And instead of choosing some grand-opera aria, she sang “O Sole Mio,” as she had learned it from Ames. Over their lunches in the studio, he would sing it to her, lunches of bread and fruit and salad, glorified by love and song. Out in the east gallery Jacobelli caught the air and frowned, but the Marchese inclined his head to listen contentedly. As the last notes ended, Ward bent over her suddenly, his arms around her, his lips seeking hers dominantly. Crushed in his powerful embrace, she strove to free herself, but Ward had waited two years for this moment, and she felt her strength leave her as he held her. The crystal vase crashed behind him as he tripped backwards over the slender stand, her hand holding his face from her.
“Maria!” she called. “Maria! Come to me!”
“Let her alone,” warned Jacobelli, placing himself at the door of the gallery. “She must learn poise and command of herself.”
Maria glared at him, infuriated.
“Mother of God, when the child needs me!” she cried, and sped along the salon to the inner room. The Marchese’s glance met that of the maestro with troubled questioning.
“Surely, he would not attempt anything to alarm her. You do not think—” The old Italian spread out his stout, expressive hands.
“I do not think when I am with such a man as Ogden Ward. He is a law to himself.”
Veracci’s expression changed instantly. From the easy, genial old diplomat there seemed to fall over his face the mask of the soldier.
“No man is that,” he answered. “I would hold him accountable if he has annoyed the child.”
Before Maria had reached them, Carlota had released herself. She turned to him with clenched hands, her face white with anger.