Page 36 of Heiress Gone Wild

“None at all,” she hastened to assure him. “This is quite a coincidence.”

“A delightful one for me. Though perhaps not for you.” He paused, making a face as he glanced down at the carpet between them. “I seem to have disarranged your belongings. Let me rectify that.”

Remembering Jonathan’s words of caution about de la Rosa, she voiced a protest, but when the count overrode it with a wave of his hand, then knelt on the floor and turned the basket upright to begin retrieving the scattered sewing supplies, she relented, for she just couldn’t see any harm in allowing him to assist her.

“I didn’t know your rooms were along this corridor,” she said, sinking to her knees on the other side of the open doorway to help him gather spools of thread and packets of needles.

“They are not. I was exploring the ship, and I took a wrong turn. Although,” he added, lifting his head to look at her, smiling a little beneath his mustache, “it is not so very wrong, I think, if the result is your company.”

She laughed, pleased. Here, at least, was someone who seemed glad to see her. With Jonathan treating her as if she had leprosy, de la Rosa’s obvious delight at encountering her was like a balm to her wounded feminine pride.

He glanced past her shoulder to the stateroom beyond. “Is this where you stay?” he asked, leaning forward a little on his knees to peer past her into the sitting room beyond. “I did not realize the parlor suites were so large.”

“You don’t have a suite?”

“Alas, no. I could never afford it.” He sat back on his heels and resumed their task. “These days, I must be practical. I must—how do you say it?—make the economies.”

“Yes, I suppose many people do.”

“But I am most fortunate. An income from my estates affords me rooms in Paris, and my mother and I live most comfortably. We travel, we enjoy fine hotels, good food and wine...” He paused to toss a pincushion into the basket. “What more does one need?”

“You live in Paris?” That surprised her. “But I thought you had estates in Spain?”

“I do, but I have leased the house. A rich American family lives in my villa. They pay much money to enjoy the beauty of my vineyards, but without the headaches, you comprehend?”

“That must be difficult, having someone else living in your ancestral home.”

He made an expressive gesture with his hands. “It is tragic, but what else can one do? Between the rents and the wine, I make enough for my needs, and living in Paris is not expensive.”

“Is that how you know Baroness Vasiliev? From Paris?”

“That is where we met, yes, but I would not say we know each other very well. She spends much time in England. In the winter, we sometimes encounter each other in the South of France—Juan-les-Pins, Nice, Cannes... the usual watering places.”

To Marjorie, there was nothing “usual” about such places. To her, the count’s cosmopolitan lifestyle seemed downright exotic, much more like the high society she’d imagined than Lady Stansbury’s sewing circle. “I’m afraid I’ve never been to the Riviera.”

“Not even to Nice? But that is a tragedy. You would love it.” He flashed her a smile. “You can spend your fortune at the gaming tables, no?”

“I’ve never been to a casino either.” Even as she said those words, she felt a pang. There was so much to see, so much to experience, and yet, she was still watching from a distance.

“I’m not sure I would be a very good player,” she confessed. “The only card game I know is picquet. But I should love to see Nice.”

“If you go, you will be enchanted. The mimosa, the sun, the water—so beautiful.”

He was looking at her as he said it, demonstrating he wasn’t really talking about the Riviera. Right in front of her, it seemed, was the romance she craved, but as she looked into the count’s handsome face, another countenance, not so sleek, not so urbane, flashed across her mind.

The image—hazel eyes shot with scorching lights of gold, lean planes of cheek and jaw, a hard mouth set in a tight line—filled her with such frustration, she wanted to kick herself.

Here she was, talking to one of the handsomest men she’d ever seen, a cosmopolitan man who admired her and made it clear he had a romantic interest in her, but was she thinking about him?

No, she was thinking about a man who hemmed her in and held her back, who thought to pacify her with promises of what she’d have someday.

She was so tired of somedays and the men who promised them.

The count spoke again, and Marjorie shoved her damned guardian out of her mind, forcing her attention back to the man in front of her.

“Once you have spent time on the Côte d’Azur,” he was saying as he dropped a packet of embroidery flosses into the basket, “you will never want to live in England.”

Making an expression of his distaste for that country, he tossed a tin box of buttons into the basket and presented the basket to her with a little bow, then stood up and held out his hand to her.

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