Maybe he has something in his eye.
“Where do you go to school?”
“Oxford.”
“I’ve visited Oxford many times,” I say, warmly. “What are you studying?”
He smirks. “The material is a little dense, but in the interest of keeping it simple for someone like you, Mediterranean history.”
My smile grows.Finally.Something we can talk about. “Italy is the perfect place to visit. There’s so much history to explore here.”
He snorts. “The Renaissance was about a lot more than tourist traps.”
I grit my teeth. “I know.”
“Do you?” His tone drips disbelief.
I nod toward the steep scatter of pastel buildings clinging to the cliffs behind us. “These Amalfi Coast communities may seem small now, but this area was extremely influential in establishing maritime law. Amalfi, itself, shaped commercial practice across the Mediterranean for centuries.”
He laughs. “You’ve confused Amalfi with Catalonia and the Consulate of the Sea. But nice effort, darling,” he says in the tone of someone talking to a toddler.
“My husband is the only man who gets to call me ‘darling.’” And he’s never used it to patronize me.
Elliot rolls his eyes.
I grit my teeth and remind myself that I’m a patient person. My friends regularly tease me about my “legendary” self-restraint. Henry is usually the only person who can even tell when I’m pissed off, butOh my God. I hate Elliot.
My husband glares across the marble barrier between us at the young man lecturing me. He may not be able to hear our conversation, but he can see what’s happening just fine.
I give Henry my best “Stay where you are”look before straightening my spine and returning my attention to Noah’s brother.
He wants to talk history? We can talk history.
“Not theConsulat de la Mer. TheTabula Amalphitana,” I say.
He lifts his nose and smirks. “Nonsense in a foreign language is still nonsense.”
I’ve just spent years of my life studying a subject I care about deeply for this boy to disrespect me and argue over something so basic.
Elliot is far from the first man to dismiss me academically based solely on his ego. That’s the only excuse I have for what I do next. “So, you don’t speak Italian?”
“I’ve been occupied with more important things.”
I’m aware my voice is described as soft and sweet. I’ve tried many times to make it harder and lower with varying degrees of success.
I’m not meeting Elliot on that ground. I lean into my natural register and make my eyes as round as they’ll go. “Do you understand French, at least?”
He huffs.
“You must know this one?” I begin an explanation about maritime law, this time in German, then cut off at the annoyed expression on his face.
“Not that one either?” I sound like I should be voice acting in a children’s cartoon.
He sneers. “I know some French. What does speaking foreign languages have to do with anything? We were talking about history.” He stretches the last word out in emphasis.
“I don’t get it.” I lift a hand and shrug. “How could any serious historian study the primary sources if they didn’t learn the languages they were written in?” If Henry’s sister, Bronwyn could hear me now, she’d fall over laughing. I don’t do things like this.
Color rises in his neck. “Can you read a map? You don’t even know the difference between Catalonia and Amalfi,” he snaps.
