Page 20 of Betrothal Between Enemies

‘It’s the principle of the matter. I shouldn’t need a man’s name as my own to be successful. I am enough on my own.’

Alistair sensed the protest behind the words and the desperation to prove to her parents that she was indeed enough as she was, without needing to make herself over in Society’s image. He reached for her hand in empathy. He knew a little something about disappointing parents. ‘Then, to the academy we will go, rebels that we are.’

Chapter Eleven

The Accademia Reale delle Scienze met in the private home of a Frenchman, Chevalier DuBois, on Via Toledo near the Piazza del Plebiscito, having needed to relocate from their usual meeting place at the royal palace after the revolution in July. Today, the pale blue, gilt-trimmed drawing room of the chevalier was a humming hive of conversation as members of the accademia gathered in groups, discussing their current works and theories, crystal flutes in their hands.

Alistair stood beside Ismay, listening to a conversation about rock classification from the mountain, nodding his head at appropriate times and sipping his drink. He rather liked what was in Chevalier DuBois’s flutes: a raspberry liqueur mixed with champagne. More than that, though, it had been enlightening to watch Ismay mingle with her peers, and it struck him that he’d not seen her with any friends since his arrival. At the theatre or the other entertainments, they were always with her parents. She was in her element here.

‘In order to fully understand the impact of soil quality on crop production, we must have a thorough assay of the soil on Vesuvius,’ she was saying, the colour in her cheeks high. Alistair wondered if that was purely from the excitement of the gathering or something more? There’d been an edge to her today—a bright, shiny edge, but a sharp one, nonetheless.

‘Right now, it is a correlation we accept without completely understanding the reason for it. If we could understand it, we could duplicate it, perhaps to the benefit of enriching all soil instead of making such productive soil the purvey of a limited area. What happens, then, when that soil is worn out?’ Or when the mountain erupted in large magnitude and made the fertile slopes uninhabitable for a generation? Alistair thought, but he wisely kept such speculation to himself. These people seemed more intrigued by the mountain than concerned.

‘It’s an excellent point, Miss Rose.’ An unassuming man of middle years and receding hairline had joined their group. ‘Forgive the intrusion. I could not help but overhear.’ He smiled at the group, his gaze landing on Alistair. ‘I don’t believe I know you, sir.’

Ismay was quick with an introduction. ‘Cavaliere Monticelli, this is my fiancé, Mr Alistair Burke-Price, lately of Devon, England. Alistair, this is Cavaliere Monticelli. He is the academy’s secretary. He is also an expert on many things, including Mount Vesuvius.’ And quite obviously also someone whom Ismay admired.

Monticelli laughed. ‘I am only an expert on the mountain because my country home is on the south slope. I feel compelled to understand my surroundings.’ He held out his hand for Alistair to shake. ‘Welcome, Mr Burke-Price, and felicitations on your upcoming marriage. Do you plan to stay in Naples, or are you going to steal one of our brightest minds and take her back to England?’

‘We’ll stay here. Her father has generously made a place for me in the family business.’ Alistair smiled, playing the role of the contented future bridegroom, but the words did not sit as easily with him as they had earlier. Today, he was here as Ismay’s friend. He could not bring himself to pull any of the antics they’d pulled yesterday with the estate agent who would report them only to her mother. Anything he did or said this afternoon would be remembered by people whose respect Ismay would value.

Alistair took another swallow of his drink. The ruse was becoming something of a tightrope. He—they—wanted to be free of the engagement. They could not break it themselves, but they could convince her parents to break it. At what cost? He was growing increasingly aware of what that cost might be, not just to himself but to those who stayed behind: Ismay, and her family, who would be shamed in front of their friends.

‘I am pleased to hear it.’ Monticelli offered Ismay a fatherly smile. ‘I was sorrier than I can say to discover that your paper was not included in the quarterly journal, Miss Rose. I found your work to be thought-provoking and forward-thinking.’ He lowered his voice. ‘Perhaps too forward-thinking for Professor Loughty’s editorial board. But keep at it. There are those of us who notice you, and perhaps that is worth more in the long run than being published in a fusty journal.’

Ismay’s gaze lowered. ‘Thank you for the kind words, Cavaliere.’

‘Nonsense, my dear Miss Rose. They are not kindnesses, they are truths. I am sure your fiancé appreciates your mind, as do others, even if they are too circumspect to speak up. Now, have you taken your fiancé to the summit yet? No? We must make a day of it. I am having a few colleagues to the country house next week, and I insist you join us. We are doing the hike to the summit and repairing back to the house for discussion and refreshment. These gentlemen will be interested in your ideas, Miss Rose.’

‘We would be honoured to be included.’ Ismay practically beamed her acceptance. She was a lamp lit from within. How had he not seen it before? Or perhaps this was the light she hid under a bushel in order to please her parents?

Monticelli chuckled. ‘Should you ask Mr Burke-Price first?’

‘Of course not. Ismay may speak for both of us.’ Alistair moved a half step closer to her. ‘It sounds like a wonderful opportunity. I’ve been eager to see the mountain up close.’ Not entirely untrue, although he was no lover of heights. Still, how hard could the climb be? Mount Vesuvius wasn’t exactly the Alps.

‘Allowing one’s wife to speak for them may make for an interesting marriage, sir,’ someone in the group remarked, only half joking.

‘Interesting is my game,’ Alistair replied with a smile. ‘I don’t like to be bored. I don’t know many men who do.’ The gentleman in question could take those words any way he liked. If he saw insult in them, so be it. Alistair felt Ismay’s foot discreetly come down gently on his, a reminder that today was for affirmation not alienation.

A small bell tinkled, announcing it was time to start the programme, which would consist of four gentlemen sharing a brief look at their work published in a quarterly journal the academy put out. Gilt-trimmed chairs had been set out in rows before a dais on the far side of the drawing room.

Alistair found them seats at the end of a row, close to a door. ‘You didn’t tell me you had a paper up for consideration. I’m impressed.’ So that’s what she spent her late nights doing in her room, not writing merely for herself but for publication. It was an ambitious goal, especially for a woman in a man’s milieu.

She sat and arranged her skirts. ‘Don’t be. It wasn’t selected.’

‘Monticelli thinks it should have been.’ Alistair crossed a leg over one knee.

‘But Professor Loughty didn’t, and he runs the editorial board.’

Alistair looked around. ‘Which one is he?’

‘The one at the podium. He’ll be announcing the speakers.’

‘He looks like the slightest breeze would blow him away. I don’t think I’ve ever seen such a narrow physique on a fellow before,’ Alistair whispered.

‘I assure you that’s not all that’s narrow.’ Ismay’s dislike of the man was evident.

‘Can I read it? Your paper?’ Alistair asked.