“I understand.” She paused. “Sir Ian says I shall always have to be separated from my mother. That my association with her will be unacceptable to any gentleman because of what she is.”
“I fear that may be true.”
“I refuse to believe it.” She met the other woman’s sympathetic gaze. “Since I must marry, I must find a man who loves me. If he loves me enough, he will accept my mother when we are married and give me his permission to see her. I will persuade him.”
“That may also be true.” Grace was silent for a moment, then she gave a little laugh. “We find our conversation back where it started, I think.”
Lucia frowned in puzzlement. “What do you mean?”
“You are supposed to be getting a husband, and men, heaven bless them, care nothing for women’s fashions. I find most men are far more susceptible to a full bosom and a low neckline.”
Lucia laughed. “My thoughts exactly.”
Sir Ian, however, was not most men. Though he had admitted to a hint of susceptibility where she was concerned, Lucia had the feeling that wasn’t enough to bring him around to her way of thinking. It was clear he intended to carry out her father’s wishes to the letter, and none of her persuasive tactics the night before had served to change his mind. She had to get him on her side, but how?
At dinner, she studied him as a general about to engage in a battle campaign would study a map, trying to determine what method of attack to employ next, but it wasn’t until late in the evening that she had a new plan in mind.
While others in the house were preparing for bed, Lucia went in search of her quarry. She found him in the library, which was perfect for her purposes. Peeking around the open doorway, she saw him seated at his brother’s desk, his head bent over a letter he was writing. If this was a battle, the first step was to know the enemy. She intended to do just that.
He glanced up as she entered the room and immediately rose to his feet with a bow.
“I came in search of a book,” she said. “I hope I am not disturbing you?”
“Not at all.”
She moved toward the bookshelves at the other end of the room and began to peruse the titles there as he resumed his seat and his work.
Lucia waited, pretending vast interest in her task, trying to be patient, hoping he would open conversation. He finally did.
“Are you looking for a particular type of book to read?” he asked.
She glanced at him and found he was still writing his letter. “No, I do not think so,” she answered. “There are so many here, it will be hard to choose one.”
She ran her fingertips lightly over the spines of volumes closest to her. “There are several etiquette books here. Are they for Isabel?”
“Yes, I believe so.” He set down his quill and sprinkled blotting powder over the document before him, then blew it off and reached for sealing wax. “Though I doubt she’s read any of them.”
“Why should she? Etiquette books are dull.”
“You would say something like that.”
She smiled. “Do not mistake my meaning, Sir Ian. I find etiquette books very useful.”
He set his finished letter aside and looked at her. “Do you, indeed?” His voice was skeptical.
She smiled. “They are most excellent for propping doors open.”
That got an answering smile from him, but if she thought that would cause him to give her his full attention, she was mistaken. He reached for a fresh sheet of paper, dipped his quill in the inkwell, and began again.
She moved a bit farther down the shelves, trying to think of a way to keep the conversation going, but he did it for her. “I am writing a report to your father,” he said. “Is there anything you would like me to say on your behalf?”
“That I wish to choose my own husband?”
“Your father’s mind is not going to be changed on that point, I fear, regardless of what I may say.”
“Yes, he buys a man for me instead.”
“I will do what I can to make certain the man I recommend is not merely a fortune hunter. But you have to understand that when you are launched into society, you will be the victim of everyone’s scrutiny. Possible suitors and their relations will insist upon knowing your background. They will gossip, and word will spread. That is something I cannot prevent. Given your illegitimacy, your mother’s identity, and the incident at Carnival, any gentlemen not after your money will have legitimate reservations about marrying you.”
“You are telling these men what happened in Bolgheri?”
“Yes. I am phrasing it as diplomatically as possible, of course.”
“Would it not be easier to find me a husband if you did not tell them?”
“It is not a question of what is easier. The news of what happened in Bolgheri is already spreading over Europe. It is bound to arrive here. I do not want any serious suitor to have an unpleasant shock, so I am defusing the damage early.”
“I see.” She moved further along the shelves, studying the books. “Your brother’s collection of books is very fine,” she said, veering the subject away from herself.
“Yes. I have often envied Dylan that.”
“You have?” She turned to look at him. “But why? Surely you could have a set of books just as fine.”
“There would be no point, for I should never be able to enjoy them.” He gestured to documents spread all around him. “I am away from home most of the time, and it is impractical to carry one’s book collection all over the globe.”
“True.” She leaned back against the bookshelves behind her. “Is your profession the reason you have never married?”
“I am gone all the time, usually never staying in one place for more than a few months. I should have to leave a wife and children at home, or cart them about from place to place. It would not be right.”
She tilted her head, studying him. “Do you always do what is right?”
“I try to, yes.”
She smiled. “I don’t.”
That got a wry smile from him in return. “So I’ve noticed,” he said, and returned his attention to his work.
“To never marry, to never have children, to travel all about and never settle at home must be lonely.”
The quill stopped moving, but only for the barest second. “It can be,” he said, and resumed writing.
“Your work is very important to you, isn’t it?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
That garnered his full attention. He stopped writing and rested his elbows on the desk. Rolling the quill in his palms, he thought about it for a moment before he spoke. “Britain is the most powerful nation in the world, and I believe such a position carries enormous responsibility. I do what I can to ensure my nation uses its power wisely.”
Lucia thought about that for a moment, then she shook her head. “That may be true, but it is not the reason.”
She straightened away from the bookshelf and walked over to a place beside his chair. Facing him, she sat on top of the desk, oblivious to the papers spread across its surface.
“There are chairs in the room,” he pointed out.
She settled herself more comfortably where she was, rustling the papers beneath her. “It is all very noble, what you say about your country’s power and responsibility, but that is not the main reason you do what you do.”
He turned his head to look up at her. “You are sitting on a very important trade agreement with the Dutch.”
She waved aside the Dutch. “No, you are a diplomat because you like to be the one who has the power in any situation.”
“That, too,” he admitted.
“And,” she went on, “because you are so good at hiding how you feel, you always have the power. You always have the upper hand. Is that not how you see it?”
“Yes. You would not agree, I daresay, for you wear your feelings on your sleeve, and those feelings change from moment to moment.”
Lucia was not bothered by that ass
essment. “I am capricious, it is true. I am a person of strong emotions, and I do not hide them.”
“But it robs you of control over a given situation.”
“Perhaps.” She slanted him a knowing look, her mouth curving upward at the corners. “Perhaps not.”
He made no reaction. How she would love to shake this man’s iron discipline. Her blood stirred with a hint of excitement, and she could not resist the temptation to try. She leaned a little closer to him. “There is more than one way to have power, Sir Ian,” she said in her silkiest way. “And being out of control is not always a bad thing.”
He did not move. “Is that supposed to persuade me to hand over control of your situation to you?”
Lucia leaned back and admitted it. “I hope so.”
“Why do you want it so much?”
She smiled sweetly. “Because I cannot have it.”
Sir Ian expelled a harsh breath that was almost a laugh. “That I believe.”
“Sir Ian, I shall be serious with you. Getting married is the most important thing a woman does in her life. It must be a choice. My choice and his, made with mutual respect and love.”
He stirred in his chair as if impatient, but she pushed on. “Cesare says I shall not have the choice of whom to marry, but he only says that to punish me, for he is angry. Sir Ian, please do not do me this injustice. Giving me the choice of whom I marry costs you nothing, and it is the right thing to do. You said yourself that you always do what is right.”
Sir Ian shoved back his chair and stood up. Afraid he was leaving, Lucia jumped off the desk and put a hand on his arm. “My father offers much money for some man to marry me, but if I do not have that man’s love and respect, I shall be under his boot, and that would make me unhappy all my days.”
He stiffened, and Lucia felt a pang of disappointment. She let her hand fall to her side. “I should have known you would not understand.”
She turned away, but his next words brought her up short. “On the contrary, Miss Valenti, I do understand.”
“You do?” She stopped and faced him again. Hope flickered to life.
“Yes. I recognize that you have a profound need to control your own destiny, and a deep desire for love. You are not in the same position as your sister, and treaties are not at stake. Your preferences in this matter should have been considered from the beginning.” He clasped his hands behind his back. “In that regard, I was…I was…”
“Wrong?” she supplied.
“Hasty.”
“Of course,” she agreed at once, allowing him that description. “What happens now?”
He gave the hem of his waistcoat a tug. “A compromise seems in order. I agree to allow your preference to be the deciding factor. However, I insist upon certain conditions.”
Lucia gave a sigh of relief. “What conditions?”
“Each and every man you meet must have my approval before you are to have anything further to do with him. And you may be sure that Grace will be well aware of what sort of men I would find acceptable. No blacksmiths. No poets, no painters, no rakes, or scoundrels of any kind.”
She feigned disappointment. “A pity. Always, I have wanted a rake to fall in love with me. It is every woman’s dream.”
“And women wonder why we men find your sex utterly baffling.”
“I assure you, I shall not fall in love with a rake. No, no.” She gave a dreamy, tongue-in-cheek sigh. “But it would be so exciting if he fell in love with me.”
“To my mind, you’ve had enough excitement in your life.”
“You really are impossible to tease,” she told him with an exasperated sigh. “What other conditions do you have?”
“Obviously, the man in question must be willing to marry you,” he said, and began gathering the papers on his desk. “In addition, all Cesare’s requirements must be met: a Catholic peer with a title, estates, fortune, and respected connections. And the schedule remains the same. Your father arrives less than six weeks from now. You have until then to find a man acceptable to us both.”
“But—”
“Six weeks.” He dropped his sheaf of documents into the leather dispatch case that lay open on the desk and looked at her, his expression hard and resolute. “If you have not chosen a particular man from among your suitors by then, I will choose one for you.”
She did not know if that amount of time would be sufficient to find the man she wanted, but she knew she could push him no further at this point. “I agree to your conditions.”
“Excellent. Now, as it is very late, I believe I shall go to bed.” He closed his dispatch case. Grasping it by the handles, he bowed, then moved past her and left the room. It was probably fortunate for both of them that he did not hear her next words.
“I agree,” she repeated in a whisper toward the open doorway. “For now.”
Chapter 7
Rosehill, Lord and Lady Kettering’s residence during the London season, had the advantage of being north of Hyde Park, in Bays-water. Though only a short distance from Town, it was considered to be in the country, Grace explained to Lucia as they rode with Dylan and Ian to that destination.
The estate was possessed of generous grounds and splendid gardens, and Lady Kettering’s annual amateur concert was held in the manner of a garden party, unreliable English weather permitting, of course. On the lawn, Lucia was told, there would be an enormous marquee, and beneath it, a stage would provide the means by which accomplished young ladies could show off their talents, or as Dylan had pointed out, their lack thereof. Facing the stage would be plenty of seats for the hopefully appreciative audience. After the young ladies had finished playing, an octet of professional musicians would take over. Guests could then partake of refreshments and visit with friends at the tables on the lawn or stroll through the grounds.
As beautiful as the setting proved to be, if Lucia had any hopes of meeting men such as those she had described to Sir Ian, those hopes went unfulfilled. She had now been given the ability to choose, but it hardly mattered. Not a single man at Lady Kettering’s event made her pulses rise one tiny bit. Some of the men were nice, some were handsome, all were polite, but none proved appealing enough or interesting enough to attract her.
Nonetheless, Lucia did like to be liked, and she was determined to make a good impression. So, she sat on a chair under the marquee, fanning herself in the warm spring afternoon, smiling at people until her jaw ached. She flirted with the men delicately and complimented them shamelessly. She laughed at their jokes and listened to their stories. She did everything she could to give each man she met her utmost attention. There were times, such as this moment, when that was an uphill struggle.
“Of course, it’s all in the pollination, my dear Miss Valenti,” Lord Walford said, leaning forward in his chair to explain in detail. “And that is a tricky business. You see, once the anthers ripen and the pollen is released…”
Lucia stared at Walford, trying to conceal her bafflement. She did not understand how a man who was sitting with a young woman he might decide to marry could wish to discuss rose pollination. Englishmen, she decided, were incomprehensible. She liked pretty flowers as well as the next girl, but she did not need an hour-long dissertation on how to breed them.
She somehow managed to extricate herself from Lord Walford, only to be introduced to some other man. With each introduction, with each discussion of the weather and each polite inquiry about her health, Lucia felt her future happiness moving further and further out of reach. By sunset, she could take no more. She whispered to Grace that she needed to be alone for a short while. Slipping away, she went for a walk.
After strolling along a graveled path, she found a charming, quiet little grotto with a fountain. Breathing a sigh of relief that she was alone at last, and no gentleman was going to offer to fetch her yet another glass of punch or give her his assessment of the beautiful day, she sat down on a stone bench. Leaning forward, she rested one elbow on her knee and her chin in her hand
. She stared into the lily pond nearby, discouraged and confused.
She did not understand the English. Truly, she did not. How could she ever fall in love and marry one of them? She was accustomed to torrid Frenchmen and volatile Italian men. These Englishmen, with their civility and restraint and lack of romance, seemed so dull by comparison. Where was the passion? The fire?
A pair of gray eyes came into her mind. There was fire there. She had seen it lurking beneath that polished, polite veneer the other night.
Or she might have just imagined it. Today, Sir Ian was scrupulously polite, his address was impeccable, and his occasional conversations with her were just as trivial as those of all the other men with whom she had spoken.
Perhaps she had expected too much from this first outing. After all, this was her first foray into English society, and it had been unrealistic to think that the man of her dreams was going to appear as easily as that. But he was out there, she knew it, and she was going to find him. She had to.
Lucia closed her eyes and said a little prayer to God that by the time her father arrived, she found a man—not one she was forced to marry, but one she wanted to marry—a man who could make her pulse race and her breath catch, a man she could talk to and laugh with, a man she could love for a lifetime. Lucia didn’t think that was too much to ask.
From the look of things, Ian could only conclude that Miss Valenti had suitors eating out of her hand, because at any given time, half a dozen of them were following her around like little puppies hoping for treats. It was not until late in the afternoon when the party was almost over that Ian managed to catch her alone, sitting on a stone bench in a grotto, gazing into a lily pond. She looked up as he approached.
Ian glanced around. “No flock of admirers following you?”
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