“I shouldn’t have bought so many gowns,” she repeated irritably.
“You will need them,” he murmured.
“You certainly needed new clothes,” she retorted.Stupid man! You ought to be grateful. Some beggar in a Trastevere back alley, warmer tonight in your filthy old coat, certainly is.Before she could form a tart comment on ingratitude, a door opened on silent hinges.
Nora sprang to her feet. Just as swiftly, Jamie took her arm and whispered, “Easy now. Don’t look too anxious. Try to look madly in love, dearest.”
Dearest? The dratted man is right, of course.
She attempted to give him a coy look when they entered Castellimonte’s reception room. His cheeky wink sent flaming tendrils up her cheeks.
“Perfect,” he murmured.
“The Count di Castellimonte,” a voice said. The Ferret.
A younger man followed Castellimonte. “And the Baron Victor Filiberto,” the Ferret intoned. It was clear by the resemblance to the count that this was his son. He flaunted expense and foppish excess. Nora, suddenly grateful for the new gown, felt dull by comparison.
The count gestured for Nora to sit. Unlike their previous visit, he placed her on the same level.That bodes well, doesn’t it?
Jamie didn’t wait to be asked. His hand, warm on the small of her back, directed her to a chair. He sat next to her and moved his own seat so close their knees met. His hand never left her back. The feel of his body warmed her until she felt tension leave her shoulders.
“My son,” the count began, “takes an interest in family affairs.” The younger man smirked. His eyes raked over Nora until her skin crawled. Jamie took her hand in his free one and gave it a squeeze.
“I see you have put aside mourning, Mrs. Haley,” the count said.
Her heart sank. She tried to form a response, but Castellimonte, stone-faced, did not pause. “What is it you wished to see me about?” he asked.
Stupid question. A calming breath stifled the temptation to sputter. “My brother’s will, Count, and guardianship of Isabella.”
He raised a regal eyebrow and regarded her dress but nodded for her to continue.
“My niece must remain in Rome. I accept that. She must be raised Catholic. Mother Margarita and the sisters at Santo Spirito will help me see to that. The terms of Robert’s will have been met.”
A cold stare met her statement. The letter of the will would not suffice.
“Your legal representatives explained that you have additional concerns. I must learn Italian. I have begun to do so.” Isabella made a great tutor. The thought gave her courage.
“The greatest hurdle, at least the one reported to me, is my unmarried state.”
Victor Filberto, Castellimonte’s son, leaned back, his smirk deepening.
“That much is obvious,” the count said with a dismissive gesture.
Jamie’s hand, warm against the small of her back, urged her on. She leaned into it for strength.
“I have come, that is Major Bently and I have come, to inform you of our betrothal.” She took a steadying breath. “I have tempered my mourning attire in deference to that happy event.”
“Foolishness,” the count snapped. “Families contract betrothals carefully. One does not leap into such an arrangement lightly. What has your father to say to this?”
“I am a widow, Count, and my father lives far from here. I do not require his guidance in this matter.”
“Unwise and inadequate,” the old wolf pronounced.
“My fiancée—” Jamie leaned slightly forward and broke in. He pronounced each word with force and repeated them, “My fiancée makes her decisions for herself. She does not require your guidance.”
The old man shifted his glare toward Jamie. “You do not have permission to speak.”
Jamie continued as if Castellimonte had not spoken. “The matter is simple. Robert Beaumont left a will that clearly stated his wishes. You hinder the courts from carrying it out. Honor demands that you remove those hindrances.”
