2. A Sicilian Lady Prevaricates

CHAPTER 2

A SICILIAN LADY PREVARICATES

A moment later, inside the D’Avalos town coach

When the young Englishman was no longer visible from the town coach window, Nicoletta settled back into the deep blue velvet squabs and turned her attention to her father. “It is him, Father,” she said in the southern Italian language most aristocrats used. “The one Armenia spoke of,” she added happily. “I invited him to the ball.”

The conte turned his gaze on his daughter and arched a graying brow. “You like him,” he said, not making it a question.

She inhaled to answer in the affirmative, but quickly reconsidered. “Does it matter?” she countered, quickly sobering. “You have already decided who I must marry, have you not?”

Enrico D’Avalos regarded his daughter for a moment before saying, “Perhaps. Or perhaps I am merely waiting for a better offer for you.”

Nicoletta’s eyes rounded. “Offer?” she repeated.

Briefly closing his eyes—he did that frequently these days in an effort block out the image of a daughter who looked too much like her late mother did when she was Nicoletta’s age—Enrico sighed. “I believe you are old enough to learn the truth of the matter,” he said in a low voice, barely audible over the sound of the coach wheels on the street.

Stiffening in the squabs, Nicoletta repeated, “The truth?”

“There is little in the way of money left in the coffers,” he blurted. “Whomever I marry you to must offer a generous sum for the honor of marrying you.”

Her brows furrowing in confusion, Nicoletta scoffed. “Aren’t you supposed to pay a dowry to whomever I marry?”

His shrug was all she needed to see to know that the conte didn’t believe the usual rules applied to him.

They rarely did.

For her entire life, Nicoletta had watched the members of the aristocracy carry on lives far different from the commoners who made up the general population of the Mediterranean’s largest island. Their entertainments and lifestyles were always at odds with the much poorer people. Their sense of entitlement sometimes had her bristling. Why should some be allowed such extravagance while others suffered in poverty?

Money seemed to have little to do with it, especially if what her father said was true. He expected her future husband to provide him with a dowry rather than the other way around!

“How much?” she asked meekly, well aware that whatever sum he quoted would be a general assessment of her worth to him.

“We will not talk of money on this day,” Enrico stated, his tone suggesting they end the conversation. “It is more important you know to do your duty when you are married.”

Duty .

Nicoletta didn’t bother to ask what that might be. Her duty as an aristocrat’s wife had been made clear the entire time she had been growing up in House D’Avalos—she was to run an aristocrat’s household and give birth to an heir and a spare. Any baby girls would be merely tolerated.

When the coach turned a sharp corner, she knew they were close to the house. “The man you were speaking with today?—”

“Ricardo Malgeri. He is the Marchese Montblanc.”

Although she hadn’t recognized the older aristocrat—he was said to favor living in his castle on the southwest side of Mount Aetna during the warmer months—Nicoletta had guessed it might be him given his expensive suit and fine leather boots. “Did you invite him to the ball?”

Enrico’s manner changed as he straightened in the squabs. “I did, of course.”

“His presence will be most welcomed, I should think.”

“I am counting on it,” her father said. “Although he has a fine villa here in town, he is rarely in residence. It shall be our honor to host him.”

Nicoletta nodded, glad when the town coach came to a halt in the courtyard at House D’Avalos and she was able to escape her father’s presence.

For if she had spent even one more moment with him, she had feared her father was going to tell her she was to marry the ancient marchese.