Guilty Series (102 page)

Mamma.

That was who she needed. Lucia had always
been able to talk to her mother about anything, and somehow, no matter what the situation, Mamma always managed to help her settle things right in her mind. And besides, Mamma knew everything there was to know about men, especially Englishmen, since she had lived here so long. Mamma would be able to advise her.

Lucia shoved back the counterpane and got out of bed. There were several hours until dawn, plenty of time to pay her mother a visit, and Mamma wouldn't care if she arrived in the middle of the night.

She dressed in dark clothes, then slung a midnight blue cloak around her shoulders and pulled its hood up to cover her hair and shadow her face. She left her room and started down the stairs. Someone had left a lamp burning beside the front door for Ian when he came home, and that light enabled her to see her way as she turned on the landing, came down the last flight of stairs, and crossed the foyer toward the front door.

At that moment, the door opened.

Lucia froze and glanced around, but she was standing in the midst of the foyer, and there was no time to hide.

“Going somewhere?” Ian asked as he came into the house and closed the door behind him.

Of all the bad timing. Lucia pushed back the hood of her cloak and looked at him, readying herself for a battle royal over the obvious fact that she was sneaking out to visit her mother, but
when she caught sight of his face, her own predicament was forgotten.

She stepped closer to him and gasped. “
Ma insomma
!” Without thinking, she reached up and touched her fingertips gingerly to the dark purple blotch beneath his eye. “Oh, Ian, someone has hit you.”

“Thank you for pointing that out, but my memory of the past hour is perfectly clear.” He caught her wrist and yanked her hand away from his face, but he did not let her go.

“What happened?” she asked.

“I made the mistake of stepping between Lord Haye's face and Lord Montrose's fist.”

“What?”

“Yes. And it is all thanks to you.”

“Me? What do you mean?”

His hand tightened its grip on her wrist. “You seem dressed to go out. Where were you headed? To tell your mother the good news?”

His question puzzled her, but the tone of his voice did not. She could hear the tightly leashed anger within it, anger she knew was directed at her. “What good news?”

“Your engagement to Lord Haye, of course.”

“What?” Lucia was astounded. “What are you talking about?”

“Poor Haye.” He released her. “I hope he's a damn fine shot because duels will clearly be a necessary part of his married life.”

“Did Montrose knock something loose inside your brain when he hit you?” she asked, star
ing at him dubiously. “I am not marrying Lord Haye.”

“No? Haye thinks you are.”

She opened her mouth to dispute such an absurdity, but Ian gave her no chance. “Lord Montrose,” he continued, “who was eavesdropping while Haye gave me the happy news of your engagement, took exception to the idea. He felt that because you danced with him three times at the last assembly, your attachment and regard were for him, not for Haye. An argument ensued, at which point, Haye trumped us all by pronouncing that because you gave him a very bold kiss at Tremore's yachting party, you must love him very much indeed.”

Lucia groaned and put her face in her hands. “What a mess.”

“Needless to say,” he went on, his voice rising, “this was rather a surprise to me, since only about two hours earlier you were making every possible attempt to kiss me!”

“What?” Lucia lifted her head, determined to set things straight on that score at least. “I did not kiss you! You kissed me. As for Montrose, yes, I danced with him several times. He makes me laugh. I like men who make me laugh.”

“If you had bothered to read any etiquette books during those years in finishing school, you would have known that dancing with the same man more than twice in one evening is cause for speculation that an engagement is in the offing.”

“I have three weeks left in which to find a
husband, and I do not have time for the niceties of etiquette!” she answered with asperity. “I should be able to dance with those men I enjoy dancing with so that I may get to know them better. What people gossip about is not my concern.”

“Nor do Montrose's feelings seem of much concern to you. Those dances gave him ample reason to hope for your affections.”

She pressed her lips together, feeling a hint of regret. “If that is true,” she said after a moment, “then I am sorry for it. I simply wanted to get to know him better because I liked him.”

“You seem to like whichever man you happen to be with.”

That stung, especially since she had started to have a very strong liking for him. At least until now. “Well, I am a woman,” she reminded him. “Liking men is quite normal for those of my sex.”

“It's clear the men like you as well. In fact, three of them are deeply infatuated with you at the moment. And those are the ones I know of. I shudder to think how many more tormented men there might be out there.”

“Infatuation is not love!” she said, becoming exasperated. “I told you, I will only marry a man who loves me. Lord Montrose and Lord Haye are infatuated with me, perhaps, but they certainly do not love me.”

“They damn well care enough about you to engage in brawling at a gentleman's club!” Ian roared. “And I'm the one who ended up with a black eye!”

“Santo cielo!”
she cried, her own frustration rising in the face of his. As always, when her temper was roused, Lucia found English inadequate to express her feelings and lapsed into her own language. “Men fight over women all the time,” she said in Italian. “The same way boys fight over toys.”

“I think it is Lord Haye and Lord Montrose who are the toys here,” he answered, also in Italian. “Your toys.”

“That is not fair!”

“No? Haye thinks you are going to marry him.”

“I never agreed to his proposal!”

He glared at her, hands on hips. “Then, for the love of God, what were you doing kissing him?”

“He asked me to marry him, and I know I have to marry somebody, so I thought I should at least consider his offer of marriage. But of course I couldn't agree to marry a man without knowing how he kisses.”

“Of course not!”

“So I had to kiss him and find out if I could ever grow to love him. But no, after that kiss, I knew I could not marry him.”

Ian was staring at her in disbelief. “You mean, you only kissed him as some sort of henwitted experiment?”

“Would you marry a woman without kissing her first?” She shook her head, looking at him with sadness. “If so, I fear there is no hope for you, Englishman.”

Ian raked a hand through his hair. “I don't
suppose you could just go ahead and marry him anyway?” he asked, a hint of desperation entering his voice. “Then I could go handle some
easy
diplomatic problem. Like the Turks and the Greeks. I mean, you could teach the poor sod how to kiss, couldn't you?”

She was appalled. Just the thought of enduring Haye's wet, fishlike mouth until the end of her days made her a bit queasy. Her feelings must have shown on her face, for Ian gave a deep sigh. “Never mind,” he muttered. “I knew it was too much to hope for.”

“I deserve a man who knows how to kiss,” she said stubbornly.

“So this is what I am to expect for the next three weeks? Do you intend to investigate the kissing skills of every bachelor in London?”

Those words made Lucia's frustration flare into outright anger. “I did not ask for any of this!” she cried. “I did not decree that I had to get married and that six weeks was plenty of time in which to find a husband! My father did.”

“That is a fact that cannot be helped. And it is also a fact that you brought a great deal of that situation about by your own past conduct.”

She was not appeased by his facts or the disapproval with which he uttered them. “We are talking about my life, my future, and I seem to be the only one who thinks it is important enough to warrant serious consideration!” With each word she spoke, Lucia became more frustrated and more angry at the entire impossible situation in
which she had been placed. Her temper unraveled.

Lucia glanced around and caught sight of the flowers reposing in a vase on the foyer table beside the calling-card tray, a dozen red carnations that had come the day before from Lord Walford. She yanked the bouquet out of the vase and brandished it at Ian. “You present men to me as if they are hats in a milliner's shop,” she said as she struck him in the shoulder with the dripping-wet bouquet, “so you cannot blame me for treating them as such and trying them on. Shall I take this one? No, he does not fit me. Perhaps that one? No, I do not like him. What about that one? No, his kiss I do not like.”

As she spoke, she punctuated her words with more whacks to his head and shoulders. “My father gives the money,” she went on furiously, “and you bring the men for me to buy. I do not want to buy a man as if he is a hat!”

Ian swatted at the bouquet with which she was attacking him as if it were a troublesome fly. “Damnation, woman, cease batting me with that idiotic thing. I have already been struck enough this evening, thanks to you.”

She landed her best blow yet, bashing the flowers right over his head, wishing it capable of smashing his thick masculine skull. She drew back for another strike, “Right now, I wish I could really hurt you, Englishman.”

“Hurt me?” He eyed the pathetic, broken stems in her hand with scorn. “If that is your intent,
Miss Valenti, then have the good sense to use something more effective than a bunch of carnations.”

She ignored that. “My father does not care what I want. You do not care what I want. I am the only one who can look out for my own interests, and that is just what I intend to do!”

“Interests? You seemed very interested in Montrose a few days ago. Then you thought you might have wanted Haye. I think you may even have wanted me for a moment there, but obviously, I was just another kissing experiment!”

“What kiss?” she shot back, and hit him again. “Was that a kiss? It was so quick, I wasn't sure.”

He yanked the bouquet out of her hands. “Unlike your lovesick suitors, I don't like being played like a Spanish guitar,” he said, crushing carnations in his fingers, “and I don't like listening to these men moon over you like pathetic schoolboys. And I really don't like having fists put through my face!”

“That is not my fault!”

“Like hell it's not!” His eyes flashed fire and he threw the carnations aside. He stepped closer, closing the short distance between them, his Italian words flying fast and furious. “You play with men, and you have no idea what you play with. These are intelligent, ordinarily rational British gentlemen, and you've got them so worked up, they are making utter fools of themselves over you, while you don't care one whit for any of them.”

Faced with a blaze of such hot, splendid fury, even Lucia was forced to retreat. She took a few steps back, then stopped and lifted her chin a notch. She swallowed hard and faced him down. “I deserve to find a man who truly loves me,” she said, mustering her dignity and controlling her own anger in the face of his. “I see no reason to settle for less, and if you and my father expect me to do so, you can both go to hell. As I said, Haye does not love me. He wants me, perhaps, but he does not love me. Lord Montrose does not love me either.”

“They gave everyone at Brooks's a fine imitation of it when they proceeded to beat each other to a bloody pulp! They were both thrown out into the street. They may even lose their memberships over this.”

“When the man comes along who truly loves me,” she continued as if he hadn't spoken, “I will know it in my heart.”

“Well, tell your heart to damn well get on with it, so I can get on with my life!”

“What on earth is going on here?” Grace's shocked voice entered the conversation. Both Lucia and Ian turned toward the stairs at the opposite end of the foyer to find they had gathered a crowd of amazed spectators. Not only had their quarrel awakened Grace, but also Dylan, Isabel, and a handful of servants.

“Good heavens!” Grace gasped as she looked at Ian's face. “What happened to your eye?”

Before he could answer, Dylan spoke up,
sounding both astonished and thoroughly amused. “You got in a fight? You, my disciplined, dignified big brother? Ye gods, I can scarce believe it. The last time I saw you like this, I was thirteen and put poison oak in your drawers. You gave me a damn fine whacking for it, too, if I recall.”

“I did not get in a fight,” Ian said through clenched teeth, speaking in English this time. He glared at Lucia. “I tried to prevent one, and this is what I got for my trouble.”

His brother started to ask more questions, but Ian held up his hand to stop him. Still looking at Lucia, he resumed speaking in Italian. “Tomorrow,” he said, “you will face Lord Haye. You will tell him that this was all a mistake, and you will apologize
profusely
for any misunderstanding you caused by your behavior. You will make it clear to him that, as wonderful as he is, you cannot in good conscience marry him. Since you have so much charm, I leave it to you to come up with a reason that will not hurt the fellow too badly.”

Ian turned and strode toward the front door. Opening it, he went on, still in Italian, “Everyone at Brooks's knows about the fight, the kiss, and Haye's proposal, by the way. So in addition to already being London's most determined flirt, you will soon be its most famous jilt. Congratulations.”

With that, he walked out and slammed the door behind him.

I
an slept at a hotel. Not that sleeping had a whole lot to do with it. He spent most of the early-morning hours staring at the ceiling of his suite, trying to cool his temper, an ice-cold, unopened bottle of the Clarendon's best champagne pressed to his bruised eye. By midmorning, he was doing exactly what the cause of his fury had told him he needed to do more often. He let off steam in the only manner acceptable for gentlemen. He went to Gentleman Jackson's.

Stripped to the waist, he stood in one of the gymnasium's pugilist-training rooms with a hard, grain-filled sack hanging in front of him. He thought of Montrose, his own throbbing head, and slammed his bare fist into the center of the
sack, imagining it was Montrose's
handsome
face. There was such satisfaction in that move that he did it again. And again. And again.

He thought of Haye. How could any man think a kiss was acceptance of a marriage proposal? Slam. Addlepated ass. And what was the man doing alone with Lucia in the first place, getting kissed by her? Slam. Slam. Slam.

And what about himself? Wanting what he couldn't have. Wanting that luscious mouth on his mouth, wanting that amazing, voluptuous body under his, craving it so badly he ached and couldn't sleep and couldn't work. Couldn't even think straight, God, he was threatening to become as much a blithering idiot as Walford. What a nauseating thought. Slam.

Damn him for the biggest fool alive if he ever started stammering over a pretty girl as if he were a boy in short pants. Double damn him for thinking with his groin and not his head. Slam. Slam. Slam.

He needed a petticoat cure, he decided. He hadn't had a woman for so long, he couldn't remember. Eight months, ten. Something like that. Slam.

No wonder he was going crazy. Tonight, he decided, he'd go invade a seraglio, find some feminine company to set his body right, and return his brains north where they belonged. In his head. Slam. Slam. Slam.

For the next hour, Ian pummeled the training sack with all the force of his frustration, won
dering how many more Hayes and Montroses and Walfords were out there waiting to make his life hell.

Breathing hard, he drew back and wiped sweat from his forehead, scowling at the sack in front of him. Why were the Italians always so much trouble? Especially one particular Italian, one who had a smile like the sun and the body of a goddess. She also had the soul of a house cat. She wanted to be pampered and spoiled, petted and adored. Until she didn't.

Ian readied himself for another round, then hesitated for no reason at all. With a curse, he turned and walked away. He supposed he'd let off enough steam for one day.

 

There were times when being an accomplished actress came in very useful. Lady Hewitt's rout that evening proved to be one of those times.

“Miss Valenti, I understand you are engaged to Lord Haye. Let me offer my congratulations.”

Lucia pasted on a smile for Lady Westburn, amazed by how many congratulatory sentiments one woman could get in only a few hours. “
Grazie,
Contessa, but nothing is decided until my father gives his permission,” she replied, thinking if she had to say those words one more time, she was going home.

“Of course, of course, but surely Prince Cesare cannot object to Lord Haye. Like yourself, Haye is a Catholic.”

Lucia ignored the other woman's belittling tone.
She merely shrugged her shoulders. “My father is sometimes difficult to understand. There is no predicting what he will say. We shall have to see.”

After a few minutes of polite conversation in which the countess tried to gain more information and Lucia delicately avoided giving it, Lady Westburn moved on.

Lucia leaned closer to Grace. “I wish I could simply tell everyone there is no engagement,” she murmured in exasperation.

“You cannot refute it to others until you have clarified the misunderstanding with Haye himself,” Grace replied for perhaps the tenth time since they had arrived at the party.

“I know, I know.” Lucia sighed, wishing Haye had been able to call on her that afternoon. Wanting to clear up this mess as quickly as possible, she had sent him a note first thing this morning, requesting he pay a call on her. Haye, however, had replied with regret that his day was fully occupied with matters he could not set aside. Given the earl's feelings for her, such a reply was rather odd, but Haye had assured her he would call upon her the following day, and she had been forced to resign herself to twenty-four hours of pretending for others that she and the earl were intent on marriage.

“Miss Valenti, congratulations on your engagement to Lord Haye.”

Lucia smiled at Lady Kettering and gave her little speech yet again.

The marchioness smiled back at her. “When I
introduced you to Haye at my little amateur concert, I had the feeling you two would suit. It seems I was right.”

Lucia widened her smile and laughed a little, but as soon as the marchioness walked away, she set her strawberry ice aside, half-eaten, and gave Grace a pleading look. “I have a terrible headache. Is there any way I could go home?”

“Of course we'll go home if you wish.” Grace set down her ice and glanced around. “Let's see if we can find Dylan and have him send for the carriage.”

The two women made their way through the throng of people crowding Lady Hewitt's drawing room, then moved into her music room, but there was no sign of Dylan in either place. They did, however, encounter the Duke and Duchess of Tremore at the bottom of the stairs.

“Has either of you seen Dylan?” Grace asked them. “Lucia has a headache and wants to go home.”

“We saw him a moment ago,” Tremore answered. “He said he was going outside to get some fresh air.” The duke glanced at Lucia. “I understand you and Lord Haye are to be married, Miss Valenti?”

Lucia gave a groan.

Daphne nudged her husband in the ribs, and he gave her a surprised glance in return. “What?” he asked, clearly ignorant of the circumstances. “The news is all over town. White's was buzzing about it earlier. Is it not true?”

“Well—” Daphne hesitated and glanced at Lucia. “May I tell him?”

Lucia, who had already explained the entire mess to the duchess in whispers an hour earlier, said to Tremore, “Haye thinks we are engaged, but we are not.”

The duke raised an eyebrow. “I see,” he said in the tone of one who clearly didn't.

“It's complicated,” Lucia said, giving him an unhappy look. “I leave it to the duchess to explain, if you do not mind. My head is aching, and I just want to go home.”

“That's why we were trying to find Dylan,” Grace said. “To send for the carriage.”

“We are waiting for our carriage as well,” Daphne said. “We've been waiting quite some time, so it should be here at any moment. This party is such a crush, if you wait for Dylan to send for his carriage from the mews, you'll be here another half hour at least. We would be happy to escort you back to Portman Square, Lucia. That way, Grace and Dylan can go home at their leisure, and you can rest your head.”

Lucia looked at the duchess with gratitude, and a short time later, she was back at Portman Square. Dylan's cook, Mrs. March, insisted on giving her a cup of foul-tasting herb tea that worked like magic. By the time Lucia crawled into bed, her headache was gone.

She drifted off, but her sleep was not peaceful. She dreamed that her father was insisting she marry Haye. Ian was there, too, agreeing with
Cesare, saying that just because the poor sod couldn't kiss was no reason for Lucia to refuse him. Then, she was in a church with Haye, the vows were spoken, and though she kept trying to scream, “No, no, it's all a mistake,” no words would come out of her mouth. Then she and Haye were in a carriage, husband and wife, and the earl was kissing her with that fish mouth. It was so awful that Lucia woke herself up.

She sat bolt upright in bed, gasping with relief as she realized it was only a dream. She lay down again, but the dream was still so vivid in her mind that she could not fall back to sleep.

She knew that dream could become reality. She could be forced to marry Haye, or if not him, some other man whose kisses were equally un-appetizing. She had only three weeks left to find a husband. What if August came, and she had not found him?

She had been introduced to many men since arriving in England, but only one intrigued her. Only one captivated her. Only one had the passion she craved.

Lucia thought of the night before, of how Ian had looked standing there in the foyer, blazing with fury. She had wondered what would happen if his control ever slipped and his passions were unleashed. Now she knew. And even though his anger had been directed at her, it had been an impressive sight. Ian Moore was quite a man.

Not that it mattered. She couldn't marry Ian even if she wanted to. Lucia rolled onto her side
and wrapped her arms around her pillow. Three weeks seemed a woefully insufficient amount of time in which to find a husband. What was she going to do?

That horrible dream came back to her, and worry began to gnaw at her insides. Though she tried to go back to sleep, it was useless. Finally, after tossing and turning a few more minutes, she pushed back the counterpane and got out of bed. Thinking perhaps a book would take her mind off her troubles, she slipped a robe over her nightgown and went downstairs.

As she approached the open door of the library, she realized Ian must be home, for she heard his voice and that of another man. Her first thought was that Dylan and Grace had also come home from the party early, but when she got closer to the library, she realized that the person with Ian was not his brother.

“It is insupportable!” an irritated male voice was saying. “Insupportable.”

Haye.

Lucia stopped several feet away from the door, frowning in puzzlement. What was Haye doing here?

Ian said her name and something else she didn't quite catch. Lucia took a step closer.

“Sir Ian, she was carrying on a love affair! And with a blacksmith!”

Lucia caught her breath. They were talking about Armand. She heard Ian speak again, and she strained to listen.

“A most alarming rumor indeed,” he was saying, “but with no basis in fact. The girl is—”

“No basis in fact?” Haye's voice held cold contempt. “Madame Tornay, as matron of this academy for young ladies, is a woman of scrupulous honesty. If she were not, I would never have placed my sister in her care. She would not impart such a tale to my uncle unless it was the absolute truth.”

“So you condemn Miss Valenti based on stories imparted by others.”

“Madame Tornay was quite clear in her account of the episode. Miss Valenti carried on this liaison with a blacksmith named Armand Bouget for months. It was well-known among her friends there, and Madame Tornay got wind of it. Miss Valenti—Miss Pelissaro, as she was then, for this was prior to her father's acknowledgment and she was actually living under her mother's name, of all the unconventional things! I did not even know Francesca's surname was Pelissaro until my uncle informed me today. Anyway, to return to the point, Miss Valenti would creep out of her room in the dark of night for clandestine meetings with this Bouget fellow.”

“Perhaps they merely talked.”

“Sir Ian, really! We are men of the world, you and I. We both know such conduct cannot be innocent.”

Ian started to speak again, but Haye interrupted. “When you and I first discussed the matter of Miss Valenti's situation, I was hesitant even
to consent to an introduction, given her mother's profession. But against my better judgment, I agreed to meet her.”

Lucia bristled at that, highly indignant.

“When I did meet her,” Haye continued, “she captured my heart at once, and I chose to overlook the matter of her mother and her illegitimacy. I became willing to forgive her misfortunes of birth as matters outside her control.”

Lucia's hands balled into fists. She took a step closer to the door, thinking to interrupt and tell Haye what he could do with his forgiveness. She'd tell him what he could do with his kissing skills, too, while she had the chance. But then Haye spoke again, and she halted, curiosity overcoming her outrage.

“But Armand Bouget is a different matter. I had thought that the forward manner in which Miss Valenti kissed me indicated her affection for me. But now I discover that her affection has also been given to at least one other man, and probably her virtue as well. It seems she takes after her mother more than I would have liked to believe.”

“Haye,” Ian began, but the earl cut him off.

“My uncle and I, being gentlemen of discretion, will keep this knowledge to ourselves, but it does impel me to withdraw from this engagement. Miss Valenti is soiled goods. I cannot marry soiled goods.”

Lucia wrapped her arms tightly around herself and closed her eyes. Whatever reply Ian might
have made, she did not hear it, for it was his past words that echoed through her mind.

It will be difficult enough for me to find you a suitable husband in the short time we are allowed…you brought a great deal of this situation about by your own past conduct…I have no desire to clean the Augean stables…

Until this moment, she had not taken his words all that seriously, but now she began to appreciate the fragility of a woman's reputation, how her own past might come back to haunt her. Lucia's outrage dissolved into dismay.

All this time, she had been concentrating on finding a husband to love her. She'd been so fixed on that emotion, it had never occurred to her that her past might prevent her from finding a man who respected her. It was not fair, but it might very well happen. She didn't care what Haye thought, but what would another man think of her?

What did Ian think?

That question deepened her dismay into dread. Did Ian think she was soiled goods? He must. With his exacting standards of propriety, how could he think otherwise?