A Marriage Deal With The Viscount. Bronwyn ScottЧитать онлайн книгу.
is not only about money and you have more than money to offer a bride,’ Frederick warned. ‘You didn’t use to be such a cynic. You were going to marry for love like your parents.’
Conall frowned. ‘Not any more. I can’t afford love and, as it turned out, neither could my father.’
‘Your father did the best he could,’ Frederick said in defence of the deceased, his own tone matching Conall’s in sternness, then suddenly his face changed, his gaze going past Conall’s shoulder.
Conall watched his friend’s face light up as his wife approached and gave a friendly laugh. ‘We can’t all be you, Brixton.’ That didn’t mean the hunger wasn’t still there, the hunger to have what Frederick had. He’d always thought he would. The past year had shown him how flimsy that assumption was and how out of reach. He would need more than luck to reclaim the notion of a love match. He would need a miracle.
They bowed to the ladies and Conall watched with the usual sense of envy as Helena slid her arm through Frederick’s with familiar ease. ‘My dance card is empty,’ she flirted with her husband. ‘Perhaps you might oblige me?’
The five-piece orchestra was tuning up, a ballroom’s subtle call to arms. Around them, matchmaking mamas began to marshal their troops as Ferris and his bride swept out on to the floor to open the dancing. A few turns on their own and then the guests would join the dancing. Helena caught his eye and Conall knew Frederick wasn’t the one doing the obliging. It was him. She’d timed this perfectly, knowing very well he was too much the gentleman to leave a lady standing alone while her friend was dancing and he had no other partner.
‘Marchesa, would you do me the honour?’ He bowed to her and offered his arm. If he waited too long, his gesture would look like an offer of charity.
‘I think Helena has manoeuvred you into this.’ Sofia blushed prettily as he led her on to the floor. The first dance, at Ferris’s request, was most untraditionally a waltz, but the whims of besotted bridegrooms were tolerated on such an occasion as a honeymoon ball.
‘Do you mind? I certainly don’t,’ Conall assured her. He fitted his hand to her waist and took her other hand in his as the signal came for guests to join the dancing. He swept her into the pattern with a wide smile. In truth, he enjoyed dancing and to dance with a partner who was his equal was a rare pleasure. Tonight, he had both the opportunity and the partner with which to indulge himself. She was exquisite in his arms. Her movements answered the slightest direction from his hand; her eyes were alight with a joy that matched his own and he realised that it wasn’t simply the cut of her clothes or the attractiveness of her features alone that gave her beauty. Her beauty came from a well somewhere deep within her. It was an intoxicating well to drink from and one he was in no hurry to relinquish when the dance came to an end.
‘Come outside with me,’ he issued his abrupt invitation with a hint of breathless anticipation. Even without the possibility of a business connection between them, she was captivating. He had not been captivated like this for years, not since he had first come to town, fresh home from his Grand Tour of the Americas and his eyes had lit on Lady Francesca Wheless. Of course, he hadn’t known her. Lady Francesca had turned out to be less perfect after he’d spent three months in pursuit and learned the truth of her. It would likely be the same with La Marchesa, given enough time, but for tonight he wanted to enjoy the illusion of perfection wrapped in sky-blue silk and perhaps she wanted to enjoy the illusion of him. Lord knew he wasn’t perfect, not once one got past the handsome exterior.
The Cowden gardens were well-lit against anyone falling prey to the inherent temptations of a honeymoon ball, but due to the earliness yet of the evening, the gardens were relatively empty. Conall had them—and Sofia—nearly to himself. ‘Are you packed for tomorrow?’ he asked as they strolled, making small talk of their impending trip to Somerset in the morning.
‘Yes.’ She gave a light laugh. ‘The Treshams will be robbed of all their company at once, I fear. Ferris and Anne will leave in the morning, too, as will Helena. She can’t stand to be away from her boys for too long, although Frederick plans to stay a while longer.’ They were doing it, the classic trend of small talk between acquaintances who were neither strangers nor friends; talking of mutually held acquaintances so they didn’t have to talk of themselves. They could talk all night in this manner and never once speak of themselves in any meaningful way.
‘And what will you miss? Unlike the rest of us, you are not going home tomorrow. You are being dragged away on business,’ Conall reminded her in an attempt to redirect the trajectory of the conversation. Tonight, under the moonlight and paper lanterns, he was hungry for a connection based on something more than acquaintance. He wanted something more for them than unpacking their friendship with Brixton and Helena.
She paused thoughtfully. ‘I’ll miss my projects. I help at an orphanage and do some teaching for them. Just little things like basic reading and numbers.’ But it wasn’t little to her, Conall thought, noting the soft smile that took her mouth when she spoke of it. She found meaning and purpose in it. It spoke of a kind soul and Conall thought once more of the inner well of her beauty. The Marchesa was becoming quite a paragon.
Conall tried one more time to learn something uniquely personal about her. ‘You must miss Italy, Marchesa.’ The enquiry was a misstep.
She fixed him with a hard, polite smile. ‘No, my lord, I do not miss Italy at all. In fact, I try not to think about it.’ She was daring him to ask the next question. So intuitive was it, that it was already framing itself in his mind: And your husband? Certainly you must miss him? Conall tamped down hard on the temptation. Tonight was for enjoying illusions, not truths. There’d be time enough for truths in Somerset, for both of them. She was not the only one being careful.
Conall retreated, withdrawing his conversation to safer ground. ‘I’ve never been to Italy, so I have nothing to compare it to, but I’ve heard the weather is temperate, much nicer than here, and the food is delicious.’
‘We lived in Piedmont, in the north-west, surrounded by lakes and the Alps. It was hardly anything like Rome or Florence. The climate would surprise you, I think.’ Conall recognised a bone when he was tossed one and that was what this was—a brief look into her life, albeit a very safe, very narrow slice. It was her way of saying thank you for the retreat, for understanding she didn’t want to disclose any more.
‘Shall we go back in?’ Conall offered as they turned at the end of the gardens. If they were gone too long, Helena would think her matchmaking efforts were successful.
‘Yes, I suppose we should.’ But she sounded reluctant. ‘We wouldn’t want to give Helena any encouragement.’ She smiled, luminous and radiant without trying.
Conall laughed. ‘Those were my thoughts exactly.’ The garden was filling with couples now, the first foray of dancing over, and people were heated, except for the frosty glares women shot Sofia’s way. Some of the men nodded to Conall and stopped to exchange a few short words, but he saw the speculation rife in their eyes. That speculation asked the same question: did he mean to try his luck with her now that Wenderly had failed? He knew Sofia saw it, too. She was tense beside him, her laughter gone, her luminescence shuttered.
‘Perhaps a walk on the terrace?’ Conall offered, sensing her reticence to return inside where the gossip was bound to be worse.
‘I shouldn’t keep you.’ He felt her hand start to pull away from his arm and he trapped it with his other hand. He would not let her slip away this time as she had at the wedding.
‘I am in no hurry.’
‘You will be missed,’ she protested, raising an eyebrow to indicate by whom as a pair of young girls passed, their eyes on Conall and then narrowing at the sight of her.
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