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Authors: Romy Sommer
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winding,
flower-bedecked alleys. Her feet grew heavier with every step she took. An
unseen force seemed to pull her backwards.
Somewhere
among that throng on the shore front Stefano might be dancing, his arms wrapped
around a pliant village signorina , seducing her with his dimpling smile
and entrancing eyes.
They
reached the high road through the village, and she cast a last glance
backwards. In spite of everything, in spite of the drama and violence and
hardship she’d encountered in Italy, she still wanted to be a part of that
celebration.
She
sighed. But no matter how much kinship she felt to them, the Italians were
strangers, and she did not belong in their world. She had to return to her own
people. And somehow she would have to find that balance in herself between
emotion and restraint, between love and duty.
Chapter Nine
Isobel
hovered in the doorway of the drawing room, daunted by the multitude of people.
Her aunt must have invited every expatriate within fifty miles to meet the
Conte. How she’d managed to put together such a party in so short a time,
Isobel couldn’t imagine.
She’d
timed her arrival so that the drawing room was already full, in the hope that
everyone would be too absorbed in conversation to pay her any attention. She’d
hoped in vain.
“Isobel,
I’ve been searching everywhere for you!” Her aunt’s voice rose above the hum of
voices as Isobel stepped over the threshold.
She
forced a smile and faced her aunt. Her heart faltered. It couldn’t be.
Aunt
Alice looked like the proverbial cat. “This is the Conte di Cilento.”
“Stefano,”
he corrected, reaching forward to take her limp hand and raise it to his mouth.
Except at the last minute he flipped her hand over and brushed his lips across
her palm. That made three times he’d kissed her hand. The gesture still made
her legs weak.
But
the man who stood before her, urbane and sophisticated, wasn’t the Stefano she
knew. He moved with the easy grace she so admired, as comfortable in formal
attire as he’d been in fisherman’s garb. But this was not the man who had
introduced her to limoncello or walked with her through the woods.
This
man, impeccably dressed in a tailored black dinner jacket, and a crisp white
shirt with a white bow tie, was a stranger, his eyes cool and distant, his
expression stark without its usual interest and admiration.
“Pleased
to meet you.” She choked out the ritual words.
He
did not release her hand, even as the floor began to tilt beneath her feet.
She
finally remembered to breathe.
Her
erratic heartbeat pulsed between them, through the connection of their fingers.
She yanked her hand back, severing the contact.
So
this is what you wanted to tell me! Except
in this room full of people she couldn’t say any of the things that suddenly
sprang into her mind. Things like what does this mean? or who are you?
“Dinner
is served,” Edwards’ voice boomed behind her.
With
so many guests, dinner this evening was a formal occasion with strict protocol
and orders of precedence. Stefano stepped away to take the arm of his hostess
to escort her in to dinner.
“You
are seated beside me tonight,” Christopher said in her ear. The satisfaction in
his voice wasn’t quite enough to drive away her self-doubt, but it warmed her
to know with some certainty that she had at least one man’s interest.
All
was not lost, so why did she feel as if she’d lost something precious.
She
allowed Christopher to steer her towards the dining room. A quick glance down
the table and her heart sank. She was at least half a table away from Stefano.
Close enough to see him and hear him. Though even the entire length of the room
would not have been enough space to prevent her from being aware of his every
move.
In
full evening dress Stefano was magnificent, easily the most arresting man in
the room, with his rugged features and his dark eyes. He bent to exchange a
word with the young lady on his left, and
flower-bedecked alleys. Her feet grew heavier with every step she took. An
unseen force seemed to pull her backwards.
Somewhere
among that throng on the shore front Stefano might be dancing, his arms wrapped
around a pliant village signorina , seducing her with his dimpling smile
and entrancing eyes.
They
reached the high road through the village, and she cast a last glance
backwards. In spite of everything, in spite of the drama and violence and
hardship she’d encountered in Italy, she still wanted to be a part of that
celebration.
She
sighed. But no matter how much kinship she felt to them, the Italians were
strangers, and she did not belong in their world. She had to return to her own
people. And somehow she would have to find that balance in herself between
emotion and restraint, between love and duty.
Chapter Nine
Isobel
hovered in the doorway of the drawing room, daunted by the multitude of people.
Her aunt must have invited every expatriate within fifty miles to meet the
Conte. How she’d managed to put together such a party in so short a time,
Isobel couldn’t imagine.
She’d
timed her arrival so that the drawing room was already full, in the hope that
everyone would be too absorbed in conversation to pay her any attention. She’d
hoped in vain.
“Isobel,
I’ve been searching everywhere for you!” Her aunt’s voice rose above the hum of
voices as Isobel stepped over the threshold.
She
forced a smile and faced her aunt. Her heart faltered. It couldn’t be.
Aunt
Alice looked like the proverbial cat. “This is the Conte di Cilento.”
“Stefano,”
he corrected, reaching forward to take her limp hand and raise it to his mouth.
Except at the last minute he flipped her hand over and brushed his lips across
her palm. That made three times he’d kissed her hand. The gesture still made
her legs weak.
But
the man who stood before her, urbane and sophisticated, wasn’t the Stefano she
knew. He moved with the easy grace she so admired, as comfortable in formal
attire as he’d been in fisherman’s garb. But this was not the man who had
introduced her to limoncello or walked with her through the woods.
This
man, impeccably dressed in a tailored black dinner jacket, and a crisp white
shirt with a white bow tie, was a stranger, his eyes cool and distant, his
expression stark without its usual interest and admiration.
“Pleased
to meet you.” She choked out the ritual words.
He
did not release her hand, even as the floor began to tilt beneath her feet.
She
finally remembered to breathe.
Her
erratic heartbeat pulsed between them, through the connection of their fingers.
She yanked her hand back, severing the contact.
So
this is what you wanted to tell me! Except
in this room full of people she couldn’t say any of the things that suddenly
sprang into her mind. Things like what does this mean? or who are you?
“Dinner
is served,” Edwards’ voice boomed behind her.
With
so many guests, dinner this evening was a formal occasion with strict protocol
and orders of precedence. Stefano stepped away to take the arm of his hostess
to escort her in to dinner.
“You
are seated beside me tonight,” Christopher said in her ear. The satisfaction in
his voice wasn’t quite enough to drive away her self-doubt, but it warmed her
to know with some certainty that she had at least one man’s interest.
All
was not lost, so why did she feel as if she’d lost something precious.
She
allowed Christopher to steer her towards the dining room. A quick glance down
the table and her heart sank. She was at least half a table away from Stefano.
Close enough to see him and hear him. Though even the entire length of the room
would not have been enough space to prevent her from being aware of his every
move.
In
full evening dress Stefano was magnificent, easily the most arresting man in
the room, with his rugged features and his dark eyes. He bent to exchange a
word with the young lady on his left, and
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