thirty-three
Isabella had no idea the sun could be so strong and bright.
The white rocks and cliffs of Mytos multiplied the glow tenfold, causing her to squint. She inhaled the intense scent of the sea mingled with that of the wild flowers.
When Anthony had talked about Sirocco House, he’d described a modest building close to the sea. Instead, it was a palace made with tall white walls, terracotta tiles, and large verandas drowned in luscious bougainvillea.
After the storm and the darkness of her cabin, the day appeared incredibly bright. But the warmth in her chest was all for Anthony. She’d fallen asleep in his arms last night, surprisingly oblivious to the storm and the rocking of the ship. Whenever he held her, she felt safe, and a sense of calm suffused her. And his touch and kisses had left a trail of fire on her skin. The pleasure had been enhanced by the memory of the pain she’d endured.
She wanted to be the wife he needed and deserved. She wanted to make him as happy as he made her, and not out of guilt for having lied to him.
He could have easily sent her away after she’d recovered. Instead, he’d been by her side, caring for her. And she loved every moment they shared.
At the base of the cliff where Sirocco House towered, she tilted her head back. The house was fit for a queen.
She panted by the time she climbed half the stairs that led to the front door. She was in terrible shape if only a flight of stairs had her gasp for breath.
“Do you want to take a break?” he asked, taking her elbow. “These stairs are steep.”
“Yes, and I haven’t exercised in a long time.” She leant on the bannister over the sharp cliff. The sea lazily lapped at the rocks with a soothing swoosh while dark green bushes and purple flowers crawled up the house. “It’s truly beautiful.”
“My father loved it. Grandmama, not so much.”
“This is murder,” the Dowager said, climbing the stairs. “The sun and the climb are going to kill me.” She paused next to them although her cheeks weren’t red and her breathing seemed all right.
Lawson wasn’t faring better, pausing every two seconds.
“I’m impressed you didn’t suffer from seasickness,” Isabella said to the Dowager.
The Dowager waved a dismissive hand. “Too undignified. No true lady should allow herself to be sick in that fashion. I’d rather force myself to be fine.” Her composure slipped for a moment. “Not you, darling.” She patted Isabella’s cheek. “You do what you want.”
Anthony smiled as if to say, ‘That’s unusual.’
“Well, I’ll proceed. Duchesses never cower in front of a challenge, nor do they whine.” The Dowager went up in her slow but steady steps.
Isabella wrapped her arm around his and climbed the rest of the steps next to him.
“Better?” he asked, patting her hand.
“With you by my side, yes.”
His eyes brightened. He beamed at her as if she’d paid him the best compliment ever.
The servants were lined up in front of the main entrance, waiting for them, and Isabella was so tired she didn’t pay attention to Rogers introducing the staff and explaining who did what.
She sighed once inside the entry hall. Cool air caressed her hot cheeks, and the dim light soothed her eyes.
“The temperature is so different here,” she said.
Anthony took her hand, going upstairs. “The walls are four feet wide. They keep the house warm in winter and cool in summer.”
Her bedroom had a window overlooking the thick Mediterranean scrub. Cluster pine trees dominated the landscape, and other bushes she didn’t recognise grew through the cracks of the limestone rocks, gripping them with stubbornness and defiance. The view had a rough wildness England lacked.
“I trust the room is to your liking,” Anthony said.
“Beautiful.” It was unburdened by the heavy furniture she had in London. No throne-like armchairs or large tables. Just a plain, wide space giving her a sense of freedom.
“My room is across that door.” He pointed at a door on the other side. “Lawson has a room upstairs. If you need her, ring the bell.”
