Luca folded his arms over his protesting midsection. “Wrong? Is it not French?”
“As with everything else the English do, they adapted it to suit themselves. I believe they pronounce the castle name Clee-ver.” As Torlonia had performed nearly all the meetings and tasks necessary regarding their invitation and travel to the duke’s country seat, Luca trusted his secretary. Still. “Why ruin a perfectly good French name that way?”
The secretary shrugged, then elbowed the sleeping manservant beside him. “Bruno, we are arrived. Wake up.”
Bruno jolted awake. Though he neared the age of fifty, he usually had as much energy at hand as Luca. “Mi perdoni, mio Signore.” He straightened his coat, then leaned forward in the carriage to adjust Luca’s cravat. “You did not sleep?”
Luca lifted his chin, keeping his eyes on the window. “No. You know how I feel about carriages.”
The servant nodded once, sharply. “Since you were bambino piccolo.” Bruno had been with Luca’s family for as long as the ambassador could remember, proving a loyal servant despite the upheaval of the nation and the noble class.
Though Torlonia had advised Luca to find a British valet, Luca kept Bruno with him. Loyalty was far more important than a fashionably knotted cravat. No matter what the secretary said about it.
Torlonia tucked his book into a large leather bag he kept at his side, its long strap perpetually over his shoulder. “Remember, Signore. You are not to overtax yourself with politics. This is a respite from the politics of our nations, unless the duke extends an invitation for such discussion.”
Luca shifted, and the pounding in his head began again, more vigorous than before.
He represented the Kingdom of the Two Sicilies, even though he was of Northern Italian descent and education. His family’s holdings, and the title granted him by the king, made him a man of Sicily despite his birth in a northern city-state.
“I hope you will not forget your duties. Your plans for courting the duke’s daughter—they will only distract you,” Torlonia reminded him, somewhat stiffly.
Luca narrowed his eyes at the other man. “Sua Maestà il Re said it would be a good thing to take an English bride. To strengthen our ties to their nation.”
Another reason his stomach refused to behave. Political discussions and responsibilities were one thing, but thus far, flirting with the daughters of English noblemen had proven less enjoyable than Luca had hoped. Not only did he have Torlonia’s disapproval to reckon with, but the women he had encountered had not impressed him to make any overtures. The young ladies he had met, cousins to the royal family, children of titled men, were all too eager to pounce on him. Many had attempted to speak Italian, with varying levels of success, and still more had made him uncomfortable with their pointed ploys to capture his attention.
More than one unmarried woman had called him exotic.
Perhaps he did not look exactly as their gentlemen—fair-skinned and fair-haired as many of the noblemen he’d met had been—but given that he had seen men and women with as many variations in hair and eye color in his own country, he knew no one could tell his origins by looking at him.
Yes, he had dark hair. Yes, he had dark eyes. And no, he did not freckle in the sun, he bronzed. But surely there were plenty of Englishmen who did the same.
The carriage rolled to a stop, and Bruno handed Luca the tall black hat they had acquired in London for formal occasions.
A servant in the duke’s livery stepped up to the door, and Luca’s chest tightened.
“Time to make a good impression,” Torlonia murmured.
On both the duke and his daughter. Luca’s king wanted him to take an English wife. Courting Lady Josephine was a certain step in that direction. Though he had never expected to wed for king and country, Luca would do his duty to both.
Luca stepped out into the shadow of the duke’s castle. Castle Clairvoir. A masterful construction, with four levels of windows visible from where he stood and make-believe battlements crowning towers and top floors alike. Though he had seen many ancient castles in the Italian cities, and onhis journey through Spain, where he had served as an ambassador for the previous six months, this castle had a charm of its own.
Servants waited along the drive, dressed in livery and uniforms which proclaimed the wealth and status of their employer.
Head up, Luca approached the doors as they opened to reveal a long corridor—a tall hall lined with ancient shields and medieval weaponry.
And a cannon at the other end, positioned as though it might fire down the corridor to defend the castle at a moment’s notice.
The duke and duchess waited inside, standing so as to grant him an unrestricted view of the room stretching into the distance. In a row next to the ducal couple were the people he presumed to be their family members and important members of the household.
Luca stepped inside, removing his hat and gloves and handing them to a waiting servant.
The duke’s black hair turned silver above the temples, and he boasted broad shoulders despite being in his mid-fifties. His duchess, the very picture of sophistication and elegance, greeted Luca with a warm smile.
Luca bowed deeply before the duke, and the Englishman’s deep voice echoed off the tall ceiling and hanging shields.
"Welcome to Castle Clairvoir, Count Atella. We are honored to host the ambassador of the Kingdom of the Two Sicilies and look forward to strengthening the ties between our countries. Allow me to present to you my wife, the Duchess of Montfort. My mother”—an older woman with graying hair and a nose remarkably similar to the duke’s held her hand out to Luca for him to bow over it—“Sarah, Duchess of Montfort.”
Next in line was a tall man near Luca’s age. The duke’s heir. “My eldest son, Lord Farleigh. My eldest daughter, Lady Josephine.” The woman next to the heir took after her mother in appearance, tall and willowy in
