Page 42 of The Rogue’s Embrace

Estela didn't know what to make of her encounter with Rockley. It had not gone as planned and she was left feeling…

Foolish? Frustrated? A little wistful?

All of the above.

She told herself he'd soon seek her out again.

However, there had been no sign of him in the dining salon the night before and he was absent again this morning. Estela was forced to conclude that he really had experienced a change of heart. Her pride was a little buffeted but far from crushed.

Oona and Margaret were chattering on about their little excursion to Bari, while all three tucked into some exceptionally good frittata. Estela was glad they'd enjoyed themselves. To take a cruise of this sort and not go ashore was a crying shame. She hoped they would be brave enough, now, to take advantage of every opportunity.

However, as they told her of the souvenirs they'd purchased, the delicious lunch, and how majestic they'd found the Cattedrale di San Sabino, Estela found her mind wandering.

Rockley had been tempted, she was certain. But whatever lure she exerted over him, it was clearly not enough.

Was she losing her touch? Or, God forbid, had she come across as a touch desperate?

"What do you think, dear?"

Margaret's voice interrupted. 'These noble Italian families seem just as bad as our own—always marrying their own cousins and such forth. There is an argument for it, I suppose, but I can't help thinking it does a bloodline good to have a little shake-up now and then."

Lifting the coffee pot, Oona topped up their cups. "Just look at Major and Lady Millicent Muttstanley—the new residents at Randymount Hall. Obsessed with their breeding regime! The Major asks two guineas for stud services, which isn't to be sniffed at."

Margaret helped herself to sugar. "He regularly catches us after church to let us know what they've been up to. Going through his maneuvers in the garden at all hours. Posture is so important. Lady M looks quite worn out. The Major's Golden Boy is well-awarded, mind you, so I suppose practice makes perfect."

Estela suppressed her laughter. "Are we speaking of horses?"

"Skye Terriers, dear—those funny wee dogs with bodies twice as long as they should be and eyes buried under a great fringe. Affectionate, though I wouldn't trust them being left alone with anything smaller than a Jack Russell."

Margaret slathered butter on her third slice of bread.

"Lady Millicent is convinced the Major will claim best in show at the Longmuckity Christmas Fair, though he has stiff competition from the kennels at Slickend Manor,"

added Oona.

"Now, Stella dear"—Margaret fixed her with beady eyes—"How are you getting along with that handsome duke? You were awfully quiet last night, and I see you're deep in thought again this morning."

"It shan't come to anything."

Estela did her best to appear nonchalant. "An admirable lady by the name of Miss Maitland is to become his wife."

"Oh my!"

Oona looked terribly disappointed. "I'm sure that's wonderful for this Miss Maitland, but is it really all set?"

She glanced at her sister. "We did think…that is, we hoped…"

Margaret clicked her tongue impatiently. "I've never seen a man try so hard not to look besotted, and to fail so miserably. He could hardly keep his eyes off you. I'm not one for believing in love at first sight, but he gave a good impression of tumbling headfirst into the heather."

It gave Estela pleasure to hear it, but her godmothers were far from impartial. As for mooning over her at the dining table, the vast expanse of bosom she'd had on show was likely responsible for that. Physical attraction could fool a man into thinking all sorts of things which lasted about as long as it took to tumble a woman into bed.

"Whoever this Miss Maitland is, I'm sure she isn't a patch on you."

Oona gave a despondent sniff. "And I'd be surprised if her relations are anywhere near as illustrious. Very few can count themselves so lucky as to be related to the ancient Dalreagh line—albeit distantly. Though you're yet to have bairns of your own, the family is renowned for being prolific. How many is it Charles has now—six?"

"Seven, with an eighth due to make an appearance before Easter."

Estela took another sip of her coffee.

The issue of children was among the reasons she'd taken to avoiding Yardmore Court. It wasn't that she disliked her nephews and nieces, nor that she hankered after a large family herself (even the thought of having offspring was a little frightening). It was simply that most people from her brother's circle considered her to be a ‘failure' for not having experienced motherhood.

As she aged, the pitying remarks only worsened. It didn't seem to matter that she led an exciting life, filled with travel and parties and every other sort of amusement. As for having outlived four husbands, she had a pretty good idea of the rumors that inspired.

"Shush, Oona."

Margaret threw a pointed look. "If His Grace has found his bliss elsewhere, it's not for us to pass judgement, even though we do know he couldn't do better than our Stella."

"Shall we ready ourselves for today's excursion?"

Estela cut in.

Oona's eyes lit up. "Where is it that we're anchoring this morning, dear? The Isles of Scilly?"

"Sicily,"

Estela gently corrected. "The port is called Messina, and there's plenty to keep us occupied. It's a new destination for me, but there's a chapter in my guidebook. We can take a gentle walk and find a nice spot for lunch. It's no distance at all from the harbor to the main square."

"That sounds delightful."

Margaret nodded her approval. "I would suggest that the Titby-Tittons join us, but Titania is adamant that she must have an official Sicilian guide. She's heard it's the worst place for men taking liberties—bottom-pinching and such. She's making Tabitha remain aboard but is bravely taking the risk herself."

Estela gave an inward smile.

"Just us then."

She was more than a little relieved.

They'd descended the gangway and were standing upon the harborside consulting Estela's map when Rockley appeared. Oona saw him first and beckoned him with a cheery wave.

"Ladies."

He gave a chivalrous bow and doffed his hat. "I see you're headed into town. If you'd welcome my company, it would be a pleasure to escort you. I know something of Italian architecture."

Very smooth, thought Estela. One might think he'd been waiting to intercept them at the appropriate moment. He looked a little tired, but handsome in his sand-colored linen suit, paired with a simple cream tie and matching kerchief.

She wasn't sure what he was playing at, but it irked her. He might have joined them at dinner if he wished to continue a cordial association. Instead, he'd left her wondering and waiting, growing increasingly disappointed.

Now she'd be obliged to be nothing but polite while nursing her annoyance. She folded her map closed and was about to let him know that he needn't bother. However, both Oona and Margaret were expressing their delight, and the matter was settled.

Exactly as Estela had planned herself, he led them to the Piazza del Duomo, where the warmly-hued cathedral bore customary stripes and a high-arched central entranceway, flanked by ornately-framed doors upon either side.

Estela was not averse to visiting sacred buildings, but she did hope Rockley wasn't going to be a bore, making them spend hours inside and inundating them with facts no one wanted to hear.

Crossing the square, they came first to a large and surprisingly intricate fountain, which deserved some moments of regard.

"The Fontana di Orione—widely regarded as the most beautiful in Italy,"

pronounced Rockley. "It was designed by Angelo Montorsoli, who studied under Michelangelo himself. The piece was commissioned to celebrate the completion of the city's first aqueduct; hence the four reclining figures from whose amphorae water flows into the lower basins. They embody the rivers Nile, Tiber and Ebro, as well as the local Camaro, which feeds the fountain itself. Most of the other figures follow the theme, in portraying dolphins, sea monsters, naiads and so on."

Estela made as if to conceal a yawn. For whatever reason, Rockley had clearly set about memorizing his guidebook.

Oona was peering at the figures—all very much naked and without so much as a fig leaf perching on their manly parts. She adjusted her spectacles. "It baffles me, if such works are modelled on some masculine ideal, why the sculptors make the membrum virile so tiny one can hardly see it. I've been led to believe the male anatomy is somewhat more imposing."

"Oona!"

Margaret exclaimed, blushing to the roots of her silvered hair.

Estela framed her features with as much seriousness as she could muster. "I've often wondered the same. What do you say, Rockley? Do they fear sending women into a frenzy or a faint?"

To his credit, any shock seemed to have shifted to amusement. "Men tend to underestimate a woman's strength. I can hardly believe that a mere statue, however well-turned, would affect the female population adversely."

"Quite right,"

Oona went on. "I've always thought it unfair, since the female form is portrayed so abundantly in art. Far more satisfying to behold."

Rockley cleared his throat. "Orion stands proudly at the top, as the mythical founder of Messina—the son of the sea-god Poseidon and Euryale, daughter of Minos, who ruled Crete."

"I thought Hermes and Poseidon joined Zeus in relieving themselves on a bull-hide, and then buried it, from which Orion sprang forth magically."

Estela had been quite keen on Greek mythology in her younger years. "In fact, doesn't his name derive from ourios—meaning urine!"

"Or oros, meaning mountain,"

Rockley countered.

Estela recalled Orion as a rather unsavory character, who'd committed at least one assault upon some maiden or other. She wracked her memory. "Is he the one who boasted of having such hunting prowess that he could kill all the beasts of the earth?"

"He is,"

Rockley admitted. "Quite justifiably, Gaia sent a scorpion to put an end to that notion. They were both then placed in the stars, as opposing constellations. One sets as the other rises."

"Hmmm."

Estela turned away. "I think Orion has had enough of our time. Shall we move on?"

They spent the next hour inside the cool, marble interior of the Basilica Cattedrale di Santa Maria Assunta. Estela did not consider herself a proponent of any organized religion, disliking dogma for its own sake. There was something immensely calming, however, about the great space within the cathedral. They moved quietly between the columns, looking into archways housing statues of the apostles. They marveled at the mosaics in the left apse, and the right. They gazed reverentially into the dome at the center of the transept.

Estela noticed Rockley light a candle upon the votive stand. He bowed his head, and she wondered whom he might be praying for. His brother, perhaps.

Soon after, it was he who realized, before Estela herself, that Oona and Margaret were flagging.

Ushering them back across the piazza toward a charming restaurant, he secured them a table beneath a wide parasol.

When the waiter hurried over, Rockley ordered for them in Italian far more fluent than Estela's own.

"As we must hydrate, I've requested a jug of orange juice."

He turned to the older ladies. "Some say the Sicilian fruit are the best in all the world, thanks to the climate and fertile soil. Also, a carafe of Marsala wine to accompany arancini, and the specialty of the house—Caponata di Melanzane. It was once a dish of only the nobility, made with expensive lampuga fish, but the people made it their own, by substituting eggplant. The result is even better, in my opinion, with just the right amount of sour and sweet."

Estela settled back, feeling strangely contented. Despite her confident ability to navigate the ordering of lunch, there was something rather pleasant in allowing Rockley to take charge. It did not escape her notice that Margaret and Oona thought so too.

The meal proceeded in friendly fashion, with Rockley encouraging her godmothers to speak of their home. Before long, they were regaling him with stories of Estela's childhood. Most did not place her in the most flattering light, since she'd largely run amok. However, Rockley egged them on, seeming to enjoy hearing of her wayward youth.

"We must end with the cannoli—crisp outside and soft within."

Rockley rose. "This place is famous for adding fruit to the rich ricotta. Excuse me. I'll look at all they have and order a selection for us."

As soon as he was gone, Oona and Margaret shared beaming smiles.

"There! Didn't I say he was taken with you!"

Margaret folded her hands upon her lap. "As good natured as the duke is, I doubt he usually goes out of his way to charm elderly spinsters."

Estela took a sip of the excellent pressed oranges. She'd been wondering herself about his motives, and could only conclude this was an olive branch of sorts. Whether it was the afternoon sun, or the wine, or the deliciousness of the food, she was feeling a great deal more benevolent towards him.

Nonetheless, that didn't change the substance of the situation.

"You're forgetting Miss Maitland."

Estela tapped her fingernail upon her glass. "His Grace wishes to honor the betrothal. He and I had a long chat about it yesterday, and he made himself clear."

Margaret looked thoughtful. "I'm sure you know best dear. Still, gentlemen do change their minds, almost as much as we ladies."

Estela had to admit, Rockley had made such a fuss about behaving honorably and keeping his word that it did smack of ‘protesting too much'—as if he'd been trying to convince himself, rather than her.

There had been a moment when she'd felt sure he was succumbing, despite his principles. She knew she oughtn't to mention what had passed between Rockley and herself, but the substance of his ‘problem' was too tantalizing not to allude to.

"I think our handsome escort is simply wanting to make up for a small awkwardness between us. You see, he did come to my cabin while you were in Bari and…"

Oona clasped her hands in obvious excitement.

"Go on, dear. We're all ears."

Margaret leaned forward.

"Naturally, His Grace wishes to fulfil his duties as a husband, and to give Miss Maitland the marriage every woman deserves. However, there's an obstacle."

Estela glanced over to the door of the restaurant, reassuring herself that he was still closeted inside.

Did she dare go on? Her godmothers would be discreet, and they were quite open-minded, but the matter was so delicate.

"To be frank, it's a bedroom matter, and the duke asked if I might have advice to offer, to aid him, so to speak—having been married so many times myself."

Oona looked perturbed. "He wanted to discuss a bedroom matter, for Miss Maitland's benefit, and he came to your cabin, where nothing happened between the two of you?"

Her hand flew to her mouth. "He has a terrible disease! And it's on his piddle-paddle! The poor man! Has he pustules? Are they very bad?"

Margaret looked similarly horrified. "It all makes sense now. He's afflicted in some way so embarrassing that he could never tell his bride to be. Is it a wilting walloper? His mighty oak is more of a weeping willow?"

Estela shook her head, barely suppressing her laughter. "No pustules, and no withered wallopers—at least as far as I know. From what I gather, the…um…artefact in question is in full working order."

"Then whatever is the problem?"

Oona's brow furrowed as she searched her mind for other possible ailments. "Don't tell me he's blighted with a teensy tiddler! A plunger too puny to perform the job. A miniature maypole. A Lilliputian holy-poker. A diminutive dingle-dongle. It's too tragic!"

"Dear me. That is disappointing."

Margaret's shoulders slumped.

"I can assure you, that's not the problem."

Estela bit at her lip. Of course, she hadn't yet seen it, but she'd gained some idea of the duke's proportions purely from the swell at the front of his trousers during their tête-à-tête.

"Then it must be his nuggins!"

Oona fairly shouted the word, causing several heads to swivel in their direction. "They do vary in size, so I've heard, but even the most modest nutmegs are capable of spawning offspring."

"Oh yes, that's far less distressing, although still unfortunate, I suppose."

Margaret looked thoughtful again. "Men can be quite sensitive regarding their pibbles. He wanted you to take a look, I suppose, to hearten him that he wasn't too much below par."

"Not exactly. Rockley is actually possessed of something…bigger than one finds in the general way. Much larger in fact. One might say, an asset of generous proportions."

Estela was enjoying this far more than she ought to. "As a result, he fears consummation will be impossible. He sought my advice but, when it came down to it, he proved too coy."

An astounded silence ensued. Oona's mouth dropped open slightly. Margaret's eyes doubled in size.

The hush was broken by the arrival of the man in question, closely followed the waiter, carrying a silver platter laden with unarguably phallic-looking cannoli.

"Awe-inspiring are they not?"

Rockley looked from face to face, clearly under the impression that the pastries had produced the stunned expressions worn by Oona and Margaret.

"They most certainly are."

With the aid of the tongs, Estela helped herself to the uppermost of the pile, setting it upon her plate. She then raised the cannoli and bit down upon it with a murmur of approval.

A liberal amount of filling escaped the confines of the roll, so that she was obliged to lick it from the corners of her mouth.

"Most delicious, Rockley."

Saucily, she dipped her tongue to the center and gave him a wink.