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

Luca finished dressing and took out his notebook. He carefully tore the page out upon which he’d written his new hopes, his new ideals for a companion of his heart. A wife.

“To Emma,” he scrawled at the top of the torn page. Then, at the bottom, he wrote: “I must leave today—though I do not understand the need for haste. Know that I regret leaving before we could speak. Emma, write to me. Please. There is much I must tell you. I hope these words will make a beginning. You must know, they describe you perfectly.”

It was as bold a statement as he could make on paper. He rushed from the room, saddlebag over his arm and paper in hand.

Torlonia waited in the hall. “Finally. Come, we must go down at once.”

“No, I need to deliver this letter to Miss Arlen.” Luca turned toward the long hall which would eventually take him to the family’s quarters, where he knew Emma’s room lay.

“She will likely be downstairs to bid us farewell. Come.” Torlonia started walking at a fast clip, and Luca followed. He didn’t know where Emma’s room was. He had only been in the family wing once. It made sense that she—as a member of the household—would be present to say goodbye.

Except Emma wasn’t there. Only the duke, Lord Farleigh, and Sir Andrew stood at the door. Luca stopped before the duke, confusion swirling in his heart and thoughts.

“We are sorry you must leave, Atella,” His Grace said, his expression friendly enough. “I hope we will see you in London after Christmas. You must come visit us at at our house in Mayfair.”

“The moment I can, Your Grace, I will call upon you there.” Luca still clutched the letter in his hand, and he knew he had only one option left to him if he wished it to find its way to Emma’s hand. “Your Grace, though I leave you in this rude manner, I have a great favor to ask of you. Would you grant me permission to write to Miss Arlen?”

He heard Torlonia’s sharp intake of breath.

The duke’s eyebrows raised, but it was Sir Andrew who spoke.

“To what end, Atella?” He wore a wide, almost mocking, grin. “After our last conversation, I was under the impression she hadn’t any particular desire to spend time in your company, let alone receive your letters.”

Luca glared at the baronet, wondering why anyone liked the man and his constant jests. “You know precisely why.”

“I am not privileged with this information,” the duke said, his deep voice measured and certain. “Why do you wish to write Miss Arlen?”

“I hope to continue our friendship while I am away,” Luca replied, meeting the duke’s gaze squarely. He and his daughter shared blue eyes, but while Lady Josephine had never seemed to give Luca a serious thought on any matter, the duke’s gaze was probing and quite solemn. “And hopefully grow it into something more. If it pleases you, Your Grace.”

The duke considered Luca, then gave one slow nod. “Very well. You may write to her.”

His heart stuttered, then he turned to Sir Andrew. The man wore a smile as smug as anything Luca had ever seen. “Will you see to it your cousin receives this note?” He held the folded paper out to the other man, then gritted his teeth when he realized Sir Andrew might well be the sort of person who would read it before delivering it.

“I will.” Sir Andrew took the folded paper and tucked it into a pocket. “And I will promise not to read it, in case that’s what made you frown like someone stepped over your grave.”

Although the English phrase made Luca hesitate, Torlonia cleared his throat, and Luca knew he had spent enough time on the matter. His secretary felt an urgency Luca did not understand, but everything set in motion for his departure could not come to a halt now.

“Thank you again, Your Grace. I hope you know that the time here at Castle Clairvoir has meant more to me than I can say, and that you will always have a friend in me.” He bowed, formally taking his leave, and then Luca and Torlonia were out the door and on horses.

At least it was horses and not a carriage.

Luca heaved a disappointed sigh as they rode away, casting one last look over his shoulder at the castle before he set his sights forward. To London.

England had a reliable mail system, at least. Emma might well send a letter after him that would arrive before his luggage did. The thought alone made him content.

* * *

Tucked up in her bed, playing the part of an invalid, Emma turned Luca’s note over and over again in her hands. She said nothing, only stared at the blankets on her bed. Josephine sat in a chair, arms folded, glaring at her friend.

“I hope you see what playing at being ill has caused,” Josie said. “We could have been downstairs when he left, but no. You had to plead illness last night and illness upon waking. You could have seen him, could have looked directly in his eyes and—”

“And what?” Emma asked, voice soft. “It is not as though he would make a confession of love in front of your father. Or anyone else. If he even intended it.”

“Of course he intended to,” Josephine argued, gesturing to the letter. “You are everything he wants. He said so himself.”

With a disappointed shrug, Emma unfolded the note in her hand and read it again.

To Emma:

An ambassador’s wife needs several qualities. She should be capable of setting others at ease, understanding politics, respecting other cultures, and possess a natural curiosity that makes her want to learn more. She must have a sense of adventure and be kind-hearted. She ought to enjoy speaking of books and art, past and present, and converse well on challenging topics. She must be more than a political partner, but a friend