Page 9 of The Scent of Snow
Pedroacceptedachaliceof port from a passing footman and paced the expanse of the grand foyer. Moonlight spilled from the stained-glass windows and pooled on the polished marble. Henrique, Maxwell, and Faial conversed over their crystal glasses, their easy camaraderie belying the churning in Pedro’s stomach. Anne spent the entire afternoon closeted with the women and even decided to complete her toilette for dinner with them. He forced his shoulders to relax. Julia and Isabel had ignored their husbands, too, and by their banter and smiles, they thought nothing of it.
Their husbands didn’t deny their wishes for a child, did they?
Anne chose him, not them. Pedro lifted his gaze to the staircase, but the women had yet to appear. Laughter rolled out of the group as Faial told a joke. While Anne didn’t grace the foyer, he could deal with another issue that demanded his attention. With a subtle nod of his head, Pedro separated Faial from the others.
“Have you seen my new Caravaggio?”
Tugging at his cravat, Diomedes followed him. Face thoughtful, he admired the painting, lifting his glass in appreciation. “The Calling of St. Matthew. Impressive.”
The artist had captured a burst of divine light, illuminating a group of men around a table. While Jesus gestured towards Matthew, inviting him into the fold, the tax collector pointed his finger at himself in disbelief.
“I bought it for thechiaroscuro. The play of light and shadow. It tells a story of a profound, life-changing moment. It’s not just a calling. It’s an awakening.” Pedro infused his voice with authority.
Diomedes grunted, stealing glances at Maxwell and Henrique. Both men were still caught up in their banter.
“Have you considered my proposal to visit Paris?”
“Why don’t you assign your brother? Henrique told me he is expected any minute now.”
He did not intend to send Cris away after spending the last two years without him. “Cristiano ispersona non gratafor France's New Republic.”
Diomedes laughed. “Look, I see what you are trying to do, but I’m not Saint Matthew. I’m no agent of the crown. I’m a decent poet when the inspiration strikes and an indecent aristocrat when it doesn’t.”
“We’ll see.” Pedro narrowed his eyes. Before the eve’s end, he would find a way for Faial to do his bidding. He couldn’t allow the claim that Fernando was alive to go unattended.
“Er, about your father—”
Pedro’s shoulders tensed, and he gripped his port with enough force to shatter the glass. “You will not mention The Duke of Titano’s death.” He said through gritted teeth. “I won’t ruin the celebrations for my wife.”
Pedro would not grieve for a man who brought him nothing but hatred, whose violence had left deep imprints on his life. Yesterday’s double-think was a relapse. He had buried the experience as he would bury Titano’s ashes and his letter. After he incorporated his father’s estate into his vast holdings, everything would return to normal.
Movement above alerted him of the women’s arrival.
“Here they come.” Pedro sought Anne, his eyes consuming her light. The new gown from Madame Palmyre, a deep blue silk, complemented Anne’s chardonnay hair. The fitted bodice showcased her slender waist and cascaded into a full, sweeping skirt. Subtle lacework graced the neckline and cuffs, and as she moved, the train trailed behind her with regal grace.
The women glided down, their beauty enhanced by the chandelier glow. While Julia and Isabel commanded attention with their distinct characters, his Anne seemed ethereal. Like an angel who decided to partake in a mortal’s dwelling. Could he be blamed if he struggled with the need to keep her always? When he feared she would open her wings and return to her place among the clouds? She had the substance of things that shimmered and disappeared — a firefly, a fairy, a flicker of hope.
A sigh burst from Diomedes’s chest. “In moonlight’s gentle gleam, she steps, a vision fair and rare, descending from the heavens’ height, like a dream suspended in the air.” He dared follow Anne’s progress down the stairs. “I would gladly sign up for Dante’s hell if your wife would deign to accompany me.”
Pedro stepped to the side, blocking Diomedes’ view of his Anne. “Glad you mentioned Dante’s hell, because the only way you could accompany my wife anywhere would be from six feet under the earth.”
Pedro watched the smile die from Faial’s lips and strode to his Anne.
Catching her hand in his, he pretended to kiss her cheek and, at the last moment, bit her earlobe. “You look delectable in midnight blue, Lady Daun, but be forewarned, after midnight, the only blue I will allow close to your skin is the blue of your irises.”
He wanted to lick the faint blush covering her cheeks, but settled for escorting her into the dining room.
From his position at the head of the table, Pedro watched as the banquet proceeded with the precision of a well-run war theater and the opulence of any court in Europe. Seated at his right, his countess glowed, her fair skin catching sparkles from the Baccarat crystals.
She was gracious to all, with love and caring clear in her blue eyes. Pedro wasn’t jealous of her attention to their guests. Her light, he came to learn in their marriage, was infinite.
Pedro lifted his glass. “Thank you for gracing our home. To an illuminated Christmas.”
A chorus rose from the table, followed by cheers.
Isabel sipped the wine and sighed. “What a delicious vintage. Bordeaux?”
“This is a pure Douro wine, straight from Vesuvio,” Pedro said and lifted his chin in his sister-in-law’s direction.
