Rising Fire. William W. Johnstone
Читать онлайн книгу.
hardly the prettiest girl here,” Denny scoffed. “Look at all those gorgeous Italian signorinas and French mademoiselles and Spanish señoritas. Poor little old me can’t hold a candle to them.”
“You underestimate yourself,” Louis assured her.
Denny laughed. “What do you know about it? You’re my brother.”
“That doesn’t mean I’m blind.”
“It doesn’t mean you’re right, either.”
The song came to an end. The dancers paused and applauded lightly, and some shuffling of partners went on. Denny supposed she would dance with Louis again, but before the music resumed, a man’s voice said from behind her, “Please, signorina, you must help me. My life is in danger!”
Denny turned quickly. An elegantly attired, dark-haired young man a few years older than her stood there with a smile on his handsome face. He was well built but not overly tall. His gray eyes and Denny’s blue ones were almost on the same level.
Denny cocked her head a little to the side, frowned, and said, “It doesn’t look to me like your life is in any danger. You look perfectly healthy to me.”
“Ah, but that is because you cannot see my heart, signorina. There is no way for you to know that it will break completely in two if I do not have this dance, and all the other dances this evening, with you.”
Denny glanced at Louis, who shrugged as if to say, I told you so. Then she turned back to the stranger.
“Does that approach actually work?” she asked him. “Don’t women laugh in your face when you say such things?”
“My face, it is strong enough to withstand a beautiful woman’s laughter, because when she laughs, she also smiles, and a smile from a beautiful woman is worth any risk. Especially a woman as lovely as you, signorina.”
Denny studied him for a moment, then said, “Whatever I say, you’re going to have an answer for it, aren’t you?”
He shrugged. “I speak only the truth, as any nobleman must.” He took her hand and bowed low over it. “Allow me to introduce myself. I am Count Giovanni Malatesta, from the beautiful island of Sicily.”
Even though Denny hadn’t grown up in the American West, the courtesy of the frontier ran in her veins, along with the blood of the Jensens. She said, “I’m Denise Jensen. This is my brother Louis.”
Count Malatesta pressed his lips to the back of Denny’s hand, then murmured, “It is a great pleasure to meet you, Signorina Jensen. Denise . . . a lovely name for a lovely girl.”
He straightened, held on to Denny’s hand for a second longer, then let go of it and forthrightly stuck out his own hand to Louis. “And an honor to meet you, my friend.” He looked back and forth between them. “Such a distinct resemblance. You are perhaps twins?”
“We are,” Louis acknowledged as he shook hands with the count.
“And Americans, of that there is no doubt.”
“Why?” Denny asked. “Because you think we’re bumpkins, as so many Europeans do?”
Malatesta pressed his right hand to his chest and shook his head. “Never! No Italian would ever be so ungracious as to think such a thing. Now, a German might hold such an opinion, perhaps . . . a Frenchman, most definitely! But not me or any of my countrymen.”
The first notes of the next song came from the musicians. Malatesta held out his hand.
“Please, signorina. Have mercy on my poor heart. Do not let it break in two.”
Denny couldn’t help but smile. She put her hand in Malatesta’s and said, “Oh, all right. We’re guests in your country, after all.”
“And very welcome guests, I assure you.”
“But this one dance is all I’ll promise you.”
“I will cast my fate to the winds of fortune and the mercy of a beautiful woman,” Malatesta said.
He clasped her left hand with his right, put his other arm around her waist as she rested her right hand on his shoulder, and led her into a waltz. He was a very skilled dancer, moving perfectly in time to the music and making certain that she did, too. He didn’t pull her too close, instead maintaining a proper distance, but even so there was an undeniable intimacy in what they shared.
After a few minutes, he asked quietly, “You are enjoying yourself?”
“I am,” Denny admitted. “You dance very well.”
“I do a great many things very well.”
“Including boasting?” she asked.
“It is not boasting if one can accomplish the things he claims,” Malatesta said.
“In other words, as they say where I come from, no brag, just fact.”
“That is one way of putting it. And where, exactly, is it that you come from, Signorina Jensen? America is your homeland, I know, but it is a vast country.”
“Quite vast,” Denny agreed. “Actually, I was born in Boston and have spent a great deal of time in England. I’ve picked up some of the accent.”
“Not much,” Malatesta said. “You still sound like an American to me.”
“But my parents live in the West, in a state called Colorado, and since that’s my heritage and I’ve visited there enough, I consider myself a western girl.”
“Colorado,” Malatesta repeated. “I believe I have heard of it. A place full of murderous desperadoes and wild, bloodthirsty Indians, is it not?”
“Only in dime novels. Oh, there are still desperadoes, I suppose. There have always been men on the wrong side of the law and there always will be.”
“Certainly quite probable.”
“But the threat from the Indians is over, except in widely scattered places,” she said as they continued turning and swooping gracefully in time to the music. “The country is civilized now, or so they say.” She sighed.
Malatesta frowned slightly and said, “You sound almost disappointed that it is so.”
“Well, my father and mother had such exciting adventures when they were young and just married, and quite a few since then, too. It just seems hard to believe that so little time has actually passed since then. Only a few decades.”
“History moves slowly when one studies it in books, but speeds along swiftly indeed when one is busy living it.”
She looked squarely at him and said, “That’s a pretty profound thing to say.”
“Forgive me,” he replied hastily. “The last thing I feel like being this evening is profound. And most people of my acquaintance would laugh at the very idea of me saying anything that might make a person think.”
“Maybe so, but I’m enjoying dancing with you . . . and talking with you.”
“Then my evening is already a spectacular success and will only get better from here, I think!”
* * *
Denny didn’t dance every dance with Count Giovanni Malatesta at that ball, despite his pleading, but she found herself in his arms quite often even though she tried to spread her attention around to some of the other single men in attendance.
He was insistent, though, and eventually she gave up the battle, telling Louis, “I think it’ll be easier dancing with him than trying to avoid him.”
“He does seem very determined,” Louis said.
Denny looked over at her brother and asked, “What do you think of him?”
“The count? He’s a charmer, no doubt about that. How genuine