11. A Farewell

CHAPTER 11

A FAREWELL

T he next day

Gray skies and an incessant drizzle only worsened Donald Slater’s already poor mood. The thought that England at this time of the year would be the same or worse—it would be cold as well as rainy—didn’t help his demeanor.

Only two months ago, he had decided his tour of the island of Sicily would be complete in a few days, and he had been looking forward to boarding a ship bound for England. Today, he stood beneath the archway leading into the courtyard of the House D’Avalos wishing he could stay in Catania for the rest of his life.

He probably could, except he would have to convince his father to continue funding his Grand Tour beyond the agreed-upon two years.

For the rest of this life, though?

Donald knew it would be impossible. Even if he could find work as a clerk, he lacked command of the written version of Latin the Sicilians had adopted. Lacked a suitable character. Who would vouch for him?

Despite his despair, he chuckled. He could read and write Latin. He could read and write Greek. He had mastered his native language of English thanks to a diligent tutor and the instructors at Albion and Oxford. Never had he thought he might wish to live and work in the Kingdom of the Two Sicilies.

All because of her.

He almost regretted the day he had met Lady Nicoletta D’Avalos.

Almost.

She certainly had become the queen of his heart.

The queen or the devil.

At the moment, he wasn’t quite sure which one she was. She had been that convincing and that frustrating. Because of what he’d learned the night before, he wasn’t sure whether to be angry, relieved, or feel sorry for her.

He certainly felt pity although he was fairly sure he was feeling it on his own behalf.

D onald emerged from his reverie when the door to House D’Avalos suddenly swung open to reveal a breathless servant.

“ Buon pomeriggio . Apologies, sir. Please come in from the rain.” The butler waved an arm as he spoke, his head dipping as Donald handed him a calling card.

Closing his umbrella and doffing his top hat upon entry into the villa, Donald took a quick glance around. Although he had been to the house many times during the past two months—for the ball to which Nicoletta had invited him and for the many forays for which her father insisted he escort her—the courtyard beyond was no longer richly decorated, nor were any lanterns lit given the rain that continued to pour down.

“Is Lady Nicoletta in residence?” he asked, realizing the butler had spoken his greeting in English.

“She is expecting you, signore . I will take you to her,” the servant replied.

The comment had Donald giving a start. He hadn’t mentioned intending to pay a call when he had left the Montblanc ball the evening prior, but he felt a moment of elation at learning she expected him.

What did she think of what was about to happen to her? From her expression during the announcement of her betrothal—to the Marchese Montblanc—she had appeared as if she might faint.

Did the spoiled daughter of a Sicilian conte expect her English suitor to rescue her from her fate in the middle of a downpour?

Donald winced at his uncharitable thoughts of the young lady. He loved her. He wanted to marry her. She had said she wanted to marry him.

Surely none of this was her fault.

Donald followed the butler up the flight of black marble stairs and down the wide corridor to her small salon. Although he had at one time expected a lady’s maid or other servant to act as a chaperone when he was in residence, he knew from his first time alone with Nicoletta that there would not be a servant present. Rather than allow him to go to her and extend his greetings, she rose from an ornate velvet settee and rushed into his arms, nearly knocking him from his feet.

“I feared I would never see you again,” she murmured, her words muffled in the fabric of his top coat. The ring he had given her in the gardens in Taormina was still on her finger, the only piece of jewelry she was wearing on this day.

His heart clenching at hearing the relief in her voice, Donald felt his resolve weaken. He had come to say his farewell. To inform her his Grand Tour had come to an end. To gain her permission to write to her upon his return to England.

Instead, he wanted to strip her bare. Make love to her in one of the nearby guest bedchambers—there must have been twenty of them in the house—and pledge his undying love and devotion.

Ask her to elope.

And he would have if not for what he had learned the night before.

“I could not leave Catania without seeing you,” he said as he cupped one of her cheeks with his hand. He wanted desperately to kiss her. To slide his lips over her berry-colored lips and down her cheeks and along her swan-like neck to her shoulder and down her arm to the hand that bore his betrothal ring.

The ring he had given her. Before he knew.

If he hadn’t spent the blunt on it, he would have enough funds to spend another two months on the Continent.

His father had warned him, of course. Warned him that when he did find a woman he thought he loved, he would do foolish things. Say foolish things.

Be foolish.

I speak from experience, of course.

When Donald had pressed his father for more information, Will Slater had simply chuckled and reminded him it was why he had ended up choosing Lady Barbara Higgins—Donald’s mother—as his bride.

Donald lifted Nicoletta’s hand and rubbed his thumb over the small ruby, reminded of how difficult it had been to choose which gemstone to have the goldsmith place in the simple solitaire setting. “Thank you for wearing it today,” he said.

“I will wear it always,” she countered, her lips parting to say more before they began trembling. “So you are leaving?”

He closed his eyes and nodded. “I cannot stay. Not when I know what’s about to happen,” he replied. He could give her the other reason why he now knew they could never marry, but he didn’t want to be the reason for their parting.

“Father likes you very much,” she blurted.

Donald jerked his head straight up and wondered why she would say such a thing. “Apparently not enough,” he said. “Your aunt has been especially good, though. It has been a pleasure to know her.” Never had he known aristocrats to be so welcoming, especially toward a young man who could have easily put a chink in their plans for the only daughter of the conte. Yet Conte D’Avalos had not once denied Donald entrance to his home nor told Nicoletta she could not see him.

Certainly the conte knew of their affaire ? Or at least had guessed they had become intimate over the course of the two months they had spent attending the same events. The afternoon liaisons spent at the ancient Roman theatre, where she had taught him how to kiss her the way she liked it. The carriage rides to the prince’s grounds, where they would hide in foliage surrounding the labyrinth. She would guide his hand to her breast and then lift her skirt so that same hand could slide up her thigh and cup her mound. Rub her womanhood until her breaths ceased and she buried her head into his chest lest her cries of ecstasy be heard by anyone but him.

Until he had bedded her their first full day together, Donald was sure she had been with another man. How else did she know what to do if she hadn’t already done it before? So he had been shocked to discover he was her first.

I have watched others make love , she had said, her eyes twinkling in delight when they had sipped limoncello next to a public garden.

Donald would happily marry her if he could. Although they had both been exhausted from the long coach ride from Taormina, they had been filled with excitement over the possibilities of their future together.

Until they learned they would not.

Could not.

I cannot give her in marriage twice , Conte D’Avalos said sadly, only an hour into the ball the evening before. She is already betrothed. At seeing Donald’s look of shock, the conte had shrugged and added, Worry not for her future, Signore Slater, for her husband-to-be is quite wealthy. If you would like, I could arrange a position in his household on your behalf.

Perhaps the conte didn’t care what his daughter did before marriage—or after. With her future secure, Donald supposed there was no reason for the man to care.

“Father says if you need the means to stay in Catania, he can arrange a position for you,” Nicoletta said, tears blurring her eyes.

Donald gave a start. He had never once mentioned his depleted funds, nor implied he would stay if he had a position in Catania. “That’s very kind of him?—”

“He feels guilty,” she blurted. “As he should.” This last came out tinged with anger, as if she had realized her father had used her as a pawn. Used Donald as a pawn. A tear escaped the corner of her eye and rolled down her cheek.

Dipping his head, Donald didn’t dare agree. Her father had no doubt made the arrangements for her betrothal long before Donald had met her. Perhaps when she was still in leading strings. That her future husband was old enough to be her father—maybe even her grandfather—was beside the point. The man was apparently in possession of a huge fortune, but he lacked an heir.

Had Nicoletta known she was betrothed when Donald had met her that first day at the maze, though? Had she latched onto him—given him her virtue—as a means of experiencing a relationship with a man closer to her own age knowing she would be stuck married to an older man for the rest of his life?

The thought had crossed Donald’s mind more than once the night before. Still numb from his meeting with her father— he should have known the conte would discover his situation—Donald decided the conte would never have agreed to marry off his daughter to a bastard, even if Donald was the son of an heir to a marquessate.

Perhaps her betrothal to another was a blessing.

“I didn’t know,” she blurted.

He furrowed his brows. “Didn’t know?” he repeated.

“I didn’t know Father had already made arrangements with the marchese” she whispered. “Lord Montblanc is a widower, but he doesn’t yet have an heir.” Her words were broken up by quiet sobs. “They think I should be happy to be his marchesa. I only have to give him an heir, but... I don’t care if I have a title. A coronet. It means nothing to me,” she said as she struggled to take a breath.

Furrowing his brows, he realized she was telling the truth. “Nevertheless, you must abide his decision,” he whispered. He kissed her forehead as he squeezed his eyes shut. “As must I.”

Despite his father’s warning, he’d had no idea how much this would hurt. How much his chest would ache at the thought of never seeing her again.

“Where will you go?” she asked, tears streaming down her cheeks. “What will you do?”

Donald gave a start. “I’m going home,” he replied simply, lifting a shoulder to emphasize the simple response. His gaze darted to the salon’s only window. Beyond the glass, Mount Aetna was hidden by low clouds. He wondered if it was spouting steam as it had done so nearly every day he was in Catania, or if the incessant rain had drowned it.

What would he have done if he had never met Nicoletta D’Avalos?

He blinked. Unlike all the other places he had visited over the past two years, he had barely documented his time in Catania. Time with Nicoletta had filled his waking hours. She had consumed his thoughts. Except for their time in Taormina, she had kept him from his intended purpose.

A moment of clarity had him narrowing his eyes. He had spent two years exploring the lands he had studied at university. Spent several days at each location taking notes and drawing pictures of Greek and Roman ruins. Spent more time than he cared to remember negotiating travel and arranging lodging.

Surely someone else could benefit from his notes. From his experiences.

Suddenly the idea of taking a position in Oxford as a clerk or secretary held little appeal. Writing a book on his travels, however, seemed a logical next step in his life. He could compile all his notes, improve his drawings, and find a publisher.

“I’m going to write a book. A travel guide,” he stated, as much to himself as to Nicoletta. “For those who wish to go on their Grand Tour.”

Her eyes rounded. “Oh,” she murmured, sniffling softly.

For the first time, Donald noticed her tears, and he suddenly scoffed. “Apologies,” he whispered, pulling a handkerchief from his pocket. He dabbed her cheeks with it.

Before she had claimed she didn’t know about her betrothal, he had wondered if her tears were real. Thought perhaps she was putting on a show for his benefit. Now he saw her pain was real, and he chided himself that he would think she had merely used him. Kept him close until such time as she was forced to marry an older man.

She did have feelings for him, though. Her tears were real. Trembles wracked her entire body.

“He’s an old man,” Nicoletta whispered. “Armenia says I should not despair. That I will soon be a widow. Then I will be free to marry whom I please.”

Donald once again furrowed his brows. “Oh?” After he had heard her father’s words the night before, he hadn’t considered there might be a future for the two of them.

When he didn’t offer more in the way of a response, Nicoletta stood on tiptoes and kissed him on the corner of his mouth. “Will you wait for me?”

For a moment, Donald thought his heart might explode. The way it tightened and thumped had him lifting a fist to his chest to press it hard against his ribs. Deciding it was a sign—he really did love her—he nodded despite what it would mean for his immediate future. Did he really wish to relive the pain he would feel knowing she was with another man? Every day until the Marchese Montblanc died?

Would he have anything to live for if he didn’t wait for her?

“Ten years,” he whispered. “I’ll wait ten years. No more.”

Nicoletta embraced him, her grip around his shoulders forcing him to bend down slightly. “It will be less than that,” she murmured. “I promise.”

Donald scoffed softly. “How can you say for certain?” Montblanc was old, but he might live far longer than ten years.

“Because I cannot abide the thought of being with him any longer than that,” she replied, angling her head back so she could make eye contact with him. “I’ll run away if I must,” she claimed.

“Nikky,” he scolded softly.

“I love you ,” she whispered. “I don’t care if you’re a bastard or?—”

“Who told you?” he interrupted, stepping back to regard her with furrowed brows. Although he had been tempted to explain his situation, he had never done so, deciding it would never matter.

She inhaled softly. “Armenia. She... she has a book about the English peerage. She studies it whenever there is anyone here in Catania from England.”

He swallowed. Hard. “How... how long have you known?”

Nicoletta shrugged one shoulder. “She told me a long time ago. A day or so after the first ball you attended,” she replied.

Donald swallowed again, his heart once again pounding in his chest. “Your father... did the conte know back then as well?”

She shook her head. “I don’t think Armenia would have told him.” She shrugged again. “But it doesn’t matter. Not to me.”

Donald took a deep breath, raking his fingers through his sandy blond hair. He wondered if the situation might have been different had he admitted his status as an illegitimate son when he had first met the conte.

Or had the conte already arranged the betrothal before Donald had even arrived in Catania? And if he had, why had he encouraged Donald’s involvement with Nicoletta?

Deciding it no longer mattered, Donald stepped out of her hold and dipped his head. “Be well, Nikky. If you’ll allow it, I will write to you,” he said as his throat thickened and breathing became difficult.

“Oh, please do,” she replied, her words interrupted by a sob. “I shall write back. Ellsworth Park near Bampton, Oxfordshire, England,” she recited. “I promise.”

He couldn’t help the painful chuckle that burbled up before he placed a kiss on her cheek and one on the back of her hand before he bowed and took his leave of House D’Avalos.

With a heavy heart and a nearly empty purse, he was on a ship bound for England later that night.