differences in language, she laughed several times.
“I stood there, waiting in the hall, saying to my host pronto, pronto. I am ready. And he kept asking when I would be ready—in Spanish, I was saying ‘soon, soon.’ He grew quite impatient with me.”
“Oh dear.” She covered her smile with one hand.
“Yes. But this same man, he must have thought me a fool on many occasions. He also would try to tell me where to go—the word he used was salir. In my tongue, salire means ‘to go up.’ I kept asking why I needed to return to my room, because I thought he wanted to take me to meet another gentleman, and he wanted me ‘to go up’ the stairs. Salir in Spanish is to depart. He and I were never sure if we were coming or going together.”
Emma laughed, delighted with his
easy manner. Not all men would confess to such silly misunderstandings.
“But the first time I realized there was a problem with how closely our languages were related was when I found a mouse in my room at an inn—”
“A mouse?” she asked, wrinkling her nose. “I am not fond of those creatures.”
“Nor am I. Which is why I am fond of cats.”
Emma stored away that piece of information for later—she knew quite well one of the kitchen mousers was excessively friendly. Perhaps they ought to be introduced. “What happened?”
“I went down the steps of the inn, trying to be calm, and asked the innkeeper if he knew he had topos. Mice. But in Spanish, I was calmly asking him if he knew his inn had moles.” Luca sighed ruefully. “As it was the middle of winter, nothing growing, he told me he did not think topos would cause any problems. I insisted they would and asked to change rooms. He thought me the strangest man—changing rooms because there might be moles in his garden.”
Emma’s laugh was as much due to Luca’s dramatic sigh as it was the story, and she tried to smother it with her hand. “Oh dear.”
“Si. It was then I learned that not every Latin-based word is interchangeable,” he said somewhat ruefully.
“Have you had similar troubles with English?” she dared to ask.
Luca narrowed his eyes at her. “Yes.”
She leaned forward in her seat, eager for more from him. “Such as what?”
“Do you know your word, morbid?”
“Are you asking if I speak English? Yes, I know the word morbid.”
“Then if I said to you, Emma, you have a lovely, morbid smile—”
She snorted. “That would cause grave insult, I’m afraid.”
“Yes. I only made that mistake once. I told a lady she had captured such a morbid mood with her painting of her daughter.”
“Oh. Oh, Luca. No.” Her sides ached as she tried to keep the laughter at bay. “That is terrible! What on earth did you mean to say?”
Luca narrowed his eyes at her, though that twitch of his lips indicated he wasn’t insulted. “Soft.” He sighed. “You have a lovely, soft smile, Emma.”
That made her sober somewhat, and she avoided his gaze a moment. “I have only a conversational level with a few of the modern languages. French is our specialty, of course. Then a little German, and even less Spanish.”
“You would speak Italian beautifully, I think.” He sounded certain, and when she met his eyes again, she found him staring at her speculatively. “Pretendere is Italian. It means to expect—or demand. The English word pretend, it means to deceive.”
“That is one meaning, yes.” She shifted uncomfortably in her seat, remembering again what she ought to have told him from the first moment they were alone. Did he know? “Luca. There is something I must tell you, and I fear it will harm our friendship. I know that honesty is important to you.” She kept her voice steady, her focus on him, so she did not miss the way his brow furrowed or his smile transformed into a perplexed frown.
“You needn’t fear on that count, Emma. I doubt you could say anything which would make me regret our friendship.” Then he leaned forward, elbows on the chair and hands clasped, his eyes intent upon her. “Tell me, amica mia.”
How did she tell him? She had practiced what to say, had she not? In her room, looking in her mirror, she had made it sound as though her withdrawal of assistance to him was of no consequence to either of them.
“It is to do with Lady Josephine. While you were away, I gave it all a great deal of thought. I spoke to my lady, saying nothing that would damage her opinion or knowledge of you, of course. After everything, I believe…” She winced when his eyebrows grew together. “I cannot help you win her, Luca. Please do not ask me to. Not anymore. I love Lady Josephine as I would a sister, and though I find you to be a good man and certainly worthy of her, I do not think either of you would be happy if you succeeded. And she truly is not ready to give her heart to anyone.”
Luca said nothing, and his expression gave nothing away. His eyes darkened, but whether with emotion or with thought she could not tell, so Emma sat quietly and said nothing. She waited for him to reply without fear of anger, though. Luca had a temperate nature and would do nothing to make another uncomfortable in his presence. A natural characteristic, it would seem, that lent itself well to his role as ambassador.
He leaned back, the movement slow, and unclasped his hands. He rested one on the chair and ran the other through his hair, ruining the careful style his valet had likely spent more than a few minutes on that morning given how well it disguised the way his hair curled at the ends.
“I understand, Emma. Please know that this does not hurt our friendship. I must confess, during my time away, I thought on our purpose many times. You are right, of course. I will put aside my pursuit of Lady Josephine and focus my efforts on other matters.”
Emma relaxed, taking in a shuddering, relieved breath. “Thank you, Luca. For understanding.”
His smile appeared, though fleeting. “Of course. I am grateful you spoke honestly. This must have weighed heavy in your thoughts.”
“Yes.” She rubbed her hand down the arm of the couch, trying to steady herself. Her nerves. She had told him, and he hadn’t dismissed her. In fact, he had agreed with her. Luca wouldn’t continue his pursuit of Josephine, and Emma would not have to give him up.
Give his friendship up, she corrected herself.
Luca’s smile, when it reappeared a moment later, was perfectly natural and unforced. “What else did you do while I was away? We have spent all this time talking of me. How does an English lady pass the hours while the men are away on their hunt?”
The sudden change of topic gave them both permission to relax, and Emma spent the next quarter of an hour entertaining him with stories of her visits to the schoolroom and reading romantic poetry to the dowager duchess, who grumbled about it all being nonsense yet asked for it every time Emma read to her.
The room warmed as morning sunlight shifted into early afternoon, and the distant chime of a long-case clock finally brought Emma to remember her schedule. As she stood to take her leave, Luca seemed reluctant to return to his work, too.
“It is a family dinner tonight?” he asked when she went to the door.
“Yes, only family,” Emma confirmed.
“Good. The informal evenings here are among my favorites.” Luca walked to the door, standing next to her, looking down. “Perhaps I can bring up Italian love poems and see what the dowager makes of them.”
Emma giggled, then adopted an air of disapproval. “That would be amusing for you, perhaps, but if she makes me read Italian poetry to her afterward—”
“Then that would also be beneficial to me,” he countered loftily. “Such reading would perhaps inspire you to learn my language. A beautiful language. Allora ti direi cose bellissime.”
Emma’s jaw dropped. “You cannot do that. What did you say? I insist on a translation, sir.”
Luca leaned closer, his hand on the doorknob. “I promised to tell you beautiful things in my beautiful language.” Then he stepped back before she could respond, before she could even determine why her cheeks turned warm, and he opened the door at the same moment.
She gave the briefest, most negligent of curtsies, then took the escape route he offered. But no matter how quickly she walked down the corridors and up the steps, no matter how she tried to outrun her feelings, the pleasure curled around her heart purred like a contented kitten.
“Friends,” she whispered as she turned another corner in the suddenly too-large castle. She stopped and leaned against the wall, closing her eyes. “He is my friend. I want nothing more.”
If she kept pretending that was true, she might convince herself in time. Because she couldn’t leave Josephine. She wasn’t ready for courtship. So Emma could not be ready for courtship. That was the right thing for her to decide.
Wasn’t it?
Chapter Seventeen
Luca stood at the edge of Lambsthorpe, riding gloves in hand, watching the crowd gather near the horses. Grooms from the duke’s stables kept the horses either lined up along the blacksmith’s fence or else walked them in a circle nearby. Men from the surrounding villages and estates had come with their finest animals, including all levels of English Society.
Lord Farleigh stood beside Luca, though he carried on a conversation with Sir Andrew and another gentleman. “There are several new entries this year, so I cannot say for certain which of you will come in second place.”
“You cannot mean to say you will take first,” Sir Andrew protested. “Even with your new horse, there are finer steeds on the starting line. Our friend the ambassador has an impressive mount, too. How did you come by your mare, Lord Atella?”
Luca turned his attention to the tall mare, a fine bay color with excellent lines, and spoke without looking at the others. “If you mean for me to thank you again for the loan of the horse, Sir Andrew, you ought to be more direct. The subtlety of the English is at times lost to me.”
The two younger men laughed, and Farleigh struck the ground with his walking stick. “Well done, Atella. Put him in his place as often as possible.”
Sir Andrew put his hand over his heart. “I am shocked either of you would think I am anything less than sincere. You start to sound like your sister, Farleigh.” The baronet jerked his chin toward the line of women standing behind a ribbon-covered rope to the east of the starting line.
Luca turned to search out Emma, certain she would be next to Lady Josephine. His assumption proved correct when he found them both holding on to the rope, wearing their richly colored walking gowns and surrounded by ladies dressed in every shade in the rainbow. Despite the bright tapestry around her, Emma stood out in her gown the color of roses at dusk, pink and purple-hued, with a wide-brimmed velvet bonnet of the same color.
A Companion for the Count: A Regency Romance Page 16
