Guilty Series (98 page)

“Yes. I have often envied Dylan that.”

“You have?” She turned to look at him. “But why? Surely you could have a set of books just as fine.”

“There would be no point, for I should never be able to enjoy them.” He gestured to documents spread all around him. “I am away from home most of the time, and it is impractical to carry one's book collection all over the globe.”

“True.” She leaned back against the bookshelves behind her. “Is your profession the reason you have never married?”

“I am gone all the time, usually never staying in one place for more than a few months. I should
have to leave a wife and children at home, or cart them about from place to place. It would not be right.”

She tilted her head, studying him. “Do you always do what is right?”

“I try to, yes.”

She smiled. “I don't.”

That got a wry smile from him in return. “So I've noticed,” he said, and returned his attention to his work.

“To never marry, to never have children, to travel all about and never settle at home must be lonely.”

The quill stopped moving, but only for the barest second. “It can be,” he said, and resumed writing.

“Your work is very important to you, isn't it?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

That garnered his full attention. He stopped writing and rested his elbows on the desk. Rolling the quill in his palms, he thought about it for a moment before he spoke. “Britain is the most powerful nation in the world, and I believe such a position carries enormous responsibility. I do what I can to ensure my nation uses its power wisely.”

Lucia thought about that for a moment, then she shook her head. “That may be true, but it is not the reason.”

She straightened away from the bookshelf and walked over to a place beside his chair. Facing
him, she sat on top of the desk, oblivious to the papers spread across its surface.

“There are chairs in the room,” he pointed out.

She settled herself more comfortably where she was, rustling the papers beneath her. “It is all very noble, what you say about your country's power and responsibility, but that is not the main reason you do what you do.”

He turned his head to look up at her. “You are sitting on a very important trade agreement with the Dutch.”

She waved aside the Dutch. “No, you are a diplomat because you like to be the one who has the power in any situation.”

“That, too,” he admitted.

“And,” she went on, “because you are so good at hiding how you feel, you always have the power. You always have the upper hand. Is that not how you see it?”

“Yes. You would not agree, I daresay, for you wear your feelings on your sleeve, and those feelings change from moment to moment.”

Lucia was not bothered by that assessment. “I am capricious, it is true. I am a person of strong emotions, and I do not hide them.”

“But it robs you of control over a given situation.”

“Perhaps.” She slanted him a knowing look, her mouth curving upward at the corners. “Perhaps not.”

He made no reaction. How she would love to
shake this man's iron discipline. Her blood stirred with a hint of excitement, and she could not resist the temptation to try. She leaned a little closer to him. “There is more than one way to have power, Sir Ian,” she said in her silkiest way. “And being out of control is not always a bad thing.”

He did not move. “Is that supposed to persuade me to hand over control of your situation to you?”

Lucia leaned back and admitted it. “I hope so.”

“Why do you want it so much?”

She smiled sweetly. “Because I cannot have it.”

Sir Ian expelled a harsh breath that was almost a laugh. “That I believe.”

“Sir Ian, I shall be serious with you. Getting married is the most important thing a woman does in her life. It must be a choice. My choice and his, made with mutual respect and love.”

He stirred in his chair as if impatient, but she pushed on. “Cesare says I shall not have the choice of whom to marry, but he only says that to punish me, for he is angry. Sir Ian, please do not do me this injustice. Giving me the choice of whom I marry costs you nothing, and it is the right thing to do. You said yourself that you always do what is right.”

Sir Ian shoved back his chair and stood up. Afraid he was leaving, Lucia jumped off the desk and put a hand on his arm. “My father offers
much money for some man to marry me, but if I do not have that man's love and respect, I shall be under his boot, and that would make me unhappy all my days.”

He stiffened, and Lucia felt a pang of disappointment. She let her hand fall to her side. “I should have known you would not understand.”

She turned away, but his next words brought her up short. “On the contrary, Miss Valenti, I do understand.”

“You do?” She stopped and faced him again. Hope flickered to life.

“Yes. I recognize that you have a profound need to control your own destiny, and a deep desire for love. You are not in the same position as your sister, and treaties are not at stake. Your preferences in this matter should have been considered from the beginning.” He clasped his hands behind his back. “In that regard, I was…I was…”

“Wrong?” she supplied.

“Hasty.”

“Of course,” she agreed at once, allowing him that description. “What happens now?”

He gave the hem of his waistcoat a tug. “A compromise seems in order. I agree to allow your preference to be the deciding factor. However, I insist upon certain conditions.”

Lucia gave a sigh of relief. “What conditions?”

“Each and every man you meet must have my approval before you are to have anything further to do with him. And you may be sure that Grace
will be well aware of what sort of men I would find acceptable. No blacksmiths. No poets, no painters, no rakes, or scoundrels of any kind.”

She feigned disappointment. “A pity. Always, I have wanted a rake to fall in love with me. It is every woman's dream.”

“And women wonder why we men find your sex utterly baffling.”

“I assure you, I shall not fall in love with a rake. No, no.” She gave a dreamy, tongue-in-cheek sigh. “But it would be so exciting if he fell in love with me.”

“To my mind, you've had enough excitement in your life.”

“You really are impossible to tease,” she told him with an exasperated sigh. “What other conditions do you have?”

“Obviously, the man in question must be willing to marry you,” he said, and began gathering the papers on his desk. “In addition, all Cesare's requirements must be met: a Catholic peer with a title, estates, fortune, and respected connections. And the schedule remains the same. Your father arrives less than six weeks from now. You have until then to find a man acceptable to us both.”

“But—”

“Six weeks.” He dropped his sheaf of documents into the leather dispatch case that lay open on the desk and looked at her, his expression hard and resolute. “If you have not chosen a particular man from among your suitors by then, I will choose one for you.”

She did not know if that amount of time would be sufficient to find the man she wanted, but she knew she could push him no further at this point. “I agree to your conditions.”

“Excellent. Now, as it is very late, I believe I shall go to bed.” He closed his dispatch case. Grasping it by the handles, he bowed, then moved past her and left the room. It was probably fortunate for both of them that he did not hear her next words.

“I agree,” she repeated in a whisper toward the open doorway. “For now.”

R
osehill, Lord and Lady Kettering's residence during the London season, had the advantage of being north of Hyde Park, in Bays-water. Though only a short distance from Town, it was considered to be in the country, Grace explained to Lucia as they rode with Dylan and Ian to that destination.

The estate was possessed of generous grounds and splendid gardens, and Lady Kettering's annual amateur concert was held in the manner of a garden party, unreliable English weather permitting, of course. On the lawn, Lucia was told, there would be an enormous marquee, and beneath it, a stage would provide the means by which accomplished young ladies could show off
their talents, or as Dylan had pointed out, their lack thereof. Facing the stage would be plenty of seats for the hopefully appreciative audience. After the young ladies had finished playing, an octet of professional musicians would take over. Guests could then partake of refreshments and visit with friends at the tables on the lawn or stroll through the grounds.

As beautiful as the setting proved to be, if Lucia had any hopes of meeting men such as those she had described to Sir Ian, those hopes went unfulfilled. She had now been given the ability to choose, but it hardly mattered. Not a single man at Lady Kettering's event made her pulses rise one tiny bit. Some of the men were nice, some were handsome, all were polite, but none proved appealing enough or interesting enough to attract her.

Nonetheless, Lucia did like to be liked, and she was determined to make a good impression. So, she sat on a chair under the marquee, fanning herself in the warm spring afternoon, smiling at people until her jaw ached. She flirted with the men delicately and complimented them shamelessly. She laughed at their jokes and listened to their stories. She did everything she could to give each man she met her utmost attention. There were times, such as this moment, when that was an uphill struggle.

“Of course, it's all in the pollination, my dear Miss Valenti,” Lord Walford said, leaning forward in his chair to explain in detail. “And that
is a tricky business. You see, once the anthers ripen and the pollen is released…”

Lucia stared at Walford, trying to conceal her bafflement. She did not understand how a man who was sitting with a young woman he might decide to marry could wish to discuss rose pollination. Englishmen, she decided, were incomprehensible. She liked pretty flowers as well as the next girl, but she did not need an hour-long dissertation on how to breed them.

She somehow managed to extricate herself from Lord Walford, only to be introduced to some other man. With each introduction, with each discussion of the weather and each polite inquiry about her health, Lucia felt her future happiness moving further and further out of reach. By sunset, she could take no more. She whispered to Grace that she needed to be alone for a short while. Slipping away, she went for a walk.

After strolling along a graveled path, she found a charming, quiet little grotto with a fountain. Breathing a sigh of relief that she was alone at last, and no gentleman was going to offer to fetch her yet another glass of punch or give her his assessment of the beautiful day, she sat down on a stone bench. Leaning forward, she rested one elbow on her knee and her chin in her hand. She stared into the lily pond nearby, discouraged and confused.

She did not understand the English. Truly, she did not. How could she ever fall in love and marry one of them? She was accustomed to torrid
Frenchmen and volatile Italian men. These Englishmen, with their civility and restraint and lack of romance, seemed so dull by comparison. Where was the passion? The fire?

A pair of gray eyes came into her mind. There was fire there. She had seen it lurking beneath that polished, polite veneer the other night.

Or she might have just imagined it. Today, Sir Ian was scrupulously polite, his address was impeccable, and his occasional conversations with her were just as trivial as those of all the other men with whom she had spoken.

Perhaps she had expected too much from this first outing. After all, this was her first foray into English society, and it had been unrealistic to think that the man of her dreams was going to appear as easily as that. But he was out there, she knew it, and she was going to find him. She had to.

Lucia closed her eyes and said a little prayer to God that by the time her father arrived, she found a man—not one she was forced to marry, but one she wanted to marry—a man who could make her pulse race and her breath catch, a man she could talk to and laugh with, a man she could love for a lifetime. Lucia didn't think that was too much to ask.

 

From the look of things, Ian could only conclude that Miss Valenti had suitors eating out of her hand, because at any given time, half a dozen of them were following her around like little puppies hoping for treats. It was not until late in
the afternoon when the party was almost over that Ian managed to catch her alone, sitting on a stone bench in a grotto, gazing into a lily pond. She looked up as he approached.

Ian glanced around. “No flock of admirers following you?”

“Not at the moment, no.” She glanced around and put a finger to her lips. “I am hiding,” she confided in a whisper. “They have exhausted me.”

This did not sound promising. Ian sat down beside her on the bench and decided to take the gentlemen in question one by one, starting with the most eligible parti. “What did you think of Lord Blair?”

She thought it over for a long moment before she spoke. “He is a good man, I think. But his cousin—” She broke off and made a sound of contempt.

“You wouldn't be marrying his cousin,” Ian pointed out.

“You should,” she countered. “After all, Lady Sarah is the loveliest young woman of your acquaintance. A stunning beauty, if I recall your opinion.”

Ian remembered their conversation about Lady Sarah, and he couldn't help smiling at the asperity in her voice. “I did rather embellish her attributes, didn't I? But,” he couldn't help adding, “she is lovely to look at.”

She gestured to their surroundings. “So is a garden. But one cannot have a conversation with it.”

Ian gave her an innocent look. “Is conversation important?”

“Not to a man, I suppose, though I should have thought better of you than that. However, if you wish to admire a woman as dim as a firefly and as malicious as a wasp, Sir Ian, that is your affair.”

“Perhaps you do not like Lady Sarah because she has as many admirers here today as you do.”

Lucia made a sound of derision, and Ian decided it would be best to leave off further discussion of Lady Sarah Monforth. “Lord Blair is the eldest son of a marquess. The family is one of the finest and wealthiest in Britain. He seems to like you very much.”

She considered for a moment before she spoke. “He has one fatal flaw. He is too nice.”

“That is a flaw?”

She looked at him as if he were as hopelessly brain deficient as Lady Sarah. “I told you what sort of man I want. Do you not remember?”

How could he forget?

“I could twist Lord Blair around my little finger,” she went on. “He would be one of those husbands whose favorite words are, ‘Yes, my dear,' and, ‘Of course, my dear.' I want to be happy with my husband, and I want him to be happy with me.” She thought it over for a moment, then she said, “I do not believe Lord Blair is right for me. We should not make each other happy.”

Ian gave up on Blair for the moment. “What of Lord Montrose?”

“Ah,” she said, nodding with what might have been approval. “He made me laugh, that one. And he is handsome.”

Ian had no time to be encouraged by that comment, for she immediately went on, “Yes, very handsome, indeed. And he knows it, too. The entire time I spoke with him, he was preening for me and strutting like a peacock. I do not think I want to marry a peacock.”

So much for that hint of approval. Ian tried again. “Lord Haye?”

Miss Valenti shook her head. “Weak chin.”

“You would dismiss a man for something as trivial as a weak chin?”

“But I hate a man with a weak chin.”

“One is too nice, one is too handsome, one has a weak chin,” he said with a hint of irritation. “Good God, are you going to dismiss every man you meet on such trivialities as these?”

“A weak chin is not trivial. I do not want sons with weak chins.”

It was then that he perceived the smile curving the corners of her mouth.

“Think of the family portraits,” she went on.

Impudent baggage,
he thought, striving not to laugh, for it would only encourage her. “Do be serious and give an honest opinion, if you please. Haye is an earl. He has a fine estate in Sussex with very beautiful grounds. His sisters, I can assure you, are very fine young ladies and are not at all like Lady Sarah. I know Haye personally, Miss Valenti, and despite his chin, I
know him to be a sound man. Do you truly dislike him?”

She became serious again. “I did not dislike him,” she said with a sigh. “Dislike would have been preferable.”

“I do not understand what you mean.”

“I felt nothing when I looked at him, when I talked with him.” She lifted her hands, fingers pressed to thumbs in a purely Italian gesture of exasperation as she tried to explain. “Nothing. No excitement, no spark.”

“A first meeting can be deceiving. You might change your mind once you know him better.”

She considered that. After a moment, she nodded. “Very well,” she said, but her voice was doubtful. “You believe Haye is a good man, so I shall not be too quick to judge. We shall keep him on our list and see. As you say, perhaps I shall change my mind about him if I get to know him better.”

Ian did not want to trust Miss Valenti's unpredictable moods. Haye could not be the only possible candidate. “What did you think of Lord Walford?”

She frowned. “Which one was he again?”

“He was the one in the marquee with you. You seemed rather taken with him.”

“Oh, that one!” she cried in a tone that did not bode well for Walford's chances. “He cornered me to tell me all about this new rose he is breeding. How could you think I was taken with him?”

“How could I not? You spent an hour talking with him.”

“It took me an hour to get away, for I did not want to be rude and hurt his feelings.” She made a sound of exasperation and stood up. “If he corners me again, Sir Ian, please come to my rescue. Save me from another lecture on rose pollination.”

Ian grinned as he stood up and followed her. “I see your point,” he said, falling in step beside her on the gravel path. “The man is, perhaps, a bit dull.”

“Dull?” she repeated. “That is not the word I would use.” She halted and looked at him. “Sir Ian, I ask you this: When a pretty woman—and I like to think I am pretty enough—when a pretty woman is sitting in front of a man, why would he be talking about the breeding of roses?”

Ian looked at her mouth, with its cupid's-bow upper lip and pouty lower one, and conceded himself equally baffled. Realizing he was headed into dangerous territory with thoughts like that, he returned his attention to the subject at hand. Being a diplomat, he tried to be diplomatic. “Perhaps Walford was so overwhelmed by your beauty, it was the only thing he could think of to talk about.”

She was not mollified. “Then he should have complimented me, do you not think, instead of his newest flower creation?”

“So that is what you want of a suitor?” he asked, genuinely curious. “Compliments?”

“Better a discussion of my hips,” she countered, “than a discussion of rose hips!”

She walked away. Ian stood back, studying her figure for a moment, and he could not disagree with her about that. “Walford is, I take it, out of contention?” he asked, and started to follow her.

“It wasn't only him. All of them were the same. What is it about you Englishmen?” she demanded, lifting her hands in exasperation. “Have you no passion?”

She halted and turned around so abruptly he cannoned into her. Without thinking, he brought his hands up on either side of her hips to prevent her from falling. Beneath his palms, he felt the shape and curve of her, and all that passion Englishmen supposedly lacked flared up inside him with the quickness of a lit match. They were standing so close, he could smell the fragrance of her hair. Apple blossoms, he realized, inhaling deeply. His hands tightened their grip, and he wanted to pull her that last bit closer, but this lascivious intent had barely crossed his mind before he was jerking his hands away. He took a step back and clasped his hands behind him, reminding himself that he was a gentleman and cursing himself because such a reminder should not have been necessary.

“We may not demonstrate it, Miss Valenti,” he said, fighting to regain his control, “but Englishmen are capable of the deepest passions, believe me.”

He could hear the harshness in his own voice.
She heard it, too, for she leaned back to look up into his face. “I am sorry if I have offended you,” she murmured, her eyes wide as she stared into his.

Ian turned away. “We'd best return to the party,” he said as he started back toward the marquee. He didn't look behind him to see if she was following. There was only so much temptation a man could endure.

 

Lucia soon discovered that Sir Ian's strategy for finding her a husband seemed akin to throwing mud against a wall. Some would have to stick. The mud, alas, was not the sort her lusty Italian heart was hoping for.

During the fortnight following Lady Kettering's concert, Lord Haye, Lord Montrose, Lord Blair, Lord Walford, and about a dozen other possible suitors frequently found their way to Portman Square. Lucia was not inclined toward any of them, and though Grace assured her that familiarity often changed one's mind in matters of the heart, two weeks of calls by these gentlemen did not change Lucia's.