Читать книгу A Marriage Deal With The Viscount - Bronwyn Scott - Страница 12

He would get her back even if he had to cross the Channel to do it. He hoped it wouldn’t come to that. He didn’t much care for England. Giancarlo Bianchi, Marchese di Cremona, surveyed the view of Piazza San Carlo from his palazzo window; the famous statue of Emanuele Filiberto on horseback, flanked by coffeehouses and aristocratic palazzos like his own, was a far cry from the stolid square town houses of London. What a filthy city London was with its soot and litter in the streets. For all its innovations, London could be improved. It couldn’t hold a candle to his city, to Turin, the centre of the Risorgimento, with its fine universities, scholars, artists and musicians.

He brushed at the sleeve of his coat as if removing a fine sheen of street dirt. He’d not set foot on English soil since he’d claimed his bride thirteen years ago. God willing, he wouldn’t have to go back. Andelmo, his most trusted minion, would bring her to him. His wife was proving to be more problematic than he’d originally anticipated, a concept that both irritated and aroused him.

His valet entered his suite with the trunks containing his new spring wardrobe, his secretary following close behind. It was time for the morning reports although it was well after noon. Giancarlo motioned for his secretary to join him at the desk in the window bay. ‘What news do you have? Is there any word from London?’

The secretary handed him a telegram. ‘There has been no sighting. The house remains empty, as it has since your man’s arrival.’

‘What else? Is that all?’ Giancarlo frowned at the note. Time was money and he was growing impatient. He tapped his fingers on the surface of a side table. She had not responded to his earlier letters. He couldn’t even be sure she’d received them. Because of that lack of response, he’d sent Andelmo weeks ago to track her down, to verify the address, to put the offer to her and wait for an answer. If the wrong answer came, Andelmo was to drag her back by her hair if that was what it took. That had been several weeks ago—time enough for travel, time enough to arrive and conduct reconnaissance. The only word he’d received since then was that his man had arrived and had found the address, but seen no sign of her.

Giancarlo blew out a sigh. ‘We have to flush her out. We have to make her come to us.’ He snapped his fingers. ‘Get some paper and take notes. Here are new instructions. Tell Andelmo to go through the house, look for any sign that it’s hers and if so, leave a “calling card”, of sorts.’ If she was in London, the act would flush her out. If it didn’t, they would have to start the search anew. If she wasn’t in London, it would mean one of two things: she hadn’t received the letters or she had received them and they had frightened her, perhaps sent her to ground. He hoped for the latter.

Giancarlo folded the telegram and tucked it into his pocket. Already, just the thought of her sent twin rills of lust and desire through him. He flicked his hand at both the men in dismissal. ‘Leave me. I need to think. Go downstairs and arrange for my supper, and find me some company for tonight, preferably company that comes with a sister.’

Giancarlo took a seat behind the desk, steepling his hands in thought as he looked out over the piazza. Would it be enough to flush her out? Sofia probably would come home, eventually. The question was, how long did he want to wait? It might be a while. By all reports her London home was small. His secretary had overlooked the significance of that detail. Small homes were efficient, the means to the end of providing shelter, but nothing more. Small homes inspired no owner loyalty. One did not entertain in them, one did not put them on display for others to see. One could forget about them.

He scoffed at the notion. Her choice was so disappointing. A row house? Truly? When she was used to palazzos and rich apartments? He’d provided better for her. Row houses were the milieu of middle-class families, tradesmen even. Perhaps she would be missing the luxury he had showered her in by now. Perhaps a row house was all that was available to her. She was too ruined for Mayfair society to receive her. Either way, one thing was certain: she wasn’t entertaining in it.

Giancarlo chuckled to himself. He’d warned her London would turn its back on a divorced woman. No decent home would receive her, not even her own. Perhaps in Chelsea she could be anonymous, or perhaps Chelsea was willing to lower the bar. What did she think about her freedom now with three years of ostracising? Any other woman would have begged him to take her back by now.

He’d misjudged her there. He’d only let her go because he hadn’t really believed she’d leave for long and he’d enjoyed the thought of how he might make her beg to return. Then again, his Sofia never had been the usual woman. He shifted in his seat, arousal growing as he thought of her—all that magnificent spun-gold hair falling loose about her shoulders, her eyes flashing defiance as he delivered his dictates.

Bend over and bare yourself for my crop, Sofia, unless you’d prefer Andelmo to assist you. You know the penalty for my displeasure...

No matter how many times he’d attempted to bring her to heel, she’d resisted.

She’d left him before he’d broken her. She hadn’t merely left him, she’d defied him. She’d dared to run away—twice—despite the punishments he’d threatened to mete out. It certainly upped the stakes of the game. He hadn’t had such delicious prey in years. Who would have guessed the young schoolgirl he’d married would have turned out to be so delightfully appealing? He smiled to himself, imagining Sofia. What would she do when he caught up to her? When he had her cornered? Would she fight? Would she beg? Would she plead for mercy? Would she cry? Giancarlo twisted the heavy signet ring on his finger.

He’d wager his ring his Sofia would fight. His surety in that belief was what gave him patience. He would find her and it would be worth the wait. Capturing her would be glorious, a prize equal to his efforts. Razing the house at Margaretta Terrace would let her know she’d best gird herself for battle.

He would not lose her this time. He had too much on the line. The new Piedmontese King, Victor Emmanuel II, was disappointed in him, didn’t trust his judgement as a divorced man. One of the first things the new King had done was outlaw the divorces approved by his father. He wanted the noble men in his kingdom to be upright, married men. Giancarlo had been overlooked for riches and plum opportunities since Sofia had left. The new King had made it plain that favour would smile on him if he were to bring his wife to heel.

It wasn’t enough to offer to simply remarry, to take another bride, even of the King’s choosing, which of course Giancarlo had offered to do as the most expedient means to the end. The King was heavily religious, devoutly Catholic, and he felt that a divorced man marrying another was compounding the original sin with the sin of adultery. Only Giancarlo’s first wife, his only wife, would do. The wealth promised was enough to send him haring across the Continent to England to retrieve her and then to punish her into submission so complete this truancy of hers would not be repeated. This time he’d be successful. It was a rare woman who wasn’t frightened by the consequences he’d impose for her betrayal.

Sofia was afraid. It was that simple. She stared at her reflection in Helena’s long pier glass. She had not looked so fine in ages—her hair done up in an elegant braided coronet, the discreet glitter of diamonds at her ears, her figure shown to advantage in a silk gown of deep sky-blue cut in the latest fashion with its low-swept, off-the-shoulder bodice. The gown was the way she liked them—minimalist in adornment. There was a delicate overlay of lace and ribbon at what passed for sleeves and that trim matched the inset of the bodice, but otherwise, the gown lacked flounces and fussiness. And yet, for all the fineness of figure, or perhaps because of it, she was afraid.

‘I can’t go to the ball, Helena, I simply cannot.’ She made a slow, rueful twirl in front of the mirror, liking the susurration of the fabric against her ankles. It would be a shame not to waltz in this gown. She used to love to dance. But the cost of a dance was too high. This woman in the mirror would be noticed and remarked upon. Men would want to possess her. When she refused, they’d make crass comments among themselves and perhaps crasser wagers as Wenderly had. Women would hate her. They would say she’d come on purpose to put them all to shame, to tease marriageable men away from marriageable girls who deserved gentleman husbands. They’d call her a Delilah, a Jezebel. There would be no refuge for her. She’d had a taste of that at the wedding. She was not eager to repeat the experience.

Helena merely smiled from the chaise and absently rubbed her belly, unconcerned with the outburst. ‘Don’t tell me you’re afraid after all these years. The girl I went to school with didn’t care what anyone thought, least of all a room full of old peahens.’ Helena knew how to throw down the gauntlet.

‘I still don’t. I’d just rather they keep their thoughts to themselves instead of talking about me as if I’m not there, as if I cannot hear them when I’m standing right in front of them.’ Sofia unfastened the diamond-and-sapphire choker at her neck and set it reluctantly on the vanity. She might not have made it through the wedding if it hadn’t been for Viscount Taunton. He’d left her no choice but to endure. After he’d dared to sit with her, she couldn’t have paid back his effort by running out. And in truth, it had been easier to endure with an ally beside her.

Sofia reached for a hairpin, determined to take down the elaborate coiffure. The sooner she was undressed the sooner she could put this pretence that she was going to the ball behind her.

‘Taunton will be there,’ Helena announced as the maid moved through the chamber laying out her own finery for the ball.

‘Of course. He is a close family friend,’ Sofia replied coolly, careful to show no reaction. She eyed her friend in the mirror. What was Helena up to?

Helena rose a little clumsily from the chaise and began her own preparations. ‘Taunton will dance with you, Frederick will dance with you. With the notice of two decent men, others will come. You won’t be alone. I thought you liked Taunton?’

‘I am considering conducting business with him on your father-in-law’s recommendation, that is all.’ Sofia didn’t like the look in Helena’s eye. It wouldn’t be the first time Helena had tried to play the matchmaker. The maid slipped a green-silk gown with large painted roses patterned on the fabric over Helena’s head.

‘Taunton’s a good man. Frederick will vouch for him.’ Helena’s dark head popped through the dress.

‘We’ll see if he has any business sense. Alpacas aren’t the norm when it comes to investing.’ Sofia watched Helena smooth her skirts over her belly and turn in front of the mirror, critically eyeing her growing silhouette. She felt a stab of envy for her friend. Helena had the perfect life: a loving husband, domestic comfort and security, children and another baby on the way to love. It was only natural Helena would want the same for her. But it couldn’t be that way for her; she’d lost that chance the moment she’d married Il Marchese and she’d sealed any hope with her divorce. No decent Englishman married such a ruined woman due to the legal implications alone.

There were other, more emotional implications, too. She’d never give her freedom, her very life, to a man again. But how did one make a woman like Helena, with everything she could wish for, understand that?

‘I do not think dancing with Taunton is a good idea.’ He was exactly the sort of man the matchmaking mamas coveted for their own daughters: handsome, well-mannered, pleasant and titled. They would hate her especially for taking up the attentions of such a specimen. To make her point, Sofia pulled out another pin, feeling the coiffure loosen.

Helena speared her with a stern look that said she was done cajoling. This was serious now. ‘If not Taunton, who? When? It’s been three years, Sofia. Surely, you don’t mean to entomb yourself for the rest of your life?’ Helena’s eyes flashed, reminiscent of the tenacity that had won her a duke’s heir.

‘Surely, I do mean just that and the sooner you accept it, the sooner we can move past this,’ Sofia replied with the determination that had seen her through four years of a finishing school that had thought a country gentleman’s daughter beneath them and ten years of a marriage marked by darkness.

Helena softened. ‘You’re too young for such absolutes, my dear friend. You’re also too young to be alone. You should remarry and start again.’

‘Not with a man like Taunton. He can’t afford me.’ They both knew she didn’t mean the reference monetarily. A titled Englishman with any ambition socially, politically, couldn’t afford the scandals that came with her.

Helena averted her gaze and fussed with her skirts. Even Helena couldn’t deny the truth in that. Perhaps there was a quiet country widower out there who could take her on without damaging the back half of his life overmuch, if she was ever interested in marriage. But a titled man? No. Helena didn’t go down easy, however. ‘Taunton isn’t much for town. He’s only up a few weeks a year to look after paperwork. He much prefers country life at the family seat.’

‘He’s inherited the title now, that’s bound to change whether he wills it or not.’ Sofia turned aside Helena’s subtle riposte.

‘Taunton is a man not easily swayed in his convictions.’

A knock at the door interrupted whatever offensive manoeuvre Helena was mounting. ‘Guests are arriving, my lady,’ a footman informed through the door.

Helena gave her appearance a final look. ‘It’s sure to be a girl this time. I’m carrying high, unlike the boys, and I’m so much bigger than usual for six months.’ She held out a hand to Sofia. ‘It’s the very last of the wedding festivities and my last outing for a while. After tonight, I’ll shall be too large to escape notice. Please come, dear friend.’ She gave a soft, irresistible smile. ‘You and I have nothing to lose, not when we stand together.’

Sofia felt her resolve weaken. She’d never been able to refuse Helena anything. ‘All right, I’ll come for just a bit. Let me fix my hair and put my necklace on.’ She would go and support Helena against the gossips who were bound to say she should have retired from society weeks ago. And why not? If she’d meant to baulk, she should have baulked far sooner than this. She’d let things get out of hand. She should not have accepted Helena’s invitation to play the companion during the weeks leading up to the wedding, to attend the wedding, to stay with the family and now to dance at the honeymoon ball before Ferris and his bride set sail for a few months in the Greek isles.

Helena smiled her victory. ‘Try to have a good time tonight.’ Sofia fastened the necklace, hearing the unspoken message. It was the last thing Helena could do for her for quite some time. She should make the most of it before she returned to the anonymity of her Chelsea row house and its middle-class neighbours. She’d not been home in a while and she missed it. No one in Chelsea really knew who she was and they didn’t care. She’d found a bit of happiness there, rebuilding and reshaping her life. She had her work behind the façade of Barnham and she had the charity work allotted to women as well. She helped at the orphanage and at a small school. It was a start towards her larger dreams.

Ready at last, Sofia looped her arm through Helena’s and leaned close as they headed out on to the landing. ‘You’ve been the very best of fairy godmothers to me, Helena, and I do know it.’

But tonight at midnight, the fairy tale of belonging to Cowden’s exclusive world would end. She’d always known it would. Like so much else, it had been an illusion only and a thin one at that. There’d been no illusion about the reception she’d receive and she’d not been wrong. The only surprise had been her reaction to Taunton. But she had herself well in hand and he would not sneak past her guard again with his looks or with his kindnesses.