Homer hit the floor with a muted thunk.
“What the devil?” Her father ducked his head under the crisp tablecloth to see what had caused the noise, leaving Jane to stare at her aunt.
“My w—what?” Jane asked faintly.
“Your husband, girl! What do you think I have been going on about for the past ten minutes?” Izabel picked up a serving spoon, surreptitiously admiring her reflection in its polished silver before she dipped it into the soup.
“Signore Nesta has offered?” Jane squeaked, fighting panic.
“No, not Nesta!” scolded Izabel. The ladle clinked to the table, as though adding an exclamation point to her annoyance.
“Someone else wishes to be my husband?”
“Not just someone,” her aunt continued. Her eyes sparkled as she leaned forward to divulge her precious nugget of information. “’Tis Lord Nicholas Satyr!”
Jane’s head jerked back. The man from the tent? He wanted to marry her? Her mind sought to bend itself around the news and couldn’t.
“Impossible.”
Izabel’s lips thinned. “A gentleman of wealth and standing has requested your hand in marriage and you say ‘impossible’?”
Bewildered, Jane shook her head. “It must be some sort of jest. He doesn’t even know me.”
“He claims a prior acquaintance,” said her aunt.
Jane was shocked into silence by this information. Had he seen through her disguise at Villa d’Este last week? Still, why now did he press his suit after twenty minutes of conversation with her at a fair?
“He came here?” she asked.
“And visited your father this very morning.”
Her head swiveled to her father.
“He’s titled, at least,” he mumbled into his plate.
“Yes, the name of Satyr had long been inscribed in the Libro d’Oro della Nobiltà Italiana,” added Izabel. “You will do no better for a husband.”
That the man’s family was listed in the registers of Italian nobility maintained at the offices of the Consulta Araldica made his offer for her even more absurd.
Jane ladled soup from the tureen into her bowl and strove for a rational tone. “But I’m not ready to marry quite yet.”
“You wish to be a burden upon our household until your dotage?” asked her aunt.
No, Jane wanted to scream. What she wanted was to be accepted by her family for who she was—what she was. To be loved. But she no longer hoped for such things. Experience had taught her not to expect them. Even her own dear mother had found her too abnormal to love. Her father had ignored her because she wasn’t a son. Now she sought only freedom for herself and Emma.
“I sensed no attraction between us,” Jane murmured almost to herself.
Her aunt’s brows slammed together. “I thought you didn’t know him.”
A vision of the man from the tent—naked, engaging in carnal activity with an unknown woman—crept into her mind and was instantly banished.
“Only the barest facts. He’s a libertine, isn’t he?” Jane hazarded.
Izabel shrugged. “Should he prove so, as his wife you will be perfectly situated to influence him into curbing his ways.”
“He doesn’t strike me as a man easily influenced.”
“Again, you show the lie in your claim to be unacquainted with him,” said her aunt.
Her father frowned, appearing to suddenly awaken from a trance. “Is there some reason Satyr presses for this marriage?”
“Presses?” Jane echoed.
“He asks for a wedding within days,” her aunt informed her.
“Have you been meeting him on the sly?” her father barked. His eyes fell to Jane’s slim waist, and his hand fisted around his table knife upon which was speared a piece of venison.
Jane leaped to her feet and threw her napkin to the table. “No! I simply cannot accept him, and certainly not so soon.”
Her aunt rose more slowly. “You most certainly shall accept him, or it will go ill for you.”
“Now, Izzy,” her father chimed in, belatedly attempting to calm the waters. He flapped his hands, birdlike, in an up-and-down motion indicating they should be seated. Izabel sank to her chair, and Jane followed suit.
“What’s your objection to Satyr?” he asked Jane.
“I know nothing about him!” she very nearly shouted. “What are his habits, his conversation, his reason for wanting to wed me? Too many things to enumerate.”
Her aunt’s palm slammed the table, making the silver rattle. “Goose. What does it matter? As his wife, you will join one of the wealthiest families in Italy.” Her tone altered. “But I won’t force you. If you prefer to take Signore Nesta to husband, then so be it.”
“N—Nesta?” Instantly Jane saw new merit in Lord Satyr’s proposal.
“Are you a magpie? You must know he wants you,” said her aunt. “Don’t you desire a home of your own? A family of your own?”
Jane recalled that Lord Satyr had brothers who lived in proximity to him. Did they have families? Would the extended Satyr clan provide Emma and her with the welcome and acceptance their current situation lacked? He was wealthy, her aunt had said. Emma would have fine clothes, schooling. Safety.
Her heart clenched. She would do anything to keep her sister from harm. Anything. Even this.
“All right,” Jane said quietly. “If I must marry, I’ll have Lord Satyr. If he is serious. But—”
“There’s nothing more to discuss on the matter,” said Izabel.
Jane rushed on. “But I will only agree to wed him if you and father will allow Emma to come and live with me in his home.”
Without consulting Jane’s father, Izabel gave a curt nod. It was painfully obvious who now made the decisions concerning the girls’ futures. “We will inform Lord Satyr of your consent.”
7
A few days later, Jane sat hunched over her aunt’s delicate French writing desk, attempting to read the document before her. Strong emotions blasted in her direction from every side.
From the upholstered sofa came Izabel’s determined anxiety and her father’s belligerent suspicion. From the chaise opposite the desk, the attorney’s speculation. And from the man sitting with his back to the window, a hum of something
