“Mm, I believe you can call him Lord Santa Fiora, or simply my lord, as the Montgomerys do. I don’t believe the use of courtesy titles is common in Italy as it is here. But I haven’t met him. Not yet,” she frowned, standing still as Mary fluttered over her, undoing the laces of her plain grey gown.
All of Isobel’s dresses were plain, in shades of grey, brown, or blue. The dress Mary had chosen and laid on the bed was in the grey family, but it was a lighter shade with a tinge of blue to it with a slightly more flattering cut than any of the others. It was still a far cry from what was currently being worn in the ballrooms of London.
“’Ow romantic! ’E must ’ave seen ye with the children and asked for ye te join them,” Mary said, her round face alight with excitement.
Isobel suppressed a scowl. She did not share Mary’s anticipation. She was unprepared for a meal with the family. Although she was the daughter of a gentleman, by the time she was of an age to socialize, her father and mother had been long gone. Isobel was certain her manners were above reproach, but the thought of casually conversing with Italian nobility was beyond her. She already knew Sir Clarence was not pleased to include her. What if she embarrassed herself?
Or worse, somehow exposed herself?
A cold weight settled in the pit of her stomach as Mary helped her out of her dress. Isobel allowed herself to be jerked back and forth as the servant did up the laces of her stays.
“Not too tight,” she said.
If she was laced too tight when she was already feeling lightheaded, there was a real possibility she would disgrace herself by passing out.
Mary nodded and laced her loosely. “Good thing for ye, yer waist is already tiny,” she said, moving to pick up the grey dress before casting an envious glance at Isobel’s midsection. “There’s no time to redo yer, hair I’m afraid.” She pursed her lips at the simple knot of auburn hair on Isobel’s head before she slipped the light grey dress over her and fastened it.
“It will have to do. Thank you,” Isobel said, running her damp hands over her waist and smoothing her skirts.
She nodded at the maid and headed down the stairs, trying to calm her racing heart the whole way.
***
Isobel was late. When she entered the drawing room, it was already full. Sir Clarence and Lady Montgomery were conversing with their guests. In addition to the Conte and his son, the minister and his wife were present.
Sir Clarence looked up at her. “Miss Sterling, finally,” he said shortly, gesturing for her to join the group.
Isobel stepped closer and curtsied as gracefully as she could. “Forgive my tardiness. I wasn’t expecting an invitation to join you for dinner,” she said with studied politeness.
If her employer was going to grouse about her lateness, he might have given her more than five minutes warning.
The younger Garibaldi cleared his throat.
An ill-disguised flicker of irritation passed over Clarence Montgomery’s face. “Hmm, yes. Allow me to formally introduce Aldo Garibaldi, Conte Santa Fiora, and his son Matteo, Lord Santa Fiora. You already know Mr. and Mrs. Sanderson.”
Isobel murmured a polite greeting and executed another curtsy for their noble guests. When she raised her eyes, she found the young lord staring at her intently.
“It is a pleasure to meet you, Miss Sterling,” he said in softly accented English.
His voice was deep and rich, and more melodious than those of her adopted countrymen. It rippled down her spine in a little wave that she did her best to ignore.
“Thank you, my lord,” she said self-consciously, before turning to the other guests.
“Please, call me Matteo.”
At her right, Mrs. Sanderson, the minister’s wife, briefly widened her eyes at her. Isobel was shocked too, although she nodded noncommittally. Clearly, Italians were clearly far more informal than the English. She surreptitiously checked the Conte’s reaction, but he was busy looking down his nose at her drab gown.
Well, there’s no helping that now, Isobel told herself sternly. “I trust you have recovered from your long voyage, your lordship.”
“Sufficiently,” the Conte answered shortly. He said nothing more, and her discomfort doubled.
“Well, that’s enough idle chatter,” Sir Clarence said with a fake jovial grin. “Shall we make our way to the dining room?”
The others agreed with a soft burble of conversation, but it ceased abruptly when Matteo stepped closer to her and offered his arm.
“Allow me to escort you, Miss Sterling.”
Isobel paused and threw the others a searching glance. The young lord was breaking the rules of precedence with his offer.
The minister looked disapproving, as did the Conte and Sir Clarence. Lady Montgomery wore her perpetually vague expression. Only Mrs. Sanderson looked pleased, a hint of an amused smile on her face.