Time had come and gone since Sophia had last seen or heard of one Signor Giovanni Rossi. Initially she had been concerned over her pressuring questions of Italy and that she had caused him some kind of pain. However, as the hours turned into days, the days turned into weeks, her emotions swiftly evolved from concern to anger. Their last meeting had seemed quite motionless, unlike the passion-filled encounter at the ball. She had sometimes questioned whether their almost kiss was just a figment of her imagination, a day dream fuelled by the intensity of the situation, her desire to kiss his soft, plump lips along with the wine that she had consumed. But she knew it was real. She could still remember his adoring eyes locked with her own, and could even smell his musky scent as if he were standing that close to her right at this very moment. The way in which he had not shown these feelings again during their walk or even acknowledged their existence confused her. The way he marched away from her only gave more substance to her doubts and assumptions that he really was a cad, like she had been warned by Mr Devonshire and her mother. Furthermore, she had begun to question his intentions towards her, was he really toying with her emotions? Was she really that naive?…to let a man she hardly knew stir deep rooted, passionate emotions within her soul, only for him to crush her? She sighed and shook her head. As much as her mind told her not to trust him, she remembered his gentle touch, the way his warm eyes seemed to caress her body with his stare and she was back to admiring him and believing he really was honourable. Then why the agonising absence? Why didn't he want to see her again? She looked in the mirror and made the last adjustments to her hair, and made her way downstairs. Mr Devonshire was here for afternoon tea.
As she made her way out onto the patio in the garden, she could faintly hear the soft murmurs of conversation. No doubt her mother was informing Mr Devonshire of her moping. Although she loved her mother dearly, it was times like this that she couldn't bear. No matter how hard she had tried to conceal her emotions, she knew it must have been pretty obvious why she had been quiet recently, spending most of her time pretending to be reading. As she approached the party, her mother crossed her path and gave her an encouraging smile.
'Good afternoon, Miss Bridges. Thank you for your kind invitation for tea.'
She smiled and sat down, pouring herself and Mr Devonshire a glass of freshly squeezed lemonade.
'How are you? Your mother mentioned her concern for your happiness, she said that you seemed a little upset.'
Oh no, her suspicions were correct, her mother had been talking. She took a sip of her drink, and let the sweet liquid flow slowly down her throat.
'I am quite fine, thank you sir.' He looked her over. He knew something was wrong, and he would be damned to let that insufferable man cause the woman he loved to be in pain. He began to speak.
'You know, if you are feeling down about Signor Rossi, then I might have some information for you'. Her head snapped up, paying him her full attention. He continued.
'I was speaking to Mr Lance Millborough, John Millborough's son, and he told me a very interesting story about Rossi and his life back in Italy. He told me that he was set to be engaged to a beautiful and wealthy woman, a lady. Initially he treated her with respect, and was said to be smitten with her. This lady in question was above his status, and it has been suggested that he only became involved with her for her money. Yes, he is quite the mercenary.'
He stole a glance at her face. She looked shocked. He continued.
'The two soon became engaged, the lady in question loved him profusely. Lance then said that on the eve of their wedding, the lady, discovered that Mr Rossi had been keeping a mistress, a penniless woman from his village who he had loved since his younger years. He was planning on marrying the lady and then taking her money to begin a perfect life with his illicit vagabond. That's why he is in Chatsworth. Once the news had spread through the town, Rossi was the target of anger and abuse. The lady's family, as possessing the power, threatened that he would never be able to work or marry again. So that is why he is here.'
Sophia could hardly breath. She took another sip of her drink, she was aware that her hand was shaking.
'I'm sorry to have had to be the one to tell you, Sophia. But you needed to know.'
She looked over at her friend. He was honest and trustworthy so this must be true. The anger then boiled from the pit of her stomach. How could she have been so stupid? Devonshire's tale had confirmed her suspicions. Mr Rossi was a player, a puppet master pulling her strings. How could she allow herself to be used by him? She was equally angry with herself for allowing herself to develop feelings for a man she hardly knew. She closed her eyes. She was destined to be a spinster, an old maid forever!
Mr Devonshire noted the change in her persona, it was obvious that his information had evoked contempt and bitterness within her. He was sure that she would be feeling pain, but what harm would a little bit of sorrow be if he was to win the ultimate prize?
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'Sophia, you must know how ardently I love you.' Holding her hand he got down on one knee. 'Please will you do me the honour of becoming Lady Sophia Devonshire.'
She looked at him. She knew what she had to do. Honourable, trustworthy and secure. She had a chance of not becoming a spinster, even if she did not love him as a woman should love a man.
'Please, let me think about it Mr Devonshire. I want to make sure I am ready. This will all be for you. I would not want to cause you disruption. Please, a few days.'
Although this was not the answer he wanted to hear, he could tell that she was nearly ready to give an answer of yes. He knew that considering her age she was likely to be ready to become his wife. Love or no love. He stood up and kissed her hand, glee in his eyes. No way was he going to lose out to a good for nothing, foreign and extremely handsome twerp.
