Scandalous Brides: In Scandal in Venice\The Spanish Bride (29 page)

Its cool smoothness against his skin, callused from riding, reminded him that this was a nightmare, or a dream, that had become all too real.

Chapter Five

“L
ook, Peter, here is an account of the ball last night!” In her excitement Elizabeth rattled the newspaper so vehemently that her morning chocolate sloshed out of her cup onto the white damask tablecloth.

“Indeed?” Peter did not look up from his letters, which he had not actually read a word of since he had sat down.

“Indeed! And we are mentioned.”

“
You
are always mentioned, Lizzie. You cannot step from the front door without causing a stir these days.”

“Hm, but here they have actually gone to the trouble of describing my gown and jewels. Usually they just say I was there. See here, ‘cerulean silk trimmed in white alençon lace and satin rosebuds, created by the new couturier Madame Auverge, and the stunning Everdean pearls.’ My consequence must be increasing. This is excellent, since I am unveiling Lady Kingsley’s portrait at a small soiree next week, and I think it is quite the finest work I have done thus far. The portrait, and my being mentioned at all the right gatherings, should mean even more commissions.” She scanned the rest of the column. “Do you not want to know what they say about you?”

“What do they say? That I wore a ‘stunning’ blue—no, cerulean—coat, created by Weston?” Peter smirked.

“No, much better by far! They report that you appeared quite fascinated by the lovely Condesa de Santiago, who is recently arrived from the Continent, and that you were seen escorting her onto the terrace.”

Peter’s coffee cup slipped from his hand, but he did not even notice the hot stain that spread across his new doeskin breeches. He frowned at his grinning sister, who he wouldn’t put it past to have sent that little tidbit in to the papers herself. “Scandalous rag! What is it you are reading, Elizabeth? They shall be out of print by the end of the day.”

“Why?” Elizabeth’s eyes widened innocently. “Is it not true? Were you not on the terrace with the condesa? Locked in an embrace?”

“It was not like that.” Peter’s jaw was taut.

“Not like—what? She is beautiful, is she not? And rather familiar-seeming, as well.”

“What are you talking about?”

“The condesa, of course. Quite intriguing. I was beginning to have hopes that your tastes are improving. That actress Yvette ...” Elizabeth frowned. “I have never seen that shade of blonde in nature.”

“Yvette is hardly a suitable topic for a man to discuss with his sister, Elizabeth. Besides which ...”

“Oh, how every vexing! I did so want to ‘discuss it,’ ” Elizabeth cried.

“Also, if you would please not interrupt, I have some other news for you.”

“Really?” Elizabeth blithely reached for the butter. “What is that?”

“I have decided to make an offer for Lady Deidra Clearbridge.”

Elizabeth’s reaction was not at all what he had expected. The piece of toast she was buttering fell from her hand and landed butter-side-down on the lap of her green morning gown. Her jaw gaped. “You are what?”

“Going to offer for Lady Deidra Clearbridge. I thought that would make you happy. You are always harping at me to make a respectable match and set up my nursery. I am going to do so.” As soon as he could figure out what to do with the very-much-alive first Countess of Clifton.

“First of all, I do not harp! And Lady Deidra is not at all what I could have wished for. She is such a milk-and-water miss.” Elizabeth’s nose wrinkled.

“Living in Italy has made you bold, Lizzie. Lady Deidra is perfectly proper.”

“You would run her over in a month, Peter! I know you. The condesa is much more your style.”

Peter tossed down his letters and rose to his feet. “I must go out, if you will excuse me, Lizzie.”

“You are avoiding the subject, as usual. Where are you going? And are you going like that?” She looked pointedly at the large coffee stain on his leg.

“I was going to go upstairs and change, but if you think I could start a new fashion ...”

“You
are
in a mood this morning. But if you do not want to tell me where you are going, I certainly have no wish to know.”

Peter laughed and bent down to kiss her cheek. “I am in a ‘mood’ because of the late night last night, thanks to my social sister! I am an old man, and need my sleep.”

“You? Old? Ha! I have more gray in my hair than you.”

“You, dear, are eternally young. And when is your husband coming to Town, O Goddess of Youth?”

“The day after tomorrow, thankfully! I need his assistance in planning a house party at our new country manor, since I know that
you
will be of no help.”

“Well, do try to stay out of trouble until then.” He started to turn away.

Elizabeth caught his hand, suddenly serious. “Peter, dear, are you quite certain you have been well? You look rather pale this morning, and I think that ... well, I know you said you have not had any spells of late, and I believe you, but ...”

“Lizzie,” Peter interrupted. “I am really quite well. And now I must be going. I have an appointment that I must keep.” He kissed her cheek again, and left the breakfast room.

Elizabeth watched him go, worrying with her teeth at her lower lip. “Don’t forget!” she called. “We are engaged to attend Lady Castleton’s musicale tonight.”

Across Town, another pair of eyes scanned the same newspaper over the breakfast table.

“Scandalous!” Carmen hissed. “Deep in enraptured conversation, indeed. I think this paper must employ the same writers that create your horrid novels, Esperanza.”

“Mama?” a little voice piped up. “What are you reading? Can I see it?”

“May
I see it, and no you may not. You do not know how to read yet, anyway,
niña
, and when you can you will read more edifying literature than this rag.” Carmen made a concerted effort to smooth the frown from her face. She folded the paper, placed it carefully beside her plate, and smiled at her daughter.

“I can so read! A bit. Esperanza is teaching me to write my name.” While her mother’s attention had been turned, Isabella had systematically demolished her toast into minuscule crumbs. She carefully picked up one of the crumbs with one sticky fingertip and popped it into her mouth. “But it is a very long name, Mama. Why could you not have named me Mary? It’s much shorter.”

“Isabella was your
abuela’s
name!” said Esperanza, crossing herself as she always did at the mention of Carmen’s long-dead, sainted mother. “You should honor it, Isabella.” Then she swept out of the room to fetch the morning post, black bombazine skirts rustling.

Carmen watched her leave, puzzled at her cross behavior. “Indeed, it is your grandmother’s name, Bella, and a pretty name, too.” She reached out with her napkin to wipe Isabella’s small chin. “And soon, we shall find you a governess, to teach you to behave like the fine lady your grandmother was.”

Isabella pulled a face. “I do not need a governess! I have you and Esperanza.”

Carmen tousled Isabella’s already tumbled golden curls. When she made that stubborn, set-jawed face, the child looked so like her father. “Certainly you need a governess. She will be able to teach you so much more than we can.”

“But, Mama ...

Carmen held one finger to her lips. “No more, Bella. But if you are very good this morning, perhaps we could go to Gunter’s for ices this afternoon.”

Isabella brightened. “Really?”

“Really. But only if you have a bath and let Esperanza dress you in your new pink frock.”

Esperanza came back into the breakfast room at that moment, the letters on a silver tray. She smiled, her earlier dark mood apparently forgotten. “So very many invitations again, Carmencita!”

“Thank you, Esperanza. It would appear so.” Carmen surveyed the thick stack of cards and letters. Thankfully, there were no missives sealed with black wax today. “My, but we are becoming popular! Here is an invitation to a supper party at the home of the Marchioness of Penshurst, an invitation to the opera ... but what is this?” She held up a letter written on rich, pale blue stationery, neatly folded and sealed with an elaborate E pressed into darker blue wax. She tore it open and read aloud, “My dear Condesa, please forgive me for writing to you so quickly after our meeting. I know we were not properly introduced at the Duchess of Dacey’s ball, but we are women of the world, and can overlook such silliness! If you are not otherwise engaged, could you take tea with me this afternoon? I am quite longing to become better acquainted with you. Sincerely, Lady Elizabeth Hollingsworth.”

“Hollingsworth?” Esperanza said. “The lady artist we heard of when we were in Italy?”

“The very one. I met her at the ball last night. She said she would like to paint my portrait; she was very charming. And she was married to one of the English officers I knew during the war.” Carmen did not mention the fact that Elizabeth was, in reality, her own sister-in-law. She had told Esperanza, long ago when she had arrived home enceinte, that she had been married briefly. But she had never said to whom, and she had always thought Esperanza only half believed that she had been legally wed. It seemed rather ill timed to bring it up now.

“Carmen, this is wonderful!” Esperanza cried. “This Lady Elizabeth is so well-known.”

“Hm, yes, she is. But I really don’t have time to sit for another portrait now.” She carefully folded the letter. “You are right, though, Esperanza dear, in saying that she is quite well-known. Patrons are lined up to have her paint their portrait, and she does me great honor in requesting I sit for her. So I shall have tea with her. After I look at these letters of application for the post of governess.”

After quieting Isabella’s protests about the governess, Carmen sent her off with Esperanza to be washed and dressed for the day. Then she retreated to the small room that would be her library, a cozy room with deep, comfortable sofas and chairs, and crates of well-loved books waiting to be unpacked and placed on the empty shelves. From the tall windows, she could see the small park across the way, where children and nursemaids were gathering.

She had hopes that soon this room would feel a haven of quiet from the world.

Today, it was not.

She sat down at her little French desk to pen a reply to Elizabeth’s letter, but somehow the polite, simple words would not come. Instead, she sat, chin in hand, and watched that park, watched the children at play.

Was she making a mistake in responding, even in a small way, to Elizabeth’s friendly overtures? She genuinely liked her, even on such brief acquaintance. She was merry and charming, unafraid to go after what she wanted; Carmen sensed that they could well be kindred, unconventional spirits. And Carmen remembered well Elizabeth’s handsome, funny husband.

But Elizabeth was also Peter’s sister.

Peter, who had become so bitter that he no longer seemed the same gallant man she had once known, once loved. The years had changed him so.

Just as they had changed her.

Carmen twisted the emerald on her finger, finding its familiar weight comforting. No, she was not the same idealistic girl she had been then. Despite the disappointments of her first marriage, the horrors of war, she had been so full of romantic hopes and dreams.

Peter had seemed almost a fairy tale then, a knight who would carry her away from the fears and the danger with only his kiss. But, of course, that had been an illusion. He had died and left her alone, and she had carried on as best she could. It had not been a fairy tale by any means, her life of travel and searching, but she had survived. She had even carved out a measure of happiness with her little girl.

If Peter discovered Isabella, he could take her away if he chose. He had seemed quite angry enough last night to so choose. That would be the one thing that could shatter Carmen’s life utterly and beyond repair.

Perhaps it would be better if she left England right away, and be damned to the blackmailer. She could go to Russia, or America, or anywhere far away where no one could find her daughter.

And yet ... she could not ignore the way her heart sang when she saw his face again, his beautiful face. She had longed to throw herself against his chest, to bury her face against his neck and inhale his well-remembered scent, to feel his arms safely around her again.

Those warm Spanish nights they had shared had come rushing back to her in that moment, and it was as if the years had never passed.

She had missed Peter terribly, for six long years. And she had seen the look on his face when he saw the moonlight flash on her ring. He had missed her, too.

Despite the lies and the misunderstandings, he had missed her.

If only the years and experience did not lie between them. And so very many secrets.

Carmen pressed her hands against her eyes, trying to hold back the flood of futile tears that threatened to flow.

A knock sounded at the closed door.

“Carmen?” Esperanza called. “Are you there?”

Carmen blinked fiercely and scrubbed at her cheeks. She picked up her pen and tried to appear unruffled. “Yes, Esperanza, what is it?”

Esperanza opened the door and came in, her silver tray bearing a single calling card held before her. “You have a visitor. A man.” Her sniff conveyed her disapproval.

“A man? It is not my at-home day. Whoever can it be?” She reached for the card and stared down at the elegant script printed there:

Peter Everdean, the Earl of Clifton.

She turned it over and read the one word scrawled there in pencil.

Please.

“Madre de Dios,” she whispered. “What is he doing here? How did he find my house?”

Well. It seemed there was nothing for it. She would just have to see him.

Chapter Six

C
armen smoothed her hair for the fifth time, staring intently into the mirror, but not really seeing the neat fall of short curls bound by a blue satin ribbon. She was only searching for excuses not to enter the drawing room.