A Companion for the Count: A Regency Romance

senior.”
The baroness laughed airily. “A decade isn’t too terrible. Not when he possesses such a charming accent, as foreigners usually do. The baron is a dozen years older than I am. I think it a good thing for a girl to marry someone older and wiser. It gives her greater direction.”
Josephine’s response was carefully neutral. “What an interesting idea, Lady Addington.”
Direction? A man, giving a woman great direction? Emma gripped her parasol tighter in an attempt to avoid grinding her teeth into powder. Why did people insist on treating women of her age as though they still needed looking after? She had been looking after Josephine for years. And had managed quite well at it, too.
“Perhaps the ambassador would like to visit us while he is here, Mama. We could invite him to dinner,” Miss Finchley said, her voice as pinched as her heart.
“An excellent idea, Elizabeth. Yes, we will have your father extend the invitation today,” the baroness fairly cooed.
Emma looped her arm through Josephine’s. “My lady, would you like to go nearer the dock so we might congratulate the winners when they arrive?”
Though Josephine blinked with surprise, she hastily followed Emma’s lead. “Yes. I think, as one of the hostesses, that would be right.”
As they walked down the line of observers, Josephine smiling and nodding to her guests as regally as any queen, she spoke quietly to Emma. “Only think, if we could get all the mothers in the county to invite Lord Atella to dinner, I might not have to see him at all.”
Disappointment in her friend stuck Emma like a thorn through her stocking. It surprised her, and a rebuke rose all the way to her tongue. But she didn’t voice it. Her first loyalty was to the duke’s family and to Josie. She tempered her response, wording it carefully. “I cannot think it would give him a good impression of England and the English if he dined with certain members of our neighborhood.”
“Oh, bother England.” Josie widened her eyes, far too dramatic. “I suppose you are right. I’ll warn Papa so he can help Lord Atella make his acceptances to the correct houses and leave the rest with his regrets.”
Emma nodded once, then looked across the lake. One of the men waved an oar in the air, then sat back with his fellow. “That must be the signal for the baron—”
A shot rang out in the air, startling Emma. She ought to have paid more attention, but with the race underway, her gaze didn’t leave the boats or the oars. And her eyes naturally settled upon a dark head. Lord Atella.
Emma barely breathed as she watched, the boats seeming evenly matched.
She hoped his team won.
* * *
Though Luca hadn’t found himself kindly disposed to Sir Andrew during the walk to the village, the baronet had coaxed Luca into participating in the boat race with a few simple words and a wide, knowing grin.
“Come, Lord Atella. You must race. Think only on how it will impress the ladies.”
Thus, he was seated facing Lord Farleigh, with his back to the opposite shore, waiting for the signal to begin. Farleigh would shout instructions which, he assured Luca, were easily followed.
“Rowing is all about keeping a rhythm. If you can play an instrument or dance, you can row,” the duke’s son had insisted.
Luca ought to have known better. First, how would rowing from one side of a lake to another gain a lady’s favor? Especially with Luca untried in the sport. Second, rowing proved far more complex, given how he had to avoid the oars of the other men, dip his starboard-side paddle at the same depth as the rest of them, and then repeat the cycle over and over until his arms burned.
A shot traveled across the water to signal the start of the race, and Farleigh started shouting his commands. “Row!”
Luca rowed. In a moment, Luca received a command.
“Atella, your stroke is early!” Then he yelled to someone else, “Blanding, slow the slide!”
They were moving across the water with such speed, Luca couldn’t imagine the others going any faster. He glanced over his shoulder, expecting to see Sir Andrew’s boat behind them. Instead, he saw a wake in the water. Luca snapped his gaze forward—Sir Andrew’s boat had already pulled half a boat-length ahead.
Gritting his teeth, Luca pushed himself harder.
“Atella,” Farleigh snapped, “Stroke slow, or we’ll turn port side.”
Starboard side, port side—Luca wanted to get ahead of the baronet. He corrected himself, and Farleigh started yelling with greater enthusiasm. “That’s it, men! We’ll overtake! Keep heads down and arms moving. Stroke! Stroke! Stroke!”
Risking another glance up, Atella’s heart lightened. They had pulled nearly even with Sir Andrew’s team again.
Farleigh shouted, “Atella, touch it up!”
What the blazes did that command mean? Luca adjusted, trying to fall in line with the other rowers again. Someone at the bow received a rebuke next, and Luca dared not look up or away from Farleigh again. Every time he tried to find the other boats, his team suffered. Keeping his head down and minding his own work must see him through.
They drew near to shore, given that Luca could hear the bird-like cheers of women. Calls for one team or another hit his ears, and then the voices raised louder. A moment after, Farleigh relaxed. “Hold water, men. We passed the finish.”
Luca remembered the explanation for that call. He lowered his oar to drag through the water perpendicularly, as did the other men, bringing the boat to a stop. He turned to look at the dock, his pulse thudding with excitement and exertion—
Sir Andrew’s team had won, and Mr. Whitfield’s team came last.
His heart sank, and his gaze swept the land looking for the reactions of the on-lookers. Everyone seemed cheerful, with ladies clapping gloved hands, a few of the younger crowd bouncing up and down, while gentlemen were slapping backs and likely collecting on wagers.
He found Lady Josephine’s dark green spencer, but she had turned to speak to the