Lady Elinor's Wicked Adventures (24 page)

Then there were dozens of Crescenzi relatives, eager to meet the English family to which they would be allied by Lissandra's coming marriage, scholars who had met Lord Penworth in the course of his studies and explorations and wished to honor such a learned and insightful English lord, and, of course, Prince Savelli. The contessa, in mourning for the loss of her jewels, did not attend. Elinor and Harry did not notice.

At one point, barely noticed by the others, Savelli was called from the room to receive a message. When he returned, frowning, he drew Lord Penworth aside for a brief word. The marquess frowned in turn and hesitated briefly as he looked at the bride and groom but then returned to his seat and to his meal without saying anything.

That did not suit Lady Penworth. “What was that about?”

“Nothing, I hope and trust. I'll tell you all about it later.” When she looked dubious, he gave her a reassuring smile. “Truly, it can wait. We don't want to disturb the festivities.”

Those were not words that reassured Lady Penworth. However, she was soon caught up in the flurry necessary to support the departure of the bride and groom. Elinor had, of course, to be removed from her wedding finery and inserted into a traveling ensemble suitable for the short carriage ride to the Hotel Europa in the Piazza di Spagna.

Harry bore the separation with ill-concealed impatience. He was, it must be acknowledged, exceedingly impatient to arrive at the privacy of the hotel room. And on this occasion at least, Elinor had no inclination to linger over her toilette, though there were more tears shed as her mother helped her adjust her bonnet, a broad-brimmed leghorn trimmed with blue and green ribbons to match the plaid of her shot silk dress.

Lady Penworth stepped back to smile as she blinked back tears. “You look so very lovely, my darling daughter, so very lovely. You will have to go into black tomorrow for Harry's father, but at least today, today you are a bride, as radiant as a summer day.”

Elinor was smiling through tears herself. “I am so happy. I didn't know it was possible to be so happy.”

Then there were more tears, more farewells, more laughter, and Elinor was settling herself in the carriage. Something, someone caught Harry's eye, and he snapped his head around, but there was no one there.

“What is it?” she asked.

He shook his head, frowning. “Nothing. I thought for a moment I saw someone. But it's impossible.” He stepped into the carriage, settled himself beside Elinor, took her hand, and the frown vanished.

* * *

As the carriage rolled down the Corso and the well-wishers waved farewell, Lady Penworth turned to her husband. “Now will you tell me what the prince had to say that disturbed you?”

He smiled ruefully. “I thought you might forget.”

She gave him a disbelieving look.

“Well, no, I didn't really think so, but I did hope.” His smile faded to a look of concern. “Savelli had Landi imprisoned at one of his more isolated estates, but a message came saying that he has escaped.”

Her eyes flew open, and she spun around to look down the street where the carriage had disappeared. “Do you think…? Shouldn't we warn them?”

“No,” he said. “They will be leaving tomorrow, and Landi will be busy keeping himself hidden from Savelli's men. I don't see any need to distress them. They will have enough to cope with when they reach England without worrying about one Italian thief.”

* * *

Lieutenant Girard fingered his moustache, torn between distaste for the man before him and hope that he might at last have the instrument that would bring Lissandra Crescenzi to him, that would make it impossible for her to refuse him. And destroy that pompous Englishman she pretended to prefer. “You are certain of this? The English are hiding him?”

“Why would I lie?” Landi lifted his hands in a careless gesture, but Girard could see the sheen of sweat on his upper lip. Few visitors were comfortable here in the Castel Sant'Angelo, especially those who were not certain they would be able to leave. The ancient building, first intended as the mausoleum of the Emperor Hadrian, had long served as both fortress and prison and was now the headquarters of the French Army in Rome.

Girard laughed shortly. “You would lie because you are a thieving dog who betrays his friends, his comrades, even his own family. You would lie about anything if you thought it would benefit you.”

Landi flushed and straightened up, doing his best to project outrage despite his filthy appearance. “You dare call me a liar? Me, Cavaliere Landi? You know nothing of me.”

A snort of contempt greeted that idiotic remark. “Everyone in Rome knows everything of you. You think people would hesitate to speak ill of you? You think servants and shopkeepers do not gossip? You have been stealing from your cousin, the Prince Savelli, and you are not even clever about it. You threaten his honored guests. The only reason you are not imprisoned here is that His Holiness chose to let your cousin deal with you to spare him the humiliation of having a member of his family brought to trial. Should I admire you for having escaped?”

“Should I spend my life bowing and scraping to a foolish old man in exchange for scraps? I saw a chance and I took it. That smug Englishman who has had everything in life handed to him, must I bow to him as well?”

“So you have a grudge against an Englishman as well as against Pietro Crescenzi. This should convince me that you are not lying to me? That you are not trying to use me?”

Landi lifted a shoulder in an effort to seem nonchalant and leaned back as best he could in the straight chair provided for visitors. “If you are afraid of the English…”

“Fear has nothing to do with it. I am a soldier. I have duties,” Girard snapped. “England is not the enemy of France, no, nor of the Papal States. And these Englishmen are of the English nobility. It is no little thing to offend them, to charge them with a crime.”

“I offered to tell you where Pietro Crescenzi is in exchange for my freedom. You accepted the bargain. If you are afraid to do anything about it, that is not my problem.”

Girard paced back and forth across his small office. “There is no question of fear. There is, however, a considerable question of trust.” He stopped and stared at Landi. “I would have to be a fool to simply accept your word for it that Pietro Crescenzi is in his family's palazzo being hidden by the English visitors.”

“You will break your word?”

“Faugh! You stink.” Girard wrinkled his nose and called for his sergeant. “Take this one down to the cells and lock him up.” As Landi jumped to his feet in outrage, Girard held up a hand. “If you have been telling me the truth, you will be on your way soon enough. If not, our cells are no worse than you deserve.”

He closed the door on the sounds of protest, and a slow smile spread over his face. Lissandra Crescenzi, the lovely girl he had first seen seven years ago, had grown into an even lovelier woman. A true beauty, but also a woman of courage and spirit. A woman who, he had seen, was willing to risk her life to help her brother. She had been impervious to his threats in the past because she was not a fool. They had both known that his threats were empty.

This time, if Landi had spoken the truth and Pietro was indeed being sheltered by the English milords, his threats would not be empty. What would she do to protect her brother? His smile grew broader. There was nothing she would not do.

Contessa,
the man called her. Elinor wasn't quite sure who he was, the gentleman who welcomed them to the Hotel Europa. The owner? The manager? Certainly nothing so minor as a clerk, not with that impressive bearing, that exquisite tailoring, that enormous gardenia in his lapel. But she hadn't caught most of what he said in his greeting. The “contessa” had confused her, and her first reaction had been to look around for Armando's mother.

Then she remembered that she was now Elinor de Vaux, Countess of Doncaster. In England, people would now call her Lady Doncaster, just as Harry would be called Doncaster. And here in Rome, she was
contessa
.

She let that unnerving thought float around in her head as she walked along on Harry's arm. The manager led them across the marble floor of the lobby of the hotel, up the marble stairs, and into their suite, which also had marble floors, though these were softened by thick carpets.

She stood in the middle of the sitting room of their suite, opulently decorated in dark green plush and gilt. The look on the manager's face, half obsequious and half proud, told her this must be the best suite in the hotel. Through the doors, a pair of French doors with gilded boiseries, she could see into the bedroom. To be more precise, she could see the bed, a huge bed covered with a gold satin coverlet and piled high with pillows. On the wall above the head of the bed, what looked like a large gilded crown gathered to itself the sheer silken draperies that drifted down over the sides of the bed. Her baggage had already been unpacked, because lying on the bed was her nightgown.

She stood there, staring at the bed and the nightgown. Just staring.

What was wrong with her? Why was she standing here dithering in her head? She was being ridiculous. There was no reason for her to be feeling shy and uncertain. She was Lady Elinor Tremaine, and she was
never
shy and uncertain.

Except that she wasn't Lady Elinor Tremaine anymore. She was now Lady Doncaster, wife of the Earl of Doncaster. Harry's wife.

Even so, that should hardly make her shy at the sight of a bed. Especially since she and Harry had already done
that
, and it had been lovely. The strange feeling of heat deep inside her grew just at the memory. She turned her head so that she could see Harry, who had finally managed to close the door on the manager's flatteries and assurances.

Was it her imagination or did Harry look uncertain too? He was standing halfway across the room, much farther away from her than he usually stood.

He looked around the room nervously and gestured at the table by the window. “Would you like something to eat? We could send for some tea. Or wine, a bottle of wine.”

Just like that her nervousness vanished and a smile tugged at the corners of her mouth. “Harry, we just left a room full of food and I couldn't eat any of it. Could you?”

“Is it too stuffy? It seems warm in here. I could open the window.” He stepped over to do so, and the clatter of a passing carriage came in. “No, I probably shouldn't,” he said, closing the window and letting quiet return to the room.

Her smile broadened. “Harry, maybe it seems warm because we are wearing too much clothing.” She untied the ribbons of her bonnet, a frivolous confection of pale straw tied up in blue and green ribbons, and laid it on a cabinet. Next she slowly stripped off her kid gloves, finger by finger. The left glove was particularly snug, and she had to nip the tips of the fingers between her teeth to loosen them.

That halted him in his tracks. Finally he looked at her, and a slow smile spread across his face. “That is quite possible. If you like, I might be able to relieve you of some of the excess garments.”

“That would be very kind of you. Perhaps I could even return the favor?”

He must have moved, or she did, or perhaps both of them moved, because suddenly there was no space between them at all. His arms were around her, crushing her against him so that even through all the corsets and skirts and petticoats she could feel him, the strength of him, the hard, powerful maleness of him.

“Norrie, Norrie…” Her name was coming out as a growl or a groan between the kisses that covered her face and neck.

She backed up, drawing him with her, as she moved toward the bed, tumbling onto it and bouncing on the silken coverlet. Bouncing together, and then sliding together on the slippery silk until they landed on the floor in a tangled heap of coverlet and laughter. He managed to twist them so that he was the one who landed on the bottom, but it had not been a dignified descent. His neck cloth was twisted and his waistcoat had come undone. Of course, that might have happened before their tumble since her hands were under his shirt.

“You are most chivalrous, my lord, to cushion the fall for your wife with your own body.” The laughter was fading, and her voice was husky.

“Always, my lady.” His smile was fading too, and his eyes darkened as he reached up to pull a pin from her hair, and then another and another until the plaits were loosened and her hair fell in a dark curtain on either side of their faces. She lowered her mouth to his in a secret, hidden kiss.

He stood up, lifting her in his arms as he did so, and she thrilled at the strength of him, that he should be able to lift her so easily. This time he laid her gently so that she sank without bouncing into the soft feather-bed. His hand trailed gently down her face before he began to unhook her bodice, slowly, as if unwrapping an unimaginable treasure.

When she reached to help him, he stopped her hand. “No. This time we will go slowly. Very slowly.”

It was slow indeed, so slow that she thought she would go mad, for the unwrapping had been mixed with kisses and caresses, before they were finally together in the bed, skin to skin. His fingers were moving in that secret place between her thighs, making her twist and groan with longing. She reached down and wrapped her hand around him, caressing the silky strength of him.

“No,” he gasped. “I won't be able to wait.”

“Now,” she said. “I want you now.”

At last he was inside her, filling her, completing her.
Yes,
yes, yes.

* * *

Lady Doncaster, who would have considerable difficulty thinking of herself by that name for some months, lay in the huge bed of the Hotel Europa's finest suite and smiled at the narrow strip of sunlight sneaking in where the curtains had been pulled not quite shut. She quite liked being awakened by sunlight and had always refused to close her curtains completely. She hoped that the Earl of Doncaster—Harry—felt the same way. It was one of the things to be discovered.

At the moment, she was discovering that when she lay with her cheek on Harry's chest, she could feel him breathe. She spread out her hand and brushed it back and forth over the hair on his chest, the soft, springy brown curls. She wriggled her body in a catlike movement and felt his naked body all along her naked body. She grinned. All these lovely sensations to discover.

“What are you doing?” She could hear the amusement in his sleepy voice.

“I'm exploring. Making discoveries. Did you know I can feel you breathe?”

He chuckled, and the sound rumbled deep in his chest.

“I can feel that too. Not just hear it, but feel it.” She lifted her head to look at him in delight.

“You like to feel me?”

He pulled her a bit more on top of him and her hip brushed against quite another part of him. She sucked in a gasp and then noticed his small, smug smile. A slight wriggle made that smile disappear while the look in his eyes grew heated. She wriggled some more and his breathing changed. That was all it took? A little wriggle? The realization made her feel enormously powerful and she smiled down at him.

“You know what you are doing, don't you?” His voice was now hoarse. “You are a witch, a wicked, wonderful witch.”

She laughed and he rolled her over, nibbling, kissing, caressing until the laughter dissolved in a maelstrom of sensations; indescribable, glorious sensations.

Sometime later—it had not seemed all that long but perhaps it was—Lord Doncaster finished tying his cravat while watching his wife get dressed. He was amazed at the pleasure this gave him—both the fact that Norrie was his wife, and the fact that he was sitting here watching her. First a black silk stocking slid up her calf, over the knee, where it was held up with a pink-ribboned garter. Then the other one. God, her leg was so beautiful. If he were a poet, he would write an ode to her ankle, another to her calf, her knee, and her thigh—an epic would be too short to do justice to her thigh.

She pulled on her drawers and tied them at the waist. Drawers trimmed with a wide band of lace—lace that no other man would ever see. Who would have realized the erotic power of a band of lace? It was just as well when she dropped the chemise over her head to cover her like a tent. He was getting uncomfortably aroused, and they did have to collect Pietro and Martha before they left on the steamer.

“You will have to do this.” She stood before him, eyes dancing, and held out her corset.

He looked at it blankly. Did she want him to wear it?

“It laces in the back. I can't do it myself,” she explained patiently. Then she put it on over her chemise, hooking it in front, and turned her back to him. He looked at the strings dangling there. “Just pull the laces nice and snug and tie them off.”

He gave an experimental tug.

“No,” she said. “You have to start at the waist.”

He tried again, and after a few more false starts finally had the corset tightened to her satisfaction. “Women do this every time they get dressed?”

“Of course,” she laughed.

“You are all quite mad.” He shook his head in amusement as she donned her camisole, then her hoops, then a petticoat.

“And you show an admirable lack of familiarity with ladies' underclothing.”

He smirked at that. “And you assume that women in all parts of the world dress like Englishwomen.”

She turned a mock scowl on him.

Then it was his turn to scowl as she tied on a black silk skirt and buttoned up the black silk bodice.

“Black is not necessary.” He bit off the words. “There is no need for you to be in mourning.”

“There most certainly is.” She looked in the glass and adjusted the ruffle at the neck of her blouse.

“No. You barely knew my…the earl.”

“That has nothing to do with it. He was your father and I am your wife. It would be considered an enormous insult were I to wear colors, and you know it. Everyone who heard about it—and everyone would hear about it—would be horrified.” She suddenly grinned. “I'm sure that we will find plenty of ways to horrify people. There's no point in doing so unnecessarily.”

He was still scowling, so she stepped over to give him a quick peck on the cheek before she went back to the glass to tie on a bonnet. “Besides, it's not as if I am wearing bombazine. I think I look rather nice in black silk.” She gave him a flirtatious glance over her shoulder.

He burst out laughing. “You're managing me. Not married a day, and you are already managing me.” He pulled her up against him and nibbled on her ear. “The first chance I get, I am going to buy you a scarlet corset and a scarlet petticoat. Then the world can see you wearing black, but I will know that underneath all that prim and proper clothing you are a scarlet woman. My scarlet woman.”

* * *

In preparation for the departure of Doncaster and his bride, the Crescenzi palazzo seemed crowded to overflowing. Crates and trunks with the accumulated treasures of their travels, wedding gifts—including an Etruscan bronze statue of Hercules from Prince Savelli—and assorted items that would not be needed on the trip home were piled in one corner of the courtyard, awaiting shipment back to England.

The much smaller pile of trunks and portmanteaus that would be needed on the journey was in another corner, in the process of being loaded into the baggage carriage that would transport them to Civita Vecchia, where they would in turn be loaded onto the steamer for Marseilles. This endeavor was being supervised by Martha, who had learned enough Italian in the past months to enable her to conduct a very enjoyable shouting match with the driver of the carriage.

Upstairs was only slightly less chaotic. Lady Penworth had suddenly realized there were dozens—hundreds—of things she wanted to tell a daughter who was setting out on married life, especially married life with a mother-in-law who was likely to prove somewhat difficult. Lord Penworth was preparing for Doncaster a list of names—attorneys, accountants, stewards, bankers—who could assist him should his family's affairs be in confusion, as Penworth feared might well be the case.

Lissandra was on the fringes of the chaos, thinking that she should have asked Elinor more questions when she had the chance. She wanted to know so much about London—what life would be like there, what the people would be like, what she could expect and what would be expected of her. And she wanted to find out these things from someone her own age, someone like Elinor. Lady Penworth would probably tell her the sort of things her own mother would tell her, and that wasn't at all the sort of things she needed—wanted—to know.

She decided she should probably get out of the way now and trust that Elinor would be available in London, but just then one of the servants brought her a note. She frowned at it, unable to think of anyone who should be sending her notes. She frowned even more when she opened it and read:

Signorina Crescenzi—

I am waiting in the hall. If you are wise, you will come and speak with me.

Louis Girard

Her eyes blazed with fury. Not now! How dare he intrude on them now! She crushed the note and flung it aside before she rushed out into the hall.

He was leaning against one of the pillars, arms folded, his red trousers and blue jacket vivid against the pale marble. One ankle was posed casually across the other, his plumed shako sitting on the floor beside him. She halted abruptly when she saw him. He exuded an air of confidence and he was smiling. She did not like that smile. The kitchen cat looked like that when she had a mouse trapped.