And if he did manage to make it all the way to Rome, all he had to do was convince his wayward mother to return home to England with him. How hard could that be?
He handed Poppy back the tea. “I don’t think I can drink that.”
Poppy pursed her lips, then passed the cup to her husband. Francis downed it in one go.
“Once you have your ticket, we need to discuss the things you should pack for your journey. Top of the list will be a big box of ginger tea. If you suffered badly during our little jaunt up the Kentish coast, you are going to be in a world of trouble when the boat you are on hits the open seas of the North Atlantic. Severe dehydration will kill you,” said Poppy.
Gideon’s gaze went to the empty cup in Francis’s hand. He shuddered at the prospect of having to keep more of the spicy brew down. “Let’s go and see about securing me passage to Rome, then maybe I will try one more cup of the brew.”
“Another useful method to keep the nausea at bay is using the Chinese acupuncture point on your wrist. I’ll show you that before you go,” replied Poppy.
Here was yet another reason to like Poppy Saunders. Gideon met Francis’s grinning face. “I can see why you changed your mind about this whole marriage business, cousin. Your wife is an amazing woman. I can only hope that someday I meet an eligible lady with a spirit like her.”
A soft look settled over Francis’s face. “Yes, well I have discovered to my good fortune that fate plays a hand in delivering us into the arms of love. A man may not think himself ready for it, but he would be a fool to deny its call.”
Francis slipped his arm around his wife, dropping a kiss on her forehead. “They broke the mold when they made Poppy, which is fortunate in its own way because your future duchess needs to be a different kind of woman to my wife. She must be someone who can stand up to the matrons of theton. If you are serious about finding her, you had better start looking soon.”
His cousin was right. It would take a special sort of woman to be the future Duchess of Mowbray. And the longer he delayed making any real effort to find a wife, the harder the task would be.
It had also occurred to Gideon, that if his mother didn’t return to England, the need for a Marchioness of Holwell to take her place would only become more pressing with time.
“Alright. But Rome first. I can hardly look for a wife if I don’t survive the trip.”
ChapterEleven
Easter Saturday, March, 1818
Rome
After smoothing her skirts, Serafina de Luca reached for the door handle. The tremble of her fingers was the only outward sign of her unease. She didn’t venture into this part of the ducal palace very often. Even more rare were the visits to her father’s private offices, which were located here.
What have I done wrong? Who could I have possibly offended?
She was known as a dutiful daughter, but even obedient girls made mistakes—or in her case, didn’t cover their tracks well enough.
The door had opened but an inch before a horrid thought struck her. Could her father have possibly discovered she had stolen out of the palace and attended the market in Piazza Navona last night?No.She had been particularly careful to make certain she hadn’t been seen, and the hood of her cloak had kept her face hidden.
“Come in, Serafina.”
There was nothing to do but face up to whatever transgression Enzo de Luca had discovered. She might well be the middle child in a cluster of eleven, but few things slipped past her father’s notice.
As she stepped into the room, her gaze settled on the elegant gold sofa which sat to the left of the door. On her previous visits to Enzo’s office, it had been empty. Today, it was occupied by the strikingly beautiful Francesca de Luca. Serafina immediately dipped into a curtsy. “Donna Francesca.”
Her mother had never permitted any of the de Luca children to call her Mamma, telling them she considered such a designation somewhat beneath her. She hailed from one of Rome’s most powerful families and went to great pains to ensure no one ever forgot her lineage.
Francesca patted the empty spot on the sofa next to her. “Come sit beside me, Serafina.”
Serafina turned to see her father stepping out from behind the baroque, carved giltwood table he used for his desk. He didn’t cross the floor to greet his daughter—not that she expected it of him. When he reached the front of the table, he stopped and leaned against it, resting his hands behind him on the marble top. That pose was the most he ever attempted at being casual.
Enzo de Luca was an imposing man, tall and broad shouldered. His black hair may have had more than a few gray flecks in it, but all that served to do was to make him even more striking.
A worried Serafina took her place next to her mother. Donna Francesca’s gaze ran up and down her daughter’s form. “Don’t slouch, Serafina; it is unbecoming of a noblewoman of your bloodline.”
Serafina straightened her already perfect spine, then settled her hands gently in her lap. Her posture reflected the countless hours of instruction from her private governess. Every daughter of the family had been trained in the art of social graces from an early age. Even by the standards of Rome’s fastidious upper society, the de Luca women were considered to be thoroughly accomplished.
“Your mother and I have been discussing your future, and we have come to a decision. It is high time that you were married. You should prepare yourself for becoming a wife before the end of spring,” announced her father.
That was not what I was expecting to hear.
