Page 32 of Tempted By the English Marquis
Emotion swelled within Gideon. He could just imagine how the English-born Contessa de Luca must have felt.
“It is late, and there will be crowds of pilgrims in the streets. Unfortunately, we will have to take one of the higher roads around to the north otherwise we will not be able to make it through. Normally the streets are not this busy, and the locals know to move out of the way of any coach bearing the insignia of the Duke of Lazio. But not today. Today belongs to the church and the faithful,” added Nico.
Gideon had known that the de Luca family was important in Rome but experiencing the benefits of their status was something else. The elegant livery of the servants and the carriage bore an unmistakable air of wealth and influence. With six powerful steeds pulling the vehicle along, it would take a great deal for the driver to slow down or avoid wayward pedestrians. He could well understand why the inhabitants of Rome would move swiftly out of their way.
* * *
As Serafina and Augusta made their way along the River Tiber from the Vatican, they passed in front of the towering stone Castel Sant’Angelo, with its bronze statue of Saint Michael on the top. It was getting late, and Serafina could admit to being tired, but she wasn’t going to miss the Easter Sunday fireworks.
If my life is about to irrevocably change, I intend to live every minute to the fullest before it does.
Another cup of strong coffee would see her through the latter part of the evening and onto the family supper. Like most Italians, the de Lucas tended to eat late. Normally, Donna Francesca wouldn’t consider sitting down to dine earlier than eight; at Easter it would be closer to ten. As citizens of Rome, it was their duty to wring the last drop of the day’s festivities and celebrations out before coming home to share supper with their family.
“The weather in Rome is so much nicer than in England. We would never be out at this hour; it would be far too cold or raining. Last year, there was still ice on the ground on Easter Sunday morning. And we don’t get fireworks,” said Augusta.
If Serafina was flagging, Augusta was fading even faster. The extra glasses of wine her friend had downed at Ristorante La Campana during a long afternoon of feasting had caught up with her. There was an unmistakable slur in her speech.
Once the fireworks were over, Serafina would gently steer Lady Augusta Kembal in the direction of home. And if she played her cards right, her friend would be going straight to bed, thus sparing Serafina from having to answer any awkward questions that the Duchess of Mowbray might have about how her daughter had come to be so inebriated.
She glanced over to her right, taking in the Ponte Sant’Angelo. The bridge over the River Tiber was busy. A steady flow of pilgrims crossed back and forth. Most were headed toward the city, having spent the day in and around Saint Peter’s and the Vatican. With most people walking on Easter Sunday, few carriages were on the bridge.
A familiar coach caught her eye. The red and gold livery of the Duke of Lazio stood out among the plain black of other smaller carriages and the odd cart.
“Nico must be back from Civitavecchia. Isabelle will be pleased,” she said. She pointed to the coach. “He will be spared a lecture from his father and wife.”
Her cousin’s wife had not been the least bit happy with her husband making a sudden trip up north to visit the de Luca company shipping offices. Nico had been due back before today.
“At least he made it in time for Easter supper,” she added.
Serafina raised her arm and gave a wave in the direction of the coach. Nico more than likely wouldn’t see it, but it was a nice way to welcome her cousin home. At supper they would all be gathered together.
My last Easter celebration before taking on the role of a wife.
“Supper. More food? Oh, I don’t know if I can,” replied Augusta.
She shook her head. “You English really don’t know how to eat. One doesn’t eat to live; one lives to eat. Now come along. We need to get a good vantage point for the fireworks.”
Who knows if I will get to experience this sort of freedom this time next year?
ChapterSixteen
Nico motioned toward the opposite side of the coach to where Gideon sat. “If you shift over and look out that window, you will be afforded your first glimpse of a true relic of the Roman age, the magnificent Castel Sant’Angelo.”
Gideon rose and quickly moved across to the next seat. He wasn’t going to waste this opportunity. Out the window he caught sight of a towering, rounded stone structure. From where he sat, it appeared to be ringed with high ramparts.
Nico moved to the end of his seat and looked out. “I shall give you the quick tourist speech. Originally known as the Mausoleum of Hadrian, it was first built between 134 and 139 AD. The ashes of many of the succeeding Roman emperors were entombed here. Down the years it has been a military fortress, a castle, and it was a place of refuge for Pope Clement VII during the Sack of Rome in 1527.”
“It’s had a few lives. What an amazing place. Can we visit it?” replied Gideon, his gaze still firmly fixed on the view outside.
“Yes, it has, but no, we cannot visit, as it’s currently being used as a prison. There is a spot at the other end of the bridge, Ponte Sant’Angelo, which we are about to cross, which they have long used to execute criminals. We won’t be visiting there either.”
“Good. I’m not one for watching people die.” That piece of information put a dampener on Gideon’s excitement. He had never been able to comprehend people’s interest in public executions; they were gruesome affairs, and in his opinion, often without good cause.
Their progress slowed to a trot as the crowd of pedestrians moved unhurriedly out of the way. The coach reduced speed and began to turn toward the left.
Gideon took in the sea of smiling faces. Everyone appeared to be having a good time. People were carrying bottles and passing them around. When he caught sight of a hand waving from across the other side of the road, he waved back.
When in Rome, do as the Romans do.
