Chapter 3
Back to the Start
Meanwhile, back in the Palazzo D’Avalos library
With the library door closed against the chaos happening at the other end of the corridor, David, Viscount Penton, could hear only the sound of his pulse pounding in his ears as he regarded the young woman who stood staring at him with fire in her eyes.
He blinked. Why was she staring at him as if he was the one who had attempted to take advantage of her behind the curtains of an alcove? “Are you well, my lady?” he asked, forgetting to put voice to his query in the limited Italian he had learned over the years. “Are you hurt?”
The raven-haired beauty straightened even more than she already was, as if she was willing her body to meet his six-foot height.
Her chin, nicely rounded, meant she wouldn’t look like a hag in her old age.
She lifted it as if to make up for her lack of height, which meant he had a clear view of her entire heart-shaped face, a widow’s peak emphasizing her regal appearance.
Wide violet—or were those bluish brown?—eyes were lined with kohl, and pink tinged her cheeks.
Her lush lips appeared bee-stung, which suggested the rake from whom he had rescued her had probably forced a kiss on them.
“How dare you put your hands on me,” she snarled.
The way she stood with her dove-gray gloved fists on her hips emphasized the width of the silver bell skirts of her ballgown.
David was reminded of his mother. When she posed so, it usually meant she was angry or annoyed.
A tongue lashing would soon ensue, leaving him suitably chagrined and apologizing profusely for his wrongdoing.
Why would this young woman have reason to be angry with him, though? “I only thought to help, mia donna. To rescue you from that… that rake.”
He was about to ask why she was so annoyed when he noticed one of her perfectly combed black eyebrows lifting higher than the other, as if she was daring him to say more or to do something to verify her assessment of him.
Except he already had. He tried again, this time in Italian. “State bene, mia donna?” Are you all right, my lady?
She huffed and dropped her hands to her sides. “Your Italian is terrible,” she said in heavily-accented English.
“Apologies,” he said. “Did he… did he hurt you?”
Rolling her eyes, the young woman shook her head, which had a loose hairpin giving way so a lock of hair dropped to her shoulder. The diamond-encrusted comb holding the majority of her coiffure stayed in, though, sending sparkles of light dancing about the dim library.
David was fairly sure her murmured word was a curse, but he dared not antagonize her further by reacting as if he was shocked.
He had heard his mother say something along the same lines when she didn’t think anyone was within hearing range, and he had learned it was better to act as if he hadn’t heard it.
“It looks rather nice like that,” he said, waving to her hair.
“Makes you appear... alluring,” he added, before he had a chance to consider how she would interpret his words.
He pointed to the Turkish carpeted-floor where the hairpin had landed so it was nearly vertical. He quickly knelt and retrieved it. Holding it between his thumb and forefinger, he offered it to her.
She rolled her eyes as she took it from him. “Grazie,” she murmured, although her gaze, still filled with the fire he realized was indicative of anger, seemed to reignite. “I am quite able to defend myself,” she stated. “Of defending myself,” she quickly corrected.
From the way she held the hairpin—as if she intended to stab him with it—David knew she spoke the truth. “That was quite obvious, mia donna.” When her eyes once again rounded, he added, “I could not help but hear that rake’s howling from around the corner.”
For a moment, he wondered if he would have heard it if he hadn’t followed the couple out of the ballroom.
The chamber orchestra, a quintet seated on a raised dais in one corner of the ballroom, had begun playing a waltz at the same time the young lady appeared descending the stairs, her entrance obviously a cue for the festivities to begin.
The butler had called out her full name in a litany that seemed to last longer than the usual announcement—how many names did Italians give their daughters?
—while those already in attendance applauded.
Once she was off the last step, she was met with murmurs of welcome and congratulations by a number of couples who then hurried off to begin the dancing, whirling about in a large circle beneath the gold gilt chandeliers.
When he noticed she was no longer among them nor anywhere along the perimeter of the ballroom, he had gone in search of her.
She had been easy to spot given the ballgown she wore, the furbelow-infested silver-on-silver silk the perfect complement to her olive-tinged skin and raven black hair.
On the arm of a conte’s heir, Vittoria seemed glad for the aristocrat’s attentions.
Having learned about the Don Luciano’s reputation from Lady Vittoria’s great aunt Armenia upon his arrival—she had recognized and greeted David before insisting he escort her down the stairs into the ballroom earlier that evening—David decided he best see to the younger lady’s welfare.
Since he now knew Vittoria could obviously take care of herself, he could at least offer her a way to avoid ruination in the aftermath.
“Might I inquire as to what you did to him? To have him screaming like a girl?” David asked, a grin lifting the corners of his lips.
Although he didn’t have any sisters, he did have a younger cousin, Grace, who used to make the same sounds as the rake had been making when she was antagonized by her older brothers, Randy and Tom, back when they had all been younger and playing along the banks of the River Isis.
They wouldn’t dare try nowadays, though—like the young woman who stood before him, Grace was quite able to defend herself.
The lady seemed torn for a moment. “I…” She waved a gloved hand in the direction of his crotch. “I squeezed his testicoli.” She emphasized her point by forming her fingers into a fist.
Despite guessing correctly, David involuntarily jerked in response.
“I shall be sure never to anger you, mia donna,” he said in a quiet voice.
His gaze darted to the library door when he realized the waltz music had ended.
“Perhaps it would be best if you returned to the ballroom. Before you are missed,” he suggested.
“I will remain here for a minute longer so it will appear as if you have merely been in the lady’s retiring room. ”
She angled her head to one side, as if she, too, were listening for the music. “Very well. But don’t expect me to pretend as if I don’t know you when we see one another in the ballroom.”
David gave a start. “Does that mean you’ll afford me a dance?” he asked.
Pausing with her hand on the door handle, she stared at him as if he was a candidate for Bedlam. “You have to dance with me. Twice,” she demanded, as if she expected him to withdraw his offer. She held up two fingers to emphasize her comment.
David bowed, and when he straightened, he wasn’t surprised to see her already opening the door. He was fairly sure he knew her name, but just to be certain, he asked, “If that is to be the case, then might I learn your name, mia donna?”
She turned and dipped a curtsy. “Donna Vittoria D’Avalos. I will spare you all my other names.”
Recognizing the family name as that of Nicoletta, his sister-by-marriage, David arched a dark brow. “D’Avalos?” he repeated. “A relation to the Marchesa Montblanc, perhaps?” he asked, knowing full well she was.
Vittoria once again lifted her chin. “She is my zia.”
David pretended to be impressed. “This is your come-out ball,” he murmured, remembering why it was their entire family had received invitations to the palazzo for this evening.
Vittoria dipped her head. “It is indeed. If you will pardon me, I shall return to my party.”
She had the door half open when David called out, “Wait. Don’t you wish to know my name, mia donna? Since we’re pretending we’ve already met?”
She huffed. “You are Don David Slater, Viscount Penton, are you not?” she countered.
David blinked. “I… I am. How—?”
“You look exactly like my zio, Donald,” she replied on a huff. Pushing her silver skirts against her legs so they would pass through the opening without snagging on the jamb, she angled her way out the door and closed the wooden panel behind her.
David remained standing where he was for several seconds, a look of befuddlement on his face. “Damnation,” he muttered. “I think I’m in love.”