A Companion for the Count: A Regency Romance, Britton, Sally [books to read for self improvement .txt] 📗

Surely the man had a great deal to accomplish in a day, even if the months before Parliament convened were more relaxed in the countryside.

A door mid-way down the corridor opened, the sound of the latch’s release barely audible from her distant perch. Emma adjusted her posture and bent over her sketchbook while affecting a more diligent expression. At last.

Conte Atella stepped out of his chambers, closing the door behind him. He turned her direction, hands tugging at the hem of his jacket as he walked. His gaze cast downward for several steps before he raised it to the end of the corridor—and caught sight of Emma. She watched him from the corner of her eye, noting his reaction with interest.

His steps slowed, and he dropped his hands to his side before he tucked them behind his back. He came forward a few more steps and cleared his throat.

Emma tilted her head more to the side, enough to meet his gaze with hers, and shared what she hoped looked like a welcoming smile.

“Good morning, my lord.” She lowered her feet from the wide window seat to the ground and offered the customary curtsy. “Are you on your way to breakfast?”

“I am. Would you like to join me, Miss Arlen? Or have you already enjoyed a morning meal?”

“Oh, I haven’t been downstairs yet.” She tucked her pencil behind one ear—a most unladylike habit that always made the dowager duchess sniff. “Only His Grace and Lord Farleigh will be at the breakfast table this early. Usually, I wait for Lady Josephine.”

“I see.” He glanced at the top of the stair, then down the corridor the way he had come, as though the duke’s eldest daughter would spring out from another alcove. “When is it her habit to rise?”

“Not for another hour at least.” She grinned at him and gestured to the stairway. “Perhaps I had better join you, or risk wasting away to nothing before she wakes.”

A twitch of his lips hinted at a smile, but the ambassador’s stoic mask remained in place. He offered her his arm. “It would be a pleasure to escort you.”

Emma held her sketchbook against her chest while looping her hand through the crook of his arm. “Very gallant of you, conte. Will you defend me against any dragons we meet between here and the table?”

His eyebrows lifted. “Will there be many?”

Though she could not tell for certain if he mocked her or joined in her game, Emma answered with a quick tongue. “Most assuredly. As well as lions, and perhaps a bear.”

There went his mouth again, his lips tilting upward on one side, as though he fought the urge to smile away. “Those are not as fantastic as dragons.”

They started down the stairs without incident, Emma inwardly sorting through the conversation topics she had considered all morning. “I wonder, my lord, how you are enjoying your time here in the country.”

“I am enjoying it very well.” His tone had changed; his words sounded less personal and more rehearsed. “The countryside is beautiful. I think the English word for it is verdant.”

“I think that is what most people have to say about England, those who are not familiar with it. Everything is always very green.” She paused on the stair, necessitating he do the same. “And we cannot help but boast of it, I think. See that painting?”

He humored her by glancing at the wall, and then he tilted his head back. “Is that a dragon?”

Emma allowed herself a laugh. “I warned you, did I not?”

The painting on the wall depicted St. George’s dragon, sans the sainted knight, asleep between two green hills.

He shook his head, and when he looked down at her, she caught the twinkle in his eyes. “You did warn me. Does that mean we will come upon lions and bears in a similar manner?”

“Of course.” She grinned at him as they continued down the steps to the ground floor. The family only had a handful of rooms on the ground floor, as most of it was taken up by the grand entrance and the servants’ kitchens and passages. The breakfast room had an impressive pair of glass-paned doors which opened into the rose gardens, where the duchess preferred to take her breakfast in the summer. The rest of the year, the view into the lush greenery was still quite beautiful.

When they stepped onto the black and white stone of the ground floor, Lord Atella pointed to the carving of a lion guarding the top of a doorway. “You have a refreshing sense of humor, Miss Arlen.”

“Thank you.” Emma kept pace with him, allowing a moment of quiet to lie between them. “Her Grace, the dowager duchess, does not find my humor endearing. She believes that women of rank, including Lady Josephine, ought to be more austere. It is not the fashion in England to be seen laughing or smiling too much.”

“It is much the same in our court,” he answered, his severe expression returning. “The years of hardship are perhaps to blame, but there is always the thought that one must protect their thoughts from others.”

“That might also be blamed on years of political uncertainty.” Emma gave him a sympathetic smile. “But I believe we are entering a new age, my lord. Tyranny replaced with prosperity, and uncertainty with light-hearts. We all ought to smile more.”

The conte regarded her with an unchanging expression, but she detected a hint of something in his eyes. Curiosity, perhaps. “What does your Lady Josephine think? I have been in her company but little, and I cannot say whether she is more of your mind or her grandmother’s.”

Turning the conversation back to Josephine, to an aspect of her character in particular, confirmed to Emma the conte’s interest in her dearest friend. She had rather hoped Josephine’s suspicions were overdramatic and unfounded. This meant Emma had to keep her promise to distract the ambassador.

They were nearly to the breakfast room. The footmen