A Companion for the Count: A Regency Romance

by Britton, Sally

  * * *

  The Japanese garden, tucked away from the world and protected by its stone walls, perfectly suited Emma that cold autumn morning. She wore her favorite chocolate colored spencer, with her gloved hands tucked deep into a muff, and she followed the path that looped around the edges of the garden. The exercise refreshed her, and the quiet allowed her to think without distraction.

  Most of the time.

  She had made only one complete lap when Emma became aware of another person in the garden. The one person she had wished to avoid. The ambassador from the Kingdom of the Two Sicilies.

  He had already seen her and paced toward her, his long stride quickly halving the distance. She briefly contemplated climbing up the wall to escape, but she was no longer a child of ten capable of such ludicrous behavior. Best to stand still and smile, she knew, and have whatever discussion he wished to have with her.

  Even if it proved unpleasant and focused on Josephine.

  Luca’s approach set off a reaction inside her she had yet to grow used to—it felt as though she had swallowed dandelion puffs, which then fell to pieces and floated about inside her causing all manner of disquiet in her stomach.

  “Emma, I have searched for you all over the castle.” He wore a smile as he spoke, as though performing such a task had proved a delight rather than a bother. “Your cousin told me I might find you here.”

  Oh, he had? She would deal with Andrew later.

  “Yes, well. The day is fine, and this is one of the best gardens during the fall. Even if it lacks its usual color.” She gestured to the trees which had lost most of their leaves. She spoke quickly. “The icy wind stripped the Japanese magnolia of everything, making it almost impossible for one to imagine how beautiful the tree will be in the spring when it sprouts its pink blossoms again. It is my favorite tree in all the gardens.”

  She hated when she babbled, but Emma couldn’t stop herself. “The duchess is certain that the fascination with everything from Asia will grow in popularity. Now it is all Indian shawls and Chinese silk, but the beautiful plants will follow. She planted this tree the same year she married the duke.”

  Luca’s expression had gone from open to confused, though he dutifully studied the tree every time she waved her hand toward it. “Fascinating. And it is your favorite?”

  “Yes, my very favorite.”

  “The color—is it like the dress you wore to the harvest race?” he asked suddenly, his gaze fully upon her.

  Emma swallowed her surprise and shook her head. “No. Lighter. Almost like cherry blossoms.” She tucked her hand securely in her muff with the other, clasping them tightly together. “You ought to talk to Mr. Gardiner about the subject. He is fascinated with the idea of transplanting species from one side of the world to the other.”

  “Perhaps I will. But Emma, I didn’t come out here to speak to you about trees.” He came closer, his gentle smile returning.

  Her heart fluttered along with her stomach. Dratted dandelion puffs.

  “Oh? Have you something in particular you wish to discuss?” Emma neatly stepped around him and started forward on the path again. Toward the only escape route through the grotto.

  Luca kept pace with her easily. “I do. I am wondering if I owe you an apology.”

  She laughed, the sound almost hysterical. “An apology? Whatever for? No, Luca. You do not owe me any apologies.”

  “I have not offended you?” he asked, confusion upon his face. “Then why—? Emma. Emma, please stop.” He put his hand gently on her arm. So gently she could have ignored him and kept walking. But she stopped as requested, though she refused to meet his gaze. She kept her eyes on the stickpin in his cravat. It was lovely. A stylized silver lion with little blue gems for eyes. A masterpiece by an artisan, of course.

  “You haven’t offended me,” she said to the lion. Its eye winked back at her in the sunlight.

  “You say that, yet I find no relief in your words.” He released a very eloquent and disappointed sigh. “You will not even look at me.”

  She stole herself against allowing more lions to disturb her and raised her eyes to his. “There. I am looking at you. You have done nothing to offend me, Luca.” She tightened her jaw and smiled.

  Luca held his hand out to her, palm-up. “Do you promise?”

  What could she do but lay a hand in his, as though to seal her agreement? “I promise.”

  The instant her palm touched his, he closed his hand around hers and drew closer. Too close. Almost as close as they had stood together in the kitchen when he’d taught her how to make pasta.

  “Emma.” Her name upon his lips was like a caress, and it drew her gaze to his mouth. She had always loved the hint of his accent in his words. Had anyone else noticed how the accent grew stronger when he spoke on subjects that had nothing to do with politics? The shift was subtle, but she always heard it—and always knew when he spoke on a matter which genuinely interested him.

  “Yes, Luca? Now that you know we are not at odds, is there anything else?” She peered up at him from beneath her bonnet brim, trying not to expose too much of her feelings through her eyes. “Perhaps you wished to speak of Josephine again?”

  He blinked, then slowly shook his head. “Why do you think that?”

  “You have a very earnest look about you,” she observed, keeping her tone soft. “As though you are on a deeply personal mission that has little to do with politics.”

  His lips twitched in that way that made her want to coax them into a full smile. “You already know me so well. Yes. I wish to speak of something personal.”

  Personal? Could he wish to speak to her about the difference that she sensed between them? If he had noticed her change in demeanor, he was clever enough to guess what it meant.

  No. To get her hopes up at that moment would prove foolish. And yet…. “Very well. How may I help you?” Because that was what friends did. They helped one another. And he said it was not to do with Josephine. He had given her up.

  “You understand why I wish to take an English bride,” he said suddenly, without warning, diving deeply into the subject she least wanted to discuss.

  Her mouth went dry. The way he held her hand, looked so seriously at her—he could not mean for her to be his bride, surely? “Of course. It would cement your relationship with England and prove to everyone that you are here permanently, as well as facilitate your desire to connect our kingdoms through more than just trade negotiations.” Her interest in politics made her a bit of a realist when it came to political matches.

  His smile appeared, though relieved rather than broad. “Yes. That is part of it. But marriage is not something to enter in lightly, especially given the way Catholics are treated here and Protestants are treated in my country.”

  “That could pose difficulty, yes.” And she had done enough research in the matter to know that an Anglican could never marry in a Catholic church, though a Catholic might marry under the supervision of an Anglican priest, and with exceptions made by higher church authorities. She had looked into the matter when Luca had first mentioned the differences between weddings after Alice and Rupert wed.

  Her heart started racing.

  She had no great hope of seeing such a wedding performed. Or being part of one. Not at all. Unless. What if Luca wished to speak to her on the matter because he needed to know if Emma would consider such a marriage?

  Luca still had hold of her hand. “Then as we are friends, and you know me so well, how would you advise I pay court to an English woman who must necessarily join herself to my cause and my life?”

  Her heart sank all the way down to the ground beneath her feet. Perhaps even further, given how cold she felt in its absence. He wanted her advice to court another woman. Not Josephine. Then whom?

  The words stumbled from her, tripping and tumbling form her tongue. “I-I must think on it. Marrying into such a situation is no small thing. The woman you chose would need to dedicate her life to helping your position
and your work.” Why had her voice betrayed her by quivering?

  She stared at their joined hands, blinking back tears. “Let me consider the issue. Then we may talk of it later.”

  She couldn’t look at him; she kept her head turned slightly away.

  “Thank you, Emma.” His voice had a strange quality to it, too. It sounded deeper, almost making her shiver. And then he leaned in close to her, unexpectedly, and his lips pressed gently against her cheek.

  She closed her eyes, memorizing the sensation despite its brevity. It took her by surprise, the warmth of his lips, how his heat transferred into her and ran through her entire body before she went cold again, and how much she wished to turn and press her lips to his.

  She nodded tightly. “You are most welcome. Good day.” She made to leave, moving faster than before, and he called after her, sounding bewildered.

  “Emma? But where are you going? Wait—I do not think you understand.”

  Another voice shouted for her from the grotto at nearly the same moment Luca caught up to her.

  “Emma? Are you in there?” Josephine stepped out into the sunlight, bundled up against the cold, her cheeks rosy and her eyes sparkling. “Oh, good. I found you.”

  Why did everyone know where to look for her? Emma would have a word with her cousin, and it would not be a cheerful one.

  The footsteps behind her faded. Luca had stopped following her, and Emma did not look back at him. He would not continue his conversation on courtship or English brides while Josephine was present. She immediately looped her arm through Josie’s and dragged her friend back through the grotto.

  “Emma, whatever is the matter?” Josie asked, her voice echoing on the stone before they were out the other side.

  “Nothing,” Emma said, marching quickly away from Luca and all his talk of marrying someone. Someone who wasn’t her. Then kissing her as a brother might kiss a sister. Her eyes burned, and the path blurred.

  “Something is wrong,” Josie insisted, hurrying to keep up. “Have you a cold?”

  “No,” Emma snapped. “I do not have a cold.” Then she tugged Josie behind a hedgerow and stopped. “I am sorry, I only wished to get away from Lord Atella so we might have a private conversation.”

  “Oh.” Josie’s blue eyes conveyed her confusion. “Has he displeased you?”

  A sad laugh escaped Emma. “Why does everyone think that?”

  “You have avoided him of late. I would think avoiding me, too, except I know I am guilty of hiding in my tower far too often.” Josie folded her mittened hands before her and studied Emma, her gaze far too perceptive. “He has upset you. But you are not angry. You’re hurt.”

  Why did they have to be as close as sisters? Could not Josie pretend for even a moment she didn’t read every emotion on Emma’s face as others read books? “I am perfectly well, thank you, and I do not wish to speak of Lord Atella. I thought that attitude would suit you.”

  Josephine’s eyebrows drew together sharply. “Why?”

  “Because you dislike him.”

  “I like him well enough,” Josephine said, voice quiet.

  “Not well enough to let him court you.” Emma’s thoughts and feelings spiraled together inside of her, making her unwise in her words. “And if you had never minded such a thing, I would not be in this predicament. He is talking of courting another English woman. Even after I proved of no use to him where you are concerned, he had the audacity to ask for my assistance.”

  Josephine’s soft “oh” barely entered Emma’s consciousness.

  “First you wanted me to help you by distracting him, then I offered him my guidance to woo you, and then everything was better when I said I had rather not bother with it at all. He is too good a man to deceive or trick, Josie. He is honorable and kind, and there is so much gentleness to him. I think he does not know how much life he has missed, how much joy the war stole from him. He did not have a childhood like ours, where he knew he was safe and kept close to those who cared for him.”

  Emma’s tears fell, and she knocked them away with the back of one hand.

  “That sounds terrible,” Josephine said quietly. “I did not know. His circumstances seems to have affected you deeply.” The wind whistled through the hedges, making them both shiver, but Josephine was good enough to not suggest they take the conversation indoors. “Now he wishes to court another woman, and that upsets you?”

  “No,” Emma said, drawing the word out slowly. “Or perhaps…yes. He deserves someone wonderful, Josie. Someone who sees him for all that he is trying to accomplish, and for all the wonderful things he could do. If only you had shown some interest—” Emma broke off, looking up at her friend. “He could make you happy, Josie, I am certain of it. He is the sort of man who would put the person he loves before anything else. He would spend hours in conversation with you about your writing, if you wished it.”

  “Would he?” Josephine smiled, though the expression struck Emma as amused rather than intrigued. “But I am not looking for a husband.”

  “Someday you will want one,” Emma argued, hearing how ridiculous she sounded and not caring. “Why not Conte Atella? You would be a countess—an Italian contessa, in a new kingdom.”

  “Emma, listen to yourself.” Josie placed a hand on each of Emma’s shoulders, her blue eyes sparkling with mirth. “You said he would put the person he loves before anything else. I think you must marry him.”

  “Me?” Emma squeaked the word out. “No, not me. He needs a woman of high rank, someone well-connected—”

  “Like the ward of a duke?” Josephine asked.

  Emma shook her head in denial. “That isn’t the same. Besides which, he doesn’t know that—”

  “Tell him, then!”

  “But my circumstances shouldn’t matter. If he doesn’t want me when I am only a lady’s companion, then I shouldn’t tell him.”

  “That is silly. You know as well as I do that as beautiful as stories of love between classes may seem, they are unlikely and improbable. Even if he fell madly in love with a milkmaid, a man of his station couldn’t marry her without being stripped of everything he holds dear. Especially the respect of his peers.” Josephine gave Emma a little shake. “But that doesn’t matter because you are not a poor relation forced to take work. You are a well-connected daughter of a gentleman, with more than a few pennies to your name, and the full support of the Duke of Montfort.”

  Everything Josephine said was true. Yet Emma shook her head. “He doesn’t want me, no matter what I am.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Because if he did,” Emma shouted, “he would not ask me to help him find a wife!” Then she tugged out of Josephine’s grasp. “I am sorry, Josie. I cannot speak of this now. Please, you must excuse me,” she begged. “Tell everyone I am ill. I must think.”

  Josephine’s eyes were wide as the moon and nearly as blank, and Emma recognized her friend’s confusion. She felt much the same herself. All ability to discuss the situation rationally had fled with the touch of Luca’s lips to her cheek—a touch that still burned upon her skin.

  Emma needed to leave before she made a greater fool of herself.

  She left her friend in the garden and entered the house by a servants’ door, then climbed the hidden steps to the second floor and her bedchamber. She secured the door with a twist of the key, grateful for the expensive locks the duke had installed in all the family’s personal rooms. He took their privacy and security seriously, as he did every responsibility of his position as the head of the family.

  Emma fell into the chair beside her hearth and covered her face with both hands. Her cheeks burned beneath her touch, the humiliation of the day staining her. In the space of half an hour, she had insulted the duke’s guest and his eldest daughter. Both people she counted as her friends. All because she could not bridle her heart and keep hold of her affections.

  What a mess she had made of everything.

  Chapter Nineteen

 
In the guest wing the next morning, Luca sat at the writing desk in his retiring room, adjacent to his bedchamber. He stared at the writing implements, the penknife, the blotter, though he didn’t actually see them.

  All he could see, in fact, was the empty place at the table the night before. Only after Lady Josephine had explained to the family that Emma felt unwell was the place cleared away. A footman had swept toward the table and packed everything from cup to plate away onto a tray, while another removed her chair.

  As it had not been a formal dinner with others present, no one had lamented an unbalanced table. But Luca had looked at the empty place more than once. Sir Andrew had seemed concerned at his cousin’s absence and shared a significant look first with Lady Josephine, then with Luca.

  In the drawing room after the meal, Luca had tried to speak to Lady Josephine—to ask her about Emma—but the woman had deftly brushed aside his inquiries, then joined one of her younger sisters at the pianoforte to avoid him the rest of the evening.

  Luca took out the little notebook he’d kept with him since his arrival in England. He turned the pages, not even smiling when he reached all the strange phrases the English used. He found the page he had started when he had determined to take Lady Josephine as his bride.

  How ridiculous he had been to think gaining a wife would be as simple as making a list. The concept of courtship and attraction had infinitely more complexities than the trade negotiations he had studied for hours on end that week.

  Part of his difficulty was that he had gone about looking for a wife the wrong way. What he had thought of as important had nothing to do with what would be of lasting happiness. Well-connected or noble, he had written. Preferably both. Pretty. Young. An excellent hostess. All such qualities would be important in a wife, but he knew now that he needed more than a woman to look lovely upon his arm and preside over social functions.