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Chapter One, Chapter Two, Chapter Three

Chapter One

1799

Leaning up against the villa's rough wall, young Lexia Cappello gazed out at the pandemonium around her. No matter the direction, it was a certainty that if she moved, she would be in the way. Even a child of four would have known this, and Lexia could boast of six years.

If she walked to the right, through the double doors made of French glass, she would bump into her mamma, rushing about as she prepared for her wedding to the Englishman later today. If Lexia moved to the left, she would disturb her Nonna--Grandmamma--who arranged bouquets of colorful flowers that were to decorate the villa for this special event.

In front of Lexia, the main entrance into the house bustled with people scurrying to and fro as if their very lives depended on movement. Everyone within miles around gathered inside and out to celebrate the union between one of Sicily's finest families and a noble lord from the far reaches of England. To walk forward into the crowd for one as small as she, was to risk her very life.

And to the back of Lexia, alas, was but a stucco wall, supporting her meager frame.

Amidst the earsplitting noise and commotion, Lexia stood transfixed. Her lower lip trembled even as her eyes began to water. She had been instructed not to soil her delicate silk pink gown--a gift from her future papa. So smooth the material felt against her sun-bronzed skin. But Lexia was something of a tomboy; how could she pass the endless hours ahead, clean and unmussed, until the priest arrived for the wedding?

Without warning, someone enveloped her in a hug. "Ah, poverina! You poor child!"

It was Zia Concetta, Lexia's favorite aunt. "You are all dressed up with no place to go, is that not right, my plump, little melon?"

Lexia grinned. All the townsfolk knew she was as skinny as a bone. "Zia, I don't look like a melon."

Zia Concetta bent over to kiss Lexia's cheek. The smell of fresh basil and parsley was strong on the older woman. She must have been cooking for the big feast. "You are too sharp for me, child."

With a rustle of heavy linen skirts, she guided Lexia through the double French doors. "Come. Let us convince your Mamma Francesca there is no need for you to be trussed up like a Christmas goose so far in advance. The wedding is not for three more hours."

Sometimes grownups made no sense whatsoever. How could she be dressed like a goose? Although the mention of food did cause Lexia to lick her lips.

After Zia Concetta closed the doors, shutting out the outside noise, Mamma peered over the dressing screen. "Ah, Concetta! It is fortunate you have come. I cannot decide whether to wear the teardrop pearl earbobs or the gold and carnelian ones."

Mamma was the most beautiful woman in all the world. With her dark hair swinging and brilliant brown eyes flashing, she had no need of jewels to shine. People always whispered that Lexia took after her mamma. She wished that was so, but the looking glass never lied. Sneaking a peek at her reflection, she wrinkled her nose and sighed.

Mamma soundly gave Lexia a smack of a kiss. Then of course, she pulled out her handkerchief to rub away excess lip salve on Lexia's cheek. "You have not gotten dirty, little one. I thank you from the bottom of my heart."

If only to earn her mamma's approval, Lexia would forgo all the pleasures the villa's gardens held. Only.... She glanced out the window at the high, proud juniper trees lining the main walkway. They rustled their branches at her, teasing her to come play. Why oh why did anyone want to remain indoors on a glorious day like today?

Zia Concetta pulled a stray wisp of greying hair back into her heavy bun, then wagged a stout finger at Mamma. "Francesca, I make a deal with you. If you allow this sweet babe the freedom to roam until two hours hence, I shall give you my advice." She wisely held up her two hands to stop Mamma's sputtering of words. "I promise on the Blessed Mother to wash her clean and dress her again in this fancy English gown."

Mamma's dear face pulled into a frown. "She is only six, Concetta. And she loves to roam free, just as..., well, you know. Can Lexia be trusted to return? I do so want to please Edoardo."

Still in her chemise, Mamma moved gracefully to the looking glass. In her hands were a pearl earring and a red circular one. "Saints above, how am I to decide?" She whirled around, a vision in her underclothes. "Si, si. Yes, I agree. But Lexia, you must promise not to get into trouble."

"I won't, Mamma. I promise." Lexia raised her gaze to her beloved aunt and gave her a big thankful smile. This dress, although pretty to look at, bound her tightly on the bodice. And although the material was silky smooth, scratchy seams irritated her skin. She pulled on her lower lip. Why did looking pretty have to be so painful?

"Edoardo is a marquess, you know." Mamma sprinkled her cheeks with a dusting of rice powder. The resulting spray tickled Lexia's nose, making her sneeze.

"The Marquess of Rutherford," Mamma continued. "A fine English lord. Maybe I should practice speaking more English. We must do our best to be worthy of Edoar--I mean, Edward, and his ancient family."

From a floral arrangement, Mamma picked out a rose to smell its sweet fragrance. Then she held the deep red flower against the dark of her hair. "And I shall be his marchioness."

"Bah!" Zia Concetta commented as she untied the ribbons on Lexia's gown. "There is no finer name in all of the Kingdom of the Two Sicilies than Cappello! It is best if you remembered that, Francesca."

Zia Concetta was angry, but Lexia didn't understand why. "He is ancient, Mamma? But you said he has a son. I want to have a brother."

"No, no, I do not mean your new papa is old." Mamma fluttered her hands as if to brush away Lexia's words. "You will see. Indeed, he is quite handsome. And as for his son, Roberto, Robert--your new brother--he has seventeen years. He even has his own title--the Earl of Wroth. Can you imagine? The boy is...well, he is not happy about the wedding, I fear."

Mamma looked sad. She used her handkerchief to touch at the corners of her eyes. "But the marriage is meant to be, is that not so, Contessa? When I first met Edward, he gave me roses--red, white, pink, and yellow. Without knowing Fortuna, the tradition of true love, he gave them to me."

Mamma dipped her face in more roses arranged throughout her room. "And these, also."

Zia Concetta nodded slowly. "Si, it is Fortuna. Any man giving a lady the four colors of roses is meant to be her husband. Red for love, white for truth, pink for romance, and yellow for hope." She made the sign of the cross. "It is fated you marry this Englishman. And you must wear the pearl earbobs for purity. The red carnelian, Gesu Cristo! That is for the wedding night!"

For some reason, Mamma blushed.

Now stripped of that restricting dress, Lexia put on one of her comfortable cotton shifts. Barefoot, she gratefully wiggled her toes on the wood floor, eager to be gone. Maybe she could find her good friend, Vito, and romp in the dirt under the hot summer sun. With Zia Concetta and Mamma busy arguing about something unimportant, it was easy to slip out the door.

But sharp-eyed Mamma had the last word. "Two hours, si? And no trouble."

"Si, Mamma. Grazie! Thank you." Lexia bobbed her head. For two blessed hours she could run free without worrying about grownup matters like weddings, new papas, and new unhappy brothers.

* * *

"I do wish you'd wipe that frown from your face, Wroth. The day's much too beautiful to wear the mask of tragedy." James Dutton pulled on his horse's reins, then viewed the commanding presence of Mount Etna in the distance. "Even though we are in the birthplace of tragedy--as in Roman theatre, don't you know?"

Robert Weston, the Earl of Wroth, and heir to the Marquess of Rutherford, also halted, but only to ring a peal over his friend's head. "Dutton, if you are trying to impress me with your knowledge, you have failed miserably. You credit the Romans for inventing a literary form they only copied from the ancient Greeks." He allowed his stallion, Fury, to graze upon the plentiful roadside grass. "It is no wonder your first term at Cambridge was a decided disaster."

"Egad, Wroth, only roasting you," Dutton grumbled, the tips of his ears turning pink. "Damme, you are so out of curl, you'd skin a fellow alive! Why I agreed to accompany you on this trip, I'll never fathom."

"Cut line, Dutton. You know as well as I that this is your only chance for the Grand Tour."

As a redhead, Dutton's fair skin already was turning uncomfortably red in the unyielding Sicilian sun. Despite his hat however, he somehow managed to redden further.

Robert contritely looked his friend in the eye. "A thousand pardons, old fellow. I had no call to say that." Removing his beaver top hat, he ran a gloved hand through his hair. "In truth, we are both deuced fortunate to be able to do any traveling, thanks to that monster Bonaparte's preoccupation with his bloody campaign in Egypt."

With England at war for seven years now, a fellow had to grab any lull in the fighting to satisfy the wanderlust in one's soul.

Robert replaced his hat, then arched his back to relieve some of the strain from sitting in the saddle. "It is just that my father's actions are so...so damn irresponsible. First, he fancies himself to be some sort of scholar, then he leaves his estate for months on end to study art, of all things, and now he is leg-shackling himself to a Sicilian abbess. Insufferable!"

"Hey, hey, doing it too brown, don't you think? You've never even met the woman."

"What is to know?" Robert snorted in disgust. "They are all the same. Out for what they can get."

He glanced at the majestic Mount Etna, and in spite of his low spirits, was momentarily struck silent by the volcano's immense size looming over the fertile countryside. A kind of kinship developed within him for this cone-shaped mountain. If only he could also vent his anger by erupting. As his father's heir, he could not possibly enlist in the Army or sign up to join the British Navy, as he wanted to do. True, he was but the tender age of seven and ten. But his father could do as he pleased. Wasn't he deserting the land of his birth for a damned foreigner? Hell and blast! Things just were not fair.

Robert nudged his horse into a trot. "I have delayed the inevitable long enough. The road to the town of Randazzo and the Cappello villa is just ahead. We shall need time to make ourselves presentable." Tongue set firmly in cheek, he added, "After all, I would not wish to scandalize my father by appearing at his wedding in all my dirt."

Dutton kept pace beside him, bouncing like an amateur on his fine bit of blood. "If you want my opinion...and I know you don't, but I'll give it to you anyway--you're being too hard on the female sex. Especially Italians or Sicilians. Same thing, anyway. What about that girl back in that seaport town? What was the name of it-- Towermina?"

"Taormina. And she was five and thirty, if she was a day." Wiping his forehead, Robert wished for even a ghost of a breeze. But none stirred the eucalyptus trees lining the road, nor was there movement among the orange groves on the other side of them.

"Oh, right. Positively ancient. What does the woman do but take one look at you--and I admit we both looked bedraggled after our ferry ride from the mainland- -then she insists you accept a gift of flowers? Roses, don't you know? And she refuses to take payment. Just said that you'd be needing these." Dutton gestured to the back of Robert's horse where a total of twelve roses--pink, red, yellow, and white--lay tied to the back his saddle.

"I tell you, Wroth, that gave me goose-bumps, for some odd reason."

"Perhaps the scent of roses disagrees with you," Robert said lightly. However, he too had felt something peculiar about the exchange.

The woman, dressed in a shabby head scarf and slovenly gown, had a disturbing glow to her dark eyes. Poverty reeked from her lean form, and yet she forced twelve perfect rosebuds on him. "Signore, you take fiori. Flowers. You need fiori," she had declared.

He shrugged his discomfort away. "Enough about her. Here is the turn for the villa. Thank the Lord we have only one more day. Then we can be gone from this Godforsaken land."

His words rang false, even to him. If ever a land appeared blessed, it was Sicily. Brilliant life-giving sun, piercing blue skies, and miles and miles of vegetation--as far as the eye could see. Farther back, orchards of lemon stood alongside the orange trees, and greening vineyards seemed to be everywhere. Wildflowers grew to profusion, dotting the landscape with turbulent bits of color. Now close to the slopes of Mount Etna, a jumble of exotic trees teeming with energetic birds parted so that they could pass. This place was, in a word, paradise.

But the Marquess had disappointed Robert once again. How could his father be so...faithless to his duty?

Dutton had the audacity to laugh, as well he should. He had something of a poet's heart. "How can you be so blind, Wroth? This place is enchanted, so lush, vibrant, and alive. Why, even the trees seem to bend to greet us. I say, what the deuce?"

By all that was holy, a monkey fell out of a cluster of huge, leafy beech trees, landing squarely in front of the horses. Fury responded to this indignity by rearing up--a most frightful sight, whether viewing it from the ground or from the animal's back. It took all Robert's concentration and strength to stay in the saddle and quiet the horse. Not to mention preventing the stallion from pounding the little creature into the dust.

Road dirt flying, at last Fury's thunderous hoofs remained safely on the earth. The danger past, Robert could not help expostulating. "Of all the damned--"

"Softly, now," Dutton urged. "This is but a child."

Good Lord, Dutton was right! Hunched over in the middle of the road was a boy...or girl. Robert could not tell. A branch of oval leaves stuck out of his or her curly mound of coffee-brown hair, and the legs, bare to the thigh, were almost as thin as his fingers.

His senses returning to him, he leaped off his horse and crouched down by the child's side. "Are you hurt?"

The largest brown eyes he had ever seen puddled up with tears. The child, it was a girl about five or six, pulled down a tattered dress leaving only dirty toes exposed. Her lower lip trembling, she mutely stared at him.

He carefully removed the tree branch from her hair and smoothed down some of her riotous curls. How silky and fine her hair felt.

"Dutton," he called to his friend, "she must not speak English. How do you say 'hurt'?"

"What am I, a deuced dictionary?" Dutton slipped off his mount and held both horses' reins to prevent a stampede. Fury had an unfortunate reputation of mimicking his name. He whisked out a small book and ran his finger down some pages. "Here it is, Wroth. It's 'danno.'"

The child, wide-eyed with some foreign emotion, gasped. Perhaps she thought he meant to hurt her. With his hand, Robert gestured toward her. "You, er, danno?"

She vigorously shook her head, displacing dozens of appealing curls. How could he have ever thought her a boy...or a monkey? "No, no, Fratello," she replied.

He removed his handkerchief and wiped away a fat tear rolling down her cheek. "Fratello, what does that mean?"

Dutton skewed his protruding lips. "Damme--I mean to say--demmed if I know. This book is only English to Italian."

Robert ruffled the girl's hair again. Something about this child touched him. Whether it was the brave way she held back her tears in front of two strangers or perhaps something else entirely, he did not know. The fall had to have hurt, and she had no natural padding to cushion the blow.

From out of nowhere, he came up with a wonderful idea. He did not usually consider the needs of others, so why was he bothering today?

No matter. He walked over to his horse and untied the bouquet of roses. After all, what use did he have for the flowers? "Here, my moppet, here is a gift. You must be careful, however. Roses always have thorns."

He showed her the sharp, woody points on the stems. "This is called a thorn."

She nodded. "Thorn."

Pleased that she repeated the word, he handed her the bouquet. But, strangely enough, her hand flew to her mouth as if she had never seen such beautiful roses. The poor child. Had she never received a gift before?

"Fortuna," she whispered.

In the distance, another young voice warbled out some words. Still holding the flowers, the girl scrambled to her feet. "Vito!" she called out. She made an unsteady curtsy to Robert, and then Dutton. "Grazie, signori."

As suddenly as she appeared, the child vanished into the thick underbrush of bushes and trees.

Dutton handed Robert his reins. "What the deuce was that all about? I've never seen you so patient before. Especially with a child."

"How should I know?" Robert replied more nonchalantly than he felt. He placed his foot into the stirrup and remounted his horse. "We need to hurry, Dutton. If we are late, I shall blame it all on you."

His friend took the gibe in good stead. "You always do, Wroth. Why should today be any different?"

Riding up the road to the Cappello villa, Robert was uncustomarily quiet. The meaning of the word fratello came to him in a flash. Brother. The child had called him 'brother'. But why on earth would she do that?

* * *

Limping back to the villa, Lexia clenched her teeth hard, trying to ignore the pain that stabbed her with every movement she made. Gracious, who would have thought falling out of a tree could hurt so much? Danno. Yes, she definitely had suffered "danno."

But she could not have admitted that to the handsome English boy, now could she? And to think he was to be her brother.

And also, more important, Fortuna decreed him to be her husband!

She clasped the beautiful roses too tightly and managed to prick her finger on a thorn. As vivid red blood trickled down her hand, tears coursed down her cheeks. She could not be brave any longer.

Passing by the front garden's pond and gushing fountain, she entered through the back door of the villa into the kitchen. By chance Lexia bumped into the one person who could make her discomfort better. "Zia, Zia! I hurt! Help me."

Zia Concetta stopped stirring the large pot of sauce simmering on the fireplace. After the wedding, everyone would feast on pasta and meat sauce. "What is it, my child?" she asked. "What--"

Her weathered eyes grew as wide as lemons. "Gesu Cristo! What has happened? Tell me everything."

She handed the sauce-dripping, wooden spoon to one of the helpers, and with her arm around Lexia, Zia Concetta hurried over to a private alcove.

The roses now lay in a heap on the polished floor, but Lexia was in too much pain to care. "I fell," she said with a sniff. "I hurt."

In a quick motion, her aunt removed the dirty shift. "Blessed Mother!" She made the sign of the cross. "Of course you hurt, my angel. You are blacker than black, and bluer than blue."

Lexia looked at her skinny body. From her waist, down the legs, to her heels, she was the color of a pickled olive.

After pouring some water from a pitcher into a bowl, Zia Concetta wrung out a cloth and gently swabbed Lexia from head to toe. The motion soothed her, and she yawned.

"What am I going to tell Mamma Francesca, eh? Lexia, you little imp. You went climbing trees, no? Trees on your mamma's wedding day! I shall fix you a hot posset of milk and honey. It will put you right to sleep."

Lexia rubbed at her eyes. "But the wedding! I have to go. I have to see my brother."

"Your brother?" Zia Concetta wrapped Lexia in a warm towel and led her to the door.

"Si. Yes, he gave me the roses." She gestured toward the flowers.

Her aunt stayed Lexia's hand and saw the cuts on her skin.

"It was a thorn," Lexia explained, using the English word.

"Eh?"

"Thorn. Spina. He told me to be careful, but I forgot. See, Zia? They are the four colors. Fortuna. He will be my husband."

Her aunt glanced at the flowers, now spread to reveal their soft petals. "Fortuna," she whispered. "But, Lexia, who gave these to you?"

"I told you. My brother. You know, Roberto." Lexia's eyelids refused to remain open. Reaching her room, she sank down on her bed, wincing only a little from the pain. "Must go to the wedding," she murmured as she settled in on her pillow.

Zia Concetta's roughened hand smoothed the hair out of Lexia's closed eyes. "Sleep now, child. I will tell Mamma Francesca what has happened. Maybe you will wake up for the feast, si?"

Lexia could only mumble. The way she felt now, she probably would sleep until dawn.

Chapter Two

1815

Sometimes doing one's duty was about as pleasant as shouldering the weight of ten heavy men. Despite all preparation, today was destined to be one of those days.

Robert Weston, the Marquess of Rutherford, stopped his horse to wipe the sweat off his forehead. Every last inch of him seeped with blasted perspiration. If memory served, the July heat was even greater than the last time he visited this part of the world, some sixteen years ago. At this rate, he would arrive at his destination wetter than the nearby Ionian Sea.

"Devilishly hot, ain't it?" James Dutton mopped at his own brow with a large, wrinkled handkerchief. "Remind me again why I decided to accompany you to the deuced antipodes?"

Robert turned around to watch his rented carriage's lumbering progress--a mile or so in the distance--through twisted, overgrown, and dusty roads. The vehicle had all the vitality of an overtired inchworm. Hiring such an inelegant monster of a coach went against the grain, however, when in Rome.... Besides, it was all that had been available.

He shrugged. On his previous trip, he had traveled light, with only a small roll of clothes tied to his favorite horse's back. But now, today, necessity dictated a more cumbersome mode of transportation, since he would be returning to his comfortable yacht docked in Taormina's seaport with three additional passengers plus baggage in tow.

"As I recall, Dutton, I rescued you from the clutches of a brazen-faced wench determined to become the next Mrs. Dutton."

"Ah, fair Ophelia," his friend sighed. "I do believe Lord Byron described her best, by saying--

"'She walks in beauty, like the night
Of cloudless climes and starry skies--'"

"Her name was Mildred, old fellow. And she had her hooks in you deeper than a fishmonger's wife." In the shadow of the great Mount Etna, Robert took a swig of water from a bottle his trusty valet, Owens, had thoughtfully provided. He had no use for his friend's foolishly romantic sentiments. Indeed, he prided himself that he alone was responsible for Dutton's still unattached state.

"One of these days I shall have to marry, Rutherford. Carry on the family name and all that. You too, you know. We're both three and thirty. Past time to set up a nursery. And now that the war's over...."

"No need to get riveted yet, thank the Lord. Not in our dotage." Urging his horse forward, Robert self-consciously brushed his hair back behind his ears. Just this morning he noticed a grey strand or two among the blackness of the rest.

Damn it all, Dutton's words did have the ring of truth. Duty was duty. One day soon Robert would have to take a wife. And as good a contender for the title as any was the regal Lady Penelope back home in England.

Up ahead, a grove of huge arborvitae trees rose in slender, tapered points, trying to touch the dazzlingly azure sky. To the right, a still pond of sapphire water reflected both the magnificent trees and the sky above. Again, albeit reluctantly, he admired this island off the boot of the Italian mainland. Almost as different as night and day from the Yorkshires, his home.

And it was good to finally leave the confines of his native shores for a while. Thankfully that long grueling episode with Bonaparte was over. Indeed, that Corsican devil should be on his way to his final exile on the remote island of St. Helena. Plenty of time now to travel and enjoy what the locals had to offer. Especially the women....

A trickle of sweat slid down his jaw. If it was not for this damned heat, this brief stop would have been an idyllic interlude.

Dutton pulled on Robert's tailcoat sleeve. "Here's the turn to the town of Randazzo. Fancy remembering that after all these years. We don't have to wait for the driver of the carriage, right, Rutherford? He knows the way to the villa."

Slowing his horse's speed down to a walk, Robert nodded. They were coming up on a familiar group of trees. Old memories rushed to the forefront. A young child had fallen out of the branches right...here. He looked down at the spot and smiled. Whatever happened to that little monkey with the overly large eyes?

Dutton wiped his face again, then wrung moisture from his handkerchief. "Speaking of nurseries, I forgot, you will be setting one up. For that's the reason for this trip, don't you know?"

"True." Robert fingered his cravat, allowing a breeze of air to work its way down the confines of his clothing. What he would not give to be able to strip off his garments--tailcoat and waistcoat in particular--down to his bare shirt sleeves. Perhaps even take a dip in a cool puddle of water along the way.

"However," he continued, "my father's three brats are not so young. Twelve, nine, and seven--at last count. They are now my responsibility since their mother has passed on."

Dutton dipped his head. "She was a beauty. How full of life she was, sixteen years ago." He dabbed at his eyes. "She reminds me of a poem--"

"Please! I cannot stomach more of your romantic drivel. Francesca blinded my father to his duty. He never returned to England, you know."

"To live. But he did visit."

Robert refused to reply. Visiting was not the same as inhabiting the land of one's birth. Edward Weston became a traitor to England the day he wed that Sicilian fancy tart.

His lips set, Robert broke into a gallop up the path to the Cappello villa entrance. Contrasting his last trip, the large stone and mortar house stood quiet, almost vacant. No bustling servants, no music in the air, it was almost as if the villa had died along with its last female owner. Indeed, the only sound that could be heard came from the gurgling pumps of the front garden's fountain.

Dutton looked around and scarcely concealed his shudder. "Deuced spooky. I say, you did send word of your arrival, didn't you?"

Robert dismounted, then tied his reins to one of the two ornate sculptures guarding the main door. "No, the element of surprise is always a formidable asset."

His friend shook his head, then swung his leg over his horse and jumped down. "Rutherford, you are amazing. These children were born and bred here in Sicily, and you expect them to welcome an unknown brother with open arms and leave the only home they've known to follow you to England?"

"Of course. They are Westons. They belong with me in York." Rutherford Hall, in the county of North Yorkshire was one of the grandest estates in all the kingdom. The children would be honored to return to their ancestral home, where they belonged.

"Just what the deuce are you, a decided bachelor, going to do with them? Leave them with a nanny while you go about your business?"

Ignoring Dutton, who had the persistence and annoyance factor of a fly, Robert brushed off what travel dust he could. His usually immaculate leather Hessian boots, à la Wellington, appeared brown instead of sparkling black, while his stockinet breeches looked far darker than this morning when he started out. Thank heavens England's beau monde could not see him at such disadvantage.

He knocked on the aged oak door. "Peace, old fellow. Never fear, the children will be adequately taken care of."

"Adequately," Dutton repeated as he shook dirt off his hat. He somehow made the word less than desirable.

The door creaked open to reveal an old woman clutching a black and tan striped shawl against her bosom. Dressed in a heavy black gown, she also had a black woolen kerchief covering her greying hair.

Black, black, and more black! How strange to be wearing that color in such scorching weather. Her face wreathed in wrinkles, the woman took her time surveying them from head to toe.

As if in response, another drop of sweat tortuously wiggled a path, this time down his chest. Faith, just looking at her clothing caused him to perspire even further.

"Si?" she questioned, placing plump hands on amply padded hips.

Robert cleared his throat. For some reason, the woman made him feel like he was a young lad in short-coats again. "Er, buon giorno, signora." That was about the extent of his Italian. "I am the Marquess of Rutherford and this is my friend Mr. Dutton."

Her dark eyes absorbed the light, piercing Robert, penetrating the protective shell of flesh he had around him. She could read his innermost secrets and knew, at a glance, his weaknesses and his strengths.

What the devil? Robert shook off his morbid, imaginative thoughts. She was just an old woman. A foreigner at that. Most likely she spoke no English, but surely she recognized the name?

She wagged a gnarled finger at him. "The Marquess, he is morto. Dead. Some tre years." She now held up three fingers.

Standing on the doorstep was rather humbling for someone in his position. Damn it all, he was a marquess and the son of this woman's former master. "I am his son."

"Eh?" the woman gestured with her right hand, the fingers pinched around the thumb. "What you say?"

That Dutton snickered in no way improved Robert's mood. He thumped his chest and increased the volume of his voice. "I am Robert Weston."

"Roberto, eh? You are he? Blessed Mother!"

Only with effort did he restrain his temper. If this woman was a servant--which of course she had to have been, opening the door and also dressing so commonly--her manners were vastly in need of improving. "Yes. Yes, I am." He waited for her to move aside so they could enter.

She did not budge. Never, in all his days did he have to request entrance into someone's home, least of all his father's. And now, by all that was holy, he did not intend to start.

Evidently Dutton did not have the same compunction. "Signora, may I and my friend come in? It is so hot and we have traveled far."

"Si, si." She swept her arm open wide to indicate admittance.

A cool breeze passed through the corridor of the villa, lessening the discomfort of the torpid heat. Robert followed the woman to a drawing room furnished in the Italian Baroque style. Lifting his nose, he took stock of the surroundings. High arched windows, gilded panels on the walls, plus a profusion of garlands and flowers. It was satisfactory, in an ostentatious sort of way. But how had his father managed in such a place?

"You sit," the woman ordered peremptorily. "I bring drinks." Without curtseying, she made her way out of the room.

Sprawled out on a garish settee, Dutton said, "Outside of the temperature, not a warm welcome, don't you know?"

"Insufferable, actually. I cannot wait to remove the children from this unsuitable environment." Robert picked up a gaudy porcelain teapot, heavy with classical figures. He sniffed. Obviously of inferior taste.

"Didn't the Marchioness have an older daughter?" Dutton eyed a voluptuous painted nude leering down at him. "I seem to recall some talk about her back at the wedding."

Robert turned away from the picture, more suited for a brothel than a house with young children. He walked to the windows facing the front of the villa. Soon his hired carriage would arrive. If all went well they could depart this hellhole in short order.

"Rutherford?"

"What? Oh, yes. I could never think of Francesca as the Marchioness of Rutherford. As for her chit, for some reason, the girl was not at the wedding. Her name escapes me, if, in fact, I knew it at all. She is probably married with a passel of whelps by now. Sicilian whelps at that."

The door opened to reveal the same old woman, wearing not only the same hot clothes but also a frown the size of the nearby volcano. Even Dutton sank under her quelling stare. She could not have possibly heard Robert's comment. Or had she?

Setting down a silver tray holding two goblets filled with dubious red liquid, the woman nearly spat, "What is it you wish here?"

Robert lifted an eyebrow. Faith, these people had no idea how to address a lord of the realm, did they? "What is your name, my good woman?"

She narrowed her coal-dark eyes. "I am called Concetta. Your answer?"

The name struck a chord. "You are Francesca's sister."

"Si. Your answer?"

Sitting back in the white satin armchair, he picked up his drink. The aroma of strongly fermented wine assaulted his nostrils. He took a sip. Very dry. Some type of claret, and yet a pleasant, relaxing sensation already invaded his body.

Robert smiled. This old woman was in no way capable of dealing with the escapades of three active young ones. Most likely she would kiss his feet with gratitude, in a manner of speaking. "I have good news for you then, madam. I am here to take the children off your hands."

Her dark face actually turned pasty. "Gesu Cristo!" She made the sign of the cross. "You come to steal the children!"

Dutton jumped up and shot Robert a disgusted look. "Nice work you made of it," he muttered. Helping the old woman into a chair, he handed her the other goblet. "Please, signora, don't get yourself all in a twitter. Rutherford made a mull of it, I know, but he really does have the children's best interests at heart."

Whatever Concetta Cappello said, in her native tongue, was not fit for polite company--in any language. "You dare to take my angels? You, who did not attend your mamma's funeral?"

Robert spread out his hands. Thinking of Francesca as his mother was even more into the flights of fantasy than considering her the marchioness. "I just heard about Francesca, er, passing on."

Holding onto the arm of the chair, the woman stood. "And your papa. Why did you not pay your respects to him?"

Damn. He did not have to explain his actions to this...person. What he did or did not do was no concern of hers. But she waited for him to speak.

"I..., well, as you know, madam, with the war raging as it was three years ago, travel was indeed quite hazardous--"

"Bah! You tell me Edoardo's son is a coward?"

Robert met her unflinching gaze. "No. No, you deserve the truth. I did not attend my father's funeral because I disapproved of his way of life."

She sat back in the chair, her eyes hooded. "Ah, I see. So you wish to rescue the children, yes?"

"Yes, I--" He caught Dutton's frantic head shaking. "No, what I mean to say is-- "

Concetta held up her hand. "Fermata. Stop. It is not this old woman you must ask permission. It is the Contessa di Fabrianni. She is their guardian."

Robert raised both eyebrows, then took another sip of full-bodied wine. Ask permission? What a quaint idea. "And who is this Contessa di Fabrianni?"

The old woman finished off the claret in her goblet as if she was downing water. "The Fabrianni estate is but a mile or two from here. The children, they think of the Contessa as their other mother. They will not want to leave her."

Not about to allow this hag of a female the satisfaction of besting him in a drinking contest, Robert finished off the rest of his wine. Faith, not only his throat burned but his eyes as well. "That may be, madam. However the children are Westons. Duty dictates that they be raised by family, not by some...some...."

"Some Sicilian, eh?" Concetta stood again and, for some reason, known only to herself, she grinned, revealing uneven teeth. "I go look for the Contessa. She will have a few words for you." The woman left to accomplish her mission.

Dutton shook his head mournfully. "Egad, Rutherford, you make me embarrassed to be a British subject."

Robert's head buzzed in the most irritating way. "No time for funning, Dutton." Spotting movement outside the window, he inched over to the sill while holding his forehead. Damn it all, that one blasted drink had the potency of twenty. "The carriage just arrived. The devil of it is, I feel as weak as a newborn foal. Help me out by giving the man his instructions, would you?"

"Serves you right if she poisoned you." Dutton slammed his hat on his head. "Why don't you go to the kitchen and get a cup of coffee?"

Fortunately, his friend left the door open, instead of slamming it shut. The noise alone would have caused Robert to wince. And if he wanted coffee, which he did, it appeared he would have to search for it himself, since no bellpull graced the drawing room. Just what the devil was in that wine?

Stumbling into the corridor, he took a chance and followed a path of well-worn slate stones on the floor. He walked through a small archway into the kitchen. It was crude, as he expected, with rough stucco walls and coarse wooden furniture. Aromas of rich, hearty tomato sauce and simmering green vegetables brewing on the fireplace bypassed his nose to settle wantonly in his stomach. The organ in question responded by growling. Perhaps he was hungry.

About to ferret out a pot of coffee, he stopped. Chattering nonstop from a chair by the outside door was the most astonishing slip of a girl. What she said, he had no idea, but speaking in rapid fire Italian to someone evidently named Zia, she removed mudstained shoes. Her toes, brown and sturdy, wiggled joy at their sudden freedom. The girl's dark straight hair, braided in a long strand to her slim waist, hung down to touch the floor even as she brushed dirt and grass from her feet. Dressed in peasants' clothes, she wiped her hands on a soiled apron that outlined her slender hips. Her bosom, however, was quite...bountiful.

Without thinking, he ran his tongue over his upper lip. She was undoubtedly a tasty morsel--one that he was eager to sample. Rumor had it that these Sicilians were a passionate breed. He wished to discover that for himself.

He gave her a lazy smile. "Buon giorno, signorina."

She looked up at him and gasped--all doe-brown eyes and adorable pink lips. Even as she stared, her eyes widened and her hands flew to her sun-kissed cheeks. By the rise and fall of her voluptuous bosom, she would, no doubt, be a spirited conquest.

Gently, he circled her small wrists with his hands and lifted her to her feet. He spoke slowly and deliberately, for a kitchen maid would not understand English. "You are quite beautiful, signorina. Bello."

Inhaling her intoxicating flowery fragrance inflamed every inch of his desire. The wine swimming in his head, the promise of the girl's sweet nectar, and her liquid brown eyes all overruled any restraint he might have had. He leaned closer, to steal a kiss.

From out of his fog of passion, he heard her speak.

"Bella," she said in her musical voice.

"Bella?" he breathed, so close to achieving his goal. Her sparkling eyes almost mesmerized him.

"Si, bella." Stepping away from him, she poured water from a pitcher into a bowl and washed her hands.

He jerked his head back. No woman of his acquaintance had ever walked away from his attentions! And to do so to perform such a mundane task! Well, that was outside of enough.

She picked up a worn, wood spoon, and with a twirl of skirts, turned her back on him and walked over to the boiling pot of vegetables. "Bello is for masculine and bella is for feminine. Capisce? Understand?"

Just his wretched luck to try and seduce the one scullery maid in all of Sicily who spoke English. But still, by her heavy breathing, as indicated by the sensual flutter of her breasts, she was not indifferent to him. She had a similar fire igniting her natural desire. He would humor her.

"Bella signorina. Do I have it right now?" He curved his lips into a rakish smile and followed her over to the fireplace. She would feel like heaven in his arms.

"Mi dispiace. I am sorry. No. You do not." She held up her left hand. "It is signora. See? Gold ring."

"The devil!" He could not help expostulating. Married? This young chit? But on her ring finger gleamed a slim band of gold. He was not so debauched as to force himself on a married woman. "I, er...."

Damn it all, but he had to get himself under control. "That is to say, I apologize, madam."

Amusement lit her deep brown eyes. "I forgive you."

She said those words in such a peculiar tone, that he suddenly became uneasy. So much so that he fingered his cravat. He had never sought anyone's forgiveness before; apologizing had always been a matter of going by rote. But this girl spoke with such sincerity, as if she was pardoning him for something other than dangling after her. It somehow placed him in her debt.

He moved away from this child-woman to hold onto the back of a chair; he was that unsteady on his feet. Dutton had been right. Robert had made a complete mull of things. And, whether it was from the heat, the blaze in the girl's eyes, or the blasted wine, he had a megrim the size of Napoleon Bonaparte's ego.

"Listen, er, signora, I--"

A barrage of Italian words flew into the kitchen from the archway behind him. For some reason, the girl glanced at him, blushed, then replied to the intruder, giving as good as she got.

Holding his throbbing head, he turned to see who owned the strident voice. He spotted Concetta Cappello, with her draped arms waving and her sagging mouth flapping. Concetta. Of course, he should have guessed.

To save his sanity, he shouted, "Quiet! Quiet, you two." Thank the heavens he never had to deal with domestic problems such as these on his own estates.

Surprisingly, the women obeyed. Perhaps all that was needed here was a strong male presence.

"Madam," he addressed the old woman, "did you find the Contessa so that I may speak with her?"

Concetta's gaze slid from him to the kitchen maid. "Si," she cautiously responded.

His patience at an end, he hammered his fist on an inferior, round oak table, almost splitting it in two. "Well, where the devil is she so I can get on with it?"

The young girl had the temerity to actually giggle. Sweeping her long braid behind her shoulder, she stood in front of him and made a graceful curtsey, which was quite an accomplishment considering her peasant clothes, dirty apron, and bare feet. "So, you want to see me? I am the Contessa di Fabrianni."

For once in his life, he was speechless. This waif of a chit, dressed in rags more suited for the lowest of the low, not only was a married woman, but a countess? And aside from that, she was the one responsible for his father's children?

Good Lord! Robert had no doubt she spoke the truth. Indeed, why would she lie? Rubbing his temples, he wished for a drop of laudanum to calm his pounding head. The weight of today's onerous duty just increased twenty-five fold.

"Er, forgive me...ladies for cutting short our most delightful tete-a-tete, however I find the rigors of the journey here has taxed me more than I anticipated. With your permission, I would like to...retire to a room."

"To rest and freshen up. Of course, naturalmente."

The Contessa--his mind reeled over the implications of this snip of a girl having a title--the Contessa dimpled a smile. "I will escort--"

"No! I will escort the signore," Concetta fiercely insisted.

What did the old woman think, that he would ravish the girl once he got to the bedchamber? No chance of that. The fire that had burned so intensely just a few minutes ago was now nothing but ash and embers. The sooner he quit this accursed place, the better.

"Come, signore. I show you to your room." With arms folded against her matronly chest, Concetta waited for him to follow her.

He complied, and gladly. However, as he rounded the turn out of the doorway, he glanced back at the girl. While she stood there silently, her dark eyes smoldered with a mysterious emotion. Pain or pleasure, desire or hate--he had no idea. Something was not right here. Something he did not understand. If he valued his own skin, which of course he did, he would make haste and be gone...with his siblings, before the sun set.

Chapter Three

With her hands folded in her lap, Lexia sat on the high-backed chair and waited for her aunt. She had no need of a fortuneteller to predict Zia Concetta's return. Zia Concetta would return with a vengeance. Lexia had never heard her aunt speak so...vehemently before. Such a scolding to Lexia- -a married woman yet!

Lexia sighed. In truth, a widow. Even more to the point, a virgin widow since she had never shared the Conte's bed. A shiver rolled down her spine. Not that she had wanted to share the Conte's bed, of course. Theirs had been a marriage of convenience--for all of two long weeks. The old Conte had gotten what he wanted by having someone manage his estate and Lexia's mamma had gotten what she wanted by seeing her daughter's future "provided for."

The very idea! Lexia snorted. Her future was provided for. Hadn't Fortuna decreed, all those years ago, that she would marry her brother, Roberto?

Heat rising on her face, she used her hand as a fan. And now, here he was. There could be no mistaking him. Goodness gracious, he was so incredibly handsome. Hair as dark as the raven, eyes as hauntingly blue as the mid-morning sky, an aristocratic, aquiline nose with a square jaw, firm lips, and expressive, haughty eyebrows. He pleased every sense she possessed...and then some.

Even in his impossibly English clothes, he appealed to the burgeoning woman in her. Massive shoulders, muscular arms straining against the grain of his too- tight tailcoat, powerful lean and long legs....

She increased the speed of her fanning. Holy Mother, was Fortuna right? Was he truly to be her husband?

Hands on her hips, Zia Concetta stalked into the kitchen. "Lexia, I do not like where your thoughts are taking you."

Springing up from the chair, Lexia picked up a spoon and stirred the simmering sauce. "My dearest Zia, are you a mind-reader now?"

Zia Concetta wagged that incorrigible finger of hers. "I know you, my child. That testa dura of yours will not let go of your crazy idea. Believe me, Lexia, you are not meant to marry Edoardo's son. That would give you only heartache. You are so young and beautiful. You must marry a nice Sicilian boy and give me more nieces and nephews."

With the spoon, Lexia scooped some sauce, then blew on it. Very gingerly, she sipped at the red, heavy liquid. "Testa dura, Zia? Thick head? How can you be so unkind?" She reached for the condiment bag. "This needs more salt."

Zia Concetta wrung her hands together, obviously agitated. "Perhaps you should marry Vito? He is a nice boy--"

"That is right, Zia. He is a boy. Roberto, he is a man."

"Gesu Cristo! What am I going to do with you? If Mamma Francesca were here right now, she would turn over in her grave."

Lexia forgot about the sauce and curved her arm around Zia Concetta's sagging shoulders. The poor dear was so upset, mixing images that made no sense. "My mamma, she is glad to be with Edoardo. They are together at last. I miss her, but she is happy. This, I feel." She tapped on her chest, over her heart.

"The children do not understand true love as yet," she continued. "They long for their mamma. But they will be thrilled to see their older brother."

Zia Concetta lifted a weary eyebrow. "Eh? So Signore Big Shot did not tell you?"

"Tell me what, Zia?" Lexia twirled around the room, narrowly avoiding a collision with the round oak table. She could hardly believe Fortuna had deposited her husband-to-be right in her lap, so to speak. "How could he tell me anything? You gave him some of our most potent claret wine, didn't you?" She wagged her own finger. "I should be angry with you, Zia."

All of a sudden, Zia Concetta hobbled over to the chair and sank down on it. Her rheumatism must have been acting up. "Poverina, poor child, I have some terrible news for you--for us."

Lexia waited. If her aunt said she had terrible news, then she truly had terrible news.

Zia Concetta looked up at Lexia, meeting her gaze. "There is no easy way to say this, my angel. This Roberto, this son of our beloved Edoardo, has come to take the children away to England."

It was as if the world stopped spinning. Lexia stared at her aunt, knowing full well the truth of her words. "No," she whispered harshly.

"Si. Yes, my dove. E vero. It is true."

It is true. Those words echoed long and cruelly in the inner recesses of Lexia's brain. In that instant, her life changed. Everything she ever believed since she had been six now turned upside down, inside out. As a mirror cracks into a myriad of pieces, so did her very essence, never to be the same again. All this time she had put her trust in the good God above, believing she and Roberto would be united. Even marrying the Conte had been only a temporary setback.

Roberto wanted to take away the children? What kind of beast tears a family apart? What kind of terrible, inhuman beast?

In those few seconds, she aged ten years. Inhaling deeply, Lexia fisted her hands and shook them both up at the ceiling. "So, this villain intends to sweet talk the Contessa di Fabrianni and steal my sisters and brother away from me?"

Tears formed in her eyes. Tears of rage, betrayal, and revenge. "It shall not happen, Zia. Do you hear me? It shall not happen!"

Running from the kitchen, Lexia headed straight for her childhood bedroom. At last, after all these years, the scales had finally fallen off her eyes concerning Robert Weston. She had to think. She had to think fast. Somehow, she had to beat that vile wretch at his own game.

* * *

As if Robert did not have troubles enough, just as he lay back and closed his eyes for a respite from his nagging head, a bell sounded. Not merely a metallic tinkling of the bell's clapper hitting the edge, but a deep, sonorous, clanging worthy of a great cathedral. The very floorboards vibrated, to say nothing of his insides.

"Hell and damn! What the devil--"

The bedchamber door opened to interrupt his tirade. In came Dutton holding his ears. "Egad, a man could go deaf around here."

Robert sat up on the bed and held onto the edge to regain his equilibrium. "True. What does this blasted villa have, a huge belfry complete with church bells?"

"Perhaps it's the dinner bell, calling in workers from the field. Not that there are workers today--Sunday." Dutton patted his lean stomach. No matter how much he filled it, he never put on weight. "I say, I could use some sustenance."

"Tell me something new, old fellow." Robert gingerly slipped off the bed to stand in his stocking feet. "Right now, I would give anything for a change of clothes."

Dutton critically scrutinized him, stopping his gaze on Robert's satin waistcoat, embroidered with small, colorful flowers. "You always were a bit of a dandy, don't you know? By the bye, did you find the Contessa?"

That topic alone could have given Robert a headache. Since he already had one, he walked over to the looking glass hanging over a battered bureau and combed his disheveled hair. "Yes and no."

"Oh, good. He speaks in riddles." His friend sat on the vacant bed. It creaked. "Remind me again why I--"

"You wanted an adventure, remember? So here it is." Sweeping the air with his hand, Robert surveyed the rather barren, utilitarian room. Incarcerated souls at Newgate Prison had better accommodations than this. "For your information, the Contessa di Fabrianni resembles nothing more than a lowly street urchin. All browned legs, feet, and arms. Somewhat dirty, as well." He paused. "However, in her defense, she does have a rather expansive...bosom."

Dutton grinned, which set his crop of freckles to dancing. "And you charmed her with your suave ways before you realized her identity?"

"Something like that." Robert brushed off his tailcoat that he had draped over a chair, then shrugged into it. Putting on his riding boots proved more difficult. "Next time I travel, whatever the distance--long or short--I shall most assuredly bring my valet."

A timid knock at the door caused them both to turn around. "Scusi, signori." Entering the threshold was a dark-eyed wench with more hair than height. Wearing a clean, cotton apron over her somber uniform, she made a small curtsey, then cupped her hand. With the other, she made an eating motion. "Pasta, signori, per favore."

Her gaze lowered to the floor, she left.

Dutton rubbed his hands together. "Excellent! Food. I do believe I can even smell it." He straightened the edges of his cravat, then headed for the door. "Appealing little maid, don't you think?"

"Given the appearance of our hostess Concetta, and the unusual Contessa, I believe we have just been summoned to dinner by the Queen of Sicily, Dutton."

By all that was holy, if that damned bell did not ring again. Robert covered his ears and followed his friend out of the bedchamber. "I shall take great pleasure in removing the children from this foreign version of Bedlam--crazed inmates and all."

"Whatever you say, Rutherford, but first we eat."

Their boots clamoring against the marble steps of the staircase, they reached their desired destination: the dining room. After entering the area, Robert stopped to inspect it. The room was adequately furnished, even for one with discriminating tastes. The white walls and doors were decorated with an overlay of classical, gilded edges, bringing symmetry and style to the overly large room. Proudly displayed on either side of the fireplace were painted panels of....He squinted his eyes. Yes, they were of Venice, created by the Italian, Canaletto.

Robert smiled bitterly. That he could recognize the painter showed that some of his father's artistic proclivities rubbed off on him.

In the center area stood an extended oblong table, made of highly polished cherrywood. Seating for twelve, however seven place settings presently were arranged on the sleek tabletop. A large ceramic bowl of pasta was already placed near the plates, along a heaping container of mouthwatering tomato sauce and small dishes of finely grated cheese.

The combination of aromas tantalized his senses, caressing him as a lover might, after a long abstinence. Robert instinctively licked his lips.

"Ah, the signori are hungry, yes?"

To the side of him, poised by a larger painting of the Venetian canals was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. As she turned from the picture to face him, he drank in the sight of her. Dressed in the finest French silk, the woman looked like the queen that he had only minutes before made fun of. Her dark, shiny hair curled in ringlets, was piled high on her head, and was set off with a gold star bandeau. A pert nose, high cheekbones, and the largest luminous eyes in the world, the woman fluidly made her way to his side. The motion caused the soft, rounded mounds of her breasts as revealed by her modestly cut décolletage to quiver ever so slightly.

Faith, his mouth suddenly went dry. Dutton was also affected, for he too remained owl-eyed and silent.

"Does no one speak? Is the conversation all up to me?" She dimpled a smile at him.

That smile. Good Lord! She was the Contessa! Somehow she had transformed her ragtag self into a Madonna worthy of every man's reverent worship. His wits gone begging, he struggled to hide his obvious astonishment. "With all due respect, Contessa, you are...you are...so different."

"Ah, Marquess, what sharp eyes you have."

Damn it all, but Dutton laughed. Leaning over, he whispered into Robert's ear. "Street urchin, hey?"

The Contessa curved her lips into a Mona Lisa smile, evidently overhearing. "Urchin, eh? That is not what the Marquess called me earlier."

Blast! Remembering his behavior in the kitchen, Robert flushed. This girl/woman was sharp on the uptake, as sharp as a rapier's point, while he had displayed the rag manners of a bovine Cit. He could not blame his conduct on the wine. His boorishness was his responsibility. His alone.

With an elegant motion of her long-sleeved arm, she gestured toward Dutton. "You are Signore Dutton, yes?"

His friend made a stately bow. "James Dutton, at your service, ma'am. Thank you for your hospitality on such short notice."

For the first time, her saucy smile seemed to reach her eyes. She glided over to the table, her assurance evident in every step. "Let us sit, signori. The pasta, it grows cold. In Sicily, there is no worse fate."

Robert rushed to redeem himself for his previous conduct by pulling out the side chair for her. A futile effort, however. She swept by him to sit at the head of the table. With her hand outstretched, she indicated for him and Dutton to sit at the sides. Then she flicked her wrist, and two servants entered the room to assist with the meal.

"Signora Cappello wished to play the, how do you say, chaperon, while we dine, however she had the stomachache. I assured her such a sacrifice on my behalf would not be necessary." The Contessa nodded to a servant, who then poured white wine into everyone's goblet.

As Robert helped himself to the pasta, spooning ribbed noodles onto his plate, inwardly, he steamed. First for his own behavior, and second for that cool beauty's rebuke. "Thank you for your confidence, Contessa. I assure you, your reputation is quite safe with me and Mr. Dutton."

His friend rolled his gaze up to the gold and white ceiling as if seeking divine intervention. Evidently his plea fell on deaf ears for he looked over at Robert and shook his head.

Robert lifted an eyebrow at his friend's disapproval, then sampled some pasta with sauce. Delicious. With a steady diet such as this, Dutton would surely expand his girth.

But Robert was not finished with the needle-witted Madonna. That he appeared to such disadvantage compared with her was irksome. "Did Signora Cappello mention that I am here to collect my father's children? Tell me, for I am curious, how is it that you, a stranger, are guardian of the Weston brood?"

Dutton cleared his throat and glared at Robert. "Pardon me, Contessa, I'm sure Rutherford means to say--"

"No need to smooth my ruffled feathers at the Marquess' words, Signore Dutton. I am quite able to handle him." She took a sip of wine, and looked down her dainty nose at Robert. "You call me a stranger? I have known the children all their lives. It is you who are the stranger."

A contest of wills. Using better judgment for once, Robert bypassed the table wine for a drink of water. He gave her a superior smile. This Sicilian lily was in way over her head. "English law is on my side, Contessa. I have come to remove the children to their rightful home. You have no claim to them."

"I have no claim...?!" Her eyes flashing and bosom heaving, she leaned forward, goblet clenched in her hand.

For a moment, he suspected she planned to douse him with wine. Flicking her gaze over him, she paused, then finished the liquid in her glass.

Although she was his enemy on this issue, she enflamed every forbidden desire on the face of this earth. He could reluctantly admit that to himself. What a passionate spitfire. Stroking his chin, he committed every curve, every luscious line of her to memory. A pity that scruples did not permit him to bed her. Their dalliance together would have been glorious. He envied the lucky man who was her husband.

The next course arrived: a salad of celery, oregano, parsley, onions, and olives; plus a steaming slab of lamb and a variety of cheeses. Robert's untouched white wine was removed, replaced by a goblet of red claret.

Just then, the double doors opened and in tumbled three boisterous children. One tall, slender girl with light brown hair swept up into a bun; a proper young lad with dark, wavy hair that fell down on his forehead; and a plump little minx with even darker hair, holding a corn husk doll.

Speaking fluent Italian, they rushed over to the head of the table, each one trying to give the Contessa a kiss.

Now the woman's smile was deep and genuine. "Basta, basta! Enough!" She gave them all a hug. "You must be on your best behavior, my dear ones. We have company."

The Contessa sent a cool glance over to Robert. "These children are the ones you are so concerned about. I invited them for dinner. You do not mind?"

"Not at all. I am delighted." He had a moment's apprehension. What if the children did not speak English?

"Good." She savagely cut into her slice of fragrant lamb."Do you know their names?"

He stood and escorted the eldest to a seat. "This young lady has grown up to be quite enchanting. I predict dozens of beaus in her future. Gina Weston, you are twelve, are you not?"

Her bright blue eyes widened, and she nodded.

"I am pleased to meet you," he continued.

The girl giggled and blushed at the same time. Dressed in a white cotton frock edged in violet satin, she was all that was respectable and more. "Lexia, do tell us who these mystery gentlemen are." She fixed her blue-eyed gaze on him. "Are you from England, sir?"

Relief flooded through him. Gina spoke English and without a trace of an accent. He patted her shoulder. "Yes, but first let me finish performing for the Contessa, then I shall introduce myself and my rapscallion friend."

At that, Dutton inclined his head. "At your service."

Gina giggled again.

Sliding a sideways glance at the Contessa--Lexia must have been her first name, Robert noted her tugging on her lower lip with her teeth, worried. Obviously, she had not expected him to know the children's names, but he had done his homework.

Next, he held his hand out to the boy, who looked amazingly like Edward, except for his dark eyes. "And you must be Anthony, head of this female household. Am I correct?"

"Yes, sir!" Anthony pumped his hand for an exuberant handshake. Fidgeting in his knee breeches and small tailcoat, he looked the picture of a child dressed in his father's clothes. "I'm sorry we are late, Lexia. But we waited on Gina fixing her hair and--"

Lexia--he rather liked her name--Lexia held up her slim hand. "No tattling, Antonio."

The boy ducked his head, chastened.

Robert led Anthony to the chair next to Dutton. "And you are nine, am I right?"

"Right-o!" Anthony flashed a winning smile, then turned to Dutton. "Gee, your hair is orange."

"Red, my boy. Red."

"Are you truly a scoundrel?"

"The very worst," Dutton agreed.

This was getting better and better. From under his lids, Robert stole a look at Lexia. She drummed her fingers, ignoring the food on her plate. Evidently her appetite had subsided.

He now curved his arm around the youngest one. "And this darling child must be Emma--"

"I'm not darling. I'm a rare handful."

Nonplused, Robert paused. "Certainly. However, you can be darling as well."

The little one's dark eyes grew even darker. "I dunno. Can I, Lexia?"

"Certo. Of course, my angel." The Contessa pinched her lips together. Perhaps she wanted to say something more.

He guided Emma to the seat next to her sister. "If I am not mistaken, you are seven years of age."

The child made herself comfortable in the chair and placed her napkin and doll in her lap. "You are."

"Pardon?"

"Mistaken," she said seriously. "I have six."

Lexia turned her regal head to cough into her hand. Robert was not gammoned. Most likely she hid a laugh.

"How many have you?" the girl continued.

He reseated himself. "Have what?" The little pixie had spoken the truth. She was a rare handful.

Emma sighed in the most grownup way. "Years, signore. How many years have you?"

Lexia signaled the servants to help the children make their selections. "Emma, it is not the thing to ask--"

"Quite all right, madam." Robert waved away her admonishment. "I have...er, I am three and thirty."

"That's old," Emma pronounced.

"It's not so much," Anthony offered.

"I think you're distinguished," gushed Gina.

With his mouth full, Dutton almost choked.

Against his better judgment, Robert took a swig of wine. Suddenly, the weight of his years felt like a yoke.

The meal proceeded with the usual banter of childish talk until Lexia captured their attention by tapping the tine of her fork against her water glass. "Silenzio. Silence. I wish to introduce to you to our guests--this is Signore Dutton."

Again, Dutton inclined his head. "A pleasure, don't you know?"

"Know what?" Emma asked.

"Emma," Lexia scolded. She took a deep breath. "And the other gentleman...."

In that instant, a well of sympathy rose up in Robert for the woman. Young and beautiful, she obviously cared for the children as only a mother could. This was difficult for her, so difficult that her normally erect posture slumped, erasing hope and substituting despair. He felt like ten thousand kinds of a cad. He had no wish to be her adversary. However, duty was duty.

"This other gentleman," she continued, "is your dear papa's son...Roberto."

Chorus of "Roberto" and "brother" erupted from the two older children. Emma, however remained quiet with a frown on her pudgy face.

"Actually, children, my name is Robert." He looked over at Emma. Although she returned his regard, her eyes were somber and she still did not say a word. "Emma, are you not happy that I am your brother?"

She stuck out her lower lip and ran over to the Contessa. "He's too old, Lexia. Brothers are not that old. You're not that old and you're my--"

"Hush, little one." Lexia clasped the child in her arms and glanced over at Robert.

He envied the child for her proximity to the Contessa. Then Lexia sent him a look of apology and something else. A plea for understanding?

"Perhaps the children should be excused now. Gina, Antonio, you are finished, yes?" Lexia signaled to the two older ones. "Take Emma out into the garden and play. You shall see your brother again in just a bit."

"But I'm almost an adult, Lexia. Let me stay for coffee and dessert." Gina batted her long lashes at the Contessa. She was fast becoming a woman.

"What the Contessa says is true, children." Robert also wanted to clear the air with his hostess. Although why she should be his hostess in Francesca's house, he still had no idea. "I shall see you shortly. She and I need to talk...and make arrangements."

Lexia's eyes sparked fire. Dutton must have noticed for he jumped up and took Emma's hand. "I say, I love flowers. Can you show me some in your garden?"

Leading the children away, he gave Robert a wink of encouragement.

Her foot tapping, Lexia flared her nostrils. "There will be no arrangements, Marquess."

If only they could conduct this business in a sensible manner. "Please, call me Robert, Contessa."

"No. I only call friends by their first name. You, sir, are not my friend."

She was going to be difficult. Extremely difficult. Being at loggerheads with such an enticing female went against the dictates of his male ego. But he did not travel all this way to sink under the appealing gaze of an intriguing Madonna.

He set down his napkin. Time to lay the facts down on the table. "It will not serve, Contessa. The children belong to me. I have in my possession legal documents to that effect. By rights I could have removed them when my father passed on. I allowed them to remain, but when Francesca died...." He shrugged. At least he let them stay an additional three years.

She closed her eyes, then blinked rapidly. Somehow he knew she struggled to maintain her composure. Sorrow, bleak and strong, shone through her expressive eyes. A shaft of pain lanced his heart. She was too young to be burdened by such despair.

Robert reached out to pat her hand. "I understand you are fond of the children, my dear. And they--"

"I am not your dear." Removing her hand to her lap, she almost spat the words.

"And they are fond of you." He ignored her interruption. "But you have your whole life ahead of you, Contessa. You are married--you will have your own children one day." He spoke gently, as if talking to a wounded horse. "I will take good care of my father's children."

"Your brother and sisters," she stated emphatically.

"Yes." After growing up an only child, it would take some getting used to having a ready-made family. One brother and two sisters. He rather liked the idea. They were an engaging lot.

Lexia fisted her hands until her knuckles appeared white. Taking a deep breath, she dropped her napkin, and stood. "You do not understand, of course, but I..." She glanced at Robert, then pivoted on her heel, her fury evident in the angry swish of her silk gown. "I danno."

Danno? Where the devil had he heard that word before? Danno. It meant hurt. Hurt? His memory lurched back in time to view a wide-eyed, curly headed child gazing up at him from the ground below. He had given her flowers-- roses--and she had acted as if he had given her the very earth.

Good Lord, was this woman, this contessa the long-ago monkey who had fallen out of the tree? The answer had to have been an unfortunate "yes".

But she was not through with her surprises, however, for she spun around and pointed her slender finger at Robert. "If it were possible, I would give you back your odious gift of roses, Fratello. I understand what you do, but it matters not to me. You take my family away, and this is a mortal sin. I hate you."

She slammed the door with such force, that had the villa not been sturdily built, the walls would have surely come tumbling about his shoulders.

Robert sat back in his chair, dazed. Lexia was that same little girl from his youth. No doubt about that. She also called him Fratello, again. Brother. Brother? Did that mean...?

Francesca's oldest daughter? Was that possible? Could that be so?

He dropped his head in his hand and groaned. As rotten as his luck was running today, it made sense. It was true, damn it all. He just had been too blind to see it.

Of course she was beautiful Francesca's daughter. Guardian of the children, mistress of the Cappello villa. No wonder she fought him tooth and nail over the children's custody.

Throwing caution to the wind, he gulped down a substantial amount of wine. What kind of monster was he, to not know anything about his father's stepdaughter, not even her name?

His father's stepdaughter meant Robert's stepsister. Good Lord above, not only did he not recognize his own stepsister, but he lusted after her as well.

A stab of revulsion twisted inside him. Self-loathing at his immoral conduct. If ever a man was doomed to hell for the consequences of his own folly, it surely was he, Robert Weston.

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