He could read the excitement in her expression and in the enthusiasm of her gestures despite the distance between them. She spoke to a woman at her side, not Lady Josephine, and suddenly tilted her head back to laugh. He caught himself straining to hear her at the same moment she turned her head and caught him watching.
Emma paused and bowed her head in acknowledgement. He reached up to touch the brim of his hat, his gaze never leaving hers.
“…hasn’t heard a word we said, has he?” Sir Andrew said, forcing Luca’s attention back to the men on either side of him. The other gentleman had gone off to the horses, leaving the three of them alone.
Luca pulled his riding gloves on at last and successfully avoided looking directly at either of them. “Scusatemi, Sir Andrew. Farleigh. What were you saying? Is it time to mount?”
“I was saying that Farleigh is as skeptical as his sister when it comes to someone’s good intentions,” Sir Andrew supplied.
“And I told him Josephine is a fine judge of character, so perhaps it is my taste in friendship that ought to be in question,” Farleigh added with good humor. “Then we asked you what you thought.”
“However, you were ogling the ladies.” Sir Andrew leaned around Luca to stare at the crowd. “Anyone in particular capturing your interest, Atella? I could mention it to my cousin. She might be persuaded to play at matchmaking.”
Avoiding answering that question would be in Luca’s best interests. “What does this word mean, ‘ogling?’ I have never heard it.”
Farleigh twirled his walking stick in one hand, looking at the women himself. Children had joined the throng in the crowd of villagers and the knot of nobility standing behind the ribbons. “To stare at someone with flirtatious intent.”
“Ah, a most useful word.” Luca pointed at the line of horses, most of which had riders mounted or in the process of mounting. “It is time, I think. Shall we go?”
“Do you intend to wager on your win today, Atella?” Sir Andrew asked as they walked, the three of them abreast, along the line of horses and riders. There were at least thirty participants in all.
Luca clicked his tongue on the roof of his mouth before slanting a look at Sir Andrew. “No. Why? Would you like to owe me another favor?”
Farleigh chuckled. “I’ll lay a bet that Atella comes before you.”
“Excellent.” Sir Andrew clapped his hands and rubbed them as though he relished the idea. “What is at stake?”
Luca stopped listening, though he thought the two spoke of ridiculous things rather than seriously exchanging funds as they kept walking ahead of him to their horses. Bets and wagers were certain to lose a man friends if he won too often.
When he arrived at the borrowed mare, the groom held the horse steady while Luca mounted. The moment he had his seat, he looked again at the crowd of brightly colored gowns and parasols. He found Lady Josephine again, though Emma’s rose-colored walking gown and coat were not in the same place. His eyes swept along the rope, searching for her, until the duke appeared on a large black horse, the animal appearing to belong on a battlefield rather than in a quiet country setting.
“Men, welcome to today’s Harvest Race,” he said, his deep voice booming across the field. The watching crowds hushed as all attention focused on the man whose generosity had provided most of the entertainment the crowds would enjoy that day.
“The course has changed this year, as it will always change, to keep each of you guessing and give no man the advantage his mount and talent do not already provide.” He went on to name the roads through which a three-mile course had been planned, with the duke’s men along the way to ensure no farmer’s cart or innocent child stumbled into the path of the horses. They would go nearly all the way around the castle on tracks primarily used by carts making deliveries to the castle.
The duke raised a pistol in the air, pointing it upward. “As usual, I offer the sternest warning to those who do not conduct themselves honorably. Be you yeoman or earl, if I receive word of cheating or cruelty on the race, you will feel my displeasure.” He made that dire pronouncement with a stern glare which lingered on each man in turn. “A prize goes to the man who wins. You will begin on my signal. Come to the line, men.”
Someone had scattered chalk dust in a line lightly dug into the dirt of the field, making it quite clear where they were expected to wait for the duke’s mark.
Luca steadied his horse. The mare had started to twitch with anticipation. The crowd started talking again, buzzing like a hive of bees. He looked again for Emma, wondering if she had no desire to watch, even though her cousin raced. Even though Luca took part, despite there being no need to impress Lady Josephine.
Would Emma care about him racing? Perhaps not.
Then he saw her, at the end of the line farthest from the start. She leaned as far over the rope as she could and waved to him. Luca’s ambition came back, a competitiveness he hadn’t known took hold, and suddenly, he had to win. Because Emma watched.
He bent over his horse, ears pricked and waiting; the duke fired the starting shot, and thunder filled Luca’s ears as his and all the other horses pounded forward. The dirt flew, each man pushing his animal for speed to get ahead before the field narrowed to a road where no more than three or four could ride abreast of each other.
Luca had no time to look for Farleigh or Sir Andrew nor to see if he had many other competitors near him. He had been introduced to almost a dozen others who rode that day. But they didn’t matter. Only the thought of Emma, delighted by his victory, mattered.
He fell behind five other riders as they came to the road, then had to bide his time to take a curve faster than another man and move into the fourth-place position. The horses snorted, their breathing heavy and fast, their hooves striking the hard dirt sharply before flying forward again.
Up a rise they went toward the castle, the trees a blur on either side, and Luca took third by the time they had made the loop. Halfway, and Sir Andrew rode beside him with the duke’s son ahead of them both.
“Atella, watch out!” Sir Andrew’s shout saved Luca from the formerly second-place horse and rider stumbling ahead of him. Luca jerked his horse’s reins, pulling up enough to dance around the unfortunate rider and horse.
The fallen man’s cursing and the horse bolting in another direction at least meant no lasting harm had occurred. But Luca had lost ground between himself and the remaining two ahead of him. Sir Andrew remained nearly even with Luca and his mount.
Luca leaned low over his horse’s neck, urging the animal on in his native tongue. “Forza, forza!”
The mare kept her legs flying beneath her, and Luca closed the distance between himself and Farleigh when the end of the race came in sight. A ribbon of bright yellow stretched between two trees, held by boys on either side. He drew even with the duke’s son, then surpassed him, but—
The man in the lead, a gentleman who lived near town, crossed the line first.
Luca’s horse snorted, carrying him through to the end, then paced and tossed her head as Luca guided her to the field. She stamped and resisted slowing down, but through calming her, Luca calmed his own racing heart. And his disappointment. The duke congratulated the winner, his voice raised as more riders and horses came through to the end.
“Congratulations, Mr. Bydwell. The first-place prize is yours. All who raced may have a drink as my thanks for a race well-run. Please, enjoy the festivities today.”
A cheer went up from the crowd, and Luca looked up for the first time. How foolish of him, to lose his head over a woman in such a way. As though Emma Arlen cared one whit about him racing, let alone winning the race.
A dusky rose bonnet appeared, but not in the crowd. Coming toward him instead, with her hand holding her hat in place, Emma wore a bright smile. He dismounted at the same moment she stopped, only two paces from him.
“You were brilliant, Luca. I cannot believe how near you came to winning. I thought for certain you would overtake Mr. Bydwell
in those last moments, and that is quite the accomplishment on a borrowed horse.” Her smile shone up at him, and her cheeks were flushed pink with obvious good cheer.
Coming second suddenly seemed the best thing in the world.
* * *
In the past, Emma might have laughed at a woman for praising a man so much. Especially for something as simple as good horsemanship. But she hadn’t wanted to wait to tell Luca what she thought, or to greet him after his near-victory. Luca deserved to know she admired his abilities. A friend would tell him he had done well.
When his lips quirked upward, Emma wanted very much to make him smile more. His broad smiles were too infrequent.
“Thank you, Miss Arlen.” He bowed. “You do me great honor and soothe my wounded pride.”
“Wounded pride?” she repeated, her free hand going to her hip. “Lord Atella, we both know you did well. I doubt your pride suffered so much as a scratch.”
“Well done, Atella,” Sir Andrew called. Emma turned to see her cousin approaching, leading his horse while a groom walked alongside them. “You won Farleigh theater tickets at my expense.”
“Then I have accomplished my goal,” Luca said, his tone dry. “Perhaps if you lose more bets, you will stop making them.”
Andrew laughed. “I never wager anything I cannot afford to lose, my friend. That would be a fool’s mark.” He turned to Emma. “And you, Cousin? Did you cheer for the ambassador rather than your own flesh and blood?”
“Most happily, yes.” Emma laughed at his feigned shock. “Do not be too distressed. I have learned that Punch and Judy have arrived and will begin their show very soon. Is that still one of your favorites? It ought to cheer you.”
"That might have been my favorite when I was seven years of age. At five and twenty, it is far beneath me to laugh at violent puppets.” Andrew put his nose high in the air. “But if there is a group planning to watch together—”
“With mince pies and cider, of course.” Emma looked to Luca. “Many of our local friends tend to follow each other about like a flock of chickens at the harvest market. I hope you will join us.”
“It would be my pleasure. As I said before, there is much more to my position as ambassador than politics. I must enjoy the culture of the English, too.”
The groom successfully took possession of the reins for both horses and promised Andrew to have them ready to return to his estate within the hour. Andrew fell into step beside Emma but did not offer his arm. Neither did Luca, sadly, but she knew well enough why. There was no use in starting rumors about the two of them, not when he intended friendship, and not when he still appeared interested in Lady Josephine.
Yes, she had seen him watching Lady Josephine moments before she had caught his eye as the race was about to start. Although catching him at it disappointed her, Emma pushed aside her feelings to focus on their friendship. She could help him overcome whatever regret might linger.
There were other titled ladies who might take a fancy to him.
Not that she intended to introduce him to any of them.
Ever.
Emma winced as the vehement thought crossed her mind, the silent conviction far too telling.
Luca slowed his pace, with Sir Andrew walking ahead at a rapid speed as he called to a friend. Then the handsome Sicilian turned to her, his voice low. “Emma, are you well?”
She forced her eyes wider and put on her usual smile. “Perfectly well. Why ever do you ask?”
“That face you made—it appeared morbid.” Though his expression remained concerned, she saw the twinkle of mischief in his eyes.
Emma laughed, and then brightened when he offered her his arm. “I take it you meant to use that word instead of the other.”
“This time, yes.” Luca gave her hand one quick press where it rested in the crook of his arm. “But you did appear unsettled. Is there anything I can do to help?”
“You needn’t worry. I had a stray thought I did not like.” She waved her hand before her to waft away the topic as one might an unpleasant odor. “Have you ever seen a Punch and Judy show?”
“I am certain you mean Punchinello e Joan.” He narrowed his dark eyes at her. “You English, always taking what you like from others and turning them…well, English.”
She laughed despite her earlier disquieting thought, then pointed to the middle of the little town where a large expanse of green marked the place for the community to gather. A hasty theater had gone up, with cheap curtains, and children already sat on the ground looking up as a puppet Punch took charge of the baby while his wife went away.
“We cannot help ourselves, I think.” Emma saw Josephine, Simon, Andrew, Alice, and Rupert standing together near the marionette’s stage. “Oh, there they are. Come, let us see if Punch gets all that he deserves for his horrid crimes.”
Luca took her to her friends, and when she began to remove her hand from his arm he covered it again with his own. Only briefly, his touch so light she barely felt it, but Emma’s gaze rose to his with uncertainty. Did he mean for her hand to stay there, the two of them nearly as coupled together as Alice and Rupert?
No, he could not want that.
She slipped her hand away and busied herself with her reticule, finding pennies to pay when Mr. Wheaton, the baker, brought pies and rolls about. Luca bought several sweet rolls and nodded to the children at the front of the audience, instructing the baker to take the treats to them.
Mr. Wheaton’s grin grew larger than she’d ever seen it as he distributed the treats to the children—only to be yelled at by Punch for “encouraging little brats to eat things meant for their betters.” The audience shouted back their disagreements, and the children laughed when Punch fell over at the fervor with which they shouted him down before taking up the story again.
“I never understood why people like this so much,” Alice said from where she stood next to her husband, nibbling at a mince pie. “Punch is horrid, beating everyone with that stick. We would never put up with it in reality.”
“I think that must be the point.”
Everyone looked at Luca, including Emma.
“What is?” she asked, and had the pleasure of watching that slow, understated smile of his appear.
“Punch acts in a way that is improper, shocking us into laughter, but we can all see that he is the villain of the story. No one likes him for his behavior, and sometimes he is hanged for it in the Italian shows. Sometimes he escapes, but the wife and constable remain happily with the baby. So while he might think himself the victor, he loses everything that most of us require to find happiness.”
Emma’s lips parted, her agreement ready-formed.
“You learn all of this from a story with wooden-faced dolls bashing each other with sticks?” Andrew’s snort wasn’t quite derisive, but certainly disbelieving.
Screams of laughter came from the children as Punch mishandled his baby, turning it upside down and trying to feed it through its toes. Emma gestured to the stage. “It’s far too ridiculous for anyone to think it realistic, Andrew.”
“I agree with Lord Atella.” Josephine glared down her nose at the baronet before turning to Luca with an approving smile. “The subtleties are in every story. No child watching this will think it a grand thing to be Punch, when all the world calls for his demise. He’s a horrid creature.”
Emma finished her baked treat, watching Luca from the corner of her eye as Josephine rained her approval upon him. Luca nodded in appreciation of her agreement, then folded his arms and watched the marionettes.
The others in their little group continued chatting, with Andrew and Simon speaking of the race and the rider whose horse had stumbled. Emma listened to them with half an ear, her eyes upon the stage but her mind on other things. Luca stood between Josephine and Emma, occasionally chuckling at the show, and sometimes pointing out a way in which Punch had been thwarted. To Josephine.
The pie Emma had eaten didn’t seem to agree with her after long. She gripped t
he strings of her reticule and murmured her excuses as she went in search of something cool to drink. Vendors were set up along the principal street in temporary stalls or carts, selling their harvests and handiwork.
At a cart full of baskets of apples, a woman also had large barrels of cider. With no wish to feel tipsy, Emma started to go on, but a hand at her arm stopped her. She looked back, pulling in a deep breath in case she might need to give someone a mighty set down, but her gaze locked with Luca’s deep brown eyes.
“You left the show, and you did not seem well.”
She winced. “Morbid again?”
His expression softened, concern lingering in his eyes. “Unwell. Do you need to return to the castle, or perhaps sit for a time?” His gaze swung away from her as he searched about, perhaps to find her a place to sit and rest.
“I am not an invalid, my lord.” Emma drew away. “I am only in search of something to drink. I think the inn will have tea.” She turned away and started walking, her heart in her throat. What was wrong with her? She ought to be glad he had followed. But why? She didn’t need his help. She was perfectly fine. Wasn’t she?
He stayed with her, though he remained silent until the moment she ordered her tea. They entered the already crowded inn together and went to the long countertop where the innkeeper cleaned cups and served people. Before she could open her purse strings, Luca had paid for two cups of tea and then steered them to chairs in one corner.
“Luca,” she whispered as he pulled the chair out for her. “I really am quite well.”
“I am glad to hear it. But I will take tea with you, of course, and return you to your friends when you feel better than ‘well.’” He seated himself across from her and folded his arms over his chest, wearing an expression that meant she would encounter an argument if she tried to dismiss him again.
“This is ridiculous,” she scoffed softly.
“What would the duke say if I let you wander about on your own? Even if you are only in search of tea.”
A Companion for the Count: A Regency Romance Page 17