A Marriage Deal With The Viscount

Around Conall, people began to shift in their seats, heads craning to the back doors. Murmurs escalated to barely suppressed whispers. Time to start? Conall turned in his seat to catch sight of the bride and the signal to stand, but there was no one. ‘False alarm, eh?’ He elbowed his friend, Lord Hargreaves, good-naturedly.

Hargreaves, blond and young, with a nose for gossip, arched his eyebrow. ‘Hardly a false alarm, old chap.’ He lifted his chin with a discreet jerk to indicate the back rows of the church where a woman sat, square-shouldered, and dressed in lavender. Conall chuckled at that—lavender was a colour for half-mourning. Perhaps someone else understood weddings as he did. The woman’s face was veiled by a fetching lavender creation atop spun-gold hair, but it could not entirely obscure her identity.

She was not the sort of woman a man forgot.

Even veiled, there was an allure to her. She could not hide in a crowd even if she wanted to and apparently today she wanted to. The veil was doing La Marchesa di Cremona no favours. If anything, the mystery it created made her even more conspicuous. Some people were just made to stand out.

‘I wouldn’t have thought she’d dare it,’ Hargreaves went on. ‘Then again, she’s dared so much already, one wonders if another dare matters.’ Hargreaves narrowed his gaze in mild disgust. ‘Lady Brixton’s affections tolerate much. Although I wonder if Lady Brixton actually thought she would come?’

La Marchesa chose that moment to lift her veil and settle it atop her hat, revealing the refined alabaster features of her face. In her eyes was a quiet fire that challenged the guests to look their fill. She sat still, the very rigidity of her posture a defence against the murmurs flying behind fans. Hargreaves leaned close with a whisper. ‘It was all around White’s yesterday that she refused Wenderly’s offer of carte blanche. Slapped him for it, in fact.’

Conall stiffened at the callous treatment of her reputation, not caring for the way Hargreaves dissected her, although he’d be hard pressed to explain why. ‘Is there a reason she should have accepted? Wenderly’s over fifty, nearly old enough to be her father.’ It wasn’t just the age. Wenderly had peculiar tastes. The thought of her with such a man put a cold pit in Conall’s stomach. He told himself the compulsion to defend La Marchesa was for Helena’s sake.

Hargreaves raised an eyebrow. ‘One wonders what she has to live on if she refuses men like Wenderly out of hand.’ The implication was crassly clear. A woman alone required a protector. ‘Her refusal cost Wenderly the loss of several hundred pounds and his pride at the betting book. Everyone is speculating about who she’s angling for if she feels she can disregard such a generous offer. Wenderly’s pockets are deep. He’d have kept her in jewels and gowns. She’d be striking on his arm, with her height and her hair colouring,’ Hargreaves hypothesised with shrewd calculation. ‘She could have been set for some time.’

Ah, so that was the root of Cowden’s remark about honourable recourse for supporting herself. Cowden feared without the outlet for business investments, La Marchesa might be ‘inclined’ to take a less honourable offer of support. What else remained for an Englishwoman who’d been away so long she’d become something of a foreigner to her own people?

The realisation that other men coveted her, that they reacted to her in the most carnal of ways, sat poorly with Conall. He told himself it was for business reasons. If she chose to invest with him, his family would be linked with her. Perhaps he should consider if there was truth to the rumours before rushing to champion her simply on Cowden’s hesitant word. He’d spent less than an hour in her company. What did he know of her tastes and associations? Perhaps she was deserving of the speculations being whispered around him. And yet his conscience whispered another message: perhaps she was not. Simply because her husband was not with her shouldn’t make her a target of vicious gossip. But he knew better. A woman alone who also had the audacity to be beautiful could not escape notice or censure. She was a creature who defied the natural laws of society.

He’d been out in society long enough to know he shouldn’t be surprised by the stir she caused. La Marchesa had an incomparable elegance and maintained a freshness about her that made a man want to stare, want to imagine tracing his finger along the delicate line of her jaw, across the pink of those lips, down the slim column of her neck to the discreet décolletage of her lavender gown. She certainly didn’t dress like the demi-monde. Her gown today was all that was proper, as was everything about her: her posture, her tasteful, quiet jewellery. Without the whispers, she might have been any gentleman’s wife.

How many other gentlemen were sitting here nursing the same idea? Could she be theirs? Conall’s own speculations stirred to life. He gave a deprecating chuckle at the direction of his thoughts. He was lowering himself to society’s level with such base thoughts. Why did the presence or absence of a man at a woman’s side define her? It was a thought worthy of his sister, Cecilia, who believed herself to be a grand proponent of liberated womanhood.

La Marchesa lifted a hand to play with the pearl necklace that lay at the base of her throat, the only sign that she was uncomfortable in her surroundings, or that she might possibly be privy to the things whispered about her.

Hargreaves tilted his head in frank appraisal. ‘She’s a beauty and now, with her European seasoning, she’ll bring a delicious je ne sais quoi to a sophisticated man’s bed.’ The last did it. Conall rose. He would not sit there and be party to sordid gossip about a woman who had no opportunity to defend herself against rumours, deserved or not. A woman, without a man to defend her, had no recourse and this was the result. She made herself an easy target for society’s sharp arrows.

‘Where are you going, Taunton?’ Hargreaves looked aggrieved at his departure, then caught the trajectory of his gaze. ‘Oh, you think to try your luck?’ He chuckled knowingly. ‘Be careful. Wenderly isn’t the first to fail. I hear she’s a man-eater, like one of those flowers that lure insects and then shuts its petals around its victim. Not that I’d mind having those petals wrapped around me and squeezing hard, if you know what I mean.’

Conall swallowed, his words terse. ‘I do know exactly what you mean. If you’ll excuse me?’ He made his way back up the aisle and slid into the empty space beside her, just as the doors of St George’s opened and the bride sailed forth on her father’s arm, white, pure and unsullied, drawing attention away from the Marchesa.

‘What are you doing?’ La Marchesa whispered as the crowd surged to their feet in a loud rustle of clothing.

Conall smiled. ‘Weddings are best enjoyed with a friend and you seemed in need of one.’

‘Thank you, but for the record, I was perfectly fine on my own.’ She smiled back, the briefest of expressions. ‘I hope you don’t regret it. Rumour has it I’m a dangerous woman to know.’ Then in quiet undertones, she added, ‘Don’t think for a moment this will help you get your money. You can’t flatter or flirt your way into my finances.’

Conall kept his gaze straight ahead, politely fixed on the bride’s progression. ‘It never crossed my mind.’ It truly hadn’t. He’d looked to the back and seen the determined expression in her eyes. That had been enough. She was a warrior among foes here. For reasons he couldn’t fathom, and didn’t want to fathom, he hadn’t wanted her to be alone. For all the strength and sharpness she’d exhibited, there was vulnerability in her, too.

Perhaps it was his fascination with that vulnerability, with her mystery, that had prodded him to the back. Perhaps it was sheer chivalry that demanded he stand up for the Treshams, who’d taken her in, or maybe it was simply because he knew what it was like to be alone in a room full of people. There’d been numerous occasions after his father had died when people hadn’t known what to say, or how to say it, so they’d said nothing, but gone about their conversations with others, talking about him, not to him, just as they were doing to her today. No one acknowledged the Marchesa directly. Even in the crowded church, the spot beside her had remained pointedly empty. But everyone knew she was here and everyone had decided it was best to treat her as if she were invisible or inanimate, a thing that couldn’t be hurt by their darts. All except for him.

Sofia worried the hem of her handkerchief with fingers hidden in the folds of her skirts. She’d be damned if she’d let anyone see how the wedding discomfited her. She’d provided them enough sport for the day simply by being there—something she was regretting in hindsight. It was true: weddings always made you remember your own. Her own was something Sofia would rather forget. As a result, she did not enjoy the marital celebration. Specifically, she did not enjoy the way it made her feel.

The bride passed, radiant and innocent in white, and Sofia’s stomach clenched. She’d been radiant and innocent once. Her own wedding had been much like this: pews filled with people, flowers and ribbon festooning the aisles and the candelabra, a dress with yards of satin and lace, and a blushing bride beneath the sheer tulle of her veil. She’d been as eager as this girl for the adventure of marriage.

The adventure had not gone well. It should have, and that it hadn’t had been a surprise. Her husband was handsome, wealthy, well-travelled and titled. He lived in a grand villa in Piedmont, had expansive apartments in Turin, the capital of the Piedmont kingdom, a lodge in the Dolomites, a summer palace, and had showered his bride with enough jewels to turn a young girl’s head. He spent his summers at the villa on Sardinia, his winters gambling in Nice or in Venice amid the festival of Carnevale. For a girl fresh out of finishing school, it had been a fairy-tale come to life. She should have looked closer. She should have refused. Her parents should have refused. They should have known better when she did not. They had of course known, that was the rub. They simply hadn’t cared. They’d needed the money badly enough to forgo looking beneath the Marchese’s glamour.

She was wiser now. When something looked too good to be true, it probably was. Even this attractive man, who stood next to her thinking his station beside her would put a stop to wagging tongues, was likely riddled with secrets. How like a man to believe his presence was all that was required to make a woman decent. Did he ever stop to think his presence might have made things worse?

She’d hoped to be inconspicuous today with a veil of her own lending anonymity, but it had done just the opposite. Neither had her bid for discretion been helped along by the man beside her. It was hard to hide when one was seated by the handsomest man in the room. Every woman’s eyes in the church had followed his progress back up the aisle to the empty seat beside her and the whispers had started again.

Sofia slid Taunton a covert look. Did he realise his efforts had only made her more obvious? Had only intensified the talk about her? His gesture had likely only served to link him to the chain of sordid speculations made about her. She’d bet the contents of her reticule the guests behind them were thinking he’d come to try his luck in winning her intimate attentions much as Wenderly had. Maybe he had. Perhaps he thought his looks would stand him in better stead than Wenderly. Perhaps he even thought to woo the money out of her.

His efforts might have worked on another woman. As for her, she had no intentions of making the same mistake twice. A man needed more to recommend himself than his good looks. If that was behind his reasoning in coming to her side, he would be disappointed in the results. She wouldn’t thank Cowden for it, if he turned out to be the same as other men. She employed the guise of Barnham for precisely that sort of protection when it came to business dealings and she’d trusted Cowden to vet this family friend of his before revealing her situation.

The bride reached the front of the church and everyone took their seats. The service began and Sofia pushed away the rituals and the memories as best she could with thoughts of the upcoming enterprise. If Taunton was right about alpaca wool being as lucrative as his research indicated, she could double her profits, eventually. However, funding the loan for his mill came with a certain amount of risk. Mills were far more expensive than a cargo of silks. The mill loan required focusing a large portion of her funds on a single venture instead of spreading them out among several as she preferred. Diversifying was a much safer investment strategy in case one of the deals didn’t turn out; loans were also paid back slowly, over time. There was little help for her in that.

In the background of the wedding, she was mildly aware of Ferris Tresham’s voice affirming his vows, ‘For richer or poorer...’ A loan certainly was the poorer of the investments. She wasn’t looking to make a loan. She was looking to make money. She had her own causes to pursue, her own dreams about making the world more equitable for women and children, those who had no voice. She’d often thought of building a mill town herself where that could be possible. But she was years from such a goal. Why buy her own mill, why wait until she had funds to do it on her own, when she could do it through the Viscount? She could build her mill town through his mill, through his alpaca-wool industry in exchange for funding his venture. But before that she had to make sure, first hand, the venture was sound. There was no sense in investing in a mill that created a product for which there was no market.

The Dream, as she liked to call it, kept her busy right up to the kiss. Her stomach slowly started to unclench as the bridal couple passed by on their way out of the church. Sofia drew a deep breath. She’d survived, but not unscathed. ‘Are you well?’ Taunton solicited, offering his steady right arm as the guests began to exit. She needed that firm arm more today than she had yesterday. She hated needing it, hated relying on him, a virtual stranger who’d decided to play the hero. Today she was prepared for him, but that didn’t stop the warm strength of him from travelling through her again at his touch.

‘You’re pale.’ There were questions in his grey eyes when he looked at her with concern. But she didn’t want to answer questions today.

‘I’m quite fine. Just a bit tired.’ She lowered her veil as if the fabric could hold the questions at bay a little longer. There would be a consequence for not answering them, though. In her absence, others would respond in her stead with their own speculations. How long would it be before Taunton heard the rumours, before he wanted to know who she was?

Out of doors in the bright sunshine, she released his arm. ‘If you will excuse me, I think I will forgo the wedding breakfast. I’ve a bit of a headache. Will you give my regards to Helena and to the bride and groom?’ She moved into the crowd of guests before he could protest. She had her reprieve—until the next time. And there would be a next time. There was the honeymooners’ ball to get through and, heaven help her, the four-hour train ride to Taunton where they’d have hours with nothing to entertain themselves except each other and her past.

Chapter Four

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.