The Vision of a Viscountess (The Widowers of the Aristocracy Book 2)

by Linda Rae Sande

Until David canted his head just so, or displayed certain expressions, or his eyes caught hers in secret understanding. Then memories of Darius haunted her dreams, sometimes for weeks.

  Darius rolled his eyes and allowed a sigh. “My letters to you in Rome were returned, but the last one I sent was returned with a note that said you had married and moved to Sicily. To Girgenti.”

  Chiara took a step back, as if she had been the one who was slapped. “Who wrote that?” she asked in surprise. She hadn’t received any letters from Darius. Not a single one. Which is why she had willingly agreed to move to Sicily with her new husband. A man who had worshipped her from the day he found her sitting on the Forum steps in Rome, tears dripping from her eyes.

  “A friend,” Darius replied. “It was written on the outside of the letter. In a masculine hand, if I remember correctly.”

  He remembered quite well, actually. Remembered the way his heart had pained him when he read the words, as if a fist was clenching it. But at least he knew where she had gone. Knew she was married, although he didn’t know to whom at that point.

  Finding a ‘Chiara’ in Girgenti was far easier than finding one in Rome. He rather wished he had begun the quest a long time ago, but having a wife and a baby boy required he spend time with them in London, at least until he could make his excuses and return to his life as an archaeologist.

  Then the wars had worsened, Napoleon conquered Naples, and travel to Sicily was suddenly impossible. Years of conflict coupled with the changing guard on Sicily didn’t help matters. So he had moved to Hexham and immersed himself in the legends surrounding Hadrian’s Wall.

  A friend.

  Probably my brother, Chiara thought, remembering how Lucian and Darius had become good friends back when Darius was using Rome as a base from which he took trips to several archaeological sites in central Italy at her father’s request.

  “So... what took you so long to find me? Pietro tells me you have been in the marina for a month,” she accused before she suddenly adopted a manner of boredom. She didn’t want him knowing Pietro had come to her with news of a British archaeologist who was in search of a woman named ‘Chiara’ the day after Darius had stepped off a sailing vessel from England.

  Darius was about to tease her. At least she was a tiny bit interested in his quest to find her. “According to the men I spoke with in a taverna in the marina, there are at least five women in Girgenti who are named ‘Chiara’,” he replied. “I paid a visit to the first, who was happy to make my acquaintance and would have been happier to take me to her bedchamber, but she was at least eighty years old—”

  “Signora Garcia!” Chiara said, her eyes bright with humor. “She’s a hundred-and-two.” After she blinked and sobered, she asked, “Did you...?”

  Darius gave her a quelling glance. “She fell asleep before we got that far,” he said, trying to seem serious but failing in his attempt. “Thank the gods.” He allowed a sigh. “The next one was far too young, but she already had five bambinos clinging to her legs and was about to go into confinement with another.”

  “Signora DiCarlo. She was twelve when she married a widower twice her age,” Chiara said with a roll of her eyes. “Poor thing.”

  “Pietro pointed out the other two when he took me into Girgenti so I could visit the Norman church.”

  “They’re both unmarried,” Chiara remarked, one shoulder going up in a sort of shrug. “A war widow and an old maid.”

  Darius gave her a quelling glance. “But neither one was you,” he said in a quiet voice. “That day I received that letter was the worse day of my life. Knowing someone else had captured your heart—”

  “Oh, you bastard,” she hissed as she turned and made her way back into the kitchen.

  Darius frowned and paused before following her. If Antony Romano did what he had promised Darius he would do, then Chiara would have been under his protection from the moment after Darius left her on the steps of the Forum all those years ago.

  He stopped at the threshold, deciding he could at least prevent her from leaving the kitchen if he said something that angered her. “Are you saying Signore Romano didn’t capture your heart?”

  Chiara blinked, not about to admit Antony hadn’t. He had merely been a means to an end. A way to move on without the love of her life. A means to give her son a name and legitimacy. “I respected him,” she said in a whisper. “I liked him. Father was pleased, I think because Antony was a patron of his projects.” She busied herself with the large pitcher of water and a glass urn before saying, “How did you discover where I live? I suppose Pietro told you—”

  “My brother has been here. A couple of times, with the Duke of Serradifalco. I asked if he might have met you, and he said he had. At a reception of some sort.”

  Chiara’s eyes widened before she remembered the night in question. Her husband had hosted the duke and his colleagues when Serradifalco had been in Girgenti to do the restoration work on the temples. “The Duke of Westhaven,” she said with a nod. “His wife was Greek. I remember,” she said with a nod. “A very beautiful woman.”

  “She’s dying,” Darius said, realizing just then why his brother spent so much time on his wife’s home island of Mykonos and avoided England as much as he could. Dr. Alexander Jones loved his wife. Loved the culture from which she had been delivered into the world. The same culture that accepted his daughter and him when London would not accept his daughter and wife. “She told me of how she met you,” he said in a whisper.

  “I am sorry to hear she is dying,” Chiara said as she returned her attention to the urn set before her. “But you must be disappointed at what you see now,” she said as she waved a hand to indicate her face and body before turning to resume making the coffee.

  “I am not,” he argued. “In fact, I find you far more beautiful now,” he claimed. He leaned against the arched opening into the kitchen, wondering if perhaps she might throw a knife at him. “Look, I know I’m certainly not as handsome as I used to be—”

  “On that we can both agree,” she said as she measured ground coffee into a small, long-handled cup. She held it over the top of the urn and poured boiling water from a pot on the stove over the cup.

  “But I... I still... I still care for you. Which is why I came here to excavate this season.” Darius frowned as he watched what she was doing, imagining his cup of coffee would be filled with the bitter grounds. But then he noticed the water didn’t flow over the cup, taking the grounds with it, but rather through a hole in the bottom of it when she pressed a large spoon over the top.

  “Do you like it strong?” she asked, reaching for another glass urn. She acted as if she hadn’t heard his words.

  “Do I?”

  Chiara gave a start, remembering just then how much he had enjoyed the beverage when they were in Rome. “If you haven’t changed, then I shall make it the way you used to like it.” She held the cup of grounds over the empty urn and poured the first urn’s contents onto the used grounds, steam clouding the air above the second urn. “I don’t have the lever machine, though, like they use in the caffés.” The spoon had to act in its stead, her steady fingers pressing the spoon into the grounds as the coffee flowed in a steady stream. When she finished, she poured the coffee into two cups and offered him one.

  He took an experimental sip and closed his eyes in appreciation. “Perfect,” he murmured.

  “Sì,” she agreed after she took a drink. “So, why have you come on this day?”

  Darius regarded her from over the rim of his cup. She hadn’t invited him into the parlor—they still stood in the bright kitchen, although he was quite happy to remain there. Chiara was in her favorite room of the house, and he just wanted to be wherever she was. “I wish to court you.”

  Chiara blinked, pulling her cup from her lips. “Court me?” she repeated, as if she didn’t understand the English words.

  “With the intention of marrying you. As I should have done twenty years ago.”

  A c
loud passed over her eyes. “You were already married. You made an adulteress out of me,” she countered in an angry whisper. “Do you have any idea what my father would have done to you if—?”

  “I do,” Darius interrupted. “I did.” He sighed. “I was part of an arranged married—one my father insisted on—and neither of us wanted anything to do with the—”

  “Oh! That gave you the right to woo me into your bed?” she countered, her ire increasing by the moment.

  “I woo’d you because I fell in love with you,” he countered, his attempt to keep his voice low failing. He half expected she would toss the remains of her coffee on him at any moment. He almost wished she would, for he was fairly sure she would regret it and beg forgiveness and end up in his arms.

  He suddenly straightened.

  “How did you know I was married?” Back then, he hadn’t said anything about his wife. About the impending birth of his son. His three letters to her had never been answered, nor had two of them been returned—just the one on which Lucian had written the few sentences that mentioned Chiara had married and moved to Girgenti.

  “The Duke of Westhaven said so,” she replied with an arched brow. “After I asked if he knew of another archaeologist from England who went by the name, ‘Lord Darius’.”

  Darius blinked.

  “Imagine my surprise when he said you were his brother,” she added before taking a long drink of her coffee. She set the cup down on the counter, afraid if she didn’t, she would throw it at Darius, and she didn’t want the fine porcelain to shatter.

  “I had hoped you had read my letters. I explained everything,” Darius claimed in his defense. “Christ, no wonder you were so angry at seeing me,” he murmured.

  Chiara allowed a shrug. “We’re both older. Wiser, I hope,” she said before she finished her coffee.

  “Wise enough to know we have a second chance?” Darius asked in a quiet voice. “My feelings for you have not changed,” he added with a shake of his head. She was still the headstrong, opinionated girl he had fallen in love with in Rome.

  The very opposite of an English miss.

  Regarding him with an elegantly arched brow, Chiara was about to argue that she had changed. That she was no longer that naive girl who had fallen in love with a mysterious young man from another country. A rather handsome man who spoke the language her father had been teaching her since she was old enough to speak. Whose golden brown eyes, a bit downturned at the outer edges, seemed to see right into her soul. Back then, he had been nearly as pale as every other Brit who visited Rome on their Grand Tours. Now he displayed a complexion as dark as any Sicilian who worked in the fields, but his eyes were still the same.

  Then she wondered if he knew about David. If he knew David was his son. But how could he? She hadn’t told anyone. Not even Antony.

  Chiara thought to keep the information from him—keep her secret even from David—but a fit of spite had her deciding to tell him. His reaction would provide the answer she sought just then.

  “Antony did not give me a child,” she said, her chin lifting.

  Darius frowned, his attention on the bottom of his empty cup. “But, you have a son...” he started to say. He closed his eyes and allowed a long sigh. “The valet,” he said in a whisper.

  “He is a student of architecture,” she argued. “He is only a valet because I have guests who cannot always dress themselves, and I knew of no other who could...” She stopped speaking when she saw how one of his palms lifted as if to stop her.

  “I have met your David,” he said with a nod. His eyes widened. “Jesus. I dismissed him from Lord Henley’s bedchamber,” he added before he rolled his eyes. “Are you saying...?” He suddenly frowned. “Are you saying I have a son?” he murmured, his eyes widening until they were no longer downturned at the edges.

  “Carter. Isn’t that his name?” Chiara asked in a quiet voice, deciding she wasn’t ready to admit anything just yet.

  “Only because I cannot disown him,” Darius replied, placing his coffee cup on the marble counter. “Is David my son?”

  Chiara was tempted to deny him the truth. To claim David belonged to another. But the look on Darius’ face had her breath catching. A look that seemed to plead for her to claim that David was his. As if he truly hoped he had fathered a young man more honorable than the one who had his name.

  “He is your son,” she finally admitted in a quiet voice.

  The words were barely out of her mouth before his lips were suddenly on hers, his arms wrapped around her back like steel bands, pulling her hard against the front of his body.

  Chiara considered pushing him away. Considered biting the lips that crushed hers in a kiss so filled with passion, she was reminded of a day long ago, a day when he had taken her to every Roman site of importance and shared his enthusiasm with her.

  His last day in Rome.

  His last day as her lover.

  It would be easy to deny him, she thought at first. Easy to push him away and tell him to leave Sicily and her life as a widow.

  But why?

  She had no one else. Nothing else but her son and her nieces. They had been enough. At least, they had been enough until they had grown old enough to see to their own lives.

  Despite Darius’ good looks having changed to something more mature, something older, something suggesting too much sun, and too much drink, and too many late nights, Chiara couldn’t help how her body responded to his.

  Recognition was a powerful force, it seemed.

  “I love you,” Darius whispered when his lips barely let go of hers, only to recapture them and worship them as if his very life depended on them.

  She pulled away with a gasp, her large golden eyes blinking before her gaze returned to his lips. “But for how long?” she challenged.

  “The rest of my life.” He sucked in a breath. “Marry me, Chiara. Marry me so I can prove it to you,” he demanded.

  Chiara didn’t have a chance to respond, for a collective sigh sounded from the arched doorway into the kitchen.

  Darius and Chiara turned in unison to find Aurora, Tamara, and Angela staring at them, their mouths open in astonishment and their hands clasped together as if in prayer.

  “Well?” Aurora finally spoke. “Aren’t you going to tell him you say ‘Sì’?” she asked in Italian.

  “Oh, do say, ‘yes’,” Angela agreed, the words said in English.

  Tamara merely stared at her aunt, obviously a bit befuddled by what was happening.

  Chiara regarded Darius for a long time before she said, “Perhaps we should go for that walk,” she suggested.

  Darius allowed a grin. “Your wish is my command.”

  “It will be that way for the rest of your life,” she countered with an arched brow.

  “Promise?”

  The collective sigh could once again be heard from the doorway.

  Chiara frowned as she turned and regarded her nieces. “Da quando capisci l'inglese?” she asked. Since when do you understand English?

  The young women merely giggled in response.

  Chapter 35

  A Vision in the Dark

  Later that night

  As Jasper stared out the hotel room’s only window, he wondered at his wife’s stubbornness. The moment they had stepped out of the hotel in search of a place to eat dinner, Marianne had stuffed her spectacles into her reticule. How can Marianne go about without wearing her spectacles in such a breathtaking city? he wondered. How could she be happy in such a place when she couldn’t see all it had to offer? When she had the means to see clearly but not the will to employ them?

  Before they took another step, he had stopped and made her put them back on, ignoring how tears brightened her eyes at the order.

  This is Palermo, he thought with some despair. A feast for the eyes as well as for the stomach. Except Marianne had barely eaten anything that night. She hadn’t even tried the wine or the rich dessert, a cheese-filled confection called cannoli, Ja
sper had offered her. Perhaps the heat from the afternoon had her listless, or she was merely tired from their two days of traveling.

  Or perhaps she was upset at his insistence that she wear her eyeglasses, at least until the two of them were safely back in their hotel room.

  Having seen her wear them on the few occasions she had done so, he understood her complaint that they were unattractive.

  They were actually rather hideous.

  The frames were definitely like those of a pair of Martin’s Margins, the round, thick black frames surrounding each lens, their black bows hugging her head to where they bent in the back and then were fastened together with a ribbon. When she wore her hair down, as she had done for their trip from Girgenti, she admitted it was to hide the back half of her spectacles from anyone who might see her from behind.

  Why hadn’t Lord Devonville seen to a more modern pair of eyeglasses for his niece when she first arrived in London? Jasper wondered. There were a number of oculists in the capital, surgeons who specialized in problems of the eyes. Two were even fellow members of the Royal Society. If they hadn’t left London when they did, Jasper realized they could have had Dr. Wathen-Waller see to a proper fitting and to a better looking pair of spectacles.

  Although they still wouldn’t be fashionable—at no point were spectacles seen as anything other than a sign of old age or a clergyman—at least they would look better than her Martin’s Margins.

  Given they were in Italy now—the birthplace of eyeglasses—and after what had happened at his dig site— Jasper was determined to find a pair of spectacles Marianne would be willing to wear during every waking hour. If he couldn’t find something here in Palermo, he knew he would somewhere on the mainland. In Florence or Venice. Surely the capital of glass would have suitable eyeglasses.

  Having settled on a plan and knowing the directions to an oculist’s shop in town, Jasper took a deep breath and was about to go back to the high bed when he realized Marianne was standing next to the chair. He hadn’t even heard her get out of bed, nor approach the window. “I didn’t mean to wake you,” he whispered, quickly coming to his feet. Unable to sleep, he had pulled on a pair of breeches and his shirt for his moment of contemplation by the window.