Wanton Angel (Blackthorne Trilogy) (5 page)

      
“La, sir, you are persistent,even for an Englishman.”

      
“And you are bold, even for an American. We should suit.”

      
“Might I remind you that our nations are at war?”

      
“But Italy is neutral ground and we are both expatriots. What are politics to us?”

      
She appeared to consider, slowing her steps as they neared the flickering torchlight at the outskirts of the palace. “Your point is well taken, Mr. Jamison.”

      
“Please, call me Derrick.”

      
She stopped, suddenly realizing that her gown was torn and the elaborate coiffure Donita had labored over was hanging askew. “Very well, Derrick,” she replied while checking the opal brooch holding her torn gown together. The clasp had not caught securely. She started to readjust it, but he reached out, placing his warm hands over hers. “If you'll allow me, please?” he said.

      
Suddenly her heart was pounding furiously once again. Beth prided herself on her control with men. But this Englishman was different from any other. As his fingers deftly worked the clasp, gathering the ends of the fabric on the sharp pin, she reached up and attempted to secure the combs that had held her coiffure in place.

      
“Your hair is marvelous,” he whispered, inhaling the tantalizing musky fragrance of the heavy mass. “Lush, and the color...rich as fine old claret. That's what I first noticed when I saw you on the shore this morning.” He finished the repair of her gown, but instead of stepping away, he raised his hand and took a loose tendril in his fingers, tugging on it ever so gently, drawing her lips nearer to his.

      
“Not my Amazonian height or loud voice?” She stood her ground.

      
“All the above made a most enticing picture, Miss Black-thorne,” he murmured, lowering his mouth ever so slowly to hers.

      
“Please, call me Beth.”

      
“It would be utterly shocking for a gentleman to kiss a lady if he did not use her given name...wouldn't it, Beth?”

      
Her eyelids fluttered downward. “Shocking...utterly ...shocking.” She could say no more before his lips brushed against hers, lazily at first, then with deepening intensity.

      
Since moving to Italy, Beth had allowed a good number of men to kiss her, more out of curiosity than real attraction. She had actually become quite proficient at technique but had never much cared for it...until now. She melted against him as he tightened his arms around her.

      
Derrick could feel the soft fullness of those lush breasts pressing against his chest. He opened his mouth over hers, waiting to see if she would allow his next liberty. When her lips parted, he plunged inside, tasting of her, his tongue probing, dueling with hers.

      
Beth spun out of control, feeling a thousand sensations all at once, things she had never experienced before. Her breasts tingled, rubbing against the hardness of his chest. His tongue was mating with hers, dancing in and out of her mouth, leaving her breathless. A deep ache pooled low in her belly, throbbing with the furious beat of her blood.
This is madness!

      
His hand cupped the lush milky breast he had so admired when it was unveiled, rubbing the hard tip between thumb and index finger until she moaned, arching her hips against his. Requiring no further encouragement, he slid his other hand over the deep indentation at the small of her back, then spread his fingers around one firm buttock, kneading it and pressing his hips in sync with hers, rocking them slowly to die rhythm he set with his plunging tongue.

      
Beth had participated in some heated embraces over the past three years, but she had always kept a distance in her mind, assessing the situation, planning her next move, deciding when to break away before things got out of hand. This was definitely out of hand,and she had planned nothing at all! Derrick seemed as powerless to resist their passion as she. Beth could feel the obvious pressure of his erection straining against the sheer fabric of her gown, pressing near the juncture of her thighs.

      
Lord above, I want to take her right here on the grass by torchlight, in clear view of any accidental passersby!
If they were discovered by anyone of account at the court, it could jeopardize his mission. He should stop while he still could...if he still could...but he did not. Instead he ground his hips against hers with fierce possessiveness and lowered his lips from hers to trail hot wet kisses down her throat, slipping her bodice from the very shoulder where he had earlier repaired it, eager to take that lush pink nipple in his mouth and feast.

      
The faint scratching of the brooch as he slid the bodice free of her breast brought Beth back from the edge of the abyss. She took a deep shuddering gulp of cool night air and removed her hands from where she'd buried them in his thick black hair. Pressing her palms against his chest, she stopped him from placing the searing heat of his mouth on her breast. If he'd done that, she intuited that nothing would have enabled her to say him nay.

      
Standing on the stairs of the portico overlooking the garden, Vittoria observed the lovers faintly visible in the distance. Beth's heavy mane of hair and statuesque body were easily identifiable, and she was returning Jamison's kisses with an ardor that greatly pleased the older woman. At twenty, the contessa had been already well experienced in the joys of the flesh. It was time her young protegee took a lover.

      
Of course, a lover was all the Englishman could ever be for Beth. The son of an earl, even the younger son who had not inherited the title, could never consider marriage with an American. But this was acceptable. Her mentor knew that Beth had no interest in shackling herself to a man. Her career as an artist was the driving passion of her life. And the contessa bitterly understood that there could be no room in any woman's life for two passions.

      
But a little dalliance now and then...well, that was another matter. Vittoria had always believed Englishwomen were the most painfully inhibited on earth until she met Beth. She had spent nearly three years trying in vain to convince the girl that she could enjoy her sexuality without having to abandon her art. Then tonight, observing Beth's reaction to that handsome devil in the audience room, Vittoria had made it her business to learn Derrick Jamison's identity. Above all she would protect her surrogate daughter.

      
Something about his manner had set her suspicions humming when she'd first watched him. Ever since Joaqim Murat had been given the Neapolitan throne by his brother-in-law Napoleon, spies swarmed around the court, thick as flies on overripe fruit. But Jamison apparently was a member of one of the richest and most prestigious families in England. The late Earl of Lynden would never have permitted his son to do anything so tawdry as spying. From what various courtiers knew of Derrick Jamison, she surmised that he was either an indolent wastrel enjoying the warm Italian sun or, more likely, a rogue banished for some infraction in London society. In either case, he would be recalled to make the requisite marriage in due course, leaving Beth in no danger of leg-shackling.

      
Yes, the contessa could not have arranged matters better herself. When Beth finally pushed him away and stepped back, Vittoria chuckled. Beth might be young, but she had a solid head on her shoulders. That was precisely what most men feared in a woman, but Jamison would not be daunted since he had no thoughts of marrying her. The course was set now. Let nature do its work. If it did not, Vittoria would simply lend it a hand.

* * * *

      
“You look like a kitten in cream, darling girl. What has put that slumberous expression on your face, eh?” the contessa asked as a servant pulled out a Chiavari chair at the table laden with ripe figs, sliced oranges and crisply browned anise cakes. Vittoria raised a cup of black coffee laced with goat's milk to her lips,staring at her young protegee over its steamy rim. “Well?”

      
Beth had been up since just past dawn, a crassly American habit according to her friend, who always slept until at least eleven. For her this was an early luncheon, for the contessa, breaking her fast. Even though the light was excellent, Beth had not done much painting this morning, contrary to her usual habit. In fact, all she had done was think about Derrick. She could see Vittoria was waiting her out, one elegant sable brow arched in that sardonic way the older woman had.

      
“Oh, all right. As if you did not already know. I was thinking about the Englishman. He kissed me in the gardens last night. It was...rather intense.”

      
“I thought the Englishman was, how did you put it, 'a foppish boor’?” The hint of a smile whispered around her lips as she sipped her drink.

      
“Perhaps I was mistaken...or perhaps...”

      
“At last a man who takes your fancy as much as you take his. This is a refreshing change. Tell me about him—I mean everything from when you first met in America.”

      
Beth outlined that first disastrous encounter with Barnsmell, then the second equally unpleasant meeting at Dolley Madison's salon. “So that's why I suddenly developed an acute case of headache upon recognizing him last night.”

      
“Then what changed your mind—other than the very obvious fact that he's quite the most dashing figure of a man I've seen since Prince Metternich returned to Vienna?” A faint niggling of unease once again pricked the contessa. She made a mental note to check further into Jamison's background.

      
Beth blushed faintly, something she had schooled herself to avoid. ”I must confess that I fancied him even back in Washington. But I was only a naive schoolgirl of seventeen. What did I know of men?”

      
“What indeed?” the contessa echoed, biting into a plump, juicy fig.

      
“I would probably not have even spoken to him if he had not rescued me from Evon Bourdin.”

      
“The king's captain of the guards?” Vittoria made a small moue of distaste.

      
“None other. He was drunk and must have followed me to the gazebo in the garden. I was about to give him a set down with my stiletto when Derrick came up behind him and seized him about the neck.”

      
“An intelligent move if the Englishman was unarmed. Even drunk, Bourdin can be quite dangerous. I can imagine what Jamison must've thought when he saw your weapon...and where it came from.” A look of sly amusement lit her eyes.

      
“He was, er, interested in where I keep it. I was quite brazen, showing him the blade, then replacing it on my garter while he watched. You would have been proud of me,” Beth replied, grinning. Then her expression grew serious. “He devoured me with his eyes. I felt...unlike any time before...warm, breathless, as if the world was spinning out of control. Is that the way it's supposed to be when you're attracted to a man?”

      
“Yes, but only if you're careful you don't lose your heart in the process of losing your virginity.”

      
“I understand about European nobility and arranged marriages, Vittoria. You above anyone should know what my art career means to me. But how am I to paint about life unless I experience it?”

      
The contessa gave a fatalistic Latin shrug of agreement, but her thoughts were still troubled.
Why is Jamison in Naples?
She intended to find out.

* * * *

      
“I tell you, old chap, this is intolerable, simply intolerable. I shan't be responsible for my actions if Sir Percival remains,” Drum said, eyeing his sterling-headed sword cane. He held up for Derrick's inspection a pair of riding boots, with the toe chewed off one, a heel demolished on the other. “Forty pounds! The finest shoemaker in London fitted them to my feet. Deuced hard to find a craftsman who can do this sort of work.”

      
“Especially when you fail to pay him,” Derrick replied dryly.

      
“Articles of my apparel were not the only casualties of this guerrilla war,” Drum replied with silky smugness. “Only this morning I found that bottle-green jacket of yours covered with hair. I still have not managed to remove it all. Doubt I shall. Sir Percival must go.”

      
Just then the object of Drum's ire trotted into the sitting room and jumped onto the settee, where he promptly proceeded to groom his unmentionables with a long red tongue.

      
Jamison narrowed his eyes at the King Charles Spaniel, whom he liked no better than did his companion. “Sir Percival is a highly trained courier. He's been assigned to us and there's an end to it. You'll just have to apply yourself to keeping clothing and footgear out of his reach.”

      
Drum quit the room, muttering beneath his breath, “I arrant he'd reach a deal less high if I cropped off his demned legs at the first joint.”

      
Derrick looked over at the spaniel, who returned his gaze with guileless liquid brown eyes. “No need to look at me as if you were innocent as a newborn foal. I know better.” The dog hopped from the settee and padded over to him, sitting at his feet.

      
Sighing in resignation, Jamison patted the dog's head. Bloody hell; how had he come to be saddled with a clothes-chewing canine and a debtor dandy? He had been perfectly content working alone across the capitals of Europe for the past three years. Been damned successful at it, too. Owing to his information, several crucial battles on the Peninsula had gone to Britain and her Spanish allies. And his assistance to the incompetent Austrian military had been considerable.