The Vision of a Viscount
Linda Rae Sande
This is a work of fiction. The events and characters described herein are imaginary and are not intended to refer to specific places or living persons. The opinions expressed in this manuscript are solely the opinions of the author and do not represent the opinions or thoughts of the publisher. The author has represented and warranted full ownership and/or legal right to publish all the materials in this book.
The Vision of a Viscount
All Rights Reserved.
Copyright © 2018 Linda Rae Sande
V1
ISBN: 978-1-946271-11-2
Cover photographs © PeriodImages.com and © iStockPhoto.com
Cover art by KGee Designs
All rights reserved - used with permission.
Edited by Katrina Fair Editing
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Contents
Prologue
1. A Chance Sighting at a Ball
2. Blinded by a Kiss
3. The Situation Becomes Crystal Clear
4. Foresight Proves Fortuitous
5. Envisioning a Perfect Union
6. Seeing to a Proper Proposal
7. Under the Gaze of a Father
8. A Wedding is All a Blur
9. A Bright Afternoon for Setting Sail
10. A Dark Night for Reflection
11. The Appearance of a Colleague
12. A Clear Fortnight for Sailing
13. A Glimpse of Girgenti
14. Conversations Can Clear Up Misconceptions
15. A Clear Day for Touring
16. An Insight into a Goddess
17. A Passing Glance into the Past
18. Reflecting on Bolle
19. Hindsight Proves Heartbreaking
20. A Day of Visual Discoveries
21. A Lady Sees Her Companion in a New Light
22. Bringing Mosaics into the Light
23. Imagining a Courtship
24. A Gypsy Sees a Widow’s Future
25. A Sight for Sore Eyes
26. Exposing a Puzzle to the Light
27. A First Love’s Light
28. The Roman Arts Revealed
29. A Former Lover Focuses on the Future
30. A New Lover Focuses on the Past
31. Sightseeing Nearly Leads to a Fall
32. A Fear in Plain Sight
33. A Visit to Palermo
34. A Reunion is Clearly Required
35. A Vision in the Dark
36. A Walk Leads to Enlightenment
37. Clearing Up a Misconception
38. The Gift of Sight
39. Envisioning the Future
Epilogue
Afterword
Also by Linda Rae Sande
About the Author
Prologue
Spring 1796, Rome
A young man watched from the stairs below as tears streamed down Chiara Ferraro’s face and sobs racked her body. She didn’t seem to care that her tears were staining her gold silk gown, or that an escort or lady’s maid was nowhere near, or that a piastra had fallen from one of her gloved hands and was clattering on its way down the stairs.
This is why I’m here, Antony remembered. A visiting British archaeologist had begged Antony to be at the steps of the Forum no later than four o’clock that afternoon.
I will see to it you shall have your opportunity to make your affections known to the young lady. Her father will give you his permission to marry her if you wish to do so.
Or, at least that’s what he thought the man had said. His Italian was abysmal, and Antony’s command of English wasn’t much better.
More than a little curious and ever so anxious to learn if the man’s words were true, Antony had made his way down the partially colonnaded Via Sacra to the Forum and surveyed the scene of turistas and young lovers enjoying a fine afternoon in one of Rome’s most historic sites. A quick glance at his pocket watch had him frowning when the hour was nearly four and there was no sign of the young lady.
And then she was suddenly there, the sounds of her sobs alerting him to her presence.
He hurried up the steps, retrieved the piastra, and bowed before her, helping himself to the gloved hand that wasn’t wiping tears from her cheeks. “Non piangere, signorina,” he pleaded. Do not cry.
Chiara blinked and stared down at the young man who knelt before her. She recognized him, of course. He had been a guest in her father’s villa on many occasions, his wealth providing patronage for archaeological expeditions and money for ancient artifacts in need of a safe place to be housed.
“Signore Romano?” she whispered, blinking again before she sniffled.
A fine lawn handkerchief was pressed into her hand along with the wayward piastra before he straightened from his bow. Despite standing on the step below the one on which she stood, he was still taller than her. Taller and more handsome than she remembered, with his jet-black hair and brown eyes, a square jaw that might have been clean-shaven this morning, but was now displaying dark stubble. He had a mouth that smiled easily because, well, the dental gods had blessed him with straight, white teeth and lips that she just then noticed seemed perfect for kissing.
“Sì,” he replied as he angled his head. “Cosa ti ha turbato?” he asked. What has upset you? He still wasn’t sure from where she had come. He had half-expected to find the Brit escorting her, so discovering she was by herself was a surprise.
He had seen the two in each other’s company at her father’s home, although it was possible she was merely playing hostess on her father’s behalf. If the two had engaged in any kind of affaire, they had certainly hidden it well, for there was no scandal surrounding the young woman. Besides, when would they have had any time? The Brit was off surveying digs all around Rome and had been for months.
Using the corner of the handkerchief to dab at her eyes, Chiara regarded Antony with a watery smile. “Niente,” she said with a shake of her head. “Anche se ho bisogno di una scorta a casa,” she added, glancing about as if she just then realized where she was. Nothing. Although I am in need of a ride home.
Ah, Antony realized. This was the Brit’s plan all along. A way to arrange for Samuele Ferraro’s daughter to require an escort to get her home. A way to give him time to spend with the beautiful young lady with the dark brunette hair, golden eyes, and lips he wanted to kiss every morning and every night.
But would she want to kiss him?
“Sarò onorato di prenderti,” he replied as he held his arm for her. I shall be honored to take you.
Placing a gloved hand on his arm, Chiara joined him on the same step and dared a glance up at him before turning her attention to the sleeve on which her hand rested. The quality of the superfine of his topcoat was a testament to his means. His embroidered waistcoat was just as expensive, although not a bit ostentatious. His leather boots were shined to a gloss that might have blinded her should the sun’s rays reflect from them.
But most important of all was how he looked at her. As if he loved her.
Perhaps he does, she considered, before she sniffled one last time.
If she couldn’t have the man to whom her heart had pledged itself, then she could have a man her head deemed a good match. Sometimes the second-best was really the right choice, after all.
So when she raised her gaze back up to meet his, she allowed a brilliant smile. “Grazie, mio eroe,” she said with a sigh. My hero.
Antony Romano never thought to hear such an endearment from Chiara Ferraro. His heart soaring as he led her to his carriage, Antony planned how he would ask her father’s permission and propose later that night.
From where he stood hiding behind the base of a statue, Lord Darius blinked back tears. He could barely breathe as he watched the wealthy Italian escort the love of his life to a waiting town coach, the expression on her face and way she was gazing up at Antony Romano suggesting she had already forgotten about him.
Perhaps it is best this way, he thought. It’s not as if he could offer for her hand, after all. And although he had offered carte blanche, part of him hoping she would join him in England, he was relieved she hadn’t accepted. She deserved better than him. Better than a life as a mistress.
Chapter 1
A Chance Sighting at a Ball
Lord Attenborough’s annual ball, 1816
Despite the French doors having been opened to the gardens behind Lord Attenborough’s mansion in Park Lane, Jasper Henley still found the crush of the ball nearly unbearable. The cloying scents of perfumes and colognes had the champagne tasting rather odd. His heart was racing far faster than it should considering there wasn’t a single woman within his line of sight who could elicit such a response. And it was growing progressively more difficult to breathe.
The orchestra, seven musicians seated on a raised dais at one end of the ballroom, was in the middle of the third dance set of Lord Attenborough’s annual ball when the viscount realized he needed air. Fresh air. His fear of crowded spaces was about to send him into a state of panic.
Winding his way through the members of the crowd not dancing the cotillion, he managed nods of acknowledgement to those who waved or called out to him. At the site of Alistair Comber, he paused and angled his head. “Comber?” he questioned just as he came to a halt.
“Henley! So good to see you,” Alistair replied, clapping a large hand against Jasper’s upper arm. “I thought you were in Italy.”
Jasper gave a start. He had been in Italy. Some three years ago. “I was. Finished the dig and returned with some magnificent pieces for the collection,” he said, referring to the Roman artifacts he brought back on behalf of the British Museum.
“But you’re going back, aren’t you?” Alistair countered.
Jasper blinked. “I am. I leave for Sicily next week,” he acknowledged. “Lord Darius—Dr. Jones—has sent word of a find near Girgenti. Said there is a potential for finding hundreds of mosaics in an ancient Greco-Roman site.” He suddenly frowned. “I thought you were on the Continent.”
Alistair nodded, realizing it had been a long time since they had seen one another. “I was. Just got back in February.” The second son of an earl, Alistair Comber had been an officer in His Majesty’s army. His last assignment had been in Belgium for some of the final battles against Napoleon’s forces. “After Father disinherited me for selling my commission...”
“He didn’t,” Jasper replied in shock.
“I took a position as a groom for Lord Mayfield, married his daughter, and now I’m in charge of his stables.”
“Your mother wouldn’t have allowed Aimsley to disinherit you,” he argued, remembering how Patience, Countess of Aimsely, doted on her sons. Besides, it was well known the woman had her husband wrapped around her pinky.
Alistair grinned. “I’m back in my father’s good graces, it’s true,” he admitted. He sobered when he noticed the fabric band wrapped around Jasper’s upper arm. The black arm band that signified mourning was barely visible given the formal topcoat Jasper wore was black. “Oh, I apologize. Who... who died?”
Jasper’s eyes widened a bit at hearing the young man’s query before his brows furrowed. He wondered how Alistair knew he was supposed to be in mourning. Then he remembered the arm band. “My wife. Sophie. The damned influenza got her last fall,” he murmured.
Although most men would have removed any evidence of their mourning after only a few months, Jasper found he couldn’t. Not just yet. As for why he would attend a ball, especially a crowded one, he hadn’t planned to do so. Their host, Lord Attenborough, insisted that he at least take a look at the current crop of demoiselles. “You need to consider your duty, Henley. Time to find another wife and get a child on her,” the older earl urged. “Start your nursery.”
Not that Jasper was interested in the current crop of young ladies. They always seemed so young. At one-and-thirty, he figured he would be happy finding a widow, or a young woman who had maybe been missed by others intent on marrying for beauty or blunt. Someone who was over three-and-twenty. Someone who wasn’t made too independent by having come into their majority and therefore taken possession of their dowry and a companion.
And a place at the gaming tables.
“How awful,” Alistair remarked. “I cannot imagine losing my Julia,” he murmured with a shake of his head. “I do hope you’re here for a bit of respite,” he added, his gaze attempting to take in the entire ballroom. “Although, in this crush, I’m not sure how that might be possible.”
Jasper could think of a couple of places where he might find respite this very moment. The library, if it wasn’t occupied by an amorous couple intent on a coupling. Or the gardens, where at least he could get some fresh air. Maybe commiserate with Cupid, who stood poised to shoot an arrow from the top of the garden fountain. That cur had been responsible for his marriage to Sophie, for Jasper had been kissing his late wife next to the fountain when they were caught in the act.
He had already planned to ask for her hand, of course. But being forced to do so because of an innocent kiss took away any romance from the subsequent proposal. At least Sophie didn’t seem to mind too much. She was an agreeable wife. A happy wife. At least, Jasper hoped she had been.
“Congratulations on your marriage. I’m off to the gardens. I need some air,” Jasper announced before he gave a nod, made his way around Alistair, and headed toward the French doors.
Just as he was about to step outside, a most odd sensation—a sort of niggling at the nape of his neck—had Jasper pausing. He turned around to find he was being watched by a young woman sitting beneath a potted palm not ten feet away. Dressed in a white gown, she could have been any one of the dozen or so demoiselles in attendance, except she seemed a bit older. Her honey blonde hair framed an oval face that would have been nondescript except for her eyes. Their bright blue was arresting, and yet he was quite sure they were also unseeing.
How was it then that she seemed to be staring at him, a rather besotted look on her face? Perhaps she could see and was merely lost in a pleasant thought.
His phobia forgotten, Jasper weaved his way through the crowd to where the young lady sat, glancing about in search of a companion or chaperone who might introduce them.
“Hello,” she said, coming to her feet in a graceful move that segued into a deep curtsy. Her gown, a column of white silk de Naples embroidered with white silk threads, had obviously been made by one of the best modistes in London. The fact that it was white suggested she was unmarried.
“Hullo,” Jasper managed as he gave a bow. He dared a glance to his left and then to his right. “Pardon me, but I... it looks as if your companion, or chaperone—”
“Aunt,” she interrupted with a sly grin.
“Has gone missing,” he continued, worry evident in his voice. How could such a delectable creature be left alone among the palm trees at the back of Lord Attenborough’s ballroom?
“She’s dancing with Lord Devonville.”
One of Jasper’s eyebrows cocked up. “Ah. Poor thing,” he murmured, not intending for her to actually hear the comment. Her brilliant smile had him a bit mortified when he realized she had heard. Besides the dimple that appeared in her left cheek, her porcelain skin bloomed with a pretty shade of pink while her bright blue eyes focused
on him to the point he realized she could see, although perhaps not well. “Oh, pardon me. I didn’t mean it like that,” he said with a shake of his head.
“Oh, I won’t tell him. I promise,” she countered, her face still displaying an expression of delight.
Jasper blinked. “You know him well enough to tell him should you wish to?” he wondered aloud, daring a glance at the dancers who were still performing the cotillion. They would continue to do so for at least another fifteen minutes.
The young lady nodded. “Devonville is my uncle.”
Blinking again, Jasper had to resist the urge to say, “Poor thing,” again when he realized two things at once. The woman who stood before him had to be Lord Donald Slater’s daughter. The woman who was dancing with Lord Devonville was either his marchioness, Cherice, or else his sister, Adele, Countess of Torrington.
No wonder this young woman’s gown appeared so expensive! Donald Slater was a distiller of some of the finest scotch in all of the kingdom. His home and the base of his operation was somewhere barely over the border of Cumberland. Prinny had once suggested the border be moved so that Slater’s scotch could be considered a product of England. “It’s very good to meet you, Miss Slater,” he murmured as he lifted her gloved hand to his lips. “Jasper Henley, at your service.”
Her suddenly widened eyes gave away her momentary surprise at Jasper’s ability to sort her name. That she didn’t immediately excuse herself and return to her chair had Jasper feeling a bit of satisfaction.
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