She tried breathing deeply to quell the tears, but to no avail; they continued to fall as she put on a robe. In a moment of weakness, a few harshly spoken words had ruined everything. She was under no illusion her relationship with Samuel could ever be the same again. She had been a wife to him in almost every way that counted – a perfect help-meet. When they returned to England, he would have no need for her, and when Laura wed – as she inevitably would – her perpetual spinsterhood would be complete. Then where would she go? She opened the French doors to let in some air while new tears fell.
Once, when Laura had been in high dudgeon unable to get her own way, she hurled herself onto her bed. Perhaps that would help. Sophia sighed dramatically as she recalled Laura doing, and flung an arm across her forehead, then collapsed on the bed.
It didn’t help.
What of her work with Uncle Jonas? What would people say if she moved into his humble lodgings? Their familial ties were not so close that she didn’t imagine ugly gossip distracting him from his work. Why did he ever fetch her from the convent? If she’d been left alone there she would never have fallen in love with Samuel. Her heart would never have been broken. She would never have known the world outside those cloistered walls.
She closed her eyes.
Only one man had ever made her feel more than a pitiful, poor relation. Sophia drifted off to sleep deciding one thing – she never wanted to see Kit Hardacre for as long as she lived.
Chapter Sixteen
Sophia stared at her reflection in the mirror while Laura fixed her hair. Her long, black tresses had been dressed in oil from Morocco, locks of it were curled and wound elaborately around a gold head band, the style copied from a painting on loan from the University of Palermo. She was dressed as Minerva in a stola of fine red linen embroidered with gold.
The jewelry was even more precious. It belonged to the Kingdom of Sicily’s royal family and some of the pieces dated back to the time of the Caesars, while others were faithful reproductions modeled on portraits and busts. Completing her ensemble was an Etruscan inspired necklace. Arrowhead-shaped garnets dropped from the gold rope at her neck.
“There.” Laura stood back admiring Sophia as she might admire one of her own finished paintings. “Come take a look at yourself in the full-length mirror.”
Sophia reached for her glasses on the dressing table and stood where Laura directed. The mirror before her revealed a woman she didn’t recognize. Although the gown was a modest length, it dipped low across her décolleté, the waist girded by a thin rope of gold crisscrossing her waist and ending on her hips.
Behind her, Laura grinned. “You will not dare be a shy violet tonight, my dear. You look beautiful. I will get you to sit for me and paint your portrait dressed as you are now.”
Sophia turned and hugged her cousin, being careful not to crush the gown she wore. Laura was dressed as the goddess Aphrodite in a pale blue floor-length chiton in a traditional Grecian style with buttons on the shoulders, the neckline slashed across the collarbone. It featured an overlaid bodice, its hem embroidered in gold, which rose at the front to just above her hips before falling either side of her legs to the knee. Her hair was piled high and ornamented with a diadem in gold, decorated with the most beautiful foliate filigree work.
Uncle Jonas and Giovanni Mazzara, professor of history at Palermo University, had suggested to Lord William Bentinck that a fine entertainment for the distinguished guests would be to stage – in the style of Lady Hamilton’s Attitudes – a tableaux vivants of Greek and Roman treasures revealing the rich history of Sicily. The English envoy immediately agreed, much to the two men’s delight. What better way to source patrons for future expeditions and endowments than to put the treasures on view in such an imaginative way?
The last rays of sunset cast gold and pink shadows along the floor of one of the guest rooms belonging to the English embassy. Soon, there would be a knock at the door and they would be escorted down the back stairs to the ballroom where they would take their places in the tableaux and pose as the party guests entered.
Sophia sat on the edge of the bed, putting a hand to her stomach, which ached with nerves. The performance alone was bad enough, but this would be the first time she would see Samuel since the unfortunate incident in the restaurant. As though sensing the direction of her thoughts, Laura put a hand on her shoulder and squeezed.
“Don’t you worry about anything – Samuel has already forgotten it, I’m sure,” she said.
“Forgive my bad temper, Laura. I have no right to lecture anyone about whom they should or shouldn’t marry.”
“You were right about Havers,” she said. An attempt at a peace offering, Sophia guessed. “I was angry with your interference but, in my heart of hearts, I knew you were right, and I was mad because I so wanted you to be wrong.”
“Well, I was wrong about Samuel and Victoria, they are an excellent match. Do you think he’ll ever forgive me?”
Sophia felt the bed dip and felt Laura’s warm arms around her. “Of course he does, darling – you’re still family, after all. I know you love Samuel but…”
Laura halted as though struggling for the right word to say and then made the wise judgment to keep them left unsaid.
Sophia placed her hand over Laura’s and made the effort to breach the gulf. “You’re my cousins and I love you both. As family.”
Laura’s eyes sparkled with brimming tears. “Now stop it,” admonished Sophia with mock seriousness. “We spent a long time on making up your face. You can’t spoil it with tears.”
The moment was interrupted by a knock at the door and a servant ready to escort them down two flights of stairs to the ballroom.
“Yes! Just there,” announced Uncle Jonas. In a well-lit corner were two adjoining displays, life-size dioramas. The Roman side was a triclinium, with two cushioned benches placed at right angles behind a low round table with a marble top, on which a beautiful beaten gold platter sat, filled with fruit. Laura was to sit at a dressing table featuring finely-turned, sinuous, timber feet and a chair decorated with gilt decorations. A cluster of amphora and urns completed the Grecian display.
An orchestra had just finished tuning up and the musicians were chatting amongst themselves, then paused to watch Sophia and Laura cross the room.
“My dears! You look wonderful – straight out of Regnault or Titian or one of Joshua Reynolds’ classical subjects.” Jonas put a pince-nez to his eyes. “Yes, really quite splendid. Have my nieces done a fine job, Giovanni?”
“Brava, brava, ladies,” the second older man clapped. He nudged Jonas. “Now this should inspire some of our wealthy guests to open their pockets, eh?”
From her place in the display, Sophia could hear the sound of musicians striking the opening note of one of Mozart’s Salzburg symphonies.
“Now don’t be nervous, my dears. Make yourselves comfortable,” Jonas instructed. “When the clock strikes nine, the footmen will open the doors and we will be right behind.”
Jonas and Giovanni crossed the ballroom with the energy of schoolboys – more than that, with the energy of schoolboys about to spring a prank.
Sophia pulled a grape from the vine. “Well, we have half an hour to wait, so not only should we make ourselves comfortable, we should eat something now. I have a feeling this is going to be a long evening.”
The last of the chimes announcing the ninth hour decayed, and the two large doors opened into the ballroom. For the first time, Sophia was glad for her slightly out of focus vision. If she could see all those faces clearly, she might have been even more nervous.
She posed on the triclinium, her weight supported on the beautiful cushions and bolsters.
A gasp filled the room as she and Laura were spotted. Her cousin giggled. “I think we’re a success,” she said under her breath.
Sophia was forced to agree. With the enthusiasm of carnival barkers, Jonas and Giovanni encouraged the guests to look closer at the display of antiquities and
explained the two tableaux and the artifacts on display.
A figure in the crowd caught Sophia’s eye and she forced herself not to squint. Without her glasses, the man was indistinct but he looked familiar. Before she could identify the face, he disappeared in the crowd.
She ceased to give him any more thought when the first question was asked. After a few moments, her nerves were forgotten along with her shyness, and she answered as many questions as Jonas about life in ancient Rome. When Laura became flustered, she stepped in to answer questions about the Greek side of the display. Sophia enjoyed herself immensely. She was at home here, this time and place familiar.
Samuel approached them and, for once, he spared her more than a glance. She raised her chin regally and watched his eyes trail down her costume and back in a way he did not regard his sister – it was a distinctly appreciative male gaze.
“Sophia, you look… wonderful,” he said, his voice slightly breathless.
“Don’t you have any kind word for me, Brother?” Laura teased.
Samuel glanced at his sister. “You always look beautiful, and you know it. I deliberately don’t say so because I don’t want to feed your growing conceit.”
Warmth filled Sophia’s chest. In this one moment in time, she had gained everything she wanted from Samuel – his notice, his appreciation of her as a woman. If she were a particular sort of woman, she might even give him reason to have second thoughts about his engagement.
Then she saw him.
Standing a few yards back, looking directly at her, hands resting on a silver-topped, ebony cane, was Kit Hardacre.
He held her gaze effortlessly, and strange rushing filled her ears. She no longer heard the conversation around her. Perhaps something showed in her face because a slow smile spread across his. She glared and the grin grew bigger.
A touch to her arm brought her back to herself.
“Your Excellency, I’d like to present you to my nieces.”
Before her stood a man in the most dazzling uniform she had ever seen. A jacket in deep blue, richly embroidered on the chest with sleeves that ended with pristine white gloves. A watered silk sash in red crossed over his chest, the color picked up by his Fez. Sophia stood and curtsied in awe. But Sheik Selim Omar didn’t take her hand as Prince Francis or Lord William had done earlier.
She waited for him to mention their earlier meeting. But after the introduction, he barely gave her a second glance; rather Laura had his undivided attention.
One of the Turkish delegation said something. The sheik laughed and responded in a language unfamiliar to her.
Then Kit Hardacre spoke.
“Kuss ummak.”
The conversation ceased. The smile on Sheik Selim Omar’s face died. He turned to the interjector. The playful expression Kit had given Sophia earlier was gone, replaced by an expression she had seen once before – on the Calliope as they evaded the Barbary Coast pirate ship and navigated through the storm. It was direct and unyielding. But what danger could there possibly be in the middle of a ballroom during an event hosted by the British ambassador himself?
Sheik Selim Omar stepped forward.
“I believe I misheard you,” he said, his voice soft but unmistakably angry.
“No, I don’t believe you did,” Kit returned, his voice even.
Selim Omar’s offsider growled and stepped forward. Kit did not move but there was a subtle change in his stance in response to the threat.
Tension bound them tight. Samuel stepped forward.
“I say, there’s no need for any of this. Your Excellency, I’m sure whatever Captain Hardacre said wasn’t intended to be an insult.”
The Turkish envoy turned to Samuel and blinked a couple of times, noticing him for the very first time. He grunted a response and faced Kit.
“Captain Hardacre… I’ll be sure to remember your name.”
“It would be wise of you to do so. I’m sure you’ll be hearing it again.”
Samuel looked to one man and then the other, obviously aware of the tension but helpless. He took Laura’s hand and led her away and saying, “Laura, I’d like to introduce you to this most interesting chap I met on the voyage over. I promised to bring him over to you the moment you were free. Come along, Sophia, you, too.”
Sophia felt her hand tugged by Laura’s while she looked back at the scene they had just left. The sheik was in a conversation with his retinue, talking in soft, rapid tones. Kit had simply turned his back and walked away.
Fortunately, the confrontation appeared to have escaped the notice of everyone else. No mention of it was made later at the dinner table. Sophia watched Kit charm a middle-aged matron to his right for much of the five courses, then share an in-depth conversation with one of Bentinck’s adjutants for the remainder of dinner.
Sadly, her conversation was a lot less stimulating. She had been escorted into dinner by a little Italian man a full head shorter than she and who suffered a strange affliction that made him unable to raise his head higher than her bust.
Occasionally, Kit would catch her looking in his direction and he would give her a little smile without his conversation partners ever being aware they did not have his full attention.
After dinner, Sheik Selim Omar and his party declined to stay for the dancing and departed with as much fanfare as his arrival. While Laura danced – delighted to be the center of attention, naturally – Sophia remained at the edge of the ballroom, content to simply watch until she felt a familiar presence beside her.
“Are you ready to dance until midnight, Cinderella?” Kit teased.
Her resolve to ignore him evaporated. “What you are doing here? This is a reception hosted by the ambassador himself.”
Kit winked and tapped his jacket breast pocket. “I have a fairy godmother, too, Cinders. And besides, I wanted the opportunity to tell you how beautiful you look tonight. I was right – red really is your color.”
Heat, whether from the flattery or some other darker emotion, filled her cheeks.
“Do I want to know how you know Lord William?” she asked.
“You’d be surprised at the people I know.”
“All I know is you have a particular talent for making people angry.”
“Does that include you, Miss Bluestocking? By the way, I found your presentation absolutely fascinating.”
“You’re mocking me.”
“Indeed, I’m not. ‘Unlike ancient Greece, women in Roman society also dined in the triclinium, with each bench accommodating three people reclining – and always resting on their left elbow’. See, I was listening to every word, and you make it sound so much more respectable than Trimalchio’s feasts.”
The merriment reached his eyes, and Sophia found her jaw beginning to ache. The man’s arrogance was insufferable. She was about to tell him so when he continued: “Why did you run away from me at the markets?”
“I can’t see what business it is of yours.”
His voice dropped, the earlier playfulness gone. “What if I’m making it my business?”
Sophia tried to pull her arm away but the hand now on hers grew firm.
“We’re supposed to be friends, remember?”
A tingling feeling ran through every nerve – a strange sensation, unexpected and powerful. She struggled to name it. And then it came to her – anger.
“Let go of me,” she whispered through gritted teeth. Kit hustled her into a quiet alcove, out of the way of prying eyes.
“Not until you promise not to run away from me. I need to talk to you.”
Sophia tugged at her arm once more. This time he released it.
“Why me? Who am I to you?”
“A friend, I thought, and more than a friend, I hoped.”
She saw Laura and Samuel over Kit’s shoulder. They appeared to be looking for her. She stepped around him and gave her haughtiest stare.
“You are the rudest, most insufferable and galling man I have ever met.”
Her judgment o
f his character resulted in a smirk. “At least you have feelings for me.” He saw the direction of her attention and the smirk faded into something darker. “And you still have feelings for him.”
Kit offered her a formal bow.
“Forgive me for completely misreading what I witnessed at the dock and outside Gambino’s shop a few days ago.”
She glanced in the direction of Samuel and Laura who had spotted her and were approaching. “Dance?” Laura mouthed. Sophia shook her head and turned back to see Kit walking away, heading for the doors that opened out into the garden.
“What happened to you?” she called to him.
Kit paused and looked back at her questioningly.
“Your cane,” she explained. “You never needed one on the Calliope.”
“What makes you sure I need one now?” he replied before strolling off.
Sophia shook her head and watched him go. She felt a tap on the shoulder and a man asked in halting English if she would like to dance. She glanced back to Kit who had stopped to chat to a couple of matrons seated in view of the dance floor. But just as he did at dinner, he kept his eyes on her.
“No, grazie, signore,” she said with a shake of her head for emphasis and hurried her steps to catch up with Kit. He ended his conversation as she approached.
“A walk about the garden, Miss Green?”
“Wouldn’t that be too stressful on your leg, Captain?”
An implied touché came in the form of an incline of his head.
“Somewhere more quiet then.”
Chapter Seventeen
The library on the second floor was deserted. Only the steady ticking of the mantel clock broke the silence. Kit left Sophia standing in the middle of the semi-darkened room admiring the floor to ceiling bookshelves while he opened the French doors onto a small balcony. A cool evening breeze brought with it the muted sounds of the orchestra from the ballroom below.
Regency Scandals and Scoundrels: A Regency Historical Romance Collection Page 150
