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 for riches and plum opportunities since Sofia had left. The new King had made it plain that favour would smile on him if he were to bring his wife to heel.
It wasn’t enough to offer to simply remarry, to take another bride, even of the King’s choosing, which of course Giancarlo had offered to do as the most expedient means to the end. The King was heavily religious, devoutly Catholic, and he felt that a divorced man marrying another was compounding the original sin with the sin of adultery. Only Giancarlo’s first wife, his only wife, would do. The wealth promised was enough to send him haring across the Continent to England to retrieve her and then to punish her into submission so complete this truancy of hers would not be repeated. This time he’d be successful. It was a rare woman who wasn’t frightened by the consequences he’d impose for her betrayal.
Sofia was afraid. It was that simple. She stared at her reflection in Helena’s long pier glass. She had not looked so fine in ages—her hair done up in an elegant braided coronet, the discreet glitter of diamonds at her ears, her figure shown to advantage in a silk gown of deep sky-blue cut in the latest fashion with its low-swept, off-the-shoulder bodice. The gown was the way she liked them—minimalist in adornment. There was a delicate overlay of lace and ribbon at what passed for sleeves and that trim matched the inset of the bodice, but otherwise, the gown lacked flounces and fussiness. And yet, for all the fineness of figure, or perhaps because of it, she was afraid.
‘I can’t go to the ball, Helena, I simply cannot.’ She made a slow, rueful twirl in front of the mirror, liking the susurration of the fabric against her ankles. It would be a shame not to waltz in this gown. She used to love to dance. But the cost of a dance was too high. This woman in the mirror would be noticed and remarked upon. Men would want to possess her. When she refused, they’d make crass comments among themselves and perhaps crasser wagers as Wenderly had. Women would hate her. They would say she’d come on purpose to put them all to shame, to tease marriageable men away from marriageable girls who deserved gentleman husbands. They’d call her a Delilah, a Jezebel. There would be no refuge for her. She’d had a taste of that at the wedding. She was not eager to repeat the experience.
Helena merely smiled from the chaise and absently rubbed her belly, unconcerned with the outburst. ‘Don’t tell me you’re afraid after all these years. The girl I went to school with didn’t care what anyone thought, least of all a room full of old peahens.’ Helena knew how to throw down the gauntlet.
‘I still don’t. I’d just rather they keep their thoughts to themselves instead of talking about me as if I’m not there, as if I cannot hear them when I’m standing right in front of them.’ Sofia unfastened the diamond-and-sapphire choker at her neck and set it reluctantly on the vanity. She might not have made it through the wedding if it hadn’t been for Viscount Taunton. He’d left her no choice but to endure. After he’d dared to sit with her, she couldn’t have paid back his effort by running out. And in truth, it had been easier to endure with an ally beside her.
Sofia reached for a hairpin, determined to take down the elaborate coiffure. The sooner she was undressed the sooner she could put this pretence that she was going to the ball behind her.
‘Taunton will be there,’ Helena announced as the maid moved through the chamber laying out her own finery for the ball.
‘Of course. He is a close family friend,’ Sofia replied coolly, careful to show no reaction. She eyed her friend in the mirror. What was Helena up to?
Helena rose a little clumsily from the chaise and began her own preparations. ‘Taunton will dance with you, Frederick will dance with you. With the notice of two decent men, others will come. You won’t be alone. I thought you liked Taunton?’
‘I am considering conducting business with him on your father-in-law’s recommendation, that is all.’ Sofia didn’t like the look in Helena’s eye. It wouldn’t be the first time Helena had tried to play the matchmaker. The maid slipped a green-silk gown with large painted roses patterned on the fabric over Helena’s head.
‘Taunton’s a good man. Frederick will vouch for him.’ Helena’s dark head popped through the dress.
‘We’ll see if he has any business sense. Alpacas aren’t the norm when it comes to investing.’ Sofia watched Helena smooth her skirts over her belly and turn in front of the mirror, critically eyeing her growing silhouette. She felt a stab of envy for her friend. Helena had the perfect life: a loving husband, domestic comfort and security, children and another baby on the way to love. It was only natural Helena would want the same for her. But it couldn’t be that way for her; she’d lost that chance the moment she’d married Il Marchese and she’d sealed any hope with her divorce. No decent Englishman married such a ruined woman due to the legal implications alone.
There were other, more emotional implications, too. She’d never give her freedom, her very life, to a man again. But how did one make a woman like Helena, with everything she could wish for, understand that?
‘I do not think dancing with Taunton is a good idea.’ He was exactly the sort of man the matchmaking mamas coveted for their own daughters: handsome, well-mannered, pleasant and titled. They would hate her especially for taking up the attentions of such a specimen. To make her point, Sofia pulled out another pin, feeling the coiffure loosen.
Helena speared her with a stern look that said she was done cajoling. This was serious now. ‘If not Taunton, who? When? It’s been three years, Sofia. Surely, you don’t mean to entomb yourself for the rest of your life?’ Helena’s eyes flashed, reminiscent of the tenacity that had won her a duke’s heir.
‘Surely, I do mean just that and the sooner you accept it, the sooner we can move past this,’ Sofia replied with the determination that had seen her through four years of a finishing school that had thought a country gentleman’s daughter beneath them and ten years of a marriage marked by darkness.
Helena softened. ‘You’re too young for such absolutes, my dear friend. You’re also too young to be alone. You should remarry and start again.’
‘Not with a man like Taunton. He can’t afford me.’ They both knew she didn’t mean the reference monetarily. A titled Englishman with any ambition socially, politically, couldn’t afford the scandals that came with her.
Helena averted her gaze and fussed with her skirts. Even Helena couldn’t deny the truth in that. Perhaps there was a quiet country widower out there who could take her on without damaging the back
