glanced over to where Father stood, still in conversation with Brisbane, then back to Portia. Her eyes were alight with mischief. Alessandro was regarding me with his customary Florentine dignity. “Ah, yes. I would very much like to pay my respects to his lordship, and thank him for his hospitality.”
“Of course,” I said faintly. “Portia, are you coming, dearest?”
“Oh, I thought I would get to know our delightful new sister-in-law,” she said, delivering the coup de grâce. “But do not let me keep you.”
“Come along, Alessandro,” I said through gritted teeth. He cupped my elbow in his hand, guiding me gently—a wholly pleasant sensation, but I was still annoyed. I should not have been the one to make the introductions. He had been Plum’s friend, and Ly’s as well, before he had been mine. It had been their inspiration to bring him to England, but now that Father had to be dealt with, they were perfectly content to let me brave the lion’s den on my own. Plum had made the acquaintance of Mrs. King and was busy giving her a tour of the room’s beauties, and Lysander was too consumed with his bride to have a thought for anyone else.
And Portia was determined to stir the pot with Brisbane. I noticed his eyes sharpening as we approached, nothing more. There was no raising of his expressive brows, no naked curiosity, only the intense watchfulness of a lion lazing in the shade by a pond where the gazelle will drink.
“Father,” I said, my voice a trifle thin, “I should like you to meet our friend, Alessandro. He came with us from Italy. Count Alessandro Fornacci. Alessandro, my father, Lord March.”
Father turned to greet Alessandro, welcoming him with more warmth than I would have imagined. Alessandro accepted his welcome with exquisite courtesy, expressing his rapture at being in England and his extreme pleasure in sharing this most English of holidays.
“Hmm, yes,” Father said, his eyes moving swiftly between us. Alessandro’s hand had lingered a moment too long at my elbow, and Father had not missed it. “Your room is satisfactory?”
I suppressed a sigh. Father would not have cared if Alessandro had been lodged in the dovecote with only a blanket to cover him and a stray cat for conversation. He meant to detain him, to take the measure of him, and perhaps to let Brisbane do so, as well.
“My room is very nice. It overlooks a maze, very lovely.”
“Excellent. You will want to see the maze up close, I’m sure. Mind you take a guide. Devilish tricky to get out of,” Father said, laughing heartily. I stared at him. Father was never jolly. He was putting on dreadfully for Alessandro, and I was just about to send manners to the devil and lead Alessandro away when Brisbane put out his hand.
“Nicholas Brisbane.”
Alessandro clasped his hand and bowed formally. “Mr. Brisbane.” Father gave a guffaw. “Not just Brisbane anymore. He’s a viscount any day now, my lad. Lord Wargrave.”
“Milord,” Alessandro amended.
Brisbane waved a careless hand. “No need to stand on ceremony. We are among friends here. Very good friends, I should think,” he finished with a flick of his gaze toward me.
“Quite,” I said sharply. “Ah, I see Uncle Fly and his curate have finally arrived. Come along, Alessandro. I should like to introduce you to my godfather.”
Before I could manage our escape, Father caught sight of Uncle Fly and bellowed out, “What kept you, Fly? Damned inconsiderate to make me wait for my dinner.”
Uncle Fly laughed and clapped a hand to Lucian Snow’s shoulder. “Blame the lad. He was an hour tying his cravat. Doubtless to impress the ladies.”
Father and Uncle Fly chuckled like schoolboys, and Lucian Snow smiled good-naturedly. “Well, with such lovely company a gentleman must trouble himself to look his best,” he said, sweeping the room with a gallant nod. A few ladies tittered, but I realised Portia was not among them. She had taken herself off, and I cursed her for a traitor that she had dropped me in it so neatly and then fled.
But I had no time to consider her whereabouts. Uncle Fly had made a beeline for me, Snow following in his wake. My godfather smothered me in an embrace that smelled of cherry brandy and something more—earth, no doubt. Uncle Fly was an inveterate gardener and spent most of his time puttering in his gardens and conservatory. No matter how often he scrubbed them, his hands were always marked with tiny lines dark with soil, like rivers on an ancient map. His fingertips were stained green, his lapels dusted with velvety yellow pollen. And his hair, tufts of fluffy white cotton that stood out about his head where he had tugged at it in distraction, was usually ornamented with a leaf or petal, and on one memorable occasion, a grasshopper.
His curate could not have cut a more opposite figure. He was taller than the diminutive Fly by half a foot, and more slender, although one would never think him slight. His posture was impeccable; he was straight as a lance, with a slight lift of the chin that made it seem as if he were gazing at some distant horizon. But when the introductions were made and he bowed over my hand, his eyes were fixed firmly on mine. They were warm, melting brown, like a spaniel’s, and they were merry. He twinkled at me like a practised rogue, and I found myself wondering how a man like him had come to hold the post of curate in an obscure country village. I introduced him to Alessandro, and Snow gamely attempted to greet him in Italian. It was laboured and wildly ungrammatical, but he laughed at his own mistakes, and Alessandro tactfully pretended not to notice.
Just then I saw Portia slip in, her expression smug. Before I could accost her, Aquinas entered and announced dinner. There was a bit of a scramble for partners, but since we were an odd number with more gentlemen than ladies, Portia insisted we dispense with etiquette and instructed each gentleman to choose the lady he wished to lead in.
To my surprise, Lucian Snow offered me his arm. “My lady, I hope you will do me the honour?”
I hesitated. Alessandro was hovering near, too polite to dispute with Snow, but a little dejected, I think. Just then Portia glided over, and slid her arm through Alessandro’s.
“I do hope you will escort me, Alessandro. I simply couldn’t bear to walk in on the arm of one of my brothers.”
That was a bit thick, I thought. Lysander was already steering Violante to the door, and Plum was busy trying to lever Aunt Dorcas out of her chair. But Alessandro was too well bred to point this out. He merely bowed and smiled graciously at her.
“It would be my honour, Lady Bettiscombe.”
I turned to Lucian Snow with a smile. “Certainly.”
I took his arm, and he favoured me with a smile in return, a charming, dimpled smile that doubtless made him a great pet of the ladies. His features were so regular, so beautifully proportioned, he might have been an artist’s model. One could easily fancy him posed in a suit of polished armour, light burnishing his golden hair, his spear poised over a rampant dragon. St. George, captured in oils at his moment of triumph.
“I must tell you, Lady Julia, I was not at all pleased at being invited here tonight,” he said as we passed through the great double doors. Those warm spaniel eyes were twinkling again.
“Oh? And why not? Are we as fearsome as all that?”
“Not at all. But his lordship has been gracious enough to invite me to dine at least once a fortnight since I came to Blessingstoke, and I have gained half a stone. Another few weeks and I shall not be able to fit through that door,” he said, his expression one of mock horror.
My gaze skimmed his athletic figure. “Mr. Snow, you are baiting me to admire your physique. It will not serve. I am an honest widow, and you, sir, I suspect are an outrageous flirt.”
He laughed and gave my arm a friendly squeeze. “I know it is entirely presumptuous of me, Lady Julia, but I think we are going to be very great friends.”
I raised a brow at him. Curates in country villages were not often befriended by the daughters of earls. But our village was a small one, and Father