A Companion for the Count: A Regency Romance by Britton, Sally (story reading .txt) 📗

of the chair and her standing before him, they were nearly eye-level. The days he had spent in the fall sun hadn’t made him appear any the worse for wear. Luca’s aristocratic nose, high cheekbones, and dark curling hair were all as handsome as ever.

“Whatever shall we converse about to remove the unwanted thoughts of politics?” She tilted her head to the side, studying him, liking the way the corners of his mouth turned upward when he spoke and in the instant before he smiled.

Had he really missed her? The thought that he spoke the truth, not merely idle flattery, made her flush with pleasure. She turned away from him, lest he see and think her some green girl easily swayed by pretty words. That was not her. It would never be her.

But then why did her cheeks burn and her insides twist in delight with his words? In the short time he has been away, I have turned into a ninny.

Somehow they both ended up sitting in the library—he on the chair he had at first treated poorly and she on the couch across from him. She asked him about his time in Spain, and from there they visited a host of topics relating to his travels. When he discussed the differences in language, she laughed several times.

“I stood there, waiting in the hall, saying to my host pronto, pronto. I am ready. And he kept asking when I would be ready—in Spanish, I was saying ‘soon, soon.’ He grew quite impatient with me.”

“Oh dear.” She covered her smile with one hand.

“Yes. But this same man, he must have thought me a fool on many occasions. He also would try to tell me where to go—the word he used was salir. In my tongue, salire means ‘to go up.’ I kept asking why I needed to return to my room, because I thought he wanted to take me to meet another gentleman, and he wanted me ‘to go up’ the stairs. Salir in Spanish is to depart. He and I were never sure if we were coming or going together.”

Emma laughed, delighted with his easy manner. Not all men would confess to such silly misunderstandings.

“But the first time I realized there was a problem with how closely our languages were related was when I found a mouse in my room at an inn—”

“A mouse?” she asked, wrinkling her nose. “I am not fond of those creatures.”

“Nor am I. Which is why I am fond of cats.”

Emma stored away that piece of information for later—she knew quite well one of the kitchen mousers was excessively friendly. Perhaps they ought to be introduced. “What happened?”

“I went down the steps of the inn, trying to be calm, and asked the innkeeper if he knew he had topos. Mice. But in Spanish, I was calmly asking him if he knew his inn had moles.” Luca sighed ruefully. “As it was the middle of winter, nothing growing, he told me he did not think topos would cause any problems. I insisted they would and asked to change rooms. He thought me the strangest man—changing rooms because there might be moles in his garden.”

Emma’s laugh was as much due to Luca’s dramatic sigh as it was the story, and she tried to smother it with her hand. “Oh dear.”

“Si. It was then I learned that not every Latin-based word is interchangeable,” he said somewhat ruefully.

“Have you had similar troubles with English?” she dared to ask.

Luca narrowed his eyes at her. “Yes.”

She leaned forward in her seat, eager for more from him. “Such as what?”

“Do you know your word, morbid?”

“Are you asking if I speak English? Yes, I know the word morbid.”

“Then if I said to you, Emma, you have a lovely, morbid smile—”

She snorted. “That would cause grave insult, I’m afraid.”

“Yes. I only made that mistake once. I told a lady she had captured such a morbid mood with her painting of her daughter.”

“Oh. Oh, Luca. No.” Her sides ached as she tried to keep the laughter at bay. “That is terrible! What on earth did you mean to say?”

Luca narrowed his eyes at her, though that twitch of his lips indicated he wasn’t insulted. “Soft.” He sighed. “You have a lovely, soft smile, Emma.”

That made her sober somewhat, and she avoided his gaze a moment. “I have only a conversational level with a few of the modern languages. French is our specialty, of course. Then a little German, and even less Spanish.”

“You would speak Italian beautifully, I think.” He sounded certain, and when she met his eyes again, she found him staring at her speculatively. “Pretendere is Italian. It means to expect—or demand. The English word pretend, it means to deceive.”

“That is one meaning, yes.” She shifted uncomfortably in her seat, remembering again what she ought to have told him from the first moment they were alone. Did he know? “Luca. There is something I must tell you, and I fear it will harm our friendship. I know that honesty is important to you.” She kept her voice steady, her focus on him, so she did not miss the way his brow furrowed or his smile transformed into a perplexed frown.

“You needn’t fear on that count, Emma. I doubt you could say anything which would make me regret our friendship.” Then he leaned forward, elbows on the chair and hands clasped, his eyes intent upon her. “Tell me, amica mia.”

How did she tell him? She had practiced what to say, had she not? In her room, looking in her mirror, she had made it sound as though her withdrawal of assistance to him was of no consequence to either of them.

“It is to do with Lady Josephine. While you were away, I gave it all a great deal of thought. I spoke to my lady, saying nothing that would damage her opinion or knowledge of you, of course. After everything, I believe…” She winced when his eyebrows grew together. “I cannot help you win