Page 12 of Love Unraveled
He’d been so grateful to make it back toVeniseand, with the Austrians in control, had had no need to hide. He’d gone directly to her aunt’s house only to find strangers living there. They’d told him she’d died and the niece had married Count Tessaro. He’d been convinced they were mistaken, so he’d made his way over to the count’s house.
Count Tessaro and Sophie had been going out for the evening. Swathed in the height of fashion, all signs of the girl he’d once known gone, the woman, Countess Tessaro, had clung to her husband’s arm. She’d laughed lightly, and Gaston’s ears had rung with the familiar sound. The count had leaned in and whispered something to her, and her responding smile was seductive. The ringing in Gaston’s head had grown. When they’d settled into the gondola, Sophie had leaned over and kissed the count on the cheek. Gaston’s head had resounded with his fury, with his hurt, and he’d known he must leave or he would do something he’d regret.
He had returned later and confronted the count, who, unruffled, had claimed he offered Sophie a life Gaston, a penniless traitor, could not. He’d calmly pointed out the point was moot anyway, as they were irrevocably wed. When Gaston had argued, the count had had Raimondo escort him from the property. He would have returned were it not for the intimate scene he’d witnessed between the count and Sophie. She had gone on with her life. Gaston had meant nothing to her.
“Non, non, non. You will not do this to me. You will not make me feel guilty for living. I waited for you, Gaston. I waited for three years. And you did not come. You did not write. There was no word at all about you. Aunt Isabella was dead. As far as I knew, you were too. What was I to do?”
He’d not expected her anger, and he’d not accept it. “The same thing I have done my entire life. Keep my heart only for you.” Gaston did not mean those words lovingly, for he was tired of the weight of the memories of Sophie, of the dreams he’d once had. It was why he’d decided to find a way to approach her. To confront her would be cleansing, and he could finally put the past behind him.
Sophie flew to her feet, pointing at him. “Only for me? Is that why you were hiding in the bushes? Holding on to my heart?Ridicule! I did what I had to do, and I’ll not apologize for it. But you—” Sophie paused, catching her breath, her chest heaving with emotion. “Carmine has been dead ten years. Ten years, Gaston! You, so brokenhearted at my loss, have had ten years to find me. To talk to me. To claim your love for me. I ask you again. Where have you been?”
Gaston swallowed, his mind a whirlwind. He could not tell her the truth, but he would not lie either. So he simply shrugged.
“Get out of my house,” Sophie said through gritted teeth, the color in her cheeks deepening with her anger. “I never want to see you again.” She turned and walked regally out of the room.
Gaston had never wanted her more.
Chapter Eight
My tongue will tell the anger of my heart,
Or else my heart concealing it will break.
—Shakespeare,The Taming of the Shrew
Sophia fought theurge to run up the stairs, to bury her face in a pillow, to scream. Or to cry. No, she would not cry tears for someone who did not deserve it. She’d been in love with a memory. This man was not her Gaston. He was forever lost to her.
Raimondo stepped out from behind the staircase. “See him gone,” she said as she walked past him, toward the back of the house.
She strode through the ballroom, stopping in the middle of the room as the thought struck her—Gaston had been here a few weeks ago when she’d held a masquerade. He’d not said a word, had deliberately not revealed himself. Had he not accidentally run into her, she’d not even know he’d been here at all. How long had he been watching her?
She muttered to herself, cursing him in three different languages, as she made her way in the dark to the saloon and on through to the conservatory. It was her favorite room, and she could easily navigate it without light. Still, she lit the lantern by the door and slipped it off its hook. When the fog had rolled intoVeneziaand the winter days had grown dull and gray, she had longed for the smell of fresh flowers. She’d promised herself, if she ever lived in the country, she would have such a room built. She’d had it added to the back of the house a year after she’d moved in.
The smell of oranges filled the far corner, and she went to them, leaning in and slowly inhaling their scent. It helped to settle her anger but not enough for her to sit down. She set the lantern on a table and paced along the bank of windows looking out toward the gardens. The moon was behind clouds, so she could see nothing but shadowy shapes, real or imagined, she didn’t know. She paused. Something had moved. She scanned the darkness but could see nothing further. It was probably Stefano doing his night rounds. If it had been Raimondo, she’d have recognized him. Even in shadow, he was hard to miss.
Sophia pulled at the pins in her hair and set them on the ledge, shaking her head so her hair would fall free. She massaged her temples, trying to chase away a growing headache. Gaston. Returned to her at last. Her initial burst of euphoria now extinguished, there was no longer joy in it. Why had he not come to her sooner? If Laurence had not found him skulking, would he have come to her at all?
The news he’d been taken prisoner had not come as a surprise. Carmine had proposed such a theory. He’d also bluntly told her rebels, loyal to the old ways, did not often survive capture. She’d held on to hope, knowing Gaston was wily and clever. If anyone could escape, it would be him. But she’d heard nothing from him or about him. Nor about her father. Carmine had assured her he was seeking information where he could, and she’d had no reason to doubt him. Should she question his integrity now?
Sophia could not imagine the level of betrayal Gaston was suggesting. The count had been kind and patient in those years after Gaston had disappeared. His presence in her life had ensured her safety among the many men who vied, often forcefully, for the hands of young Venetian women. He was a man who’d known how to appease those in power yet manage to maintain his own. When Aunt Isabella had died, Carmine had taken her in for her own protection. They’d grown close, and marriage seemed a logical step. She would have the protection of his name as well as his guards.
She could not accept the count would do anything to hurt her. Even in death, he protected her. When he knew he’d not long to live, he’d contrived a plan to see her leaveVenezia. There were rumors Napoleon would return, and Carmine had not wanted to leave her vulnerable. Her French father had long been shipped away, and all her mother’s family were dead. He’d decided England would be the safest place for a woman on her own, since fighting did not seem to land on Britain’s shores. Carmine had been all she’d had left, and she’d been numb with his impending loss, so she had not cared where she went. Anywhere there weren’t memories.
It was only after she’d arrived in England that she realized he’d been planning her escape for years. Money was here. The town house in London was already in her name. A man who’d planned so far ahead for her safety could not possibly have stolen the only thing she cared deeply about. He would not have arranged for Gaston’s capture. He would not.
She rubbed her temples again, those early years in England rushing back in. Carmine had easily established financial security for her, but he’d understood money only bought so much in society, especially when you were a foreigner whose paternal country was at war with your newfound country. So he’d sent her with secrets. She’d presented them to the Foreign Office as instructed. In exchange, they did not pursue her history or question the past she’d fabricated for herself. Not truly invented though, for she never lied. She simply created an illusion by omitting details of her life.
The Home Office called on her still, and she was more than happy to oblige. It had become a goal over the years, a quiet revenge for her lost life. She volunteered information she garnered while socializing. Men talked easily in the company of a woman, and she became privy to many secrets she did not solicit. If she thought it would help England defeat the little emperor—the man who’d stolen her father and her love from her—she passed it on. It was seamless. Men from the Home Office came and went from her home with ease. Who would suspect a beautiful, self-centered Italian widow of anything except liaisons?
She’d built a good life here and had grown content. If she’d never stopped dreaming of Gaston, it was because the young girl in her longed for the boy. Not the man who was here today. The man who could still ignite her emotions and light a fire within her with a simple word or look.Basta! Enough! She would not hang around the countryside and lament. She’d planned to go to London in a few days; she’d move it to tomorrow. In London, she’d have a purpose. And her friends would soon be there.
She would leave her memories and Gaston behind.
*
Gaston watched Sophiethrough the window. Raimondo had made the mistake of letting Stefano escort Gaston off the property. Stefano was not rigid like Raimondo, nor was he energetic. He had walked Gaston only as far as the entrance gate, then ambled back up the drive to the house, assuming Gaston would cooperate and leave. It had been easy to slip through the back gardens. A light in theconservatoirehad drawn his attention, and he’d crept closer.
Sophie paced like a caged animal. He was pleased with her agitation, for it reflected his own. Apathy would have ended his desire, but this restlessness she was displaying only fired it further. He groaned when she took the pins from her hair. He longed to reach out, entwine those thick strands through his fingers, and pull her close. When she rubbed her temples, his heart ached a little. He wanted to massage away any hurt he had caused.
