To Surrender to a Rogue (3 page)

Howe's grin faded to a frown. "Since when have you become such a pompous prig? I wasn't about to toss up the lady's skirts in the middle of Green Park. I was merely expressing my admiration for her physical charms." He shot another glance at Alessandra. "You can't deny that the lady is an absolute stunner."

"No, I cannot," replied Jack through gritted teeth.

"Hell, I can't help it—she's got my whirligigs aflutter," said Howe. Giving a lewd hitch to his trousers, his friend added, "Perhaps that's why you are acting as ill-tempered as a bull with a gelding iron clamped to his pego. You tried your luck with the lady and she wouldn't have any part of you."

His fists flashed out of his pocket. "Damnation, Howe, unless you want your beak bloodied, you had better refrain from further crude comments about the lady."

"Satan's prick, you're in a devil of a mood." Looking offended, Howe abruptly reversed direction and stomped off.

Jack unclenched his fingers, unconsciously smoothing the soft leather of his gloves over his knuckles as he watched his friend's retreating rump. Not that there was anything remotely alluring about Howe's stiff-legged gait. It radiated aggrieved male anger. He winced, suddenly feeling foolish for reacting so churlishly over a bit of rakish chatter. Howe would, he hoped, accept an apology at their next meeting.

In the meantime...

His gaze slid back to Alessandra, who had finished unknotting her shawl and was now heading across the lawn.

Time to beat a strategic retreat.

Jack hesitated for a fraction before ignoring the voice in his head and quickening his pace to follow.

Falling in step a discreet distance behind her, he had an excellent view of Alexandra's figure. Howe was right—she moved with a sinuous grace, her hips swaying gently from side to side, as if tickled by some tropical breeze. It was subtle. Sensual.
Sexy.

He felt the inside of his mouth go a little dry.

Discipline,
he reminded himself. He ought not be imagining the contours of her curves, or the exact hue of her creamy skin. It was wicked to wonder how her thighs would look stretched out on a rumpled sheet of satin. And it was most definitely dishonorable to fantasize about the feel of her flesh against his palms. He was willing to wager a fortune that she would be firm, yet sweetly yielding. Like a perfectly ripe peach.

Diavolo.
Now his mouth was watering.

Hell, it was depraved to be creeping after a lady, in order to undress her with his mind's eye. He was, after all, enjoying a very pleasant arrangement with a buxom blonde at Cupid's Cave. So it wasn't as if he was starved for the sight of a naked female.

A shiver of self-disgust slithered down his spine. Why couldn't he banish such bad, bewitching images from his brain?

Lud, he was trying. But she was a torment.
A temptation.

Thank God the marchesa would never, ever guess the wayward direction of his thoughts.

Bedeviled by his inner demons, Jack didn't see the turn in the path until he stumbled on a patch of loose gravel. At the crunch of stones, Alessandra stopped abruptly and turned to see who was behind her.

As their eyes met, Jack realized his expression must be pinched in a black-as-hell scowl

She froze him with an arctic stare.
Emerald ice.
Glittering like shards of frozen gemstones.

They stood face-to-face for a split second longer. Then Alessandra turned and walked on without a second look.

"Excellent essay, Lord James." Lord Fanning, head of the Architecture Committee of the Julius Caesar Society, took a moment to polish his spectacles on his sleeve. "And the accompanying sketches are first rate, sir. First rate!"

"Thank you,'' replied Jack.

"Might I keep them to show to Mr. Sprague?"

"If you wish."

"I am sure he will be delighted to discover we have a new member with such impressive artistic skills. Have you a portfolio of drawings from your trip to Italy, sir?"

Though he was usually reluctant to reveal his interest in art, the praise from a knowledgeable scholar loosened Jack's reserve. "Several, in fact Including a number of larger studies done in watercolors."

Lord Fanning cleared his voice with a discreet cough. "Might we persuade you to put them on exhibit here in our gallery during Professor McNulty's visit from Edinburgh? Judging by your pencil sketches—they would make a marvelous addition to the symposium on the decorative detailing of classical columns."

"Sorry." He shook his head. "But my work is not for public display."

"Of course, sir, of course." Looking faintly embarrassed, Lord Fanning was quick to dismiss the idea. "I quite understand."

Jack doubted the other man guessed at the real reason behind his refusal. Pierson men—a long line of military heroes stretching back to the time of William the Conqueror—were made of steel and gunpowder, not books and watercolors. If word got back to his father that one of his sons was honing his skills with a paintbrush rather than blades or bullets, the elderly duke would likely explode. That Jack had served with distinction in the Peninsular War had made his family proud. Any show of a softer side would be a great disappointment.

Drinking, gambling, wenching—now those were all perfectly acceptable pursuits for a gentleman. Jack made a face as he accepted a glass of sparkling
prosecco
from one of the passing footmen. Why was it such a sin to be passionate about other things, too? He slanted a look around at the books and art Not that he didn't partake in his share of rakehell pleasures. But he also enjoyed cerebral challenges.

As Fanning excused himself to go speak with another member, Jack lifted the glass to his lips. His father would likely answer that carousing was a natural release for a warrior's martial aggressions. And that war was a noble profession, one that forged a man's mettle, tested his resolve, challenged his courage. It was a force that created nations, protected traditions, preserved civilization from chaos.

Jack didn't disagree. He just didn't think that a man should be measured solely by the steel in his spine. A wry twitch pulled at his mouth. In his view, paint was as potent a force as gunpowder in shaping a better society...

"Why the black face, Lord Giacomo? Don't you approve of ancient Roman art?"

Jack recognized the drawling voice. Giovanni Marco Musto della Ghiradelli—the Conte of Como—was scion of one of the oldest titled families in all of Italy. He was also an insufferable prick.

"Perhaps you've joined our Society simply to admire the military achievements of my ancestors," continued the conte. "We do have a small room devoted entirely to the history of the empire's wars."

The teasing barb hit uncomfortably close to the truth. The only reason Jack had felt free to join the Julius Caesar Society was because he knew his father would assume it was a group devoted to the discussion of the Emperor's military exploits. But he was not about to admit it to the Milanese macaroni.

"I'm surprised to see you here, Ghiradelli," he countered. "Did you think that the ancient Roman name implied you would find an orgy of bacchanalian pleasures taking place within these walls?" The conte—who preferred the moniker Marco—had not been in London long, but he had already earned quite a reputation as a rake. "For wine and women you will have to look elsewhere."

"If I want those two things,
amico,
I know exactly where to find them," replied Marco with a smug smile. "Occasionally I do like to stimulate my mind, rather than some other part of my anatomy."

"I doubt your brain expands to any sizable dimension," growled Jack.

Marco laughed. "My mind may not be as well endowed as the rest of my body, but I daresay I won't come up short when measured against the other scholars in this room."

"You, a scholar?" Jack let out a low snort. "Don't make me laugh."

Ignoring the barb, Marco tapped a finger to the glass display case, where a selection of exquisite bronze portrait medallions were laid out on a length of black velvet "Virgil, Livy, Horace," he murmured, identifying the ancient writers.

As Marco added a few knowledgeable comments on their work Jack's sneer became a touch less pronounced.

"Ah, but I have heard that you favor architecture over literature," continued Marco. "So tell me, what is your opinion of the Basilica Porcia?"

The conte might be an arrogant ass, but he did appear to know something about antiquities.

"Do you feel that such early works compare favorably with the Baths of Agrippa?" added Marco.

Jack so rarely had a chance to discuss classical architecture with someone who knew a Trajan column from a column of Trojans that the opportunity was too good to pass up. In spite of his dislike for the fellow, he found himself giving a grudging answer.

And to his surprise, Marco responded with a serious commentary on symmetry and proportion instead of his usual sarcasm.

"The stylistic development of mosaics and frescoes is, of course, a whole other field of study," finished Jack as he added his thoughts on the design of the Baths. "The decorative arts are not my specialty."

"Nor mine" said Marco. "It is the Marchesa della Giamatti who is considered one of the foremost experts on Roman art antiquities, especially bronzework." He paused for a fraction. "Perhaps I should invite her to join the Society. I wonder, is there any rule against female members?"

The thought of Alessandra della Giamatti intruding on the one sanctuary where he was able to enjoy a civilized exchange of scholarly ideas was not a happy one. "Not that I know of," replied Jack slowly. "However, I don't think it's a very good idea."

"No?" Marco cocked a questioning brow. "Have you something against intelligent women? I have noticed that the English tend to be a little intimidated by a beauty with brains."

Jack was dumbfounded for a moment. "What utter nonsense," he muttered. "It's not what's inside her head that bothers me, it's what comes out of her mouth when she's in a temper. Which, by the by, seems to be more often than not"

"Ah. Her temper." The conte gave an eloquent shrug. "Like most Italians, Alessandra has a passionate nature."

"Some might call it a violent nature," said Jack, recalling how her eyes had felt sharp as daggers.
If looks could kill.

For a fleeting instant, Marco seemed to turn a little pale before regaining his usual bravado. "Now it is you,
amico,
who is indulging in the Latin penchant for exaggeration." He smiled, though to Jack it looked a little forced. "When she was younger, she sometimes let emotion get the better of her. But that has changed. Ask anyone here in London—the marchesa is known for her cool composure. It is only you who seems to set off sparks with her."

“I can't imagine why," growled .Jack. "I've done nothing but try to act the gentleman and offer her help when she appeared in need of it"

"Hmmm." Marco regarded him thoughtfully. "Maybe that is the trouble."

Behaving like a cad had not improved her opinion, but he kept that fact to himself. "I don't think she would care for my company no matter how I behave."

The conte—who was also the lady's cousin, as Jack had just recently learned—touched Jack's arm. But whether it was meant as a friendly pat or an oblique warning was impossible to tell "Don't judge the lady too severely. She is wary of men who wear their nobility on their sleeve."

"What is
that
supposed to mean?" Jack frowned, recalling Lucas's oblique words on the same subject

Before Marco could respond, a call from across the room requested the conte to come give his opinion on a marble bust of Bacchus.
"Ciao,
Lord Giacomo," he murmured.

Jack watched the man saunter away with a theatrical flourish.
Ciao.
The silky sound stirred a strange pricking at the back of his neck. Damnation, if he had any sense, he would say good-bye to further thoughts on Lady Alessandra.

To hell with the marchesa and her moods, her mysteries...

Taking up a fresh glass of sparkling wine, Jack turned away from the crowd and wandered into one of the side display rooms, looking to distract his mind with a closer study of the new exhibit The recently acquired slab of an ancient fresco depicted a naked Minerva, the Roman goddess of wisdom and war, about to bathe in a pool of azure water. The artist had rendered the scene with exquisite skill, using subtle colors and delicate brushstrokes to make the figure seem alive.

"You are indeed a goddess—a lithe, lovely vision of female beauty," he murmured, leaning low over the glass case for a better look. He didn't usually talk to himself, but his recent encounters with Alessandra had left him feeling like howling at the moon.

Drawing in a mouthful of prosecco, he let its effervescence tickle over his tongue. "I wouldn't mind stripping off all my clothing and feeling your wet, willing, sun-warmed body next to mine."

From behind him fluttered the soft swoosh of skirts, followed by a sharp intake of breath. "Well, don't let me stop you, sir."

Jack turned around slowly.
Not that he needed a face-to-face confrontation to know who was standing behind him.

The ancient deities were known for taking devilish delight in tormenting mere mortals. So perhaps that explained why mischievous Minerva goaded him into taking the offensive to cover his embarrassment.

"Is that an invitation, Lady Giamatu?" he said, deliberately assuming a provocative drawl. "Have you been secretly yearning to see me in the nude?"

The deep voice was lush and liquid, like cool water running over smooth stones. Her flesh began to tingle, and as Alessandra met his gaze, she had to repress a tiny shiver.

"It appears that you have wandered into the wrong building," she said evenly, hoping he hadn't noticed her response. "This is a place for the serious study of ancient art and culture, not for frolicking in the nude with lithe, lovely females—goddesses or otherwise."

Jack took a slow, sauntering step toward her. Like a panther, he moved with an animal grace, the flex of smooth muscle rippling beneath his finely tailored coat

"Ah, but some people consider bacchanalian pleasures to be a highly refined art form," he replied in that same suggestive tone.

Recalling the branched heat of his lips and the roving touch of his caresses, Alessandra couldn't help but agree.

"Yes—and they are called rakes, not scholars."

His mouth curled up ever so slightly at the comers.

Dio Madre, he was a handsome devil.
Especially when he allowed a hint of a smile to soften the sculpted planes of his face.

"Which begs the question," she added quickly. "Why are
you
here?"

"Why am I here?" repeated Jack. His expression turned even more sardonic. "To ogle naked females, of course," he drawled. "That is what we big, black devils do when we aren't lurking in dark corners or breakfasting on small children."

Alessandra felt a flush of color creep to her cheeks. "Well, to my knowledge, the Julius Caesar Society has no lady members, so I fear you are in for a very dull night"

"Perhaps." Jack took a long drink of his wine. "Unless, of course, you wish to remove your gown and your corset" Lowering his voice to a husky whisper, he added, "Not to mention the other, even more intimate bits of lace and frills you may be wearing next to your creamy flesh."

Ignoring the provocative words, Alessandra looked away from his lidded gaze and snapped open her document case.

Scholarship,
she reminded herself. She was here to deliver some research materials, not to think about Lord James Jacquehart Pierson's lean, chiseled body and what it would look like stripped bare of its civilizing layers of linen and wool.

Printed journals filled with obscure Latin terms.
Her fingers fumbled with the papers. She would
not
be distracted by his hot chocolate eyes or his sweetly sensual mouth.

"I thought you prided yourself on always behaving like a proper,
perfect
gentleman," she said, once she had her skittering pulse back under control.

"Yes, I do. But strangely enough, when I am around you, some mysterious force seems to goad me into acting very
improperly:'
Jack looked at her through his long, dark lashes. "You are a scientist, Lady Giamatti. Perhaps you can explain it?"

Alessandra could answer any number of complex scientific conundrums, but she couldn't give any coherent rationale for why sparks seemed to fly whenever they rubbed together. Like steel striking flint, he simply set off an explosive reaction.

"Science is based on reason, sir," she answered slowly. "Whereas your behavior defies... logic." As
did her own