I think you would be pleased to know that the duke called me extraordinary. I was so proud. He would know, wouldn’t you think? Because he is.
But how can I be? He has already endured so much. He can be a bit of a bastard, but he is practically a bloody national saint. He is expected to be good, and he is. He is a very fine man. I am grateful to know him.
Oh, but Mama. When I am with him...
The way I feel about him is neither small, nor wise, nor bearable.
I so wanted a very different life. A life like the one we had. At the moment, I’ve no business wanting anything at all, unless it’s a paying job.
I suppose some would call me a fallen woman. But I still feel just like myself—just Mariana. No different inside. So I am worried that what I did with Lord Revell was not so much a mistake as simply my nature. And then, what does that say about me? Am I what the newspapers say I am?
Is that why I want to tempt the duke? Is that why he is tempted? Would I be his downfall?
But what are bodies for, if not for this?
The next afternoon, Dot tapped on her bedroom door just as Mariana was drawing heavy lines through a sentence she’d written that she didn’t dare allow anyone to see.
She’d just heard the clock downstairs chime out two o’clock.
“Miss Wylde, a gentleman has arrived who wishes to speak to you. He talks very quickly and has very white teeth. And his name sounds like ‘eeneenee.’”
Mariana shot to her feet. “Oh! Mr. Giannini is here?”
“He’sveryhandsome, Miss Wylde,” she whispered. She fanned herself. “Cor! Italian! Like Queen Charlotte’s lover!”
“He’s a charming rogue, Dot,” she said firmly. “Don’t lose your heart. Thank you for telling me. If you would bring in tea? Would that be all right? And will you kindly tell him I’ll be down presently.”
Dot darted back down the stairs.
Mariana rubbed a bit of shine from her nose, pulled a few tendrils of hair down to trace her jaw, bit her lips, and rubbed her cheeks. It wasn’t Giancarlo in particular she was attempting to impress. But she knew he would tell the world how he found her.
She gracefully made her way down the stairs. She took the descent at a regal, leisurely pace, as if she were mistress of the manor.
Thusly, Giancarlo was able to admire her as she passed beneath the crystal chandelier.
He looked the same, of course: lean and elegant, all flashing dark eyes, teeth like pianoforte keys, a cravat tied with Gordian knot intricacy, and a perfect swoop of Byronic dark hair.
He covered his heart with his hat as she approached, and bowed.
“Mariana,tesoro mio,luce dei miei occhi—I have found you.”
“Giancarlo! So you have!”
“I ask at every inn in every town. Where is she, the most beautiful girl in England? You must tell me.”
She’d almost forgotten how absurd he was, and how amusing, in his way.
“Only in England?”
He smiled. “In all the world. I would have said it properly, but my charm, she has some rust since I do not see you every day I have no need to use it. NO one else is worthy.”
She snorted. He flirted liked he breathed, and she had no doubt he did indeed suffer if he had no current target.
It wasn’tunpleasantto see him. Or to bask in extravagant compliments.
“And then I ask at this inn and my prayers are answered,” he concluded. Ignoring that Mr. Delacorte had sent him.
“Are you about to answer mine?”
