temper, her talent—and the way she had haunted his thoughts ever since Sicily. He forced himself to step away from her, to give her one of his careless grins.
‘Then I hope we understand each other, Miss Chase,’ he said. ‘I bid you good day.’
‘And good day to you, sir!’she snapped. She spun around in a flurry of blue-and-white skirts, stalking off into the crowd. She was quickly swallowed up by the throngs of people, vanishing as if she had never been there at all.
It took all Marco’s resolve to turn back toward the Pump Room, to not run after her. Not catch her in his arms and tell her everything. The contempt in her eyes cut deeper than any sword.
But she could not know of his real feelings. Not now—not ever.
Chapter Five
‘Fool, fool!’ Thalia muttered, pacing from one end of her chamber to the other. She didn’t know if she meant herself—or Marco di Fabrizzi. Or perhaps they were all fools. It certainly felt like it at that moment.
She reached the carved marble fireplace, and turned to stalk back in the other direction. Even though her room was exceedingly pretty, with creamcoloured wallpaper, and cream-and-blue chintz curtains and hangings, it was not terribly large. It didn’t quite allow for satisfactory stalking, so she plopped herself down at the little writing desk instead.
She had begun a letter to Clio that morning, before they left for the Pump Room, and now Thalia didn’t know how to go on with it. All the family news, the gossip about Bath, seemed so silly beside what she really longed to write.
Dearest Clio—was the Count di Fabrizzi in love with you, as I suspect he was? Was his heart utterly broken when you married the Duke? And is that now why he has turned to the attentions of Lady Riverton?
Thalia frowned as she stared down at the paper, seeing not the half-finished scribbles but Marco’s face at the Pump Room. That handsome, bronzed Italian face, smiling down so flirtatiously at Lady Riverton.
Lady Riverton, of all people! No, she really could not believe it. It had to be a scheme of some sort.
Thalia reached for her pen and ink, hastily adding a long postscript to the letter. Clio would know how to advise her, could tell her the whole truth of what had happened in Santa Lucia. If only Thalia did not suffer agonies of embarrassment that her sister might guess her own feelings!
The Chase sisters were always united against the world, but amongst themselves they could tease unmercifully.
‘My dear Clio,’ she wrote. ‘Since I concluded my missive, a most curious thing occurred. I met with an old acquaintance from Santa Lucia at the Pump Room—and he was not alone…’
She wrote the rest of her tale as fast as she could, and sealed it up before she could change her mind. She also had to write to her father, and to her younger sister Cory. But she found she was too tired after that one letter, and closed up her writing box until later.
As she shut the lid, she glimpsed a bundle of documents tucked away in its depths. Her play, The Dark Castle of Count Orlando.
It was only one act at the moment, Thalia thought wryly, and likely to remain so for some time. The story, full of intrigue, secrets, forbidden romance, and picturesque Italian ruins full of ghosts and curses, had seemed so grand in Santa Lucia. A story of how finding real love could overcome anything at all. Now that she was face to face with its inspiration, though…
She firmly closed the lid, turning the key in the little lock. She had no confidence in her observational skills now. How could she write convincing drama? Convincing romance?
A knock sounded at the chamber door. ‘Come in,’ Thalia called, dropping the key into her desk drawer.
A housemaid entered, bobbing a curtsy as she announced, ‘Lady Westwood is returned, Miss Chase, and asks if you will join her in the drawing room for tea.’
Very glad of the distraction, Thalia hurried downstairs to the gold-and-coral drawing room, where Calliope reclined on the couch. Another maid set out an array of tempting cakes and little sandwiches, but there was no sign of Cameron or little Psyche.
Thalia kissed her sister’s cheek, noticing that, aside from a few damp curls at her temples and a slight pinkness in her cheeks, she seemed unaffected by the waters of the Hot Bath. She also didn’t seem to want to eat, though she sipped at some tea.
‘You weren’t at the baths very long,’ Thalia said, helping herself to a strawberry tart. Sadly, emotional turmoil always made her feel more hungry!
‘It is far too warm,’ Calliope said. ‘I could scarcely breathe.’
‘That, my dear, is why they call it the Hot Bath! Here, have a cucumber sandwich, it will revive you. Where has Cameron gone?’
Calliope obediently nibbled at the sandwich. ‘I sent him to procure some theatre tickets, and to see about the assembly at the Upper Rooms on Tuesday.’
‘Are you quite certain you feel up to all that, Cal? Rest, remember. That is why we came to Bath.’
Calliope frowned down at her half-eaten sandwich. ‘I am tired of resting! And I told you, I will not have you grow bored and leave us.’
‘I would not leave you! And I am not bored. I’m a Chase, remember? We are never bored. There is always reading to do, studying, writing…’
‘Indeed. Though I have not noticed you doing much writing lately.’
‘I will get back to it soon.’ She thought of that Italian play upstairs. Would she ever want to write of the mysteries of love again?
‘Perhaps you are the one who should rest, Thalia. You look weary.’ Calliope paused, setting aside her plate. ‘I have been thinking, perhaps Bath was not the best place to visit. We could leave here, go to Brighton. Or Tunbridge Wells. Maybe even back to Italy! They have spa towns there.’
‘You are not yet strong enough to travel to Italy,’ Thalia protested. ‘And we have just arrived in Bath. What is this urge to leave so suddenly?’
Calliope shrugged. ‘Nothing at all.’
‘Of course it is not nothing. Is it—is it because of meeting with Count di Fabrizzi this morning?’
‘So, you do know this so-called Count.’
‘And so do you!’ Thalia cried. ‘I knew it! But how? I don’t understand anything.’
‘Not even why he might be here?’
‘Especially not that.’
Calliope gave a deep sigh. ‘It is true I have met him before, though in a far different guise. He was pretending to be a gypsy.’
‘A gypsy!’ Thalia gasped. This was turning into a tale far more interesting than any she could ever devise for a play. And Marco just became more and more complex, more incomprehensible to her. ‘When was that?’
‘Oh, a long time ago, before Cameron and I were married,’ Calliope answered. ‘You remember when we went to
