Page 40 of Love Unraveled
“Le mie scuse,signora mia. Durand.” Cara continued in rapid-fire Italian, lamenting the good old days when people were who they were and insisting she was getting too old to keep up. Cara was well aware of Sophia’s history with Gaston. She had patiently listened to Sophia’s endless stories of her lost love when she’d first moved in with the count. Sophia knew the woman was not bothered by his sudden appearance. No, Cara frowned on Sophia’s more covert exploits, and she was seizing the opportunity to lecture her.
“Basta,” Sophia said, tiring of Cara’s not-so-discreet chastisement. “The war must soon end, and there will be no more need for subterfuge.”
The end of the war would be a blessing, but she worried constantly about her friends and how they would react when they learned the grand Italian countess was an illusion created with half-truths. That she was a woman stripped of her home and country, who’d married out of necessity and used her flamboyant widowhood as a ruse. They were family to her, but what of she to them? Would they have let her into their world had they known she was French? Would they feel used? Could they forgive her for not being forthcoming, or would the life she’d built crumble?
She found hope in their husbands, who seemed to have accepted her involvement in the capture of a criminal last month. Thornwood and Walford probably considered it one more of her long list of idiosyncrasies, a minor adventure for the thrill of it. They could not possibly know her dealings with the Home Office were ongoing. Would they stand with her if she told Elizabeth and Catherine about her involvement in war operations, in spying in the drawing rooms of London? Or would they see Sophia as sullied and want their wives far away from her influence? Such thoughts weighed heavily. She sighed and slipped her arms into the dress Cara held up.
“You do the right thing,” Cara said quietly in Italian. “The count would be proud.”
“Would he?” Sophia asked, wiggling until the skirt fell and tugging at it until it snugged her breasts.
Cara bit back a smile. “No, he is rolling in his grave.”
Sophia laughed at her maid’s honesty. Cara had been maid for the count’s first wife and knew the Tessaros far better than Sophia.
Cara grabbed the sash and wrapped it under Sophia’s breasts. “Only because he loved you,signora mia, very much, and would be worried for your safety. But he would admire your cause…and your courage.”
Sophia turned and kissed the older woman’s cheeks. “Grazie, Cara.”
She appreciated Cara’s sentiment, but while the count had been a kind and generous man, Sophia suspected he’d loved the memory of her mother more than he’d loved Sophia for herself. Maria Amalia Donati, Sophia’s mother, had been promised to Carmine Tessaro when she’d run off with Julien Auclair. Sophia’s aunt had never forgiven her sister for rejecting a future count and accepting a lowly scholar. But Carmine had.
He’d married another and claimed to have been happy with her. Years later, he’d continued to mourn her death and that of his child, both lost during childbirth. It had been his greatest hope Sophia would produce an heir, but it had not come to pass. Their intimate moments had been few and far between, and while the count had been a considerate lover, he had struggled to do his duty. It had been a great frustration for him but a relief for her. She had been fond of him and appreciated everything he’d done, but her heart had been stolen when she was eight years old, and it had never been returned.
“The rubies, Cara.” The oval-shaped pendant, framed with a crust of diamonds, rested comfortably on the rise of Sophia’s breasts. Carmine had always had exquisite taste in jewelry. The jeweled buttons on her gloves matched the necklace, as did the embroidery on her sash and slippers.
“Magnificent,” Cara said, handing Sophia her reticule. “I have put your spectacles—”
“Sì, sì,” Sophia said, waving Cara away. She despised her glasses. They made her feel old. She refused to be seen in them, but she’d missed several opportunities to read what may have been important information. So now she carried them with her in case the need should arise again. She would not let her pride stand in the way of her work. “I have kept Monsieur waiting long enough, no?”
Cara laughed along with Sophia and opened the door. Sophia strolled through her private sitting room, the drawing room, and out into the hall. Below, Gaston paced the front hall, Raimondo standing nearby with arms crossed, watching him. She might have guffawed at the scene, but Gaston spotted her and abruptly stopped his impatient patrol. The look on his face sent a shiver through her, and her body sparked fire, heat pooling in areas she usually disregarded.
She raised her chin and slowly descended the stairs, knowing the effect it would have on Gaston but also to be cautious, as she might trip—such was the distractedness of her physical reaction to his gaze. When she reached the landing, Gaston took her hand and bowed elegantly over it.
He looked at her through those thick, long lashes. “I am not worthy of your beauty,” he said gruffly.
Worthy? Her beauty was irrelevant. And, despite her body’s response, a question remained to be answered. Was Gaston worthy of her heart?
Chapter Thirty
Venus in her shell was never so lovely, and Diana in the forest never so graceful as my Lady.
—Edmond Rostand,Cyrano de Bergerac
Gaston was uncomfortable.Bordel de merde! Sophie stirred his loins like no one else. His body had risen to the occasion when she’d floated slowly down the stairs, a goddess in red. A voluptuous Venus. He could have taken her right there if she’d been willing. And perhaps if Raimondo weren’t standing there like a centurion guarding his empress.
Sophie chattered gaily while Gaston shifted on the seat, trying to readjust. Yes, he had risen at the sight of her and remained hard as they slowed in front of the Thornwoods. He should alight and assist Lady Thornwood, but he could not without drawing attention to himself, so he shifted to the far side.
“Bella!” Sophie turned and rose a little off her seat, kissing Lady Thornwood’s cheeks. Her delicious derriere was on display for Gaston before she pivoted and sat gracefully beside him, her thigh pressed along his. She looked at him coyly.
“Ma petite belette,” he said under his breath. She knew exactly what she was doing to him.
“I do hope you mean minx, not weasel,” Sophie said, her musical laughter filling the carriage.
“And what is so funny?” Lady Thornwood asked.
“I was correcting Gaston’s choice of words. Language is so…” She hesitated, glancing slyly at him before finishing. “…hard.”
Lady Thornwood pressed her lips together, fighting a smile, and Lord Thornwood glanced at him. Gaston sensed commiseration in his look. Sophie, of course, laughed again, entirely too pleased with herself. The heat rose from Gaston’s crotch to his face. At least the physical strain was lessening.
