A Marriage Deal With The Viscount. Bronwyn Scott

that both irritated and aroused him.

      His valet entered his suite with the trunks containing his new spring wardrobe, his secretary following close behind. It was time for the morning reports although it was well after noon. Giancarlo motioned for his secretary to join him at the desk in the window bay. ‘What news do you have? Is there any word from London?’

      The secretary handed him a telegram. ‘There has been no sighting. The house remains empty, as it has since your man’s arrival.’

      ‘What else? Is that all?’ Giancarlo frowned at the note. Time was money and he was growing impatient. He tapped his fingers on the surface of a side table. She had not responded to his earlier letters. He couldn’t even be sure she’d received them. Because of that lack of response, he’d sent Andelmo weeks ago to track her down, to verify the address, to put the offer to her and wait for an answer. If the wrong answer came, Andelmo was to drag her back by her hair if that was what it took. That had been several weeks ago—time enough for travel, time enough to arrive and conduct reconnaissance. The only word he’d received since then was that his man had arrived and had found the address, but seen no sign of her.

      Giancarlo blew out a sigh. ‘We have to flush her out. We have to make her come to us.’ He snapped his fingers. ‘Get some paper and take notes. Here are new instructions. Tell Andelmo to go through the house, look for any sign that it’s hers and if so, leave a “calling card”, of sorts.’ If she was in London, the act would flush her out. If it didn’t, they would have to start the search anew. If she wasn’t in London, it would mean one of two things: she hadn’t received the letters or she had received them and they had frightened her, perhaps sent her to ground. He hoped for the latter.

      Giancarlo folded the telegram and tucked it into his pocket. Already, just the thought of her sent twin rills of lust and desire through him. He flicked his hand at both the men in dismissal. ‘Leave me. I need to think. Go downstairs and arrange for my supper, and find me some company for tonight, preferably company that comes with a sister.’

      Giancarlo took a seat behind the desk, steepling his hands in thought as he looked out over the piazza. Would it be enough to flush her out? Sofia probably would come home, eventually. The question was, how long did he want to wait? It might be a while. By all reports her London home was small. His secretary had overlooked the significance of that detail. Small homes were efficient, the means to the end of providing shelter, but nothing more. Small homes inspired no owner loyalty. One did not entertain in them, one did not put them on display for others to see. One could forget about them.

      He scoffed at the notion. Her choice was so disappointing. A row house? Truly? When she was used to palazzos and rich apartments? He’d provided better for her. Row houses were the milieu of middle-class families, tradesmen even. Perhaps she would be missing the luxury he had showered her in by now. Perhaps a row house was all that was available to her. She was too ruined for Mayfair society to receive her. Either way, one thing was certain: she wasn’t entertaining in it.

      Giancarlo chuckled to himself. He’d warned her London would turn its back on a divorced woman. No decent home would receive her, not even her own. Perhaps in Chelsea she could be anonymous, or perhaps Chelsea was willing to lower the bar. What did she think about her freedom now with three years of ostracising? Any other woman would have begged him to take her back by now.

      He’d misjudged her there. He’d only let her go because he hadn’t really believed she’d leave for long and he’d enjoyed the thought of how he might make her beg to return. Then again, his Sofia never had been the usual woman. He shifted in his seat, arousal growing as he thought of her—all that magnificent spun-gold hair falling loose about her shoulders, her eyes flashing defiance as he delivered his dictates.

       Bend over and bare yourself for my crop, Sofia, unless you’d prefer Andelmo to assist you. You know the penalty for my displeasure...

      No matter how many times he’d attempted to bring her to heel, she’d resisted.

      She’d left him before he’d broken her. She hadn’t merely left him, she’d defied him. She’d dared to run away—twice—despite the punishments he’d threatened to mete out. It certainly upped the stakes of the game. He hadn’t had such delicious prey in years. Who would have guessed the young schoolgirl he’d married would have turned out to be so delightfully appealing? He smiled to himself, imagining Sofia. What would she do when he caught up to her? When he had her cornered? Would she fight? Would she beg? Would she plead for mercy? Would she cry? Giancarlo twisted the heavy signet ring on his finger.

      He’d wager his ring his Sofia would fight. His surety in that belief was what gave him patience. He would find her and it would be worth the wait. Capturing her would be glorious, a prize equal to his efforts. Razing the house at Margaretta Terrace would let her know she’d best gird herself for battle.

      He would not lose her this time. He had too much on the line. The new Piedmontese King, Victor Emmanuel II, was disappointed in him, didn’t trust his judgement as a divorced man. One of the first things the new King had done was outlaw the divorces approved by his father. He wanted the noble men in his kingdom to be upright, married men. Giancarlo had been overlooked for riches and plum opportunities since Sofia had left. The new King had made it plain that favour would smile on him if he were to bring his wife to heel.

      It wasn’t enough to offer to simply remarry, to take another bride, even of the King’s choosing, which of course Giancarlo had offered to do as the most expedient means to the end. The King was heavily religious, devoutly Catholic, and he felt that a divorced man marrying another was compounding the original sin with the sin of adultery. Only Giancarlo’s first wife, his only wife, would do. The wealth promised was enough to send him haring across the Continent to England to retrieve her and then to punish her into submission so complete this truancy of hers would not be repeated. This time he’d be successful. It was a rare woman who wasn’t frightened by the consequences he’d impose for her betrayal.

      Sofia was afraid. It was that simple. She stared at her reflection in Helena’s long pier glass. She had not looked so fine in ages—her hair done up in an elegant braided coronet, the discreet glitter of diamonds at her ears, her figure shown to advantage in a silk gown of deep sky-blue cut in the latest fashion with its low-swept, off-the-shoulder bodice. The gown was the way she liked them—minimalist in adornment. There was a delicate overlay of lace and ribbon at what passed for sleeves and that trim matched the inset of the bodice, but otherwise, the gown lacked flounces and fussiness. And yet, for all the fineness of figure, or perhaps because of it, she was afraid.

      ‘I can’t go to the ball, Helena, I simply cannot.’ She made a slow, rueful twirl in front of the mirror, liking the susurration of the fabric against her ankles. It would be a shame not to waltz in this gown. She used to love to dance. But the cost of a dance was too high. This woman in the mirror would be noticed and remarked upon. Men would want to possess her. When she refused, they’d make crass comments among themselves and perhaps crasser wagers as Wenderly had. Women would hate her. They would say she’d come on purpose to put them all to shame, to tease marriageable men away from marriageable girls who deserved gentleman husbands. They’d call her a Delilah, a Jezebel. There would be no refuge for her. She’d had a taste of that at the wedding. She was not eager to repeat the experience.

      Helena merely smiled from the chaise and absently rubbed her belly, unconcerned with the outburst. ‘Don’t tell me you’re afraid after all these years. The girl I went to school with didn’t care what anyone thought, least of all a room full of old peahens.’ Helena knew how to throw down the gauntlet.

      ‘I still don’t. I’d just rather they keep their thoughts to themselves instead of talking about me as if I’m not there, as if I cannot hear them when I’m standing right in front of them.’ Sofia unfastened the diamond-and-sapphire choker at her neck and set it reluctantly on the vanity. She might not have made it through the wedding if it hadn’t been for Viscount Taunton. He’d left her no choice but to endure. After he’d dared to sit with her, she couldn’t have paid back his effort by running out. And in truth, it had been easier to endure with