Sofia drew a deep breath. She’d survived, but not unscathed. ‘Are you well?’ Taunton solicited, offering his steady right arm as the guests began to exit. She needed that firm arm more today than she had yesterday. She hated needing it, hated relying on him, a virtual stranger who’d decided to play the hero. Today she was prepared for him, but that didn’t stop the warm strength of him from travelling through her again at his touch.
‘You’re pale.’ There were questions in his grey eyes when he looked at her with concern. But she didn’t want to answer questions today.
‘I’m quite fine. Just a bit tired.’ She lowered her veil as if the fabric could hold the questions at bay a little longer. There would be a consequence for not answering them, though. In her absence, others would respond in her stead with their own speculations. How long would it be before Taunton heard the rumours, before he wanted to know who she was?
Out of doors in the bright sunshine, she released his arm. ‘If you will excuse me, I think I will forgo the wedding breakfast. I’ve a bit of a headache. Will you give my regards to Helena and to the bride and groom?’ She moved into the crowd of guests before he could protest. She had her reprieve—until the next time. And there would be a next time. There was the honeymooners’ ball to get through and, heaven help her, the four-hour train ride to Taunton where they’d have hours with nothing to entertain themselves except each other and her past.
He would get her back even if he had to cross the Channel to do it. He hoped it wouldn’t come to that. He didn’t much care for England. Giancarlo Bianchi, Marchese di Cremona, surveyed the view of Piazza San Carlo from his palazzo window; the famous statue of Emanuele Filiberto on horseback, flanked by coffeehouses and aristocratic palazzos like his own, was a far cry from the stolid square town houses of London. What a filthy city London was with its soot and litter in the streets. For all its innovations, London could be improved. It couldn’t hold a candle to his city, to Turin, the centre of the Risorgimento, with its fine universities, scholars, artists and musicians.
He brushed at the sleeve of his coat as if removing a fine sheen of street dirt. He’d not set foot on English soil since he’d claimed his bride thirteen years ago. God willing, he wouldn’t have to go back. Andelmo, his most trusted minion, would bring her to him. His wife was proving to be more problematic than he’d originally anticipated, a concept that both irritated and aroused him.
His valet entered his suite with the trunks containing his new spring wardrobe, his secretary following close behind. It was time for the morning reports although it was well after noon. Giancarlo motioned for his secretary to join him at the desk in the window bay. ‘What news do you have? Is there any word from London?’
The secretary handed him a telegram. ‘There has been no sighting. The house remains empty, as it has since your man’s arrival.’
‘What else? Is that all?’ Giancarlo frowned at the note. Time was money and he was growing impatient. He tapped his fingers on the surface of a side table. She had not responded to his earlier letters. He couldn’t even be sure she’d received them. Because of that lack of response, he’d sent Andelmo weeks ago to track her down, to verify the address, to put the offer to her and wait for an answer. If the wrong answer came, Andelmo was to drag her back by her hair if that was what it took. That had been several weeks ago—time enough for travel, time enough to arrive and conduct reconnaissance. The only word he’d received since then was that his man had arrived and had found the address, but seen no sign of her.
Giancarlo blew out a sigh. ‘We have to flush her out. We have to make her come to us.’ He snapped his fingers. ‘Get some paper and take notes. Here are new instructions. Tell Andelmo to go through the house, look for any sign that it’s hers and if so, leave a “calling card”, of sorts.’ If she was in London, the act would flush her out. If it didn’t, they would have to start the search anew. If she wasn’t in London, it would mean one of two things: she hadn’t received the letters or she had received them and they had frightened her, perhaps sent her to ground. He hoped for the latter.
Giancarlo folded the telegram and tucked it into his pocket. Already, just the thought of her sent twin rills of lust and desire through him. He flicked his hand at both the men in dismissal. ‘Leave me. I need to think. Go downstairs and arrange for my supper, and find me some company for tonight, preferably company that comes with a sister.’
Giancarlo took a seat behind the desk, steepling his hands in thought as he looked out over the piazza. Would it be enough to flush her out? Sofia probably would come home, eventually. The question was, how long did he want to wait? It might be a while. By all reports her London home was small. His secretary had overlooked the significance of that detail. Small homes were efficient, the means to the end of providing shelter, but nothing more. Small homes inspired no owner loyalty. One did not entertain in them, one did not put them on display for others to see. One could forget about them.
He scoffed at the notion. Her choice was so disappointing. A row house? Truly? When she was used to palazzos and rich apartments? He’d provided better for her. Row houses were the milieu of middle-class families, tradesmen even. Perhaps she would be missing the luxury he had showered her in by now. Perhaps a row house was all that was available to her. She was too ruined for Mayfair society to receive her. Either way, one thing was certain: she wasn’t entertaining in it.
Giancarlo chuckled to himself. He’d warned her London would turn its back on a divorced woman. No decent home would receive her, not even her own. Perhaps in Chelsea she could be anonymous, or perhaps Chelsea was willing to lower the bar. What did she think about her freedom now with three years of ostracising? Any other woman would have begged him to take her back by now.
He’d misjudged her there. He’d only let her go because he hadn’t really believed she’d leave for long and he’d enjoyed the thought of how he might make her beg to return. Then again, his Sofia never had been the usual woman. He shifted in his seat, arousal growing as he thought of her—all that magnificent spun-gold hair falling loose about her shoulders, her eyes flashing defiance as he delivered his dictates.
Bend over and bare yourself for my crop, Sofia, unless you’d prefer Andelmo to assist you. You know the penalty for my displeasure...
No matter how many times he’d attempted to bring her to heel, she’d resisted.
She’d left him before he’d broken her. She hadn’t merely left him, she’d defied him. She’d dared to run away—twice—despite the punishments he’d threatened to mete out. It certainly upped the stakes of the game. He hadn’t had such delicious prey in years. Who would have guessed the young schoolgirl he’d married would have turned out to be so delightfully appealing? He smiled to himself, imagining Sofia. What would she do when he caught up to her? When he had her cornered? Would she fight? Would she beg? Would she plead for mercy? Would she cry? Giancarlo twisted the heavy signet ring on his finger.
He’d wager his ring his Sofia would fight. His surety in that belief was what gave him patience. He would find her and it would be worth the wait. Capturing her would be glorious, a prize equal to his efforts. Razing the house at Margaretta Terrace would let her know she’d best gird herself for battle.
He would not lose her this time. He had too much on the line. The new Piedmontese King, Victor Emmanuel II, was disappointed in him, didn’t trust his judgement as a divorced man. One of the first things the new King had done was outlaw the divorces approved by his father. He wanted the noble men in his kingdom to be upright, married men. Giancarlo had been overlooked
