To Deceive a Duke (4 page)

White-hot anger burned away her icy poise, her calm wariness. How
dare
he come here, after all that had happened in England! How dare he invade her farmhouse, her one special place? All her old feelings—her fright, her fury, her fascination—boiled over, and she could be silent no longer.

She threw back the tarpaulin, rushing up the last of the old steps with her blade in hand, as if charging into battle.

‘What are
you
doing here?’ she demanded. ‘You, Averton, are on private property, and I will thank you to depart immediately!’

He gazed down at her. His expression did not change—it so seldom did, remaining in its cool lines of ducal contempt even when he confronted thieves in his house. Only a very few times had she seen it alter, that veil of handsome privilege falling away to reveal seething passions and needs that were fearsome to behold.

But his eyes widened a bit as he saw her, the green as bright as sea glass, and she noticed the jagged white scar on his forehead.

‘Oh, so you are suddenly the protector of private property, are you now, Clio Chase?’ he said mockingly. ‘That makes a fascinating change.’

‘What do you want?’ Clio said. She planted her booted feet solidly in the dirt, tightening her fingers on the dagger hilt even as she longed to flee back to her safe, hidden cellar. Back to an hour ago, when she thought him so far away.

‘I want to talk to you,’ he said, in a soft, steady voice. A coaxing voice. ‘That is all, I swear.’

‘So talk.’

His horse pawed at the ground, restless at standing still, and Averton’s black-gloved hands tightened on the reins. ‘If I dismount, will I be in danger of being disembowelled by that rather efficient-looking blade in your hand?’

Clio studied him carefully, eye to eye for one long, tense moment. She had seldom met anyone in her life quite as determined as she was herself. That stubbornness meant she usually got her own way, even in a big family. But she knew, just by looking at him now, just by remembering their past encounters, that here was someone of determination to match her own. He wouldn’t go away easily, and if she tried to run he would just mow her down with his fearsome steed.

She gave a brusque nod. ‘Very well. But stay over there. Don’t come near my house.’

His brow arched sardonically. ‘
Your
house, is it?’ But he followed her instructions, swinging down from his horse yet staying several feet away, holding loosely to the reins as his horse began to crop at the clover. ‘Is this far enough?’

Clio nodded again. ‘You said you wanted to talk, Averton.
It must be something important indeed to bring you all this way.’

‘It is,’ he answered. Yet then he fell silent, just watching her as if he had never seen her before in his life. As if she were some strange creature, a unicorn or phoenix, maybe, that he could not understand.

Clio shifted on her feet. ‘Did someone snatch away your precious Alabaster Goddess? It was not me, I vow. I have been in Sicily for weeks. Or perhaps it was—’

‘Clio,’ he said, in a voice that was quiet, soft, but full of steely command. ‘I have come here because you are in danger.’

C
lio could scarcely understand what she was hearing.
Could
this just be a dream after all? Every moment she had ever spent with Averton had been bizarre, to be sure, but this…

‘Did you just say I am in danger?’ she asked, studying his face for signs of—what? Joking? Subterfuge? It was not the Duke’s way to make jests, nor hers.

There was no hint of humour or deception in his face, though. No change in those Viking-warrior features at all, except for a tiny tic in the muscle along his jaw as he stared at her.

Clio stared back, hardly daring to move, to breathe. The thunderstorm had left the air heavy and thick, the breeze practically crackling around her. Around
them.
It was as if snapping tendrils snaked out from the grey sky, wrapping ever tighter around her, binding her closer and closer to him.

It was like a myth, a tale of jealous gods and enchanted spells that bound mortals to them against their every sensible inclination. Every shred of sense.

Clio shook her head, trying to clear it of such dark fancies. It was just this place making her feel so, that web of myth and
fantasy that had been woven around her ever since she was a child. And being faced with Averton, of all people, when she least expected him! Was least prepared for him, and the effect he always had on her.

As if she ever
could
be prepared for him. Every single time she saw him, it was like a lightning storm all over again. Beautiful, treacherous and so completely disorienting.

She took a step back. ‘I know of no dangers here except you. You needn’t have gone to all this trouble to warn me of
that.
’

His brow creased, as if in a flash of pain, yet that spasm was gone in an instant, banished under a mocking smile. ‘Did I not prove to you in Yorkshire that you are never in danger from me? I sent you and your friend—Marco, was it?—on your merry way, with scarcely a scolding word. Even though you were in the midst of stealing from me. I am the last person you need fear, Clio.’

She swallowed hard, remembering another night, that gallery at Acropolis House. ‘Indeed?’

‘Indeed. I want to be your friend, if you will let me.’

‘My friend, is it?’ she said, nearly choking on a humourless laugh. ‘So, that is why you are here? To offer friendship, along with cryptic warnings of danger? I think it more likely you are here to see what my father has found in his Greek villa. To see what you can snatch to add to your vaunted collections, hidden away in the darkness so no one else can ever see them.’

‘Clio!’ he growled, his icy calm cracking at last. He dropped the reins, his hands curling into fists.

And Clio felt a stirring of some strange satisfaction.

‘You are the most obstinate woman I have ever met,’ he muttered. ‘Why can you not just listen to me for once in your life?’

‘Just listen to you? Quietly do what you want, just as everyone does with the exalted duke? Well, I’m sorry, your Grace, but I am too busy to stand here arguing with you any longer.’ She strode past him, not sure where she was going, only knowing that she had to get away. Had to escape from those crackling bonds before she exploded!

She gave Averton a wide berth, yet not quite wide enough. Before she had even seen him move, he had caught her by the wrists, pulling her close to him. Startled, she dropped her dagger. It landed mere inches from his booted foot, yet he did not glance at it at all. He only watched her.

As she stared up into his face, into the glow of his eyes, those bonds grew tighter and tighter. She could not breathe, could not move at all. She flexed her wrists in his grasp, the fingers of her right hand splayed out until she touched the very edge of his sleeve. The hot, smooth skin of his wrist. She felt the thrum of his pulse there, the tumbling rush of his life’s blood, and his heartbeat seemed to meld with her own.

She heard the quick rush of his breath in her ear, smelled the clean, spicy scent of his skin. He was all around her, a part of her she could not escape, for truly he was not something outside, not a separate being she could run from, deny. He was inside her, part of her very breath and blood.

She arched in his grasp, her head thrown back like Persephone’s as she tried to escape, tried to leap from the speeding chariot to safety. Escape, even as she longed to stay.

‘Then tell me what it is you want here,’ she whispered. ‘Why you came here to find me.’

‘Will you listen, then?’ he said hoarsely. ‘For once?’

‘I…’ she answered. ‘It depends on what you say, I suppose.’

He gave a bark of laughter, his clasp loosening on her
wrists. ‘Of course. Always conditions. Always wanting things your own way.’

‘Muses are as spoiled as dukes when it comes to that,’ she said. She raised her hand, still caught in that dream where she was not herself. She lightly touched the white scar with her fingertips, feeling the uneven ridge of it under her touch.

He tensed, as taut as a bowstring, but he did not move away. Perhaps he was as enchanted as she was. She trailed her touch over his temple, the pulse that thrummed there; over his sharp cheekbone, the crooked nose Cam de Vere had once broken in some unspecified brawl. A loose strand of his hair, bright silk, brushed against her hand, clinging. She traced its wave until she found the curve of his lips.

Her fingers hovered over them as they parted, and she felt his very life’s breath. How close, how very close…

‘Clio,’ he groaned. His arms came around her waist, dragging her against him until there was not even a whisper between them. She was a tall woman, nearly as tall as he, but she felt fragile as his hot strength wrapped around her and she was surrounded by only him. She looped her arms about his neck, making him her captive just as she was his.

Their lips met, and there was nothing tentative or shy about the caress. It was quick, hot, desperate. A fervent need to be as one, to fall down into the dark myth and be lost for ever. That was what it was like when she kissed him—like being lost in the corridors of the underworld among all the shades, the misty illusions. She was a fool, an utter fool, to give in again. To reach for something that could only do her ill in the end.

But neither could she turn away, any more than she could tear her own soul out.

She dug her fingers into the fall of his hair, holding him
to her as she felt the smooth leather of his gloved caress slide across her shoulders, skimming along her bare skin until she shivered. She leaned deeper into him, losing herself, losing everything…

‘Clio!’ he said, tearing his lips from hers. His hands tightened on her shoulders, pressing her back from him. ‘Clio, what am I doing? I did not come here to…’

And the spell was broken, like one of those invisible cords that bound her to him. She stumbled away, still intoxicated with the smell and taste of him. With the bizarre alchemy that happened whenever they were close.

She glanced away from him, covering her mouth with her trembling hands. She had to get away from him, now! ‘No, you came here to
warn
me. Well, Averton, consider me warned.’

She snatched up her dagger from the dirt, in the process losing the spectacles she had pushed atop her head while she was digging. She scarcely noticed, though. She was too busy running away, dashing for the footpath along the hills that she knew his horse could not follow.

‘Fool, fool,’ she muttered, scrubbing at her aching eyes with the back of her hand. ‘Bloody
fool
! How dare you?’

Yet she did not know if she talked to him—or herself.

‘Damn it all!’ Edward cursed, kicking violently at the dirt. This was not what he had planned!

He meant to gently alert Clio to his presence in Sicily, to be polite and calm, and make her see he meant her no harm before he revealed his true purpose. Or part of it, anyway. He had not even known she would be here today. The rain would have kept away any other would-be antiquities hunter. He should have known that it would take more than a bit of thunder to keep Clio Chase away! But he had wanted to see
the site, do a bit of reconnaissance work while no one else was about. Get to know his opponent.

Then there she was, suddenly appearing before him, fierce as any Fury, her dagger in hand. Her eyes, usually a serene spring-green, sparkled with shock and anger. ‘
You!
’ she had cried, as if a demon had landed in front of her.

And all his careful, measured plans, his resolve to not get close to her, exploded and disappeared like a cloud of smoke. That raw, passionate
need
that drew him to her whenever he saw her, that force that drove him to touch her, be close to her, was there. He could not resist it, any more than he could resist breathing. He forced himself, by sheer steely will, to stay where he was—until she hurried past him, ignoring his warnings with her maddening wilfulness.

Edward pounded his fist against a tree trunk, cursing, oblivious to the slivers that drove themselves through his glove. Oblivious to everything but the way he still smelled her white lily perfume on his skin.

Why,
why
, had he kissed her? Why had she kissed him? He had understood it far better when she had knocked him senseless with the Alabaster Goddess. He deserved no less. But now he wanted her to be safe, to listen to his warnings and stay out of his way.

Well, that was not
all
he wanted. Their little scene here, as well as what had happened at Acropolis House, clearly demonstrated that. He wanted Clio in his bed, in his arms, all her passion his at last. Her long legs wrapped around his hips, her head thrown back in a tangle of auburn hair as she cried out his name.

But their kisses could change nothing.

Edward strode toward his horse. As he caught up the reins, he saw the glint of sunlight on Clio’s spectacles. They lay in
the dirt, apparently lost when she had stormed away. He picked them up carefully, holding them up to the light. The lenses were strong, but not hugely so; the ground glass magnified the limestone walls only a bit, showing up the old cracks and pits. So, she did need them for the close, painstaking work she did, but she was not blind without them. Perhaps they were a sort of armour, as well. Something to hide behind.

He tucked them carefully inside his coat, and swung up into the saddle. Well, surely she would need them back again. Very soon.

E
arth with its wide roads gaped, and then over the Nysian field the lord and All-receiver, the many-named son of Kronos, sprang out upon her with his immortal horses…

Clio groaned, and slammed the book shut, pushing it away from her. Perhaps that particular one of the
Homeric Hymns
, the tale of Hades and Persephone, was not the best choice of reading material this afternoon.

She rubbed her hand over her aching head. In truth, she doubted she could concentrate on anything at all, even so much as a fashion paper. Her thoughts kept turning, leaping, back to the farmhouse, to Averton and his appearance there. As sudden and shocking as if he had ‘sprung out upon her with his immortal horses’.

She had crept back to try to find her spectacles, peering from over the rocky ridge of the hills to be sure he was gone. And so he was, not a trace of him remaining at all. Perhaps she had just imagined him after all? Perhaps he, and his kisses, were the product of sunstroke. Of overwork and exhaustion.

Yet as she tiptoed closer, she saw the marks of horse’s hoofs in the dirt. And her spectacles were gone.

She had hurriedly secured the site, putting away the tarpaulin and tools, and had run home for a quiet afternoon of study. Or so she’d hoped.

Clio could not fathom what had come over her.
Kissing
Averton? Touching him! Not wanting it all to end, even as every ounce of her good sense screamed at her to get away from him. The man who was rumoured to be a terrible libertine, who respected no wishes not his own, who took every shameful advantage of his exalted rank. Who was, worst of all, a hoarder of antiquities!

Yet she had kissed him. And wanted so much more.

Clio groaned, dropping her head to the hard, polished surface of the desk. If only she could leave this place, this island she loved with such fervour, which had been her refuge until today. She could go back to England, to see how her younger sisters fared at Chase Lodge. She could—

No.
The Chase Muses were no cowards. She might not possess the reckless, headlong courage of Thalia, who swam icy lakes and scaled mountains without a care, or the rare grace of Calliope. But she had to be strong, to stand her ground. Even in the face of Averton. Who would work on the farmhouse if she left? Who would discover its secrets?

The Duke himself, probably. He had seemed rather interested in the site that morning, before he realised she was there. And that she could not allow.

Clio pushed herself up from her chair, walking over to the window as she stretched her aching shoulders. She gazed down at their little patch of garden, at the road that led around the cathedral and out to the square. It was quiet in Santa Lucia now, the shops closed for the afternoon siesta as a warm, sunny somnolence settled over the place. Her father sat beneath the shade of their almond tree, reading
with Lady Rushworth and Cory, but they were the only living things to be seen.

Clio thought about going for a rest herself, crawling under the brocade blanket of the
chaise
in her chamber and forgetting the Duke in sleep. But she dismissed the notion. Afternoon sleep was always feverish for her, bringing strange dreams. He would surely appear
there
, and she didn’t want to see what would happen.

Yet neither could she read and study. She was too restless, too scattered.

There was a knock at the library door, and Clio turned toward it, eager for fresh distraction. ‘Come in!’

It was Thalia who peeped around the threshold. She had changed her classical Antigone robes and veil for a stylish blue-dotted white muslin dress and blue spencer, a chip-straw bonnet with pink ribbons tucked under her arm. With her golden curls swept up and bound with more pink ribbons, her wide blue eyes and creamy skin, she looked the perfect porcelain shepherdess. The angelic beauty.

Many men had been fooled by her pretty, innocent façade—and had been sorry when they discovered the warrior-woman beneath. She often declared she was far too busy to marry, and Clio was inclined to believe her. Where could she find her match, a man with the power
and
the trickery of Zeus, the golden looks of Apollo, the strength of Hercules?

Thalia, with all her adventurous ‘projects’, was endlessly diverting, always entertaining, and sometimes exhausting. Today, though, Clio was entirely glad of her company.

‘Are you working?’ Thalia asked. She hurried over to the desk, rifling curiously through the books and papers.

‘I was,’ Clio answered. She leaned back against the windowsill, her arms crossed at her waist, watching as Thalia
examined first one title, then another. ‘But I can’t seem to concentrate for some reason.’

‘Me, neither. I think it’s the heat. Rosa says summer is coming on, and soon the sun will burn everything brown.’

‘I hope not yet! I need to finish the farmhouse cellar first.’

‘And I’ll have to perform my play. If it is too hot, no one will want to sit on those stone seats and watch.’

‘Except for every young swain in town! They would happily sit and watch you for hours. They’re all achingly in love with you, you know.’

Thalia made a dismissive wave of her hand, tossing the book she held back to the desk. ‘A whole village full of men, English and Italian both, and not one with a jot of interesting conversation in him! They just want to sit and stare like a pack of half-wits.’

Clio laughed. ‘And send flowers, and serenade outside your window.’

‘I haven’t time for such things.’

‘One day you will have to make time. So shall we all, I expect.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Now that Calliope is married, everyone will expect you and me to be next.’

Thalia shook her head. ‘Father doesn’t care if we marry or not! He’s too busy with his villa and mosaics to worry about such trifles.’

Clio glanced back to the garden below, to their father and Lady Rushworth reading together so companionably. He smiled as Lady Rushworth pointed to something in their book, catching her hand to press a quick kiss to her gloved fingers. Lady Rushworth, a widow herself with two grown
sons and grandchildren, blushed. Clio had not seen her father so happy since her mother had died.

‘Then again, perhaps the next Chase to wed won’t be a Muse at all,’ she said.

Thalia hurried to her side, gazing down at the scene. ‘You don’t mean—Father will marry Lady Rushworth?’

‘Perhaps.’

‘But they are just friends!’

‘Maybe. But if they
do
wed, Father won’t want so many Muses underfoot for a while. And, since you are the most beautiful of all of us, you will probably be next.’

Thalia frowned, turning away from the window. ‘Me? I look like a bonbon, whereas
you
look like a goddess. You are sure to attract someone interesting, someone strong and clever and…’ Her voice trailed away, and Clio saw her golden head bow.

Clio was suddenly worried. Thalia was seldom anything less than running at top speed, charging ahead with her glorious confidence. She reached out and caught Thalia’s hand, drawing her sister back to her side. ‘What’s wrong, Thalia dear? Has something happened?’

Thalia tilted her chin up, smiling, but her china-blue eyes still held a strange glitter. ‘Of course not, Clio. What could possibly have happened? I just don’t care for all this marriage talk, that’s all! Not when I am in danger of being stuck with one of my horrid suitors.’

‘Thalia, there is no danger of being “stuck”! If you really don’t want to marry…’

‘I will marry—when I meet someone who suits me as Cameron does Calliope.’ Thalia gave Clio’s hand a reassuring squeeze before letting go to stroll back to the desk. She reached for a fat letter, holding it up. ‘And I see you’ve heard from Calliope, the new Lady Westwood, today!’

‘Yes, I thought we could all read Calliope’s news together after dinner,’ Clio answered.

Thalia turned the missive over in her hand. ‘Where are they now, do you think? Capri? Tuscany? Venice?’

‘On their way back to England, I expect. Hopefully, they’ll be waiting for us when we return ourselves.’

‘With a new little Chase-de Vere infant on the way.’ Thalia put down the letter. ‘Do you miss her terribly?’

‘Calliope?’ Clio remembered sitting by a Yorkshire stream with Cal.
“You can tell me anything from now on, Clio.”
Clio had promised she would keep no more secrets, that she was done with the Lily Thief. And she had truly tried to keep that promise. Tried to live up to her older sister’s confidence. It had gone well, until that very morning, when Averton had appeared. ‘Of course. None of us have ever been parted for long before. Don’t you miss her?’

‘Very much. I just thought it must be worse for you. You and Cal were always so close.’

‘Yes. But I still have you! And I always will, if we’re going to be spinster Muses together.’

Thalia laughed, and the merry sound seemed to help her shrug off whatever hint of melancholy she was suffering. She twirled around and caught Clio’s hand in hers. ‘Cal’s children will be sorry to have such formidable old aunts! I will teach them music and drama, and how to shoot a bow and arrow. You will teach them how to swim for miles, just like you, and how to read history from just a shard of pottery.’

Clio laughed, too, going along with her. ‘How to sew very, very badly?’

‘That, too. But as the child is not here yet we shall have to—oh!’

‘What?’

‘I forgot why I came in here in the first place. I am going to call on Lady Riverton, and you promised to come with me.’

Clio felt a sinking in the pit of her stomach at the mention of Lady Riverton. The widow was the self-styled ‘social leader’ of the small band of English travellers in Santa Lucia. People who, like the Chases, were deeply interested in history and antiquities. Everyone else was sensible, and stayed near the cool delights of the shore, the relative culture of Palermo.

Viscount Riverton had possessed a considerable collection himself, especially of Greek coins. His widow, while she claimed to be carrying on his work, seemed to be only really interested in parties, gossip and hats. She had lots and lots of hats. Clio often thought it was a pity she didn’t also have a many-headed Cerberus to guard her door; then it could wear all of them at once.

But Clio
had
promised Thalia. ‘I’ll have to change my clothes,’ Clio said, gesturing to her garb. She had left off her heavy boots, but still wore her old brown muslin with its dusty hem. Her hair fell down her back in an untidy auburn plait.

‘Just plop on a fancy bonnet!’ Thalia said. ‘She’ll never notice the rest.’ She ‘plopped’ her own hat on to Clio’s head, tugging at the pink ribbons and singing, ‘Oh la la, aren’t the Chase sisters so terribly
à la mode
!’

Clio laughed helplessly, trying to spin away from her sister. Thalia wouldn’t let go. ‘Brown and pink, Clio, all the rage from Paris! You must be—oh, I say. Where are your spectacles?’