Wanton Angel (Blackthorne Trilogy) (6 page)

      
Perhaps if he hadn't described the fighting capabilities of the Austrian soldiers by writing that the best that could be said was that they had the prettiest uniforms on the field, he might not have been sent down from Vienna.
How the bloody hell was I to know the idiot British charge d'affaires would share that dispatch with Metternich?

      
He returned his attention to the Italian newspaper in his hand. His Italian needed work, but he had a natural affinity for languages and felt certain that within a few weeks he would be able to comprehend passably well. Beth Blackthorne would doubtless be an excellent teacher. He grinned, recalling their encounter last night, then glanced up at the ormolu clock on the mantel. He had an appointment at half past the hour...and he could almost justify his dalliance because her Italian was so skillfully idiomatic.

      
Later, after he had dressed for his outing with Beth, he watched in the mirror as Drum fussed with his cravat. “No, no, my dear fellow. You simply must hold still. It does not quite stand to your chin properly,” the little dandy said.

      
“If the damned thing stood any higher, my neck would be stretched tighter than a Tyburn felon's. And you must desist in calling me ‘old chap’ and ‘my dear fellow.’ Remember, you're supposed to be my body servant.”

      
“As the Honorable Mr. Jamison wishes, sir,” Drum replied curtly, looking up the narrow blade of his nose at the much taller man. Cool green eyes met amused blue ones. “I see nothing of humor in this ghastly situation.”

      
Derrick suppressed another chuckle as he turned to inspect himself in the glass and nodded approvingly. “You're getting to be a passable dresser, I must say, my good fellow. I look...er,what is it the Beau would say—all the crack, I believe.”

      
“Not quite the crack. You're over tall. That Scots blood, I suspect.” Drum sniffed, shaking his head as he folded a stack of cravats and replaced them in the
armadio
.

      
“Give us Scots our due. We've successfully infiltrated the whole of the English bureaucracy and run the bloody government now.” Derrick turned to leave, then paused to deliver his departing sally. “Oh, by the by, I just received word while you were engaged drawing my bath—this afternoon Sir Percival begins earning his dog bones. You're to walk him along the Via Roma toward the Piazza Dante where you will—”

      
“I am to walk him! I? Whyever not you? The beast is supposed to be your dog,” Drum interrupted.

      
“This is merely a trial run, to see if the dog can find his trainer and messages can be easily exchanged in his collar without anyone taking note. I've placed a brief report regarding what I gleaned at court last night inside the collar. All you need do is place it around his neck and be off. Slip his leash when you reach the piazza. He should return to you when his mission is accomplished.”

      
“I might better wish that the accursed hellhound runs off, never to be heard from again!” Drum replied with an indignant wave of his hand. “I, who trod the streets of the Great Wen with the Beau, reduced to walking a dog!”

      
Derrick could not resist tweaking the little dandy, “It will raise less attention if the locals believe a mere servant is walking the dog.”

      
Drum huffed. “A mere servant indeed—”

      
“Be a good chap, Drum. See to Sir Percival,” Derrick said, suppressing another chuckle as he closed the door.

* * * *

      
“Do I look all right?” Beth asked worriedly, turning this way and that to check her appearance in a looking glass, although she normally concerned herself little about clothing.

      
Vittoria inspected her charge, who was a vision in a pale spring green gown and spencer, sprigged with darker green leaves. The short jacket was cut cunningly, with a clasp holding it together just below the curve of her breasts. The color brought out the green in her hazel eyes. Her hair was wound in a simple heavy chignon at the crown of her head with soft tendrils escaping around the edges of the tiny confection of her bonnet. To add just a hint of sophistication, the contessa had insisted she borrow an emerald necklace and earrings set in antique filigreed silver.

      
“You're exquisite, child. Ah, to be twenty once again, with handsome men flocking about.”

      
Beth smiled and kissed the older woman on the cheek. “You still have handsome men flocking about you and well you know it—just not this one particular Englishman.”

      
“Speaking of whom, I do believe I hear his curricle in the drive,” Vittoria said, slipping over to the open window to look down into the front entryway. “My, he does cut a dashing figure. Matched bays with white stockings and blazes.”

      
“Must all Neapolitans judge people by their horses?”

      
The question was rhetorical and Vittoria knew it. “Next to the English, we're the most horse-mad race on earth.”

      
“You haven't met my Creek Indian cousins, else you'd never say so.” Beth smoothed her hands over her hips nervously, then licked her lips, which had been glossed with berry juice so they glowed a soft pink. A hint of kohl darkened her eyelids and lashes, but her sun-kissed face was smooth and golden, innocent of the artifice of cosmetic whiteners. Derrick was from England, where the standard of beauty was blond and pale. Would she compare unfavorably? Throwing her head back, she went to meet him, but her confident stride belied the butterflies dancing in her belly.

      
He watched her descend the curving staircase, a statuesque Juno in a soft, clinging ensemble that beguilingly hinted of delectable breasts, hips and long sleek legs. Ah, how well he remembered that firm creamy expanse of thigh when she'd replaced the stiletto in her garter.
Does she carry it today?
The thought was a bit unsettling, but she had not offered to use it on him last night.

      
She was followed by an older woman of more than passing handsomeness. Derrick knew she must be the Contessa di Remaldi, the notorious widow who owned this magnificent old villa. Twice widowed, Vittoria di Remaldi lived life as she pleased, taking lovers by the score, if international gossip was to be believed. She was rich as the Romanovs and a serious patron of the arts, sponsoring numerous young painters, among them Beth Blackthorne.

      
She was also nobody's fool, having been raised amid cutthroat Italian politics. His sources said she supported Murat's bid to unify the smaller Italian states, something Britain and her Austrian allies were dead set against. He would have to tread very lightly around the contessa. But if he were careful, he might be able to glean from Beth all manner of information about court intrigues,especially any contact the king and queen had with the prisoner on Elba.

      
Beth made the introductions and he bowed, kissing the contessa's hand, which was supristngly bare of jewelry. Last evening she, like every other Italian noblewoman, fairly dripped with rubies and diamonds. “It is a pleasure, Contessa. I have heard much about the charming and lovely patron of the arts.”

      
“Then you are quite ahead of me. I have heard little of the Honorable Derrick Jamison, other than that he is the younger son of the late Earl of Lynden. Why are you here, sir?” she asked in musically accented English, adding, “Other than to enjoy the company of our beautiful women, that is?”

      
“Need I have any other reason for coming to Italy? It's been second home to my countrymen for generations,” he countered smoothly, adding, “But none of them ever beheld ladies as breathtaking as I do now.”

      
“You are a flatterer, signore. And in a handsome man, that can be a dangerous thing,”

      
“As is intelligence in a beautiful woman, Contessa.” After they had departed, Vittoria stood on the portico watching the curricle vanish amid a stand of olive trees. He had been gallantly glib. Perhaps a bit too much so?

* * * *

      
They rode through the glorious open countryside, following an ancient cobbled road that overlooked the bay to the west. Derrick handled the ribbons with considerable skill. As he drove, Beth observed his face in profile. His look was hawkish, intent—dangerous was the word Vittoria chose. She studied him silently. They had spoken little since driving away from the villa on the outskirts of the city. It was as if each was too aware of the other and the sudden and powerful sexual chemistry that had charged their meeting and prompted their rash behavior in the royal garden.

      
“Am I frightening you?” he asked, turning his attention from the road as he reined the bays to a slow trot.

      
“I know how to protect myself,” she replied.

      
“Ah, yes, the stiletto. I was wondering if you would wear it today, but I was referring to my driving.”

      
Beth laughed, a warm throaty sound that she was unaware he found incredibly stimulating. “You drive no more recklessly than any of my brothers or cousins. I come from a family of horse-racing men. Georgia planters and Creek Indians are notorious for their weakness for fast horses.”

      
And fast women?
He did not voice the question aloud, but somehow it hung in the air between them. “Tell me about your family and why you ran away.”

      
“I didn't run away,” she said defensively, then sighed. “Well, perhaps I did, but not because I don't love them or they me. Everyone expected me to marry and settle down to raise babies, but I wanted so much more out of life.”

      
He nodded. “I understand that. The prescribed life for a second son is either the Church or the military. I chose neither because I, too, wanted much more out of life.”

      
“Then possibly we can understand each other,” she said tentatively, wondering if she dared ask what was on her mind. She plunged ahead. “I can understand why the life of a country curate might not appeal, but I would imagine the army to be just the sort of adventure you would thrive upon.” A haunted expression darkened his eyes for a flash, then vanished. Or had she simply imagined it? When he spoke, his dazzling smile was in place once more.

      
“My father naturally assumed I'd buy a commission, especially considering the war on the Continent, but I'm really a worthless scoundrel, you see, enamored of sleeping late, dressing well and spending my time with beautiful women. The army would quite interfere.”

      
“I imagine your father was not pleased. Is that why you left England again?”

      
He shrugged rather carelessly. “Why remain on a damp cold island when one can bask in the warm sun of Italy? Especially when Naples draws the most beautiful women on earth.”

      
“I think you are like Naples—drawing women to you, that is. Shall I allow myself to be the latest in a long list of conquests, I wonder?” The question was rhetorical, but she still struggled to keep the heat from staining her cheeks.

      
“Shall you, Beth? I wonder, too. I find it difficult to imagine a young woman from good family turning her back on the conventional life as easily as a man might. A man naturally avoids leg-shackling, but women seem to thrive on it. Why would a beautiful, passionate woman reject the idea?”

      
“Most men, certainly the male members of my family, share your opinions. I'll give you the same answer I've given them. My life's passion is to be an artist. I don't mean a lady of leìsure who dabbles at watercolors while her maid puts the children down for their nap. I mean a real painter who earns her own way by her talents. Men have been doing it for centuries. Why, if she has the talent, should not a woman have the same right?”

      
He smiled again. “Perhaps she should, but are you certain you would not be happier in Paris than Naples? Such revolutionary ideas would suit better in France than Italy.”

      
“I confess to being an admirer of French thought during the Enlightenment. A bit of it even rubbed off on the English.”

      
He grinned. “Touché, mademoiselle. And so did a bit of it on our American kin, else there would have been no break with the mother country.”

      
“Do you find my idea of independence unnatural?”

      
“Nothing about you, my dear, is in the least bit unnatural.” His voice was a husky purr as he leaned closer. “You're an enigma, yes, but a most pleasant one, whose mysteries I fully intend to unveil.” With that, he stopped the already slowing curricle and leaned over, taking her in his arms.

Chapter Four

      
Their eyes met and held for a moment, measuring each other. Then she said, “Last night was rash...reckless.”

      
“Yet you accepted my invitation to ride in the country and brought no chaperone,” he countered as his fingertips lightly caressed her cheek.

      
He wore no gloves and she was surprised to feel slight calluses on his hands. She'd expect that of her father or brothers, but not of a self-confessed English dandy. Her thoughts spun crazily at his touch. His intense gaze mesmerized her until all she could think of was melting into him like wax in the Italian sun.

      
Rather than make reply to his teasing retort, she raised her lips to his, initiating the kiss with a boldness that surprised her more than him. She had never done such a thing. A small voice warned,
You're being drawn in too deeply, too quickly. He will hurt you.
That voice was silenced when he deepened the kiss.