Perhaps it was his fascination with that vulnerability, with her mystery, that had prodded him to the back. Perhaps it was sheer chivalry that demanded he stand up for the Treshams, who’d taken her in, or maybe it was simply because he knew what it was like to be alone in a room full of people. There’d been numerous occasions after his father had died when people hadn’t known what to say, or how to say it, so they’d said nothing, but gone about their conversations with others, talking about him, not to him, just as they were doing to her today. No one acknowledged the Marchesa directly. Even in the crowded church, the spot beside her had remained pointedly empty. But everyone knew she was here and everyone had decided it was best to treat her as if she were invisible or inanimate, a thing that couldn’t be hurt by their darts. All except for him.
Sofia worried the hem of her handkerchief with fingers hidden in the folds of her skirts. She’d be damned if she’d let anyone see how the wedding discomfited her. She’d provided them enough sport for the day simply by being there—something she was regretting in hindsight. It was true: weddings always made you remember your own. Her own was something Sofia would rather forget. As a result, she did not enjoy the marital celebration. Specifically, she did not enjoy the way it made her feel.
The bride passed, radiant and innocent in white, and Sofia’s stomach clenched. She’d been radiant and innocent once. Her own wedding had been much like this: pews filled with people, flowers and ribbon festooning the aisles and the candelabra, a dress with yards of satin and lace, and a blushing bride beneath the sheer tulle of her veil. She’d been as eager as this girl for the adventure of marriage.
The adventure had not gone well. It should have, and that it hadn’t had been a surprise. Her husband was handsome, wealthy, well-travelled and titled. He lived in a grand villa in Piedmont, had expansive apartments in Turin, the capital of the Piedmont kingdom, a lodge in the Dolomites, a summer palace, and had showered his bride with enough jewels to turn a young girl’s head. He spent his summers at the villa on Sardinia, his winters gambling in Nice or in Venice amid the festival of Carnevale. For a girl fresh out of finishing school, it had been a fairy-tale come to life. She should have looked closer. She should have refused. Her parents should have refused. They should have known better when she did not. They had of course known, that was the rub. They simply hadn’t cared. They’d needed the money badly enough to forgo looking beneath the Marchese’s glamour.
She was wiser now. When something looked too good to be true, it probably was. Even this attractive man, who stood next to her thinking his station beside her would put a stop to wagging tongues, was likely riddled with secrets. How like a man to believe his presence was all that was required to make a woman decent. Did he ever stop to think his presence might have made things worse?
She’d hoped to be inconspicuous today with a veil of her own lending anonymity, but it had done just the opposite. Neither had her bid for discretion been helped along by the man beside her. It was hard to hide when one was seated by the handsomest man in the room. Every woman’s eyes in the church had followed his progress back up the aisle to the empty seat beside her and the whispers had started again.
Sofia slid Taunton a covert look. Did he realise his efforts had only made her more obvious? Had only intensified the talk about her? His gesture had likely only served to link him to the chain of sordid speculations made about her. She’d bet the contents of her reticule the guests behind them were thinking he’d come to try his luck in winning her intimate attentions much as Wenderly had. Maybe he had. Perhaps he thought his looks would stand him in better stead than Wenderly. Perhaps he even thought to woo the money out of her.
His efforts might have worked on another woman. As for her, she had no intentions of making the same mistake twice. A man needed more to recommend himself than his good looks. If that was behind his reasoning in coming to her side, he would be disappointed in the results. She wouldn’t thank Cowden for it, if he turned out to be the same as other men. She employed the guise of Barnham for precisely that sort of protection when it came to business dealings and she’d trusted Cowden to vet this family friend of his before revealing her situation.
The bride reached the front of the church and everyone took their seats. The service began and Sofia pushed away the rituals and the memories as best she could with thoughts of the upcoming enterprise. If Taunton was right about alpaca wool being as lucrative as his research indicated, she could double her profits, eventually. However, funding the loan for his mill came with a certain amount of risk. Mills were far more expensive than a cargo of silks. The mill loan required focusing a large portion of her funds on a single venture instead of spreading them out among several as she preferred. Diversifying was a much safer investment strategy in case one of the deals didn’t turn out; loans were also paid back slowly, over time. There was little help for her in that.
In the background of the wedding, she was mildly aware of Ferris Tresham’s voice affirming his vows, ‘For richer or poorer...’ A loan certainly was the poorer of the investments. She wasn’t looking to make a loan. She was looking to make money. She had her own causes to pursue, her own dreams about making the world more equitable for women and children, those who had no voice. She’d often thought of building a mill town herself where that could be possible. But she was years from such a goal. Why buy her own mill, why wait until she had funds to do it on her own, when she could do it through the Viscount? She could build her mill town through his mill, through his alpaca-wool industry in exchange for funding his venture. But before that she had to make sure, first hand, the venture was sound. There was no sense in investing in a mill that created a product for which there was no market.
The Dream, as she liked to call it, kept her busy right up to the kiss. Her stomach slowly started to unclench as the bridal couple passed by on their way out of the church. Sofia drew a deep breath. She’d survived, but not unscathed. ‘Are you well?’ Taunton solicited, offering his steady right arm as the guests began to exit. She needed that firm arm more today than she had yesterday. She hated needing it, hated relying on him, a virtual stranger who’d decided to play the hero. Today she was prepared for him, but that didn’t stop the warm strength of him from travelling through her again at his touch.
‘You’re pale.’ There were questions in his grey eyes when he looked at her with concern. But she didn’t want to answer questions today.
‘I’m quite fine. Just a bit tired.’ She lowered her veil as if the fabric could hold the questions at bay a little longer. There would be a consequence for not answering them, though. In her absence, others would respond in her stead with their own speculations. How long would it be before Taunton heard the rumours, before he wanted to know who she was?
Out of doors in the bright sunshine, she released his arm. ‘If you will excuse me, I think I will forgo the wedding breakfast. I’ve a bit of a headache. Will you give my regards to Helena and to the bride and groom?’ She moved into the crowd of guests before he could protest. She had her reprieve—until the next time. And there would be a next time. There was the honeymooners’ ball to get through and, heaven help her, the four-hour train ride to Taunton where they’d have hours with nothing to entertain themselves except each other and her past.
He would get her back even if he had to cross the Channel to do it. He hoped it wouldn’t come to that. He didn’t much care for England. Giancarlo Bianchi, Marchese di Cremona, surveyed the view of Piazza San Carlo from his palazzo window; the famous statue of Emanuele Filiberto on horseback, flanked by coffeehouses and aristocratic palazzos like his own, was a far cry from the stolid square town houses of London. What a filthy city London was with its soot and litter in the streets. For all its innovations, London could be improved. It couldn’t hold a candle to his city, to Turin, the centre of the Risorgimento, with its fine universities, scholars, artists and musicians.
He brushed at the sleeve of his coat as if removing a fine sheen of street dirt. He’d not set foot on English soil since he’d claimed his bride thirteen years ago. God willing, he wouldn’t