Page 36 of A Captain For Clarissa
“Mario,” she greeted him warmly, unafraid to use his first name as she had come to view him almost as a brother during their time in Italy. “I must confess, I’m rather surprised to see you here as well. What brings you to Portugal?”
He waved a hand airily. “Oh, you know how it is. A bit of wanderlust, a desire for adventure. And of course, the chance to bask in your radiant presence once more.”
Clarissa laughed, shaking her head. “You are incorrigible, Mario. But I’m afraid you’ll find me rather poor company at the moment.”
His brow furrowed in concern. “Why, whatever is the matter? Has that odious Dalton fellow been bothering you? He insisted on tagging along from Florence with me and I admit I have not taken to him.”
She sighed. “It’s nothing, really. Just a small disagreement between friends.”
Mario clucked his tongue sympathetically. “Ah, the trials and tribulations of the heart. But fear not, mia bella! I shall endeavour to lift your spirits with my charming wit and dashing good looks.”
Clarissa couldn’t help but be amused by his antics. Compared to Rafael’s quiet intensity, Mario seemed almost childlike in his enthusiasm. She found herself wondering how Rafael was faring with the unexpected arrivals.
As if summoned by her thoughts, Lucia and Isabella appeared, their faces wreathed in welcoming smiles.
“Conte! I would like you to meet my daughter, Isabella,” Lucia said.
Mario stopped in his tracks, staring at Isabella, who was looking particularly lovely this afternoon in a pale sea-green silk gown, her glossy black curls cascading around her shoulders.
Clarissa laughed silently to herself as Mario stumbled over his words, his gaze never leaving Isabella’s face. For her part, Isabella seemed almost equally taken with the young Italian count, blushing and smiling shyly as he bowed over her hand.
Lucia caught Clarissa’s eye and smiled, the smug smile of a mother who has found a suitable suitor for their offspring and seen an immediate result. Clarissa beamed back at Lucia, honestly grateful; if Mario transferred his attentions to Isabella, that was one less problem for Clarissa to worry about.
The days passed in a blur of activity, with Isabella and Lucia taking it upon themselves to entertain their guests, obviously enjoying having Torre do Rochedo full of guests once more. Clarissa found herself drawn into their lively conversations, grateful for the distraction from her troubled thoughts. Yet, evenas she laughed and jested with the others, she couldn’t shake the feeling of unease that had settled in the pit of her stomach.
At least Mario now seemed utterly enchanted by Isabella. His gaze followed the lovely young woman wherever she went, his eyes alight with admiration and wonder.
Clarissa watched the pair as they strolled through the gardens, heads bent close together in intimate conversation. Isabella’s silvery laughter rang out across the grounds, and Mario’s answering chuckle sent a pang of envy through Clarissa’s heart. Not for Mario’s affections, but for the easy camaraderie the two seemed to share.
She couldn’t help but contrast their lighthearted interactions with Rafael’s distant demeanour. Ever since the arrival of the new guests, he had been conspicuously absent, his duties seemingly taking up all of his time. Clarissa tried to tell herself that it was mere coincidence, that his withdrawal had nothing to do with her, but the ache in her chest told a different story.
As the days stretched into a week, Clarissa’s doubts and insecurities grew. She found herself wandering the halls of the estate, hoping to catch a glimpse of Rafael, only to be met with disappointment at every turn. The few times she did see him, he was distant and formal, his sea-green eyes shuttered against her searching gaze.
With each passing day, Clarissa’s heart broke a little more. She had thought... had hoped... that perhaps there was something special between them. That the connection she felt wasn’t justa figment of her imagination. But now, faced with Rafael’s cold indifference, she was forced to confront the painful truth.
She had lost him. Before she ever truly had him.
Marianne found Clarissa sitting in the garden, her eyes fixed on the distant horizon. The Marchioness settled herself on the bench beside her niece, her keen gaze taking in Clarissa’s melancholy expression.
“What troubles you, my dear?” Marianne asked gently.
Clarissa sighed, her fingers twisting in the folds of her dress. “It’s Rafael,” she admitted, her voice barely above a whisper. “He’s been avoiding me since Mr. Dalton and the Conte arrived. I fear I’ve done something to offend him.”
Marianne’s brow furrowed thoughtfully. “I don’t believe that’s the case,” she said slowly. “In fact, I suspect quite the opposite.”
Clarissa turned to face her friend, confusion etched across her features. “What do you mean?”
“I think Rafael is jealous,” Marianne said simply.
A startled laugh escaped Clarissa’s lips. “Jealous? Of whom? Mr. Dalton? The Conte? That’s absurd.”
Marianne shook her head. “Is it? You have a history with both men. It’s not so far-fetched to think that Rafael might feel threatened by their presence.”
Clarissa considered this for a moment, her heart fluttering with a tentative hope. Could it be true? Could Rafael’s distance be a manifestation of jealousy rather than indifference?
She thought back to their interactions before the arrival of their guests. The stolen glances, the gentle teasing, the undeniable pull between them. It had all felt so real, so promising. But then everything had changed.
“I don’t know, Marianne,” Clarissa said uncertainly. “He’s been so cold. So distant. If he truly cared for me, wouldn’t he want to spend time with me, regardless of who else was here?”
