Cimmerian Sunrise

***Preview of the following story***

Liverpool, England – 1812

Gabriella tried not to sigh again as her sister took a seat on the floor directly before her. Giving such an indication that she was annoyed would only cause Francesca to distract her for a longer period of time.

"You do have the olive-complexion," Francesca acknowledged, inspecting her sister before sparing a glance at her own pale skin. "But, that is the only mark you have of being a true Italian."

Gabriella couldn't help but roll her eyes at the pointless conversation. "You're right, Fran. My blood is all English. I've only inherited mama's coloring," she said, in a droll monotone. "Can we end this now?"

Francesca's eyes narrowed. She quickly left her spot, approached her bed, and grabbed a crudely constructed wooden box from underneath it. She returned to Gabriella, opening the lid.

Gabriella's mouth dropped open. Jewels -- pearls, what looked to be rubies, amethysts and sapphires...even a couple of small diamonds... they all rested in the box.

"I can see I finally caught your attention," Francesca smirked, haughtily. "This is what passion can reward you with, Gabby. All you have to do is embrace it. I am only ten years your senior, and look what I have! Soon, I will be set up in my own grand home, and if you and Papa recognize me as the provider that I have been, I will bring you out of this rathole and into a life of finery."

"Papa works hard," Gabriella stubbornly defended, pushing up her sliding spectacles. "He provides!"

"Ah, yes...a scholar working as a thatcher," she scornfully replied. "We see how well that is working for us. He hasn't even the time to mend the thatching of our own roof!" she snapped, scowling up at the wet, dripping straw above them. "When will you see it is I who fills your belly? If not for me, we'd all be dining on nothing but potatoes every night! Now, enough about papa; do you want to know where I got them?" she asked, gently rattling the contents within the wooden box, a teasing smile lifting the corners of her mouth.

Gabriella swallowed painfully, still staring at the colorful jewels and pearls before her. Please don't say his name. Don't say it. Not him. Not him. Not him.

"The Duke of Manchester, his name is Brandon," Francesca whispered. A wide, bright smile broke out across her lips when Gabriella finally met her gaze.

Gabriella briefly closed her eyes in abundant relief and then...

"Oh, and the Marquis of Kent," Francesca flippantly added, coming to her feet.

Gabriella shakily exhaled, eyes glazed, she stared at her sister.

Both.

"They are fine men, Gabby," Francesca continued, loosening the silk strings which criss-crossed, cinching the gown at her waist. "You remember Lord Kent, don't you? You met him a while ago..."

Gabriella continued staring at Francesca. Though her lips were now parted, she was rendered speechless, motionless. Her heart pounded in her ears, making it nearly impossible for her to hear what her sister was presently saying.

"Tall, handsome, dark brown hair and hazel eyes," her Francesca supplied, tossing a somewhat irritated glance over her creamy, bare shoulder. "You'd do well to show a little consideration, Gabby. He's done so much more for us than you'd even imagine. We wouldn't even be here if it weren't for him." Casting a quick, cautious glance at their bedroom door, Francesca continued in a hushed voice. "You and Papa believe I saved up enough to bring us to this country, when in fact, the marquis paid our way! Papa wouldn't even have his pitiful employment if not for him! You must remember him! He's the one who chased off the vagrant who'd been hounding you after you'd wandered from my side. Gabby!"

Gabriella blinked.

"Are you even listening to me?"

Yes...yes she had been. And what she'd heard was that her sister had brazenly...shamefully allowed a stranger to pay their passage into England. That Francesca lied. That Gabriella, herself, was only in her current location because of her sister's eagerness to divvy out her...attributes to any man who came sniffing about for them. That she was continuing to lavish them upon the man who'd stolen her own heart, and it meant nothing at all to Francesca.

Gabriella cleared her throat and rose to her feet, her words hoarse as she spoke. "I'm tired Fran. I'm going to bed."

Francesca laughed; a musical, attractive sound that always turned heads, particularly masculine heads. "I know all about being tired, young one. I am worn out." A satisfied sigh escaped her mouth. "I wonder if this is what it was like for dear Mama."

Unable to bear it any longer, Gabriella faced Francesca, hands curled into fists, eyes blazing. "Our mama was a common trollop, a Jezebel who deeply wounded our poor papa! Here you sit wanting to be like her when she is not even present, but on her latest escapade with God only knows who! One thing is for certain Fran, I will never be like her, or like you. Never!"

Francesca paused where she was, only a knee was on the mattress when she slid it off and slowly turned toward her sister. Regarding her with steady eyes, she stood, advancing toward Gabriella. "Yes, you will, young one. Eventually. You have beauty; and, as much as I tease you about being fully English, you have the passion in your blood." Bending to Gabriella's ear, she whispered, "Beneath the surface of your prim exterior it simmers!" Then, rising, she finished the rest of her statement aloud, satisfaction filling her eyes at Gabriella's fearful expression. "Passion is a restless thing, Gabby. Sooner or later, it will triumph. So please, don't act like you are better than mother and me..."

Mother and I.

"...because you're not. And I will be there to tell you I-told-you-so in the end, ingenuo."