“Lady Caroline Lamb would approve.” Delilah knew precisely how to fray Amelia’s last nerve.
“Ithink it makes you look like a twelfth century monk,” said Amelia. “Without the bald patch, of course.”
Delilah and Juliet shared a conspiratorial snicker.
“Further,” Amelia couldn’t help continuing, even though she really, truly shouldn’t. “Lady Caroline Lamb’s approval is the very last thing this family needs.”
But Delilah wasn’t finished torturing her sister. “I could procure a straightedge and give that bald spot a running start.”
“Don’t you dare.” Amelia had to say it. She never quite knew how far Delilah would go.
Delilah’s mouth curled into the mischievous smile that ever did get her out of trouble with her older sister. “When did Archie write that he would arrive?”
“Tomorrow.” Amelia picked up her brush and resumed her study of the pomegranate. It looked…angry. Perhaps she was taking out her frustration with her family on the poor, blameless fruit.
“Which means he could arrive any time between now and next week,” Juliet pointed out.
True.The Windermeres ever had a loose relationship with timekeeping.
“Oh, by the by, Amelia,” said Delilah. “I’ve decided I shall attend tomorrow night’s soirée in honor of the Duke of Ripon.”
“Didn’t you say soirées celebrating decrepit, old dukes weren’t worth your time?”
“Don’t forgetlecherous,” added Juliet. “She said that, too.”
“I saidlikelyweren’t worth my time,” said Delilah, indifferently flicking a piece of lint off her skirt. “And as none of us have ever clapped eyes on the man, as reclusive as he is, well, I’m curious, and in need of society and prosecco.”
Something akin to dread filled Amelia. If Archie did, in fact, arrive tomorrow, the possibility existed that the Windermeres could be attending a society function all together—which hadn’t happened since they’d left England. Which meant, of course, she would be playing nursemaid all night, because, quite simply, her siblings couldn’t be trusted not to be utterly and completely themselves—charming, but improper and slightly scandalous, in either word or deed or, most like, both.
A feeling jogged on the edge of memory as if…as if she was forgetting something important, like an…
Appointment.
All-too-familiar panic seized her. “What is the time?” Time just never seemed to pass in the linear fashion everyone said it did.
Delilah pulled a pocket watch from the discreet hip pocket she had sewn into all her dresses. She’d explained it was something about being an actress and timing and honestly Amelia hadn’t been able to understand the reasoning. She couldn’t bring herself to give a fig about time. Signore Rossi, her Italian art instructor, did, however.
“Five minutes shy of one of the clock.”
“Blast!”
In a frantic rush that brought mean, little smiles to Delilah and Juliet’s faces—they’d heard that exact exclamation regarding this very topic more times than any of them could count—Amelia gathered her brushes and palette and shoved them into her valise, which she grabbed on the run. “I’ll be back in a few hours.”
Muted laughter followed Amelia as she dashed from the palazzo and onto the street, her feet a rapid tattoo against cobblestones. The scents and sounds of Florence crashed into her in a frenzied rush, as they always did as she crossed one square, then another, flew down a labyrinthine maze of alleys, another square, then it was a quick turn onto a narrow street, an even quicker turn into a quiet alley. Twenty steps later, she’d arrived, panting, at the turquoise-painted gate of Signore Rossi.
Taking no time to compose herself or wipe the sweat off her flushed brow, Amelia planted both hands on the gate that led into an exterior courtyard and began to push when it suddenly gave way and an ox plowed into her, knocking her off balance and flat onto her bottom, her skirts forming a white muslin puff around her—all in the space of two seconds.
She held a hand to her forehead and glared up at the ox.
Well, not an ox, precisely. But an ox of a man, to be sure. She couldn’t see his face as the sun was at his back, creating a halo of light around his massive hulking form.
“Please don’t apologize,” she said acidly, dusting her hands off on her skirts, before checking that nothing had spilled from her valise.
The man snorted. Rather like an ox. “That was far from my intention. Perhaps it has occurred to you that you’re entirely at fault for your current condition.”
“Why…why…” she sputtered through righteous, disbelieving shock. Never in her life had she been spoken to thusly.
And she most definitely didn’t like it.
