Catherine Spencer - New Year Fireworks - The Duke's New Year's Resolution / The Faithful Wife / Constantino's Pregnant Bride

Gowned, gloved, her hair anchored high on her head with the topaz-studded comb, she swept out of the bedroom in a glitter of gold. Two paces into the sitting room she caught sight of Marco and stopped dead.

Her jaw sagged. Her breath got stuck somewhere in the middle of her throat. The best she could manage was a breathless whisper.

“Wow.”

“My sentiments exactly,” he answered in a low growl. “You look magnificent, Sabrina mia. ”

His eyes devoured her as he crossed the room. Hers drank in the snowy white tie and pleated shirt, the black tails, the jeweled insignia of some royal order pinned to the red sash that slashed across his chest.

Tonight, Sabrina realized as her heart drummed out a wild beat, her handsome doc was every inch a duke.

Marco wasn’t the only one rigged out in royal splendor for the night’s festivities.

His mother was stunning in a gown of white satin and a diamond tiara studded with emeralds the size of pigeon eggs. More emeralds cascaded from her ears and throat.

His sister and brother-in-law somehow managed to look both dignified and unconventional, AnnaMaria in a shimmering cobalt gown that highlighted the blue streak in her hair, Etienne in a black cutaway and a jaunty white silk scarf looped over one shoulder in place of a tie.

With everyone dressed so formally, Sabrina expected dinner to be a stiff affair. Instead, the guests were lively and the meal a gastronomical delight that included the expected lentils and savory stuffed sausage.

“For richness of life in the coming year,” the retired admiral seated next to Sabrina informed her as he speared a piece of sausage.

She’d already discovered he was Marco’s great uncle on his mother’s side and a real character. He wore his navy uniform, with thick gold ropes at both shoulders and a chest covered with medals. Bushy white whiskers sprouted from his cheeks and an eye patch covered one eye. His other eye kept trying to get a good look down the front of Sabrina’s gown.

Like when he shooed away the hovering waiter and insisted on refilling her wine glass himself.

“Allow me, Signorina.”

She rewarded his determined efforts by hunching her shoulders to display a teeeeeny bit more cleavage.

“Ahh,” the admiral murmured, his whiskers twitching. “Bellisima.”

She glanced up in time to catch Marco observing the byplay. Grinning, he lifted his goblet in a silent toast. She responded with a wink.

The mischievous wink hit Marco with almost the same impact as the sight of Sabrina in glowing candlelight. His fingers tightened on the stem of his goblet as he drank in the sight of her.

Until this moment, he’d wanted her with a hunger that seemed to multiply with each passing hour. Seeing her now, her face framed by those loose, careless tendrils, her eyes alight with laughter, turned hunger into something deeper, something richer. Something that made his heart constrict.

Marco hadn’t missed the startled glances Sabrina had drawn when the dinner crowd had first assembled. Most of them had known Gianetta, some well enough to have experienced her wild, almost frenetic highs on occasions like this. But Sabrina’s ready smile and genuineness had soon charmed them out of their initial uncertainty.

Nor did she falter during the long, lively banquet. Despite Uncle Pietro’s ogling and the fact that most of the conversation was in Italian, she held her own easily with young and old. Not surprising given her privileged background, Marco supposed. As Dominic Russo’s only child, she’d no doubt attended many functions like this. Yet Marco felt himself falling a little more in love each time she responded to a question with her less than idiomatic Italian or flashed him a laughing glance.

When her guests had finished their brandy-flamed lemon gateau and after-dinner coffee, the duchess nodded to her son. Marco rose with her.

“We have a half hour before the guests will begin to arrive for the ball,” Donna Maria announced. “Please use the time to refresh yourselves or enjoy drinks in the main salon while we do our duty downstairs.”

Marco used the loud scrape of chairs and general exodus to explain the drill to Sabrina.

“Mother traditionally grants interviews to society editors and entertainment TV reporters before the ball. It’s a good opportunity for her to push her favorite charities and latest projects. Unfortunately, it’s become a command performance for AnnaMaria and me, as well. Will you be all right if I desert you for a half hour?”

“I’ll be fine.” Her eyes twinkled. “Your uncle has offered to show me the gardens by moonlight.”

“The old goat!” Curling a knuckle, he brushed it over her cheek. “If I were you, I’d stick to the lighted paths.”

“I will,” she promised, laughing.

Her rippling amusement stayed with Marco as he joined Etienne to escort the duchess and AnnaMaria down the grand staircase. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d taken such delight in the sound of a woman’s laugh. Or such intense pleasure from the simple act of touching her.

The aftershocks from that touch were still with him when his mother and AnnaMaria seated themselves on a stiff-backed sofa in the green salon. Marco and Etienne took up places behind them.

Donna Maria’s ever efficient secretary had furnished a copy of the guest list to the various papers and TV networks weeks ago. They in turn had submitted their requests for interviews with particular celebrities, which had been coordinated with the individuals involved. Those interviews would be conducted when the guests arrived for the ball. This session focused strictly on the family whose roots went so deep into Neapolitan society.

Donna Maria presented brief prepared remarks before graciously inviting questions. Most concerned the drive she’d just launched on behalf of the victims of the floods that had devastated the village of Camposta. AnnaMaria and Etienne were asked about their latest exhibits. Marco fielded several questions concerning the seventeen-hour surgery he’d performed last month to separate twins conjoined at the base of their skulls.

He was beginning to believe they’d escape the session relatively unscathed with a reporter at the back of the room raised her hand.

“Sophia Ricci here. I have a question for His Excellency, Don Marco.”

“Yes?”

The reporter edged to the front of the gathering. She was in her early thirties, with a thin, attractive face and black hair razored into uneven lengths.

“I see a name has been added to the guest list. Ms. Sabrina Russo, of Arlington, Virginia.”

When she paused and let a small silence spin out, Marco lifted a brow. “Is that your question?”

“No, Your Excellency. I would like to know if Ms. Russo is the woman you were spotted with yesterday, disembarking from the ferry in Sorrento?”

A stir of palpable interest flowed through the reporters, and Marco smothered a curse. The hounds had picked up the scent sooner than he’d expected.

“She is,” he replied.

Pens clicked. Notebook pages flipped. While her rivals scribbled furiously, Ricci’s eyes gleamed with the triumph of having scooped them all.

“The same woman my sources tell me is currently staying at your villa?” she asked slyly.

He’d learned long ago the futility of attempting to deny the facts. “That’s correct.”

“May I ask how you met?”

“Quite by accident. Ms. Russo fell and sprained her ankle. Luckily, I was close by and was able to treat the injury. She’s been recuperating at my villa.”

“So is she your patient?” Ricci asked with dogged persistence. “Or your lover?”

Donna Maria’s head snapped up. AnnaMaria let out a little hiss. Marco forestalled their instinctive responses and answered with the authority bred into him by his heritage and his demanding profession.