Ariadne's Diadem (2 page)

She was certain that Gervase Mowbray was going to prove as pompous, cold, and disagreeable as his letters, and if that was indeed the case, one day she would take him to the little ornamental rotunda in the center of the maze, then desert him, leaving a note trusting he wouldn’t be put to too much trouble finding his way out of the puzzle that was his family’s emblem!

She glanced away then, for it was all very well to be facetious, but the fact remained that she
was
going to marry him, and the moment she did, her body became his property. She wasn’t ignorant about what happened during lovemaking, because at the age of ten she had watched two lovers in a wheat field. Spying upon the fashionable lady and gentleman hadn’t been a deliberate act, for she’d been innocently gathering honeysuckle when an elegant carriage had suddenly pulled up on the other side of the hedgerow. Because she was out when she shouldn’t have been, she’d instinctively ducked down out of sight among the summer leaves, and oh, the things she’d learned that day....

Like every other bride since time began, she had always dreamed of surrendering her virginity, hoping it would be a joyful initiation. Instead, she was entering into a cold contract with a man she did not know, and who seemed to lack all consideration. What manner of marriage really lay ahead? Not a matter of ecstasy and soft sighs in a sun-drenched wheat field. 

Chapter Two

That evening in Naples, Gervase Mowbray, eighth Duke of Wroxford, stood in the window of the third-floor lodgings he and his cousin, Hugh, had taken in the Riviero di Chiaia. His dark hair was a little tousled from sleep, and his hands were thrust deep into his pockets as he leaned against the embrasure. It was dusk, and the darkening February sky was lit by the eerie red glow of snow-capped Vesuvius, some six miles away to the east.

Even with his shirt undone and his neckcloth tossed idly on the crumpled bed behind him, Gervase was effortlessly stylish, with the mark of Bond Street evident in every fine stitch. The white of his full-sleeved shirt was almost stark in the fading light, and the cut of his trousers outlined his slender hips and long legs to complete perfection. He had made one gesture against fashion since leaving England, and that had been to let his hair grow. It was now long enough to be in frequent need of pushing back from his forehead, which he did by running his fingers through it. Together with his lazily seductive smile, this unconscious gesture gave him an irresistibly romantic air, as was proved by his numerous conquests across Europe.

He was thirty-two years old, and over six feet tall, with a lean, strong, well-proportioned shape that always showed to advantage in the close-fitting clothes that were the order of the day. His handsome face was tanned from the Mediterranean sun, and his blue eyes were swift and shrewd, their glint giving the lie to any notion that a man of such style and fashion might be easily fooled, as many a French and Italian ostler had found to their cost during the journey from England.

The elegant Riviero di Chiaia was separated from the shore of the famous Bay of Naples by the magnificent Royal Gardens, where the lilacs were in full bloom and lanterns of every color had been lit. He watched as masked revelers, some in gorgeous costumes, poured through the gardens and along the elegant cobbled street. It was Carnival, and tonight was also one of the several festivals of Bacchus that took place during the course of the year. Neapolitans seized every excuse to follow their ready inclination to eat, drink, make love, and generally enjoy themselves, and right now all four could be accomplished behind the anonymity of masks. Merrymakers thronged the city, music played everywhere, and from time to time fireworks glittered and flashed against the heavens.

Gervase suspected there was more to tonight’s particular revelries than met the eye. Neapolitans were superstitious enough to hedge their bets where religion was concerned, and he sensed that many of them still made obeisance to the ancient pantheon of Roman gods. Now that darkness had fallen, and the festivities had begun, there was almost a sound of panpipes in the air, enticing the unwary into folly. How many of the coming hours’ high jinks would be regretted by the morning? How many women would wish they’d resisted the lure of seduction? Come to that, how many men would wish they’d resisted the urge to seduce?

English voices drawled below the window, and Gervase glanced down to see a group of young masked noblemen leaving the Royal Gardens to enter a carriage at the curb opposite. It sometimes seemed there were as many Anglo-Saxons in Naples as there were Neapolitans, for the city was compulsory for the
gran turisimo,
and Carnival was the most sought after time of year to visit.

The door opened suddenly, and Gervase’s cousin, Hugh, entered. “Ah, you’re awake,” he declared, crossing to the wardrobe and opening it to search through the elegant clothes hanging there as if they were his own.

“So it would seem,” Gervase murmured, watching him with some irritation.

“Then you’ll accompany me to the theater tonight after all?”

“The questionable delights of the San Carlo hold no appeal,” Gervase replied, thinking of the Neapolitan insistence upon making so much noise throughout performances that actors had to shout to be heard. “But I’ll dine with you afterward at our usual place along the street.”

“Suit yourself, but if it’s macaroni again, I swear I’ll expire.” Hugh went on sifting through Gervase’s wardrobe. The cousins were very alike, possessing the same height and coloring, but Hugh was less good-looking, and didn’t possess me immense charm of which Gervase was capable when he chose. Hugh was also from the less wealthy branch of the Mowbray family, a fact Gervase knew he bitterly resented, although the resentment was always hidden behind smiles. Hugh had hidden depths, and some of those depths were better left unplumbed, Gervase thought, for there were aspects of his cousin he found hard to like. Hugh was not a man to rely upon in an emergency, nor in whom to place faith if one’s life depended upon it, but for all that, he was Gervase’s only living relative, and so had to be tolerated. Tolerating someone was one thing, however, being cooped up with him constantly for six months quite another. This European visit had been a mistake, and the veneer of friendship between the cousins was beginning to wear thin.

“Is there something you require, Hugh?” Gervase asked a little tetchily as Hugh went on sifting through his clothes.

“I was looking for your greatcoat. I thought I’d take a stroll before the theater, and although the lilacs are out and the days are warm, the evenings soon prove to be February after all.” What Hugh said was true, for although as a whole the Neapolitan climate was clement at this time of year, at night it still became quite cold; indeed frost and ice were not unknown. “Ah, here it is.” He lifted out Gervase’s best greatcoat, a fine ankle-length garment of charcoal wool with an astrakhan collar and gleaming silver buttons that bore the maze badge of the Mowbrays. Belatedly, he thought of seeking Gervase’s permission. “May I?”

“I suppose it would be churlish to refuse.”

“Is that what you said to your father when he confronted you with the Willowby creature?” Hugh asked with lightning change of subject.

The sudden barb was there, and it found a mark. Gervase flushed a little. “I bowed to his wishes because it was the only way to make certain of my full inheritance.” He could hear the old man’s voice now.
That’s my final word, Gervase. Your recent entanglement with that actress creature caused me great concern, so I wish to be certain that the right sort of woman becomes the next duchess. I have found that woman in Anne Willowby, and she is the price you will have to pay for wasting your life thus far. There is nothing you can do about it, for my will has already been altered, and it is binding. You marry Miss Willowby, or forfeit your right to the family estates and fortune. The title you are bound to inherit anyway, I can do nothing about that, but if I could deny it to you, I would.

Hugh turned to look at him. “No doubt you fear such a rustic will embarrass you before the
ton.”

“Since I have never met Anne Willowby, I cannot form an opinion. She may be very accomplished for all I know.”

“I can’t understand that you haven’t even wanted to see her.”

“I resent her too much to wish to have any contact more intimate than the written word. She is clearly a fortune hunter who somehow, although God knows how, managed to wrap my father around her scheming finger.”

“If she was simply a fortune hunter, don’t you think she’d have trapped
him
into marriage, not you? The purse strings are usually held by the reigning duke, not the duke-in-waiting,” Hugh pointed out practically.

Gervase shrugged. “Perhaps she tried and failed. Who can say?”

“You can’t postpone the match forever, you know. I seem to recall that the terms of the will dictate marriage within a year.”

“I’m aware of that, but until those twelve blessed months are up, I intend to stay free, which is why Italy seemed so blessed a haven.”

“Seemed? Past tense?”

“It begins to pall. One can examine only so many ruined temples, admire so many reliefs, and gasp at the beauty of so many busts.”

“Ah, now when it comes to
busts...!”
Hugh gave a sly grin.

“I was thinking of the marble kind.”

“I know, but I am more drawn to soft, warm busts, especially when attached to the person of the delightful Teresa del Rosso.” He was referring to their landlady’s daughter, a doe-eyed coquette of voluptuous proportions, who had thus far spurned his determined attentions.

Gervase sighed. “I’d forget her if I were you,” he advised. Why couldn’t Hugh see that Teresa simply wasn’t interested in him? And why couldn’t he also see the wisdom of steering well clear of a young woman who clearly possessed a vindictive nature. One fell foul of Teresa del Rosso at one’s peril.

Hugh’s smile became fixed, for Gervase had offered exactly the same advice concerning Kitty Longton, the fascinating Drury Lane actress Hugh had wanted from the first moment he’d seen her.

Gervase recognized the expression on his cousin’s face, and was irritated. “Oh, for heaven’s sake, don’t hark back to Kitty again, for she was
not
the injured angel you choose to believe!”

“No? Then why will you not say why you ended things with her so very cruelly?”

“Cruelly?”
Gervase gave a brief laugh. “My dear Hugh, believe me when I say
I
was not the cruel one.”

“Then tell me what happened.”

Gervase hesitated, but then shook his head. “No, Hugh, for it is none of your business. Suffice it that Kitty Longton was guilty of such a harsh and unfeeling act that when I found out about it I could no longer bear to be in the same room as her. That she was a whore with ambitions to marry into the aristocracy I had always known, and it made no odds, but that she was a whore entirely without heart or conscience I did not know, and the difference it made was too great by far.”

‘Tell the truth, Gervase. She was no more than a passing fancy to you.”

“Are you suggesting I used her and then cast her aside without a second thought?”

“Didn’t you?”

“Not in the way you think, although it’s true she didn’t exert her fascination over me for very long. A man’s self-esteem is not best served by a woman who is determined to parade in the hoops and diamonds of court dress, nor does he feel comfortable when she shows herself to have little discretion. A daring expanse of bosom is embarrassing and vulgar outside the confines of the bedchamber, a fact to which Kitty would not pay heed, no matter how often it was pointed out. Desire soon wilts under such circumstances, I promise you, and it wilted still more when I learned unpleasant details from her past.” He looked away, remembering when he had reached the final straw where the lovely actress was concerned. Quite by chance he’d discovered that when her parents died, rather than encumber herself with her ten-year-old brother, she had consigned the boy to a disreputable orphanage, where he had died a year later of a deadly chill brought on by the cruel conditions there. Such monstrous callousness was beyond comprehension, especially as Kitty could well have afforded to show compassion for the child.

Jealousy devoured Hugh. After Gervase, Kitty had set her calculating cap at Sir Thomas Fanhope, a dashing sporting type who was very much available on the marriage mart, but financial difficulties had soon obliged him to leave her bed in order to marry the heiress to a Staffordshire pottery fortune, a selfish only child whose doting father still controlled the purse strings. Fanhope, like Hugh himself, still loved Kitty, but Gervase, upon whom the gods smiled as usual, fully escaped the tortures of heartbreak. Women always flocked to Gervase. It had happened with Kitty, and no doubt would happen with Teresa del Rosso and the serving girl at the inn along the street...

Overcoming the moment of steel-bright hatred he really felt for Gervase, who was all that stood between him and the dukedom he coveted, Hugh slipped into the coat and admired his reflection in the cheval glass in the comer. “You have an eye for clothes, I’ll give you that, Coz,” he murmured.

“It’s as well, since you wear them almost as much as I do,” Gervase remarked.

“What are cousins for?” Hugh replied, taking a black velvet mask from his trouser pocket and slipping it over his head.

Gervase raised an eyebrow. “You intend to follow the rites of Bacchus Night to the full?”

“Naturally,” Hugh replied, reaching for Gervase’s hat, gloves, and cane. “You don’t mind, do you? Only they do complement the coat so perfectly.”

“That is why I chose them,” Gervase murmured. “No, I suppose I don’t mind—well, not that much, anyway.”

A moment later, Hugh strolled out, looking for as if he, not his cousin, were the Duke of Wroxford. As his footsteps died away along the passage, Gervase heard the sounds of merrymaking in the street outside. Paganism seemed to tingle tangibly in the air as he reached for the half-finished glass of sweet white Lachrymae Christi wine on the table nearby. Lachrymae Christi, Christ’s tears. Well, those tears might indeed be shed before tonight’s rather profane reveling was done, he thought as he resumed his slouch against the window embrasure.