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

to the kitchens. I think Father enjoys the event more than anyone, given how far in advance he sets the plans in motion.”

“Good. I was telling Lord Atella about the events this afternoon.”

“Is that where you disappeared to? I wondered. I thought for certain you would want to spend a few hours with me reminiscing on Mr. Gardiner and Alice’s wedding.” Josephine’s eyes brightened at the same moment they passed through the doors to the parlor. “They appeared absolutely radiant with their happiness.”

“How long do you think it will last?” Andrew asked, and Emma immediately jabbed him in the side with her elbow. He didn’t even give her the satisfaction of appearing affronted, only stepped out of her reach and released her arm. “It’s a fair question. They are enamored with each other now, but will the level of affection remain at such a high point?”

Josephine glowered at him. “You obviously know nothing about love.”

“And you know so much more?” he countered, smirking down at her.

Emma’s head started to ache. She knew all the signs of their verbal battles, and she had lost the patience for them years ago. Rather than stay standing between the two as they exchanged fire at one another, she crossed the room to where Lord Atella stood with his secretary.

“Lord Atella, Mr. Torlonia. Good evening.” She dipped a curtsy, and when she rose, Torlonia was already peering behind her.

“Is your mistress upset this evening, Miss Arlen?” the secretary asked, frowning darkly.

“Not at all.” She cast an amused smile to Lord Atella, whose expression held curiosity. “My lady and my cousin often spar verbally before a meal. I am under the impression it increases their appetites.”

The secretary wrinkled his nose. “The ways of youth, ci credo.” He sniffed and gestured to one of the visiting barons. “Mi scusi, signorina. I must continue a conversation with Baron Ghellen.” He cast a look to the ambassador. “Are you joining me, Signore?”

Lord Atella shook his head, his expression firm as ever. “Not at present.”

The secretary’s frown deepened, but he bowed and departed from them.

“He is most serious,” Emma murmured, taking her fan from her wrist to snap it open. The room was quite warm, given that the duke had twenty guests currently inside of it. The duke himself stood in a corner with his mother. “I think your secretary would get on well with our dowager duchess. They have matching scowls.”

For one incredible moment, Lord Atella laughed. He quickly strangled the sound with a cough and a gloved fist over his mouth. But the hint of sound had been enough for Emma to decide he ought to laugh more. If only she could inspire more levity in the man.

“He means well,” Lord Atella told her, tucking his hands behind his back and appearing as solemn as ever. “But I think he has forgotten we have months ahead of us in the castle rather than days. While it is true we have much to accomplish and learn, we need not rush through the experience.”

“I would think your primary aim would mean speaking with those possessing a more direct influence over foreign trade and tariffs.” Emma considered Baron Ghellen and the secretary in animated conversation with each other across the room. “I cannot think the baron troubles himself over such things. In a fortnight, Viscount Castlereagh comes to visit. Have you met him yet?” The British Secretary of State for Foreign Affairs wasn’t known to visit many house parties. His drop in general popularity made him reclusive, Emma knew, from reading the duke’s newspapers.

Only the duke’s reputation for fairness could draw out a man used to being mocked in newspapers by caricatures and verse.

She looked up when the ambassador didn’t answer at once. He stared down at her, his eyebrows raised. “I have not had the pleasure.”

“Given Lord Castlereagh’s sympathies toward those nations Napoleon harmed most, I think he would take great interest in speaking to you of your countrymen and their hopes. Especially with the close connection to Spain that your kingdom enjoys.”

“You do not think his lack of popularity—as you call it—would make such a connection unwanted?”

“Public figures must weather the worst of a nation’s blame and censure.” Emma moved to stand shoulder-to-shoulder with him, the bare skin of her upper arm nearly brushing his sleeve. “Those in positions of influence understand this. He still has many friends, the Prime Minister among them.”

The conte did not speak immediately, but she felt his eyes upon her profile. Emma lowered her head on the pretense of examining her fan as she flicked it closed, then open again. What must he think of her, a little no one in the wide world of politics, offering him advice? He—whose entire career revolved around knowing the personal lives and political views of everyone around him—could not possibly care for her opinion on such matters. Even if the duke enjoyed engaging her in debates now and again, that did not mean any other man would take an interest in what she had to say.

“Thank you, Miss Arlen. Your insight is helpful.”

Emma raised her head, nearly squeaking in her surprise. “Really?” Then she hastily forced a laugh. “I am afraid I give my opinions too freely, my lord. Thank you for humoring me.”

His eyebrows lowered sharply, and he opened his mouth either to protest her words or reassure her. She did not find out which.

“Dinner is served,” the duchess’s clear voice sung through the room.

Emma tilted her head down again, curtsied, and stepped away from the ambassador. Unmarried and untitled, she waited for the man of the lowest rank to escort her into dinner. Her place at the bottom of the social ladder usually comforted her. That evening, watching as Lord Atella escorted a visiting noblewoman into the dining hall ahead of her, Emma’s stomach twisted uncomfortably.

How many times would the lines blur as she tried to keep both the conte and Josephine happy? The months stretched ahead of her, longer than before and far more