Nicholas. Elizabeth Amber
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Lady Hillbrook discreetly nudged her husband with a satin-covered elbow.
“One hundred cases here,” Lord Hillbrook was prompted to add.
“Sending for it on the sly as usual?” Signore Rossini asked.
Hillbrook nodded, rocking on his heels. “English laws are quite set against sales of the bottled stuff, you know. The practice of selling it by the measure continues, so we’re forced to purchase on the sly or become bottlers if we’re to drink.”
He moved his walking stick toward Nick’s calf as though to nudge him conspiratorially. He wisely thought better of it and merely asked, “I suppose you’ll be asking an obscene amount for your vintage this year, eh? Yours seem to be the only vines spared from the current blight.”
Nick tensed. “We’ve been fortunate in that we’ve seen no signs of it so far.”
“’Tis said every field in Europe has been affected by the pox. Some devastated,” said Signore Rossini. “And no cure in sight. I understand no one is even certain of its cause.”
“The matter of the blight has naturally been of great concern to my family. As I said, we count ourselves fortunate that so far our fields remain unaffected,” Nick replied coolly.
“Odd, that,” mused Lord Hillbrook.
“Scusi?” Nick turned his full attention on the gentleman, who promptly withered under his piercing stare.
Satyr lands were protected by the ElseWorldly powers he and his brother interlaced around them. Therefore, their vines hadn’t been afflicted thus far with the dark spots that had begun to appear on the vines of nearly every other vineyard in Europe. He’d known it was only a matter of time before Humans began to speculate on the reason his fields had been spared.
“I say, meant nothing by it,” said Hillbrook, flushing to match Signora Rossini’s gown. “Everyone knows the Satyr label is impeccable. Nothing odd at all, really. No doubt it’s simple dumb luck, er—”
His wife frowned and shook her head, causing his words to dwindle away.
“I assure you dumb luck isn’t what protects us,” said Nick. “While the blight persists, every precaution has been undertaken to protect our grapes from its ravages. It’s difficult to know how to limit exposure, since its cause remains unclear. However, we limit access to our vineyard and take care that contaminants are kept out.”
Signora Rossini leapt into the awkward silence that fell. “Really, such talk is too serious for so lovely a day. Now, Lord Satyr, you must tell us. Have you visited the botanical exhibits yet?”
Enthusiasm sparkled in Lady Hillbrook’s eyes, and she leaned toward her companion. “The study of flora is all the rage in England. I myself have indulged and have acquired many interesting specimens.”
Nick smiled with easy charm. “Indeed? I regret I haven’t yet had an opportunity to explore the exhibits. You will excuse me? I find I’m most anxious to investigate.” With a cursory bow, he left them.
Setting the matter of the pox aside for the present, he once again threaded through the crowd, stealthily sorting, considering, and discarding. As he passed the Fountain of the Dragon at the center of the gardens, the young ladies daintily plied their wiles, vying to turn the head of one of the obscenely wealthy Satyr lords. If he could but find such tenaciousness in field workers, he would engage them in employment at his vineyards in an instant.
Their eyes said they wanted him—or at least his riches. But they knew nothing of his true nature. For if any of them had an inkling of the strength and depth of his dark physical passions, he was certain that even his vast fortune wouldn’t cause them to view him as a candidate for marriage.
As afternoon purpled into evening, the delicate scent of Faerie wafted on the cooling air, teasing and then withdrawing. He circulated, playing a children’s game of getting hot, then cold, then hot again as he patiently tracked it.
Eventually, as he neared the fish pools, the thread of magic grew steadier, telling him she was close. His hunting instincts sharpened.
He circled a veiled tent set amid others between two labyrinth herb gardens. An assortment of young English and Italian ladies and their beaux mingled there, chattering.
When his approach was noted, feminine heads lifted, as though scenting prey. Several ladies promptly forgot the gentlemen to whom they’d been speaking. Lacy fans fluttered faster.
She was here, somewhere among them.
“Have you come for a reading, Satyr?” chirped one of the young Italian bucks. “Don’t believe in the stuff myself, but it’s a bit of fun, I suppose.”
One of the ladies knocked the young man’s arm teasingly with a haphazard bouquet she’d obviously picked from the herb garden. “It’s not reading, Signore. It’s fortune-telling the mystic offers.”
“That’s what I meant,” he replied, rubbing his arm in mock pain. “Palm reading, isn’t it?”
Nick surveyed the tent. It was white, with great swoops of tulle flowing at its corners and a flag decorating its pinnacle.
Anticipation gripped him. She was inside. He was certain of it.
“So, there’s a true mystic in residence?” he inquired, fishing.
“Si. As we speak, my sister’s within, having her fortune told,” said the young man, whom Nick now recognized as the son of Signore Rossini.
Was it to be his sister? If so, he sincerely hoped she bore no resemblance to her mother. Lyon’s fears on the matter of his intended’s attractions resounded in his head. Suddenly, he wasn’t quite so anxious to peek inside the tent.
Her appearance didn’t matter, he reminded himself. As her husband, he would mate her only as often as duty required. In turn, she would produce his children and not object when his cock sought true satisfaction away from her bed.
Still, when the gauzy veils of the tent parted to expel Signore Rossini’s sister, Nick nearly sighed in relief. She was an Italian beauty. Her gown was a stay maker’s delight, its shot silk waist nipping in to reveal curves far shapelier than those of her mother. Dainty ribbons tied under her chin held a straw bonnet so profusely decorated with bluebirds that it appeared surprised to find itself sitting on her raven curls rather than in an aviary.
As she slid forth from the enclosure, another young customer slipped past her and into the tent. Nick caught a glimpse of the bowed figure in gypsy garb seated within.
“What did the mystic say?” one of the other ladies asked Rossini’s sister.
“Yes, Bianca, do tell us,” added an English girl. “We’re giddy to know.”
Signorina Rossini parted her lips and then faltered when she noted Nick’s interest.
Once introductions were dispensed with, he stepped closer to her than propriety allowed in order to kiss her gloved hand.