Evening Star (Star Quartet 1)

“Odd, you seem younger, much younger.”

He flushed angrily, but his voice rang with passionate sincerity. “You are toying with me, signorina, but I like a girl with spirit. You take my gentleness and my desire to please you as a sign of an immature man.”

He clasped her shoulders and jerked her toward him. It was too much and Giana could not help herself. She burst into laughter. He released her so suddenly that she stumbled backward.

“You need to be tamed,” he snarled, his dark face now truly flushed with anger, his studied passion forgotten.

“Why?”

“Why what?” he growled, staring at her with open dislike.

“Why would you say that I need to be tamed, when I simply find you funny?”

“Funny?”

“Well, amusing then.”

“You are supposed to be a proper young lady, not an outspoken, insulting . . .”

“Bitch?”

“Dio, I would not marry you, even if you are—” He broke off, and clamped his teeth over his lower lip.

“Even if I am wealthy. Now that you have spoken your mind, Bruno, perhaps we can stop this elaborate charade. I think you are probably quite nice. You prefer poetry to girls anyway, do you not?”

He said stiffly, drawing himself to his full height, “The day is very warm. I wish to have another glass of lemonade.”

“I think that is a fine idea, Bruno.”

As they walked back to their party, Bruno maintaining an angry silence, Giana wondered at herself. She did not understand why she had been so very impolite to Bruno, despite his motives. She had, she saw, wounded his vanity deeply. She realized suddenly, a flush splaying over her cheeks, that she would have felt flattered and would undoubtedly have preened at his ardent attentions but a month ago.

It was a galling insight, and she felt ashamed that it was true. But he had been so obvious with her, had made her want to laugh. She touched her fingertips to her cheeks. She must remember that she was in Rome, and people were different here, despite what Uncle Daniele said. They were different, not she.

But the sight of the River Anio and the Temple of Vesta that afternoon brought only a trite compliment to her lips. She could not seem to pay much attention to either the scenery or her companions. Signora Palli asked her once if she was feeling ill, and Vittorio gazed at her oddly from his elegantly arched brows. Bruno maintained a brooding silence and the girls were left to flirt with the other young gentlemen, whose names refused to come to Giana’s mind.

She shared a quiet dinner that evening with Daniele. Over a game of chess he said, “This is the first time in Rome you have been with people your own age for an entire day. You have not remarked upon it.”

Giana moved her queen’s bishop to a diagonal bearing down upon his white king. She shrugged, not raising her head. “It was not particularly remarkable, although I did enjoy visiting Tivoli. There are five hundred fountains in the gardens at the Villa d’Este. I read it in a guidebook. Is that not interesting?”

“What did you think of Vittorio Cavelli?”

She had expected him to question her

about Bruno, for she had the inescapable feeling that he knew of the young man’s interest in her. She raised her head and regarded him with some surprise.

“He is all right, I suppose. Attentive to Cametta, says all the right things, but I do not particularly like him. He is not sincere, perhaps.”

“As you know, Vittorio is the heir of an aristocratic family,” Daniele said smoothly, moving his knight to attack her bishop. “It is as true in Italy as in England that the aristocracy still wield much influence and control much wealth. But the rest of us, Giana—and you are one of us, despite your mother’s titled antecedents—are becoming a force they must reckon with. Year by year, we grow stronger, are more wealthy. Year by year, the aristocracy become more degenerate and more impoverished. Vittorio’s marriage to Cametta Palli is quite understandable. She becomes a countess and Vittorio can continue his idle existence in comfort. Her dowry is quite monstrous.”

Giana’s fingers were poised over her bishop. “What are you saying, Uncle?”

“Nothing of any importance, I suppose.” He shrugged. “It is unusual that Randall Bennett wishes to soil his aristocratic hands with business.”

“I told you that he is different,” she said. “Check, Uncle.”

“How odd that you should have your father’s skill,” he remarked, staring down at the board. “With all your mother’s remarkable intelligence, she could never grasp the intricacies of the game.”

“And mate.”