“Aye, Daniele. I think that time is not too far distant.”
The Contessa Giovanna Giusti, known in Naples as the Contessa Luciana di Rolando, felt the king’s hooded eyes upon her, and forced a smile to her lips. Old fool, she thought as she smiled at him. But she was used to rutting old goats, and she knew how to treat them. This evening it was particularly easy because her blood was coursing through her veins in anticipation.
The proud Earl of Clare’s daughter was in Naples and she would see her again tonight. She had never dreamed of such a plum falling so easily into her lap. She had sought no introduction to her during her first night at court, content to watch her. The girl was the picture of her mother, though her eyes were her father’s, clear, intelligent, and black as night. She had watched the girl’s easy, confident manner with gentlemen and ladies alike. The girl had grown to womanhood, doubtless beloved of her parents, while Giovanna had languished in Algiers, a black veil over her face. Tonight, she thought, forcing herself not to draw away when the king’s age-spotted hand covered hers, she would meet Lady Arabella Welles. She didn’t know why the girl was in Naples. Surely her proud father would not have sent her, a mere woman, to find out who had stolen his ships’ cargoes. She smiled. The earl would come, sooner or later, to join her.
Giovanna became aware of the queen’s eyes upon her. When she met her gaze, the queen smiled, then turned to speak in a low voice to her daughter Amélie. Amélie laughed and said something back to her mother behind her gloved hand. Let them gossip about her, the cold bitches.
When the king’s attention turned to Sir Hugh Elliot, the English ambassador, Giovanna gracefully moved away, and smoothed down the wrinkles in her green taffeta gown. She knew she still looked attractive, despite her fifty years, and her figure, at least through her gown, appeared slender and firm.
“Madame, you look radiant this evening.” Her young lover, Gervaise, Comte de la Valle, was standing in front of her. Was there amusement in his voice? she wondered.
“Thank you,” she said, her eyes narrowed on his handsome face. There were tiny lines about his eyes. He was young, but the life he led would age him prematurely, if he lived that long. The thought pleased her. He thought he was using her, an older woman, grateful for a young man’s lovemaking. He was a fool, like most men, and it would be too late for him when he at last realized she was using him instead.
“I am hungry for you, madame,” the comte said, his voice softly hoarse, the way he knew women liked it.
“There will be a banquet in but an hour,” Giovanna said in a tart voice, “and I am not one of the courses.”
“Ah, you are being cruel.”
“You must know, comte, that it is unwise for me to speak to you here at court. Come to my villa tomorrow night, and I will provide you with food and talk.”
Gervaise’s smile did not fade. She was older than any lover he had had, but at least she didn’t repel him, and the rewards he reaped were making him rich.
“As you wish, madame.”
Giovanna watched him step through the inevitable crowd. He stopped near the daughter of Viscount Delford, the Englishman here in Naples as an adviser to Sir Hugh Elliot. He seemed to be waiting for someone, she thought, somewhat amused. Had the little red-haired chit appealed to him? Her gaze shifted to Lady Arabella Welles, who was talking to Lady Eden. The girl seemed to draw people to her side, with her warmth and her tinkling laughter. I was once like her, Giovanna thought.
“You should not wear white, ma mie.”
Rayna’s obliging social smile became radiant at the sound of the marchese’s voice. “Monsieur. I had hoped you would be here.” She looked into his twinkling eyes and grinned charmingly. “As for the color I am wearing, marchese, I believe my white and your black announce our respective characters.”
“An angel and a devil? You wound me, mademoiselle.”
“But why, monsieur?” Rayna asked with mock seriousness. “As a devil, you would be most exciting and wicked, whereas as an angel I would most assuredly be insipid and boring. It is you who wound me.”
A black brow winged upward. “You are no angel, Rayna, but a minx.”
Rayna was pleased that he used her name. He said it as the English did, and she wondered at it for a moment. “Are you wicked, marchese? A rake, perhaps?”
“No,” Adam said rather curtly. At her questioning look, he added on a lazy smile, “My dress and my black beard are misleading. I am the mildest of men, mademoiselle, I assure you.”
“That is what I told my parents,” Rayna said, pursing her lips.
“What?”
“Well, you see, my parents believe that you are a very worldly man, far too sophisticated for me.”
“So you informed your fond parents that I, far from being a rake, am a gentle soul?”
Rayna gazed raptly at the gold buttons on his waistcoat. “Not precisely,” she said. “I
told them I think you are kind.”
Adam stared at her for a long moment. “In England, young girls go to London for a Season, do they not?”
Rayna nodded. “Yes, and it’s very silly, I think. They go to balls and routs and all sorts of things, just to find a husband. Fortunately, I came to Naples instead.”
“Then you have not met many gentlemen,” he said, thinking of all the debutantes he had observed over the years in London. He had found several of them interesting enough, he supposed, but none like the glowing girl standing in front of him. “You have been protected.”