Page 43 of Miss Devon’s Choice

“What happened to her?” There was warmth in his deep voice, a warmth that reached deeper than his arm around her had managed. And there was curiosity.

Rebecca smiled sadly and drew her legs up closer to her body, wrapping her arms around them. His arm remained around her shoulders, but she had warmed enough that she knew she ought to move away from him.

“Mother fell ill one winter. She said it was nothing. A cold. But she grew worse. There was a fever, and then one morning she didn’t wake up.”

“How old were you?”

“Eleven.” Rebecca closed her eyes and leaned forward, dropping her chin on her sodden knees. “It was just after Christmas. Mother had given me a stack of books she promised we would read together.” Her voice cracked on the last word, necessitating she clear her throat and swallow several times. Rebecca refused to cry. But she’d never mentioned the books before. Not to anyone.

When her mother died, everything changed. Her sisters, where Rebecca would previously have turned for comfort, were also grieving and struggling with their own broken hearts.

Christian shifted, moving around just enough to reach out, his gloved hand brushing against her cheek. She raised her head up, trying to smile, but it faltered quickly when she saw the sorrow in his eyes.

“Did you read her books? It must’ve helped, having something from her,” he said.

Rebecca didn’t move. She hardly dared breathe, though she made her answer. “I never read them,” she whispered. “I couldn’t. Not without her.”

His eyes darkened and he leaned forward, pressing a kiss to her forehead. “Mi bella, mi dispiace molto.” He spoke the words against her forehead, his tone causing an ache in her heart. “I am sorry, Rebecca. We are not so different,” he whispered. “My mother, her name was Alessandra. She was the daughter of an Italian wine merchant.”

Rebecca held her breath, hardly daring to believe he would confide in her. “What did she look like?” she asked softly, fearful of ruining the moment with too loud a voice.

“I cannot remember her very well. I know her hair and eyes were dark, like mine.” He leaned back against the wall. “I was five years old when she fell ill.”

“What do you remember about her?” She kept her voice gentle, watching him carefully. His mask had slipped and seeing what lay behind it mattered greatly.

He was silent for several moments, then a sad smile twisted his lips. “I remember her singing to me. Her voice was beautiful, and her songs were sad. Italian love songs. Peasant songs.” He sighed and looked down at Rebecca, his eyes shining in the darkness. “She sang even when we both became sick.”

“You were both sick?” Rebecca studied the shadows on one side of his face, the dim light on the other.

He stared at her incredulously. “The small pox.” He raised a hand to gesture to his cheek. “You did not notice?” A hard smile that was more a grimace appeared.

Her cheeks warmed. “I noticed,” she admitted quietly.

His shoulders tightened and he dropped his hand back to his lap. “We both caught the disease,” he continued, his voice flat. “It was agony. My whole body itched, the sores broke and bled, even inside my throat. I spent days and nights crying. Fevered. Freezing.” He shuddered. “My mother sat beside me and sang. Even when her throat closed up, she sang. Until my fever broke. Only after that did she go to her own bed, to rest. But it was too late.” His voice cracked on the last word and he fell silent, his jaw clenched and working back and forth against the emotion.

Rebecca’s heart ached for him and she dared, ever so slowly, to lean against him again. It was very little, but it was all the comfort she could give. There were no words to soothe such heartache, that she well knew.

After a long silence, his body began to relax again. “My father said it was despair and loneliness that took her. She’d come to England as his bride, but no one accepted her. She couldn’t speak English very well. She wasn’t refined enough. They laughed at her. Shunned her.”

“That is terrible,” Rebecca murmured, tears pricking at her eyes. “Society can be very cruel.”

“It killed her as surely as the pox did,” he said, sounding more tired than bitter. “My father dreaded what it would do to me. I was still weak, so he took me away, to my mother’s family. We lived with my grandfather in the country, until war made my father fear for me once more. I was fifteen.”

“An age where boys run off to war,” Rebecca said, her thoughts momentarily shifting to her own brother. Harry was only fourteen.

“He didn’t want me to join the fight or be pressed into service. Said he couldn’t bear for his Alessandra’s child to die when she had given so much to see me live.”

“He sent you back to England,” Rebecca said, her eyes widening. “But he stayed behind?”

Christian nodded, weariness in every line of his body. He lifted his head, meeting her eyes, and there was enough light for her to see the hopelessness swimming in his. “He died six months later, leaving me stranded here. I asked to go back to Italy, but my grandfather refused to allow it. My duty is here, in England.”

“Christian.” She wished she was braver, wished she had the right words to say. “I cannot imagine how that must feel. But your parents, they loved you so much.”

“So much that they both left,” he said, his twisted smile reappearing. “Left me to carry on in a foreign country, where I am despised almost as much as my mother was.”

“That cannot be true.” She reached about in her mind for a way to argue against his statement. “Your English, it’s perfect. No one would guess you have any other heritage.”

“It wasn’t always,” he retorted, shifting slightly away from her. “My time at Eton taught me to speak like an Englishman or suffer the consequences. Oxford taught me that I would never be accepted. I am a half-breed. Not English enough, not enough noble blood in my veins. Besides that, I am not the fine physical specimen society would have me be.”