To Kiss a Count. Amanda McCabeЧитать онлайн книгу.
Yes, she could certainly use some of that now. Instead, she just gulped down the water, and cringed.
Chapter Four
‘La, but I have seldom seen anyone so altered as Miss Thalia Chase!’ Lady Riverton said, clutching Marco’s arm as they made their way through the Pump Room. ‘I don’t remember her being so pale and wan, do you?’
Marco felt his jaw tighten, even as he fought to maintain a careless smile. A fun-loving façade, which was everything in this tightrope game he played. Wan was the last word he would use to describe Thalia. He feared the fiery sparks from her blue eyes would set him ablaze.
He was still a bit unsettled by her sudden appearance there before him. Her presence could so easily send this house of cards tumbling, and then where would he be? Without the silver, without justice for Lady Riverton and her minions. And assuredly without Thalia.
He suppressed the urge to glance back, to see if Thalia still watched him with that contemptuous glare. He kept walking with Lady Riverton, nodding and smiling at everyone as if he had nothing more than pleasure in mind.
That was all they expected of Italians, after all. Sunny, hedonistic pleasure. And those romantic, preconceived notions of theirs served his purpose most admirably. It was easier to get on with his work when no one watched too closely, expected too much.
Yet, somehow, the thought of Thalia Chase’s disapproval pained him.
‘But then, of course Miss Chase would be out of sorts,’ Lady Riverton went on. ‘Her elder sisters are married now, so advantageously! Even her eccentric old father has remarried. Yet she, poor thing, has no prospects.’
‘I hardly think someone who looks like Miss Chase could be entirely without prospects,’ Marco couldn’t resist saying.
Lady Riverton shot him a frown from under her silly hat. ‘You find her pretty, then?’
He shrugged carelessly, and gave her one of those grins he was coming to loathe. But ladies had often told him his smile was well-nigh irresistible; he might as well make us of it.
Indeed, Lady Riverton did relax her hard clasp on his sleeve, smiling at him in return.
‘I amaman,’he said.‘Therefore Icannot help but find Miss Chase pretty. That would be enough for many men, but not for me.’
‘No?’
‘No. I prefer more substance to a lady. Intelligence. Experience.’ He gave her arm a surreptitious touch. ‘Hidden depths.’
Lady Riverton giggled. ‘Count di Fabrizzi, you are far too amusing.’
‘I seek only to please.’
‘That, I think, you could not help but do.’ She surveyed the crowd around them, giving a deep sigh of satisfaction when she saw that they, too, were observed. ‘I am the envy of every lady here, to have your companionship.’
And that was what Marco had wanted, of course, when he had sought Lady Riverton’s renewed acquaintance. He had had no luck finding the whereabouts of the silver any other way, and her own abodes proved to be surprisingly well guarded. She was no fool, though she liked so much to play one.
But she was a woman, and receptive to a handsome man’s flirtations. He had almost gained her trust, was so close. He was sure of it.
Then Thalia appeared.
Lady Riverton excused herself to go and speak to an acquaintance, leaving Marco at last able to slip away. Even his acting skills, honed over years in service to his cause until he could play a gypsy, a king, or a careless flirt to perfection, felt strained in the glasshouse atmosphere of Bath. Under all its pretty gentility, its endless pursuit of diversion, lurked a deep vein of tension. The sense that everyone was just watching, waiting, for something to explode.
Like his head.
Marco slipped out of the doors into the Abbey churchyard. It was just as crowded there, but at least there was fresh air, the open expanse of pearl-grey sky overhead. It had not yet begun to rain, as it always seemed to do in this blasted town, which made everyone linger outside just a bit longer.
Across the yard, past the edifice of the church and the swirl of the milling crowds, Marco caught a glimpse of a bright blue silk pelisse. Thalia had paused to gaze into a shop window, with no sign nearby of her sister and brother-in-law.
Without thinking, without even considering the indisputable fact that he was better off staying far away from her, Marco hurried toward her. He was irresistibly drawn to her, as if her golden hair was a beacon of light and truth in the grey day. A ray of bright honesty in a sordid world.
He remembered how she had portrayed Antigone in that ancient amphitheatre in Santa Lucia, so solemn and certain. He had thought then how Sophocles’s doomed princess suited her, both of them women set on their own course. Determined to do what was right no matter the consequence.
He loved that about her, and hated it, too. Her sister Clio had been his partner in the cause of preserving ancient history for a long time. Clio understood him, for they were alike in their belief that subterfuge and deceit were sometimes required when dealing with their dangerous foes. But Thalia had no deceit in her. She was a warrior of the battlefield. She would happily skewer her enemy, yet she would look them in the eye while she did it.
And he feared he was the one about to be skewered.
She saw his reflection in the shop window, her gaze rising to meet his, but she did not turn around.
‘I’m surprised your friend has let you off the leading strings,’ she said.
Marco laughed despite himself. ‘She is not exactly my friend.’
‘No, I suppose not. It is quite obvious she considers herself to be more than that. I imagine she required a replacement for poor Mr Frobisher.’
That stung. He remembered Frobisher, scurrying around Santa Lucia to do Lady Riverton’s every bidding—until she betrayed him.
Marco longed to tell Thalia what was really going on. They had worked so well together in Sicily, once they had joined forces. Yet the thought of her innocent enthusiasm for the play, of that shining integrity, stopped him. Clio had warned him to keep Thalia out of danger.
And he never wanted to see her in danger again. Not Thalia. Even if the price was her contempt. He had sworn after Maria died that no woman would suffer because of his work again.
‘She is useful in introducing me to your English society,’ he said cautiously.
‘And I must ask myself, why would an Italian nobleman, a count, need an entrée to English society?’she said. She turned away from the window to face him, gazing up at him steadily from beneath her white straw bonnet.
There was certainly nothing wan about her. Her smooth cheeks were pink, her eyes a shining sky-blue. ‘Why are you here?’ she demanded. ‘Really?’
He summoned up every ounce of those theatrical skills, remembering all too well that she was also an accomplished thespian. ‘I heard there was much amusement to be had in Bath. Sicily was too dull after you and your sister left, and Florence is overrun by boring Austrians.’
‘So you came to Bath?’ she said doubtfully, scowling up at him. Those furrows on her brow only made her more adorable, made him want to catch her up in his arms and kiss those ridiculous wrinkles until she laughed with him again.
‘Do you suffer from gout, perchance?’ she said, obviously completely oblivious to his lascivious desires. To the way her white lilac perfume drove him insane. ‘From digestive complaints? All those tomatoes in the Italian diet…’
Marco laughed. ‘Not at all. I wanted a glimpse of your prince’s strange Oriental palace.’
‘Then you are in entirely the wrong place, Count. The Pavilion is in Brighton.’