As afternoon purpled into evening, the delicate scent of Faerie wafted on the cooling air, teasing and then withdrawing. He circulated, playing a children’s game of getting hot, then cold, then hot again as he patiently tracked it.
Eventually, as he neared the fish pools, the thread of magic grew steadier, telling him she was close. His hunting instincts sharpened.
He circled a veiled tent set amid others between two labyrinth herb gardens. An assortment of young English and Italian ladies and their beaux mingled there, chattering.
When his approach was noted, feminine heads lifted, as though scenting prey. Several ladies promptly forgot the gentlemen to whom they’d been speaking. Lacy fans fluttered faster.
She was here, somewhere among them.
“Have you come for a reading, Satyr?” chirped one of the young Italian bucks. “Don’t believe in the stuff myself, but it’s a bit of fun, I suppose.”
One of the ladies knocked the young man’s arm teasingly with a haphazard bouquet she’d obviously picked from the herb garden. “It’s not reading, Signore. It’s fortune-telling the mystic offers.”
“That’s what I meant,” he replied, rubbing his arm in mock pain. “Palm reading, isn’t it?”
Nick surveyed the tent. It was white, with great swoops of tulle flowing at its corners and a flag decorating its pinnacle.
Anticipation gripped him. She was inside. He was certain of it.
“So, there’s a true mystic in residence?” he inquired, fishing.
“Si. As we speak, my sister’s within, having her fortune told,” said the young man, whom Nick now recognized as the son of Signore Rossini.
Was it to be his sister? If so, he sincerely hoped she bore no resemblance to her mother. Lyon’s fears on the matter of his intended’s attractions resounded in his head. Suddenly, he wasn’t quite so anxious to peek inside the tent.
Her appearance didn’t matter, he reminded himself. As her husband, he would mate her only as often as duty required. In turn, she would produce his children and not object when his cock sought true satisfaction away from her bed.
Still, when the gauzy veils of the tent parted to expel Signore Rossini’s sister, Nick nearly sighed in relief. She was an Italian beauty. Her gown was a stay maker’s delight, its shot silk waist nipping in to reveal curves far shapelier than those of her mother. Dainty ribbons tied under her chin held a straw bonnet so profusely decorated with bluebirds that it appeared surprised to find itself sitting on her raven curls rather than in an aviary.
As she slid forth from the enclosure, another young customer slipped past her and into the tent. Nick caught a glimpse of the bowed figure in gypsy garb seated within.
“What did the mystic say?” one of the other ladies asked Rossini’s sister.
“Yes, Bianca, do tell us,” added an English girl. “We’re giddy to know.”
Signorina Rossini parted her lips and then faltered when she noted Nick’s interest.
Once introductions were dispensed with, he stepped closer to her than propriety allowed in order to kiss her gloved hand. An invisible aura of Faerie magic enveloped him at her nearness.
So it was to be the Rossini girl then. That his search was over so abruptly caused him a moment of disorientation, as though he’d run to the brink of a cliff and now found himself teetering on its edge.
Satyr weren’t especially talented at probing the minds of others, but he plied what skills he possessed, hoping to learn what he could of her.
Her thoughts told him she found him attractive, but her expression had already informed him of that. He felt frustration when he couldn’t read further evidence from her that she was Faerie, until he realized her own lack of awareness of her heritage would naturally render her thoughts blank of it.
She seemed a sweet, biddable girl, and she was undeniably beautiful. If his instincts were right, this one would prove a good choice.
That it was her mother King Feydon had cuckolded surprised him. A discerning libertine, Feydon typically chose only the most beguiling of mates. But perhaps Signora Rossini had been more pleasing to the eye in her youth.
Bianca shifted uncomfortably, and he realized his silent study had grown too intense. He bowed. “It is indeed a pleasure, Signorina Rossini.”
“Signore,” she said, curtseying. Her voice was an awed whisper, brimming with wonder and a trace of fear that he had deigned to mark her with his attention.
“May I inquire what sort of fortune you were given that brought such a charming blush to your cheek?” he asked, hoping to set her at ease.
“I’m to meet a handsome dark-haired gentleman,” she blurted.
Her bevy of friends darted glances at him, giggling.
Bianca blanched when she realized what she’d revealed and to whom.
“And when you meet this gentleman, do you plan to share a dance with him?” Nick inquired with unusual care. She was one of those sweet-tempered creatures who inspired gentleness in those around her.
“Oh,” she said, her brow knitting. “All of my dances are spoken for.”
“Couldn’t you spare just one for Lord Satyr?” her brother encouraged, obviously beginning to realize what his sudden interest in his sister might mean to the family’s fortunes.
Nick was certain the Rossini clan would easily accept him, as would their daughter. She had no doubt been trained well in her duty and would grace his home and bed and give him no trouble. Their marriage would cause scarcely a ripple in the comfortable pattern of his life.
Only the formalities were left to undertake. He would speak to his attorney in Rome tomorrow and claim her as his as soon as a wedding could be arranged.
“But that wouldn’t be proper,” she said.
Nick was taken aback for a moment until he determined she was referring to the question of allowing him a dance. “You’re right, of course. How unfortunate for your dark, handsome gentleman and all others who have missed their chance for a turn on the lawn with you tonight.”
“Um, yes,” she said. She blinked, appearing mesmerized by his smile.
Really, this was too easy, he thought. While pleased at her lack of artifice, he couldn’t help but wonder if the lure of her simplicity might dull in time. It didn’t matter. Husbands of his rank spent little time in their wives’ company.
And every Faerie had hidden depths. He wondered what magic her demure manner concealed.
The drape parted as the tent emptied its latest client.
“Going to try it?” asked one of the youths as the mystic’s most recent customer was expelled. He sounded hopeful, no doubt assuming the ladies wouldn’t divert their attention from Nick until he left them.
Nick offered an arm to Bianca. “Since I’m to be denied a dance, will you accompany me inside to have my fortune told?”
Bianca’s startled eyes darted to her brother.
“With your brother’s permission,” Nick added.
“Go ahead, Bianca,” said her brother. “The mystic is chaperone enough, and I’ll be right outside.”
“But I’ve already had my fortune told,” she reminded them.
“I haven’t, however,” said Nick. “And I admit I’m daunted by the notion of approaching a true mystic. You have obviously navigated these waters and survived. I beseech you to come along with me that you might shore up my quaking will.”
Bianca still hesitated.