Amelia had neverencountered Signore Rossi’s villa by night. With warm lantern light casting lively shadows against mellow stone walls and sparkling fountains and the scent of lemon and fig drifting on the air, this courtyard would have been enchanting if not for the obvious: all the other people. Dressed in their evening finery, they milled about, crystal coupes in their hands, ready laughter on their mouths.
Just inside the gate—one foot out, really—Amelia stood observing the scene, feeling like nothing more than a fish out of water. She’d considered politely refusing Signore’s invitation, as she had all others these last few months, having assumed it would be a bohemian sort of crowd that would do her and her family’s reputation no favors.
And as her gaze swept the courtyard, she suspected she’d been correct. She hadn’t even been announced. To be sure, she’d received no few curious glances, but no one appeared particularly bothered by the presence of an unmarried, unaccompanied lady.
A server stopped before her, his arm laden with a silver tray topped with at least ten coupes effervescing with prosecco. It was clear she was to take one. Which she did. She didn’t have to drink it.
Well, maybe just a sip.
Fizzy and sweet, the prosecco danced on her tongue.
Delightful.
Another sip of prosecco loosed an honest thought. The reason she was here tonight after refusing Signore’s other invitations. The possibility existed thathemight be here. After all, this was where she’d first encountered him. And after their bargain, she couldn’t seem to rid her mind of the dratted man. She’d even dreamt of him last night.
Oh, the dream…
She couldn’t think about the dream.
Yet parts of her, dark and private, couldn’t seem to stop.
She took a long, long sip of prosecco. Somehow, a fresh coupe had found its way into her hand. It helped push the thought away.
Somewhat.
As if her dream had turned into substance, Ripon appeared across the courtyard, on the other side of the nymph fountain. Her eyes hadn’t the will to leave him be. Dressed in evening blacks, he was just so very handsome. Her gaze followed the width of his broad shoulders down the length of arms nearly too muscular for his evening coat to his hands. Those hands looked slightly ridiculous holding a delicate prosecco coupe.
She might feel jealous of that coupe.
Yet something about him looked different tonight. Then she realized what it was: he wasn’t wearing his customary scowl. Perhaps even the hint of a curve hovered about his mouth, which was as close to a smile as she’d ever seen on him.
Her fingers itched for a paintbrush. A few strokes would capture him as he was now.
His eye began to wander away from his companions, slowly making its way toward…her. Her heart kicked against her ribs. Her breath went short and sharp. His gaze brushed across her and the breath stopped in her lungs as they stood fifty feet apart, unable to release their gazes from one another.
Then it happened.
His mouth turned downward.
The scowl had returned.
A stray giggle wanted to bubble up. She took a sip of prosecco to stifle it.
The scowl deepened.
Which only summoned another giggle.
The prosecco might be stifling the giggles, but the possibility existed it might be provoking them, too.
“Mi scusi, signorina,” came a husky feminine voice to her left.
Somehow, Amelia dragged her eyes away from the duke and found a woman draped in strand upon strand of pink pearls staring at her expectantly. “Si?”
“Are you the sister of the Viscount Archer?”
Amelia gave the woman a subtle once-over. Lush and beautiful and clearly either married or widowed, she was precisely the sort of woman with whom Archie would acquaint himself. “I am Lady Amelia Windermere,” she said.
The woman smiled at the group forming a semicircle around them. “See? I told you she must be.”
