Guilty Series (96 page)

“You had best meet the young lady before you come to that conclusion,” Ian answered. “I assure
you, dear brother, Miss Valenti is capable of creating more chaos than you ever could.”

“I shall look forward to meeting her, then. I adore chaos. Shall you stay to dinner?”

Surprised, Ian glanced at Grace. “Didn't you tell him?”

Grace lifted one hand in a gesture of futility. “He's been gone all day and just arrived home. I barely had the opportunity to explain about Miss Valenti and my role as her chaperone before you came in. I haven't had the chance to tell him the rest.”

Dylan looked from his wife to his brother and back again. “The rest of what?”

It was Ian who answered. “As long as Miss Valenti is living here, I am living here as well.”

“What?” Dylan gave a groan of despair that Ian hoped was in jest. “Ye gods, must you?”

“Yes, I must. I know you and I don't always get on, Dylan, but I cannot allow Grace to bear the full responsibility for Miss Valenti's conduct. It would be too great a burden. With her total wont of propriety, it would be easy for some fortune-hunting scoundrel to maneuver her into a compromising situation and take advantage of it. Until she is safely married off, I intend to watch over that young woman like a hawk.”

Dylan grinned. “What, afraid she'll go sneaking off with some unsuitable young man for a few kisses in the back garden?”

That was exactly what he was afraid of. He looked at his brother with grim determination.

“She isn't going to be sneaking out anywhere.”

“Poor Miss Valenti,” Dylan murmured. “With you hovering over her, she won't be able to have any fun.”

Ian thought of her flirtatious dark eyes, mischievous laugh, and shapely body. “I believe Lucia Valenti has already had enough fun to last a lifetime.”

 

Ian was not surprised when Miss Valenti paid no mind to his instructions about her dress. When she came down for dinner, she was wearing a gown of pristine white, but there was nothing pristine about the neckline. It was low enough that any man would have to be blind not to notice what it accentuated. Ian did not miss how Dylan raised an eyebrow at the sight of such perfect assets so splendidly displayed nor the mocking smile his younger brother sent in his direction. Dylan had always had a most irritating sense of humor.

As for Isabel, the child took one look at Miss Valenti, pronounced her dress “absolutely smashing,” and declared that when she grew up she'd have one just like it, only in red. Dylan's expression changed at once to a frown of fatherly disapproval, and it was Ian's turn to grin. Isabel was going to give Dylan hell when she grew up, and after years of watching his younger brother break every rule under the sun, Ian was going to enjoy that.

Grace, being a woman of serene temperament
and tact, conveyed no opinion of Miss Valenti's dress by either word or expression and informed Isabel that until she grew up and was a married woman, pastel shades for her gowns were the order of the day.

Isabel protested, but the ongoing battle over the child's favorite color was cut off by the announcement of Dylan's butler, Osgoode, that dinner was served.

After they were seated in the dining room, Grace turned the conversation to social topics. “Dylan and I received an invitation from Lady Kettering to attend her amateur concert on Thursday next,” she told them. “I was going to decline, but perhaps I should accept. Ian and Miss Valenti could come with us.”

“An amateur concert would be a good way to introduce Miss Valenti into society,” Ian agreed.

“Lady Kettering and I had planned to shop the day after tomorrow in Bond Street and take tea. If you are agreeable, Miss Valenti,” she said with a glance at Lucia, “I shall bring you along and explain how I am chaperoning you for the season. Knowing that, she will be sure to extend the concert invitation to include you.” She returned her attention to her brother-in-law. “I shall also explain your unexpected arrival from the East, Ian. She will include you as well.”

Dylan groaned. “I hate those amateur concerts. They are an assault to one's ears. Young ladies with little musical talent playing their instruments with great enthusiasm. Most of the time,
when they play something of mine, I cringe. Must we go?”

“Miss Valenti might enjoy it.” Grace turned to Lucia. “Do you like music?”

“I do,” Lucia answered. “I like it very much.”

“Do you play an instrument yourself?”

“I learned the Spanish guitar as a girl.”

Isabel spoke up. Turning to Lucia, who sat beside her, she asked, “But are you any good?”

“Isabel!” Grace reproved, but Lucia only laughed.

“Good enough that your papa would not cringe, I promise you,” she answered the child's question. “But I have heard that you are a most excellent musician. And a composer, too, like your papa.”

The child's face lit up like a candle. “You've heard that about me? Uncle Ian must have told you.”

“No, no. I heard about you before I ever came here. Your father is very famous, you see, so of course, people have talked of you and your talent as well. I hope you will consent to play the piano-forte for me?”

“Oh, yes!” Isabel cried, delighted. “After dinner.”

“Not tonight,” Grace put in. “Your bedtime is nine o'clock. You can play for Miss Valenti another time.”

Isabel's protests to this were in vain. After dessert, she was marched off to bed by her nanny, Molly Knight. Grace took Lucia into the drawing
room for coffee while Ian and Dylan remained in the dining room for port and brandy.

After a few minutes of polite interest in Ian's work with the Turks and Greeks, Dylan just had to turn the conversation to their houseguest. And of course, he had to do so with his usual sardonic amusement. “You didn't tell me how pretty she was. She'll have every young man in London panting over her before you've finished the introductions.” He swirled the brandy in his glass with a grin. “I don't know what you are worried about. You'll have her engaged in a month.”

“We shall see. Attraction is all very well, but a man's love seems to be her primary consideration, and that is not something I can control.”

“I thought you said her preferences do not matter.”

“They don't.” Ian gave his brother a wry glance over the top of his glass of port. “But this entire business would be much easier to manage if love were involved. What I need,” he added and took a drink, “is a good love potion.”

Dylan laughed. “That young woman
is
a love potion.”

A true enough observation. Ian, however, didn't know if that fact made things better or worse. Probably worse, he concluded with resignation.

L
ucia and Grace had barely sat down to their coffee in the drawing room when an interruption occurred. Isabel's nanny came in and informed Grace that the child was refusing to go to sleep.

“She wants the next chapter of her story, ma'am,” Miss Knight said. “She's not closing her eyes without it, she says.”

“Heavens, with Miss Valenti's arrival, I forgot.” Grace set down her cup and saucer, giving Lucia an apologetic look. “Dylan and I always tuck Isabel into bed at night and read with her before she goes to sleep. We are in the midst of Victor Hugo's
Hunchback of Notre Dame.
Do you mind if I leave you for a short while?”

“Of course not.”

Grace departed with the nanny, and Lucia was alone in the drawing room. She sat back in her chair with her tea, thinking over her new situation.

Despite the fact that Sir Ian had maneuvered her into this house, she did have to admit she liked his family. Dylan Moore was as wickedly charming as his reputation would suggest, his wife was as nice as she was beautiful, and Isabel's impatience with proprieties rather reminded her of herself, especially at that age. Isabel was a fortunate girl, she reflected, to have two parents there to tuck her in and read with her every night.

Suddenly restless, Lucia set her cup aside, rose from her chair, and took a turn about the drawing room, shoving aside any feelings of self-pity about her own upbringing before they could surface. Instead, she turned her mind to a much more intriguing occupation: how to get around Ian Moore.

All her efforts yesterday had been wasted. She might have a permissive chaperone, but she was also stuck with him, and she had the feeling he would be anything but permissive. He'd be worse than Cesare, given half a chance.

Lucia came to a halt beside a chess table, staring down at the black-and-white-marble game pieces, thinking of their conversation the day before. He had been devilishly ingenious, maneuvering her around like a chess piece, all the while
letting her think she was in control of the situation. She could not afford to underestimate him again.

She was determined to have control over her own destiny, and Sir Ian was the key to achieving that goal. Cesare respected him and trusted him enough to put him in charge of her future. Lucia knew her mother was right. She had to get Sir Ian on her side, persuade him to let her choose her own mate. But how?

Idly, she picked up a knight from the table and ran her thumb along the intricate carving of the piece, thinking out her own next move.
Use your charm and your magnetism,
Francesca had said. That was all very well, she thought with a hint of exasperation, but Ian Moore was proving rather impervious to both, a most frustrating circumstance and one she'd not often encountered in her life. Without being unduly conceited, Lucia had known from the time she was sixteen that she had a potent effect on the opposite sex, but her feminine appeal had been useless with Sir Ian so far. On the other hand, it was early days yet, and she refused to be discouraged. Ian Moore might be haughty and proper and terribly stuffy, but he was still just a man, with all a man's vulnerabilities.

“Do you play chess?”

Lucia turned her head to find the subject of her thoughts beside her. She gave him her prettiest smile. Smiling at a man went a long way and cost a woman nothing. “I do. I like the game.”

His eyes narrowed a bit in assessment as he studied her. “I daresay, but—to quote my niece—are you any good?”

“I am very good,” she answered at once. “I am a chess player most excellent.”

One corner of his mouth curved upward in what might have been a hint of a smile. “You certainly don't hide any of your lights under a bushel, do you?”

“A bushel?” she repeated in bewilderment. “What a strange question! I do not understand this hiding of lights.”

“It's an idiom, an expression,” he explained. “I was really commenting that you make no effort to downplay your talents and abilities.”

“Of course not.” She was astonished. “Why should I?”

“Some would consider modesty about one's accomplishments a virtue.”

“The English are extraordinary.” She shook her head, confounded by these Anglo-Saxon notions of modesty. “It is no virtue to hide one's abilities. If one has been blessed by God with a certain talent and can do a thing well, why not be proud of it? Besides, a woman has little enough power in the world.” With deliberate intent, she ran her fingertips along her bare collarbone. Her move succeeded in drawing his attention downward, and any hint of a smile on his face vanished.

“Whatever appealing qualities she has,” Lucia went on, “she should make certain men are aware
of them and appreciate them. That way, your sex never takes mine for granted.”

“Any man who takes you for granted,” he said, lifting his impassive gaze to her face, “is a fool.”

Encouraged by the tenseness of his voice, if not his countenance, she moved closer to him. “Are you a fool, Sir Ian?”

He remained rigidly still beside her, hands clasped behind his back, his expression implacable. “No, Miss Valenti, I am not. So whatever schemes you are hatching in that clever brain of yours, set them aside and stop flirting with me.”

She made a face at him and moved a step away. “I do not know why I make the effort. You do not flirt back, so flirting with you is not amusing. Not fun.”

“I am devastated to hear it.” He made an open-handed gesture to the chessboard in front of them. “Are we going to play or not?”

She hesitated, looking at him as she pretended to think it over. “I am not certain I wish to play chess with you,” she said after a moment. Setting the knight back on the board, she turned the predominant question of the evening back on him. “Are
you
any good?”

That got a full and genuine grin from him. “Deuce take it, you're a saucy creature, aren't you?”

Despite the fact that she had succeeded in making him smile, Lucia felt compelled to protest his words. “I am no creature.
Ma insomma!
What an
extraordinary thing to say. Creature? You speak as if I am a dragon or a…a sea monster.”

“Again, it is an expression. It is not meant to be taken literally.” He pulled out the chair in front of the white chessmen and gave her an inquiring glance.

She hesitated a moment longer, then took the offered chair. He circled the table to the opposite side, pulled off his evening coat, and draped it over the back of his chair. “I never meant to imply anything insulting toward you,” he said as he sat down.

“I should hope not. Being a diplomat, you should choose your words with more care.” She paused with her hand poised over her queen's pawn. “Compliments, for example,” she said with a pointed glance at him, “are always appreciated.”

“Indeed?” He lowered his gaze to the board. “I shall keep that in mind next time I meet with the Turks.”

Lucia gave a heavy sigh and slid the pawn two spaces forward in the opening move of the game. “Your lack of skill at flirtation is a thing to make pity.”

He moved his knight. “Is it?”

“Yes.” Lucia did not look at him. Instead, she kept her gaze on the game. “A handsome man should always know how to flirt with women. If he does not, it is a waste of his looks.”

“So I am handsome now, am I?” He sounded
amused. “And to think a few hours ago, I was a clever, manipulating bastard.”

“You are still that,” she assured him, and moved another pawn, “so do not get conceited just because I find you handsome.” She stuck her nose in the air and turned her face away. “Besides, I am still angry at the way you tricked me.”

“Were you not attempting to trick me?”

Lucia returned her gaze to his. “That is different.”

“Ah, one set of rules for me and a different one for you. Not very fair.” He slid his bishop across the board, the exact move she had expected. He was a good player, she concluded, but not very imaginative.

She slid her own bishop into place. “I am fighting for my happiness, my life, my future. I do not care about what is fair.”

“And I am doing my duty,” he countered, taking her pawn just as she had expected him to do. “My duty is just as important to me as your happiness is to you.”

“Nothing is more important than love.”

“I know women always think love and happiness are inevitably tied together, but that is not true.”

“It is true, and it compels me to warn you. In the choosing of my husband, I will do whatever I have to do to ensure my happiness. Your duty is your own affair.”

“I am warned, then.” With those words, he seemed inclined to settle into the game rather
than converse, and she followed his lead. They each concentrated on their strategies, Lucia forming hers on his conservative, rather predictable style of play. The game slowed to a crawl, for he took far longer to make his moves than she did hers. That might or might not be an indication he was in over his head; but sometimes, he made haphazard moves that seemed without purpose, indicating that he could be floundering. She was quick to take advantage of those moments to further her own bold plan of attack.

She lounged back in her chair between moves, studying him. The lamplight caught the glints of lighter brown in his dark hair as he studied the board between them. His nose had been broken at some point in his life, she noted. There was a faint white scar at the edge of his jaw and another over his brow. Given this man's smooth, polished demeanor, she could not see him engaging in fisticuffs with anyone. Her gaze lowered to roam over what she could see of his body above the table, and her mind imagined the muscle and sinew beneath his immaculate white linen and moss green waistcoat. If he ever had engaged in fighting to gain those scars and that broken nose, he had probably won. It was tragic beyond belief that a man so finely made was such a dry stick.

As they played, the music of Dylan Moore's piano floated to them from the music room across the foyer, along with the sound of his wife's violin in accompaniment, but after a few hours, the
music stopped, and the house became silent. Servants turned down lamps and blew out candles, leaving Lucia and Sir Ian the only ones still awake in the quiet house.

“I have been thinking of your words from earlier this evening,” he said as he reached out to move one of his remaining pawns. “The dictates of my conscience cannot ignore how important happiness in marriage is to you.”

Startled, she looked up, searching his face as he leaned back in his chair. Was the marble statue beginning to soften already? Surely not. She returned her attention to the game.

“I can only hope,” he went on as she reached out to make her next move, “that of the men on my list, one will satisfy your need for that happiness.”

Lucia caught her breath and paused, her hand poised over the board. “You have an actual list? Already?”

“Of course. I told you time is short, and your situation requires an alliance, not a courtship. I shall be contacting each of the gentlemen during the next few days, and arrange for them to meet you. Lady Kettering's concert might be a good start in that regard.”

He said nothing more. Impatient, Lucia pulled her hand back and stirred in her chair. “Who is on this list?” she asked. “What are these men like?”

“I cannot discuss them with you until I have determined which ones are amenable to alliance
with your father's house. It wouldn't be right.” He gestured to the board. “Your move,” he reminded her.

“You are the most provoking man!” Lucia accused, and shoved her knight into a new position, taking his. “First you bring up the subject of my future husband, then refuse to discuss the possible candidates. You tease me cruelly.”

He lifted his gaze from the board, looking affronted. “I do not tease, Miss Valenti,” he said with mild reproof. “It is not in my nature.”

Sir Ian returned his attention to the game without another word. They played chess in silence for some minutes, but Lucia's mind was on another game. Between moves, she watched him, trying to determine how she could get around this man's impossible, bewildering sense of ethics. She wanted to know about these men, and damn it all, she deserved to know. It was her future he was toying with.

Lucia smoothed her hair, bit her lips to deepen their color, and straightened in her chair, leaning forward to present herself in the way most favorable to a man. “Sir Ian?”

He didn't even look up. “Hmm?”

His arm was stretched out along the side of the board, and she touched his hand to gain his attention. “Your sense of honor and fair play are admirable,” she said, letting the tip of her finger linger on his hand for a moment before she pulled back.

His lips twisted in that hint of a smile. “Pouring
the butter on me again, I see,” he murmured and reached out to take her bishop with his knight. “Your turn.”

She moved a pawn, uninterested. Very few of his moves so far had surprised her, her strategy was unaltered, and she was reasonably confident of victory. The chess game was not as challenging to her as the other game they were playing at this moment. “It is no wonder my father admires you so. You are a most excellent diplomat. So discreet.”

He looked up. “What do you want, Miss Valenti?”

“Your discretion does you much credit, but my feminine curiosity overwhelms me. Could you not tell me something about these men? Not their names, of course,” she added at once, “for I would not dream of asking you to violate your sense of propriety.” She gave him a wicked little smile. “Although I'd love it if you would.”

“No doubt.” He studied her for a moment, then he said, “I have several peers in mind. Your father, I am sure, would prefer the gentleman of highest rank.”

That information told her absolutely nothing. “But what are they like?”