Читать книгу Nicholas - Elizabeth Amber - Страница 7

Tivoli, east of Rome

Two weeks later

She was here.

Excitement thrummed in Nicholas Satyr’s blood as he caught the tantalizing hint of Faerie magic riding on the air.

He surveyed the swarm of humanity at the afternoon festivities now underway in the Renaissance gardens of the Villa d’Este. The wildly integrated assemblage of jugglers, musicians, and costumed artisans mingled with Rome’s social elite. Most had ventured the twenty miles for a day in the country, as he had.

But they had come for different purposes.

Neither the fountains nor the other entertainments on offer held his interest at the moment. He had other business here. The business of finding a specific prey—one who was destined to become his wife.

For the past week, Nick had attended every such social gathering of any consequence in the offing in Rome. It now appeared Feydon had miscalculated. The first of the Faerie brides wasn’t to be found in Rome after all. Today he’d taken a chance he might locate her here, in nearby Tivoli instead. His hunch appeared to have borne fruit.

Still, he’d wasted precious time tracking her in Rome. Thus occupied, he hadn’t buried himself in feminine flesh for days, a considerable dearth for one of Satyr lineage. He would find remedy in the arms of his meretrice—or mistress, as the English more politely called their bought whores—later that evening.

Nick strode into the crowd, his concentration focused on his task. His keen olfactory senses sorted through perfumes and natural Human odors, searching, testing, rejecting.

There was no question King Feydon’s daughter lurked somewhere in this throng of Italian and English society.

But where?

Amid the greenery, enormous hats with dancing plumes vied for attention with swagged, embellished skirts. Since Napoleon’s fall, fashions had turned away from high-waisted, slim-fitting gowns in favor of a more romantic look. Waists were now well cinched, and skirts belled across the landscape like oversize parasols.

His height allowed him to gaze easily across the sea of faces, passing over the male ones and pausing on those of the females. It was unlikely he would know her by sight. She would be hiding any outward manifestations that might betray her parentage, as he did. No, he would have to rely on scent alone.

Pausing at the base of the steep steps leading to the gigantic Water Organ fountain, he looked toward the statue of Bacchus, seeking inspiration. Instinct had him turning to stroll the Avenue of One Hundred Fountains. Here mythological creatures and gargoyles lined the path, spouting and sputtering with cascading waterworks.

He stilled, his interest sharpening. There it was again. A faint but unmistakable Faerie fragrance. He started in its direction, only to be brought up short when a fleshy hand gloved in canary yellow tapped his shoulder.

“I say! That you, Satyr?”

Nick turned to find two couples with whom he had a marginal acquaintance. The persona of respectable aristocrat slipped over him like a carefully constructed cloak. He gave them a polite nod. “Lord and Lady Hillbrook. Signore Rossini, Signora Rossini.”

Today’s event had been organized at Lord Hillbrook’s instigation. Wealthy Englishmen such as he commonly wintered in Italy, often sojourning well into spring to escape England’s chill. But the first hint of Italy’s infamous summer heat always saw them scurrying homeward.

“Unusual to see you at one of our little occasions,” Lord Hillbrook enthused. He stroked his profuse side-whiskers, which pointed in a dozen directions as though uncertain of the direction his conversation might go. “Honored to have you.”

“I don’t visit Tivoli as often as I might like. But as I happened to be here, I wouldn’t miss one of your functions,” Nick commented affably. “’Tis a credit to its hostess.”

Lady Hillbrook preened under his praise. “You Italians are so temperate in your weather. In England it would be difficult to hold an open-air event this time of year, fearing rain.”

“Ah, but there can be such a thing as too much sunshine. Our vines welcome the occasional spring shower,” said Nick. “Too little rain makes for puny grapes.”

“Speaking of which, you haven’t forgotten we’re in for fifty cases at the auction this autumn,” Signora Rossini reminded him. Though it was warm, she wore a tight-laced crimson gown that was making a heroic effort to cinch her ungainly proportions into some semblance of an hourglass shape. Perspiration dotted her upper lip and brow, and she occasionally mopped it with a monogrammed handkerchief.

Lady Hillbrook discreetly nudged her husband with a satin-covered elbow.

“One hundred cases here,” Lord Hillbrook was prompted to add.

“Sending for it on the sly as usual?” Signore Rossini asked.

Hillbrook nodded, rocking on his heels. “English laws are quite set against sales of the bottled stuff, you know. The practice of selling it by the measure continues, so we’re forced to purchase on the sly or become bottlers if we’re to drink.”

He moved his walking stick toward Nick’s calf as though to nudge him conspiratorially. He wisely thought better of it and merely asked, “I suppose you’ll be asking an obscene amount for your vintage this year, eh? Yours seem to be the only vines spared from the current blight.”

Nick tensed. “We’ve been fortunate in that we’ve seen no signs of it so far.”

“’Tis said every field in Europe has been affected by the pox. Some devastated,” said Signore Rossini. “And no cure in sight. I understand no one is even certain of its cause.”

“The matter of the blight has naturally been of great concern to my family. As I said, we count ourselves fortunate that so far our fields remain unaffected,” Nick replied coolly.

“Odd, that,” mused Lord Hillbrook.

“Scusi?” Nick turned his full attention on the gentleman, who promptly withered under his piercing stare.

Satyr lands were protected by the ElseWorldly powers he and his brother interlaced around them. Therefore, their vines hadn’t been afflicted thus far with the dark spots that had begun to appear on the vines of nearly every other vineyard in Europe. He’d known it was only a matter of time before Humans began to speculate on the reason his fields had been spared.

“I say, meant nothing by it,” said Hillbrook, flushing to match Signora Rossini’s gown. “Everyone knows the Satyr label is impeccable. Nothing odd at all, really. No doubt it’s simple dumb luck, er—”

His wife frowned and shook her head, causing his words to dwindle away.

“I assure you dumb luck isn’t what protects us,” said Nick. “While the blight persists, every precaution has been undertaken to protect our grapes from its ravages. It’s difficult to know how to limit exposure, since its cause remains unclear. However, we limit access to our vineyard and take care that contaminants are kept out.”

Signora Rossini leapt into the awkward silence that fell. “Really, such talk is too serious for so lovely a day. Now, Lord Satyr, you must tell us. Have you visited the botanical exhibits yet?”

Enthusiasm sparkled in Lady Hillbrook’s eyes, and she leaned toward her companion. “The study of flora is all the rage in England. I myself have indulged and have acquired many interesting specimens.”

Nick smiled with easy charm. “Indeed? I regret I haven’t yet had an opportunity to explore the exhibits. You will excuse me? I find I’m most anxious to investigate.” With a cursory bow, he left them.

Setting the matter of the pox aside for the present, he once again threaded through the crowd, stealthily sorting, considering, and discarding. As he passed the Fountain of the Dragon at the center of the gardens, the young ladies daintily plied their wiles, vying to turn the head of one of the obscenely wealthy Satyr lords. If he could but find such tenaciousness in field workers, he would engage them in employment at his vineyards in an instant.

Their eyes said they wanted him—or at least his riches. But they knew nothing of his true nature. For if any of them had an inkling of the strength and depth of his dark physical passions, he was certain that even his vast fortune wouldn’t cause them to view him as a candidate for marriage.

As afternoon purpled into evening, the delicate scent of Faerie wafted on the cooling air, teasing and then withdrawing. He circulated, playing a children’s game of getting hot, then cold, then hot again as he patiently tracked it.

Eventually, as he neared the fish pools, the thread of magic grew steadier, telling him she was close. His hunting instincts sharpened.

He circled a veiled tent set amid others between two labyrinth herb gardens. An assortment of young English and Italian ladies and their beaux mingled there, chattering.

When his approach was noted, feminine heads lifted, as though scenting prey. Several ladies promptly forgot the gentlemen to whom they’d been speaking. Lacy fans fluttered faster.

She was here, somewhere among them.

“Have you come for a reading, Satyr?” chirped one of the young Italian bucks. “Don’t believe in the stuff myself, but it’s a bit of fun, I suppose.”

One of the ladies knocked the young man’s arm teasingly with a haphazard bouquet she’d obviously picked from the herb garden. “It’s not reading, Signore. It’s fortune-telling the mystic offers.”

“That’s what I meant,” he replied, rubbing his arm in mock pain. “Palm reading, isn’t it?”

Nick surveyed the tent. It was white, with great swoops of tulle flowing at its corners and a flag decorating its pinnacle.

Anticipation gripped him. She was inside. He was certain of it.

“So, there’s a true mystic in residence?” he inquired, fishing.

“Si. As we speak, my sister’s within, having her fortune told,” said the young man, whom Nick now recognized as the son of Signore Rossini.

Was it to be his sister? If so, he sincerely hoped she bore no resemblance to her mother. Lyon’s fears on the matter of his intended’s attractions resounded in his head. Suddenly, he wasn’t quite so anxious to peek inside the tent.

Her appearance didn’t matter, he reminded himself. As her husband, he would mate her only as often as duty required. In turn, she would produce his children and not object when his cock sought true satisfaction away from her bed.

Still, when the gauzy veils of the tent parted to expel Signore Rossini’s sister, Nick nearly sighed in relief. She was an Italian beauty. Her gown was a stay maker’s delight, its shot silk waist nipping in to reveal curves far shapelier than those of her mother. Dainty ribbons tied under her chin held a straw bonnet so profusely decorated with bluebirds that it appeared surprised to find itself sitting on her raven curls rather than in an aviary.

As she slid forth from the enclosure, another young customer slipped past her and into the tent. Nick caught a glimpse of the bowed figure in gypsy garb seated within.

“What did the mystic say?” one of the other ladies asked Rossini’s sister.

“Yes, Bianca, do tell us,” added an English girl. “We’re giddy to know.”

Signorina Rossini parted her lips and then faltered when she noted Nick’s interest.

Once introductions were dispensed with, he stepped closer to her than propriety allowed in order to kiss her gloved hand. An invisible aura of Faerie magic enveloped him at her nearness.

So it was to be the Rossini girl then. That his search was over so abruptly caused him a moment of disorientation, as though he’d run to the brink of a cliff and now found himself teetering on its edge.

Satyr weren’t especially talented at probing the minds of others, but he plied what skills he possessed, hoping to learn what he could of her.

Her thoughts told him she found him attractive, but her expression had already informed him of that. He felt frustration when he couldn’t read further evidence from her that she was Faerie, until he realized her own lack of awareness of her heritage would naturally render her thoughts blank of it.

She seemed a sweet, biddable girl, and she was undeniably beautiful. If his instincts were right, this one would prove a good choice.

That it was her mother King Feydon had cuckolded surprised him. A discerning libertine, Feydon typically chose only the most beguiling of mates. But perhaps Signora Rossini had been more pleasing to the eye in her youth.

Bianca shifted uncomfortably, and he realized his silent study had grown too intense. He bowed. “It is indeed a pleasure, Signorina Rossini.”

“Signore,” she said, curtseying. Her voice was an awed whisper, brimming with wonder and a trace of fear that he had deigned to mark her with his attention.

“May I inquire what sort of fortune you were given that brought such a charming blush to your cheek?” he asked, hoping to set her at ease.

“I’m to meet a handsome dark-haired gentleman,” she blurted.

Her bevy of friends darted glances at him, giggling.

Bianca blanched when she realized what she’d revealed and to whom.

“And when you meet this gentleman, do you plan to share a dance with him?” Nick inquired with unusual care. She was one of those sweet-tempered creatures who inspired gentleness in those around her.

“Oh,” she said, her brow knitting. “All of my dances are spoken for.”

“Couldn’t you spare just one for Lord Satyr?” her brother encouraged, obviously beginning to realize what his sudden interest in his sister might mean to the family’s fortunes.

Nick was certain the Rossini clan would easily accept him, as would their daughter. She had no doubt been trained well in her duty and would grace his home and bed and give him no trouble. Their marriage would cause scarcely a ripple in the comfortable pattern of his life.

Only the formalities were left to undertake. He would speak to his attorney in Rome tomorrow and claim her as his as soon as a wedding could be arranged.

“But that wouldn’t be proper,” she said.

Nick was taken aback for a moment until he determined she was referring to the question of allowing him a dance. “You’re right, of course. How unfortunate for your dark, handsome gentleman and all others who have missed their chance for a turn on the lawn with you tonight.”

“Um, yes,” she said. She blinked, appearing mesmerized by his smile.

Really, this was too easy, he thought. While pleased at her lack of artifice, he couldn’t help but wonder if the lure of her simplicity might dull in time. It didn’t matter. Husbands of his rank spent little time in their wives’ company.

And every Faerie had hidden depths. He wondered what magic her demure manner concealed.

The drape parted as the tent emptied its latest client.

“Going to try it?” asked one of the youths as the mystic’s most recent customer was expelled. He sounded hopeful, no doubt assuming the ladies wouldn’t divert their attention from Nick until he left them.

Nick offered an arm to Bianca. “Since I’m to be denied a dance, will you accompany me inside to have my fortune told?”

Bianca’s startled eyes darted to her brother.

“With your brother’s permission,” Nick added.

“Go ahead, Bianca,” said her brother. “The mystic is chaperone enough, and I’ll be right outside.”

“But I’ve already had my fortune told,” she reminded them.

“I haven’t, however,” said Nick. “And I admit I’m daunted by the notion of approaching a true mystic. You have obviously navigated these waters and survived. I beseech you to come along with me that you might shore up my quaking will.”

Bianca still hesitated. Probably wondering if Mama would approve, he thought.

He employed his considerable powers of persuasion. “Your eyes tell me you possess a generous spirit. Surely you can find it in the kindness of your heart to make a decision in my favor.”

“Why, all right. Of course I’ll accompany you,” she agreed. Then she leaned closer to offer, “But the mystic isn’t terribly frightening, really.”

With a nod to her brother, Nick held the drape aside and bade Signorina Rossini enter before him.