by Alice Gaines
He sat beside her. “Well, I guess I won’t have to pound the man to a pulp, after all.”
What a picture. Dear, gentle Jack in a fistfight with the Marquis of Derrington. She had to laugh. “I don’t think you’d do very well against him.”
“Maybe not, but I’d try,” he answered. “If I ever find out he’s made you unhappy, I’ll return with reinforcements if I have to.”
“Return? Where are you going?”
“Lady Derrington’s taking me to Italy with her,” he answered. “It turns out we have a friend in common, a certain comte.”
“Really?”
“Ah, Pietro. A darling soul. I haven’t seen him for years. Since Milan. He can’t have forgotten Milan.”
She put her hand over Jack’s. “If you were there, I’m sure he remembered.”
“The three of us will wander like gypsies, following our noses wherever they point.”
“I almost wish I could go with you.”
“Oh, no. You need to stay here. Play house with the marquis.” He patted her tummy. “Take good care of my godchild.”
She pushed his hand away. “I don’t think you’re supposed to do that.”
“But we make our own rules, don’t we, love?”
She linked her arm in his and rested against him. “I’m going to miss you.”
“Harry and I will be back for the birth.”
“You call her Harry now?”
“You wouldn’t call a gypsy Lady Derrington, would you?”
“Whatever was I thinking?”
A small commotion started up with the arrival in the garden of some new guests. It soon grew to a healthy hubbub, all of it in Italian. A dozen or more people spilled onto the lawn, all of them dressed in the latest fashions. In the middle of it all stood Juliet’s husband, kissing the cheeks of the ladies and slapping the men on the back. And chattering on in Italian as if he’d been born to the language.
They swarmed toward the bench where she sat like a flock of colorful birds. She’d hardly had a chance to rise before they clustered around her, still talking up a storm.
She’d learned some Italian at Sedgewick and had studied more in anticipation of her trip, but with this group, she could only catch a word here and there. Even those needed some deciphering before she understood them.
“Che bella figlia,” one man said.
“Brava. Bravissima.” A woman’s voice this time.
She did her best to answer in her own simple Italian, and she smiled, smiled, smiled. That seemed to please them all. One stout woman clapped her hands together in delight. And an older man grasped her by the shoulders and went up on his toes to plant a kiss on one cheek and then the other. “Cara mia.”
He released her and continued on in a long stream of words. Something about his heart and eternity. Still smiling, she glanced at Derrington out of the corner of her eye. “What’s all this about?”
He went to her side and slid his arm around her. That got a chorus of laughter and coos of approval.
“I’m sorry, darling,” he said. “We didn’t mean to overwhelm you.”
He turned to the others and let loose a string of more words she couldn’t understand, and they all moved off again. Only one little girl of ten or so remained, untouched by the crush of humanity. She curtseyed and ran off after the others. Somehow, they’d swept Jack away, too, leaving Juliet alone with her groom.
“You won their hearts,” he said. “They love you, Julietta.”
Julietta? Her head swam. “David, who are those people?”
“The Italian side of the family. Or, some of them. Late, of course.”
“Are you Italian?”
“No, I’m English,” he said. “But I have Italian relatives.”
She stared at him, and suddenly, she could see him at La Scala. In a gondola in Venice. At the Colosseum. A Roman warrior.
Her Roman warrior. Fierce. Passionate. The ultimate lover.
“Why are you looking at me like that?” he asked.
“Why didn’t you tell me about your Italian side?”
“I did,” he answered. “I told you about Harry’s part of the family and that she lived in Italy. I told you her maiden name was D’Angelo.”
“I know you told me all that, but somehow, I didn’t realize how Italian you are…”
His brows knitted with worry. “Does it matter?”
“Of course, it matters.” She threw her arms around him, tossing herself against his chest. “It’s wonderful.”
“I’m glad that makes you happy.”
She pulled back. “You speak the language fluently.”
“I’ve spent a lot of time there.”
“But I can’t understand you.”
“Of course, you can’t, my darling. I have a Piemontese accent,” he answered. “You’ll pick it up fast enough when we visit.”
She whooped and hugged him again, tighter this time. As she looked out over the lush garden and all the people filling it and on to the gazebo in the distance, a cloud of joy settled over her. After everything—after all the dreaming, the waiting, the searching—in the end, she’d found her Italian lover.
About the Author
Alice Gaines likes her romance sizziling. Although she reads—and writes—all kinds of stories, she most enjoys working in the Victorian era. Besides spinning tales in her head, Alice’s passions include vegetable gardening, the San Francisco 49ers, and America’s Test Kitchen.
Alice has a Ph.D. in psychology from the University of California at Berkeley and lives in Oakland, California with her collection of neglected orchids and her pet corn snake, Casper.
Readers are welcome to follow her at www.alicegaines.blogspot.com or write to her at [email protected].
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ISBN: 978-1-4268-9014-7
Copyright © 2010 by Alice Gaines
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