Beneath an Italian Sky

  BENEATH AN ITALIAN SKY

  An American Heiress, Book 2

  Stacy Henrie

  Copyright © 2019 Stacy Henrie

  E-book edition

  All rights reserved

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form whatsoever without prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief passages embodied in critical reviews and articles. This novel is a work of fiction. The characters, names, incidents, places, and dialog are products of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real.

  Interior Design by Cora Johnson

  Edited by Kelsey Down and Lisa Shepherd

  Cover design by Rachael Anderson

  Cover Image Credit: Arcangel

  Published by Mirror Press, LLC

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  The American Heiress Series | Night at the Opera | Beneath an Italian Sky | Among Sand and Sunrise

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Epilogue

  Author’s Note

  Click on the covers to visit Stacy’s website:

  The American Heiress Series

  Night at the Opera

  Beneath an Italian Sky

  Among Sand and Sunrise

  Prologue

  Somerset, England, Summer 1890

  Free at last! Emmett burst from the carriage the instant the door was opened by a footman. He raced up the stone steps of Hadwell House. The weeks ahead shone as bright as a new toy to the ten-year-old. No studying, no scowling teachers, no smarting backside from discipline. Nothing but roaming the estate with his greyhound, Bran, and riding his horse and spending time with his grandfather, his favorite person in the world.

  His mother’s father wintered in Sicily, but every summer he came to stay at Hadwell House for several months. For Emmett, it was the best time of the year. Grandfather was never too busy to listen or offer an encouraging word to a boy who often felt adrift in a house full of sisters. There was always a unique gift from Italy for him too.

  Entering the house, Emmett paused just long enough in the foyer to wave hello to his parents before he hurried to the library to find his grandfather. He peeked inside, but the room stood empty. Perhaps his grandfather was upstairs reading.

  “Grandfather? I’m home!” he called out as he took the stairs two at a time.

  Emmett heard his parents calling after him, but he was too eager to see his grandfather to find out what they wanted. What trinket or piece of fruit awaited him this time? He’d once overheard his mother say that he and Grandfather got on so well because they were alike—both kindhearted and jovial in personality. Emmett could think of no greater compliment.

  He ground to a stop outside his grandfather’s door and knocked. But there was no answer. Was Grandfather resting? Emmett quietly pushed the door open. However, the bed stood vacant, and so did the chairs in front of the fireplace.

  A stab of disappointment cut through him. Had his grandfather gone somewhere, forgetting Emmett would be returning home from boarding school today?

  No, Emmett reassured himself. Grandfather wouldn’t forget something so important.

  Besides, his grandfather had written him two weeks ago and shared how much he was looking forward to his and Emmett’s summer adventures. Perhaps Grandfather had just gone for a walk. Emmett backed out of the room, intent on returning downstairs and asking his parents where his grandfather might be. But to his surprise, his parents were already waiting for him in the hallway.

  His father, the Marquess of Hadwell, was scowling. “You needn’t run through the house like some wild savage,” he said in a brusque tone.

  “Where did Grandfather go?” Emmett asked.

  A flicker of unease passed over his father’s face. Emmett couldn’t recall ever seeing his father look anything but confident. “He is . . .”

  The marquess visibly swallowed, then glanced at Emmett’s mother. Dread began tightening Emmett’s throat. Something was wrong. His father never let his mother do the explaining unless it was something very unpleasant.

  “We didn’t wish to worry you.” His mother fixed her eyes on something farther down the corridor. “At first, we thought it was only a cold. But then he took a turn for the worst the next day.” She pressed her hand to her mouth as if to stop a sob.

  Emmett frowned, not understanding. “So Grandfather is sick?” Had they put him in another part of the house so no one else would catch what he had?

  “Your grandfather passed away four days ago.” His father wouldn’t look at him either. “It was sudden, yes, but the man was already quite advanced in age.”

  His grandfather was . . . Emmett shook his head to keep the awful word dead from settling inside his mind. His father must be mistaken.

  “We didn’t think it right to call you away for the funeral before your final exams.” His mother placed her hand on Emmett’s shoulder. “I’m sorry, Emmett. I know how much he—”

  Emmett twisted out of her grasp. “No! Grandfather isn’t . . . isn’t dead! He wrote me. He said we were going to a fair this year.” His voice rose in volume as tears stung his eyes. “He wouldn’t go without seeing me. I know it.”

  “The timing of it is unfortunate,” his father said. “However, there is no need to carry on in—”

  He’d had enough. Emmett spun on his heel and dashed down the hallway to his bedroom, desperate to get away from them. Raw emotion burned inside him. His dog, Bran, hopped up from the rug and trotted toward him as he entered. Emmett slammed the door shut, pressing his back against it. Any moment now, he’d get a dressing-down for his behavior. And yet no one came.

  Had his mother somehow checked his father’s rebuke for once? Emmett didn’t know. After a minute or so, he slid to the floor. Then, burying his head in his dog’s brown-and-white fur, he wept.

  *

  He eventually cried himself to sleep and missed dinner. The next day Emmett refused to leave his room. A maid brought up a tray, but he just picked at the food. He sat at the window, remembering funny stories his grandfather had told him. But the memories only made the ache inside him hurt worse. So he’d try to think of something else, like joking with his best friend, Avery Winfield, at school. That made him feel better for a little while. Only then he’d remember how he had wanted to tell Grandfather those same stories, and the hurt and tears would start all over again.

  That night, Emmett slept fitfully. He kept dreaming he was in a carriage, one that moved so slowly it finally stopped altogether. He kept pleading with the driver to hurry, that he wouldn’t make it in time. At one point, he stirred awake and found his mother sitting by his bedside.

  “I’m so very sorry, Emmett,” he heard her whisper. “We should have sent for you.” He fell back asleep as her cool hand brushed his hair off his forehead.

  The following morning, Emmett awakened to the voices of his parents outside his door. Curious, he tiptoed across the room to listen. “. . . Now his title and estate have been lost to some no-name cousin of yours,” his father was saying. “We would have faced the same fate had we not had Emmett. Still, there are days I wonder if Alder would have made a more fitting marquess.”

  Emmett winced at the reference to the older brother he’d never known. Alder had died as a child, several years before Emmett was born. But his two oldest sisters had t
old him that Alder had been the apple of their father’s eye.

  “You dote on Emmett too much,” the marquess continued from out in the hall. “If he’s going to be the man he must become, a future marquess, then he would do well to follow in my footsteps rather than his grandfather’s.”

  The twisting of the door handle sent Emmett leaping backward. He scrambled to his bed and slid under the covers. It wasn’t his mother who entered, as he’d expected—it was his father. Normally Emmett was summoned to the study when the marquess wanted to speak with him.

  “Good, you’re awake.” His father crossed to the bed as Emmett slowly sat up. “It’s time for you to dress and join the family downstairs for breakfast. All of these tears and refusals to eat are further upsetting your mother and sisters. And they will not bring your grandfather back.” The marquess’s rigid stance softened as he added, “His death is a tragedy none of us foresaw, but we cannot wallow in grief. Strength is found in forging ahead.”

  Guilt filled Emmett. He didn’t want to upset anyone, least of all his mother.

  “Do you understand what I’m saying?”

  Emmett nodded. He needed to stop feeling sad, so he didn’t upset his family members who’d already been through enough. First with Alder and now with his grandfather. “I understand, Father.” The marquess didn’t smile, though he did look pleased.

  “Once you’ve scrubbed the tears from your face, you may come down.” He started for the door.

  A question Emmett had always longed to ask but never dared rose into his throat for the hundredth time. However, today it wouldn’t remain there. “Father?”

  The marquess turned. “Yes?”

  “Do you . . .” His heart began to pound. “Did you like Alder more than you like me?”

  His father looked taken aback. “Of course not.”

  “Do you think he would’ve made you prouder?” Emmett risked asking next.

  Stepping back toward the bed, the marquess waved him forward. “Come here, Emmett.” He climbed out of bed and went to stand before his father.

  “Your brother, had he lived, would have made a fine marquess. God didn’t leave us without another heir, though.” His father settled an awkward pat on Emmett’s head, but the rare show of affection still felt like a gift. “That’s you now, and if you’ll heed my counsel and do as I have done, you may even surpass the hopes and plans I had for Alder.”

  There was still time to make his father proud? Emmett felt a rush of relief. He would be every bit the heir, perhaps even more, that his older brother would have been. But his determination teetered a bit when he recalled something his grandfather had told him last year.

  You have your own unique strengths, Emmett. Different than your father’s or mine or anyone else’s. God knows what they are. And He will help you and place you in situations to learn them for yourself.

  His grandfather’s advice was to find his own strengths, yet his father wanted him to follow a set example. Who was right? Emmett wanted to make them both proud, and yet his grandfather was gone.

  Looking up at the marquess, Emmett made his decision. He could still win his father’s love and approval as Alder had done. His father had told him how.

  And that was what Emmett would do.

  Chapter 1

  Somerset, England, December 1908

  At twenty-eight, with a courtesy title and a wife, Emmett Markham was long past boyhood. But he still experienced a familiar twist of nerves at being summoned to the study by his father, the Marquess of Hadwell.

  “What do you suppose he means to ask now?” he murmured, setting aside the book he’d been attempting to read for the last half hour. His brown-and-white greyhound, Bran the Second, lifted his head from off the rug as Emmett stood. “Come, Bran.”

  Whatever the reason for the meeting, Emmett would face it with Bran at his side. The dog had been his loyal companion for years. Bran preferred country life, though, so he remained at Hadwell House year-round. But the dog still greeted his master with fondness whenever Emmett returned home from London—and more recently, from overseeing the renovations on his own estate house.

  Emmett exited the library, Bran at his heels. As they crossed the foyer, the dog stopped and sat, his large brown eyes watching the ornate front door. The ritual elicited an ache inside Emmett—as it had every day since he’d come home nearly two weeks earlier.

  “She isn’t coming today, boy.”

  In truth Emmett wasn’t certain when his wife, Clare, would return to England. Not until after the holidays. Possibly not before spring.

  Clare struggled with the cold, which was something Emmett’s maternal grandfather would have understood. The man had wintered for years at his Sicilian villa, which Emmett had inherited from him. Grandfather had returned to England each summer—up until the year Emmett turned ten and his grandfather had caught the illness that had ended his life. The pain of that loss was something Emmett still carried with him.

  He suspected there was more, though, to Clare’s sudden trip to Italy than trading England’s blustery winter weather for a more temperate, sunny climate. Did it have anything to do with the rumors he’d heard about her last week?

  Forcing his thoughts from lingering on such an unpleasant topic, he rubbed his dog’s head. “I don’t believe she’s forgotten about you,” he reassured Bran. Emmett, perhaps, but never Bran.

  It was one of the things Emmett had been most pleased about after he and Clare had come to stay at the family seat in Somerset, following their honeymoon to the villa. She and Bran had instantly got on with each other, in spite of Clare never owning a dog before. And while the creature was still loyal to Emmett, it stung a bit to know he no longer claimed Bran’s undivided devotion.

  Emmett called for the dog to follow him again, anxious not to keep his father waiting. Entering the study, he found the marquess seated at the large desk. The man’s gray hair and impeccably trimmed beard gave him a distinguished air, rather than an aging one. And though Lord Hadwell was not overly tall—Emmett, on the other hand, had inherited his grandfather’s height—his bearing made him seem imposing.

  “There you are, Emmett.” No one except his family and Clare called him by his first name. To everyone else, Emmett was known as the Earl of Linwood, the courtesy title he’d inherited from his father. “I was beginning to wonder if you meant for me to repeat my invitation.”

  Repetition wasn’t something the marquess countenanced. Listen and obey the first time had long been his motto. “I apologize for delaying you, Father.” Emmett sat in one of the chairs facing the desk. Bran lay at his feet.

  The marquess nodded with obvious approval at the contrite words. “I have something important to share with you.”

  It was not the first time—nor was it likely to be the last—that Emmett had heard such a phrase. Last year, before the start of the social season, the important thing to share had been that it was time for Emmett to marry. All of his sisters were married with children of their own, and it was now Emmett’s turn to enter into the institution of marriage. He was told to find a suitable bride—which meant a wealthy young lady with plenty of cash to update Hadwell House and secure its future for generations to come.

  Included in that request had been a reminder of his duty to produce an heir who would carry on the title and oversee the estate. It was up to Emmett to guarantee a distant cousin did not become Marquess of Hadwell.

  Unfortunately, while Emmett had fulfilled his father’s former directive by marrying a lovely red-haired heiress from America, he had failed in the latter. He and Clare had not yet been able to have a child, though she’d been pregnant twice. Both times had ended in miscarriage. Emmett had experienced his own grief with each loss, but he hadn’t wanted to upset Clare further by sharing his sorrow with her. Instead he’d kept his sadness to himself, along with his feelings of failure. Still, those darker thoughts threatened to resurface in this moment, until his father spoke again.

  “I have decided y
ou are to become an MP.” The marquess smiled at what he clearly felt was his own brilliance.

  Emmett blinked and sat back. “You want me to try for a seat in the House of Commons?”

  “Precisely.” Lord Hadwell stood, his waistcoat bowed from the slight girth at his middle, and began to pace from the desk to the window and back. “As I see it, you have plenty of time to establish yourself as an MP, perhaps even become Leader of the House one day, all before you assume the family’s seat in the House of Lords after my death.” He turned to look at Emmett, but his gaze appeared to be seeing something other than his son. “You will be able to do and achieve what I myself was denied when I became marquess.”

  Lord Hadwell had inherited the title from his father at the age of eighteen, which ended any plans he had of sitting in the House of Commons. Emmett had heard his father relay the loss of his dream, and now it appeared he would need to fulfill that dream if he wished to continue following his father’s path.

  “I’m not sure I am as knowledgeable or passionate about politics as you, Father.”

  Emmett enjoyed political debates now and then with his friends. But in those situations, it was the socializing and being with other people that he liked best—not the actual content of the discussions. Lately, he’d had little time for even that the past few months, with overseeing the renovations and developments to Barksley Hall, an estate he and Clare had bought on the opposite side of the county, near the sea.

  The marquess stopped moving and frowned. “It’s high time you changed, then. We need everyone qualified and like-minded doing their bit in the House of Commons.”

  He didn’t say he needed Emmett specifically. Or that he’d be proud if his son became an MP. Or that in doing so, Emmett would finally gain the love and approval the marquess had always held just out of reach—seemingly in wait for the day when Emmett would finally live up to his older brother Alder’s lost potential.

  He glanced at the boy’s photograph that hung on the study wall. The stoic brother staring back at him was a stranger, and yet his picture—captured only months before his death at age seven—had taunted Emmett for years from its prominent place inside their father’s study.