Amelia found herself unwillingly drawn into conversation as the striking similarity between the Windermere siblings was discussed—tall, striking, and very blonde—which evolved into a more general discussion about siblings and their similarities and dissimilarities.
Amelia went for another sip of prosecco and found her coupe empty. Serendipitously, at that very moment, a sparkling silver tray appeared before her.
As the conversation began to exhaust itself, Signore Rossi jumped into the breach. “Signorina Ameliaes una cimawith the watercolor brush. I hope she will allow her work to be shown before she returns to England.”
Interest entered a few sets of eyes, and pride stole through Amelia. She’d never received such praise in the public sphere. She might like it.
Something else she liked: how she felt from her fingertips to her toes. She’d never felt this good in her life. Why had no one ever told her about prosecco? How had she made it to the age of seven and twenty without knowing its magic?
With a renewed confidence, and another few sips of prosecco, she turned toward the lady to her right—a new one had appeared—and asked, “And when are you expecting?” In England, she would never ask such a question in mixed company, but in Italy, such rules didn’t seem to apply.
“Expecting what,mia cara?” the lady asked with a puzzled smile.
“Your baby.”
Puzzlement turned into utter confusion. Perhaps her English wasn’t fluent.
“I only ask,” continued Amelia, “because a dear friend of mine who married before me—actually all my dear friends have married before me.” She dismissed the wave of self-pity that tried to surge. “Anyway, when she was about your size, she got a case of the hiccups that lasted for an entire fortnight.”
The woman blinked, her brow deeply furrowed.
“You’ll never guess the remedy.”
The woman continued staring at Amelia. Or was she glaring?
“Fresh sardines,” said Amelia. “One bite, and the hiccups were gone. The only problem was that she ate sardines for the remainder of her confinement. One could hardly stand to be in a room with her.” She waved a hand in front of her face. “The breath.”
A solid five seconds beat by before the lady emitted a spew of rapid Italian into Amelia’s face. Once finished, the lady charged away.
Amelia remained unperturbed, even sympathetic. “Expecting ladies can be quite temperamental. All my friends were.”
Signore Rossi cleared his throat. “Signora Fontana is not with child.”
“Oh, dear,” said Amelia, “should I go and—”
A hand wrapped around her upper arm. A large, calloused, strong hand. She glanced up and found the Duke of Ripon staring down at her, his opaque gray eyes giving nothing away. “You’ve done enough.”
Signore Rossi redirected the subject with the fluidity of a skilled host, and the stream of conversation began to flow around Amelia and Ripon. Awareness of him—of his body only inches from hers—raced along her skin, lighting her veins as it skittered through. His hand had fallen away, but she could still feel the outline of his fingers on her skin.
By chance, her gaze landed on the older, bespectacled German gentleman across from her. Something about his ear… She squinted. A small, furry animal of some sort—a caterpillar?—appeared to be nesting there. She couldn’t decide if it was repulsive or cute.
As discreetly as possible, she gave a little wave and waggle of her fingers in his direction.
“What are you doing?” Ripon hissed into her ear.
“Trying to get theherr’s attention.”
“Whatever for?” He sounded no small bit suspicious.
Before she could answer, she succeeded in securing the herr’s attention, even as she was all too aware of Ripon at her side. “Pardon me,herr, but I have a question for you.”
“Oh?” the man asked, strangely wary.
“Is the small, furry animal in your ear a pet?”
The herr turned a particular shade of purple that couldn’t be good for his health. “Fräulein, who are you to go around a civilized gathering, hurling insults at everyone you lay eyes upon?”
Again, the hand wrapped around her upper arm. This time it tugged.
