Scandalous Brides: In Scandal in Venice\The Spanish Bride (9 page)

She stared up at him, at his familiar features distorted in almost-painful passion, at the way the sun turned the silver gilt of his hair to a halo. She was shocked, numb, utterly stricken. She wanted to scream, to cry, to run, but she was paralyzed. She could only stand there in his grasp.

His hands pulled her against him, raising her on tiptoe so that his watch chain pressed into her tender belly. His breath was warm as his lips trailed across her cheek.

“No!” she cried out, her voice dismayingly faint. “No, this is wrong. You are my brother!”

“What new trick is this? Your
brother?”

And she knew then that he did not see her, Elizabeth. But she did not know what it was he did see. She broke free, running behind her easel, her breath bursting from her.

“Then you will have to marry someone else,” he murmured, almost to himself. “You must go away from here, because I cannot look at you anymore.”

He reached for her again, but his long, pale hand became the Duke of Leonard’s twisted, arthritic claw, pinching at her. She looked up at Peter, but his face was horrible now, wrinkled, the spittle flying from the corner of his mouth as he cackled, “Whore! Murderess!”

She heard a woman’s shrill laughter, and looked to see Lady Deake, golden and perfect in a white gown, laughing with malice.

The spittle at the duke’s mouth became blood, a great scarlet flood of it, and she was drowning, drowning, awash in the blood and guilt and fear. Drowning...

Elizabeth came awake with a gasp, sitting straight up amid her twisted sheets. A Venetian moon lit up even the corners of her small room, revealing only the benevolent clutter of gowns and hats and canvases.

The duke was long dead, and Peter was very far away.

“Oh,” she whispered, and fell back against her pillows. “Oh.”

She had to laugh, once her heart slowed in her breast. It was quite ridiculous, really, to become so overwrought over a dream vision of the duke and Lady Deake behaving like bad street fair players. Silly.

If only that horrid scene in her studio at Clifton Manor had not really happened, once in another lifetime. If only she could forget it now.

If only she did not truly have blood on her hands.

Elizabeth lay on her wide, white-curtained bed, the blankets kicked into a heap at her feet, moonlight and a cold breeze flowing from the open window, her eyes focused on the plastered ceiling above her. And she allowed all those memories to wash over her, the beautiful ones along with the ugly. She let herself be Lady Elizabeth Everdean again.

Chapter Seven

E
lizabeth had been six years old when her mother, Isobel, a dashing widow and a true Diamond of the First Water, had left merry widowhood behind to marry the equally dashing Charles Everdean, the Earl of Clifton. Only six when they left their crowded town house for Clifton Manor, and what Isobel called “Your new father and brother, darling.”

Elizabeth had liked Charles, who had allowed her to take his name, and she had idolized Peter. Twelve years her senior, he had been everything she could have wanted in an elder brother. He had taught her to ride her pony, had read her books from the vast Clifton library, had protected her from their parents’ many noisy quarrels.

After Isobel and Charles died when Charles’s high-perch phaeton had overturned during a race, Peter had cared for her tenderly. Mourned with her, encouraged her budding interest in art, arranged for her education at Miss Thompson’s School, and even taken her to London once to visit the Elgin Marbles.

Then he had purchased his commission and been off to Spain, to be shot at and send her infrequent letters. Until the letters trickled to a mere handful, and then ceased altogether.

When he returned, he had not been at all the same Peter. Her golden, laughing brother had been replaced by a bitter stranger. A stranger who drank far too much, who lurked in his dark library, and forbade her to give parties until her very few local friends dropped away. A stranger who stared at her with glowing blue eyes and yet seemed not to see her. He even provoked quarrels with her, until the temper she had inherited from Isobel would loom up, and she would scream and throw things like the veriest fishwife.

After that horrid scene in her studio, Elizabeth realized she could not live with Peter any longer. She agreed to the betrothal with the Duke of Leonard, some political crony of Peter’s, only to escape, thinking that nothing could be worse than the prison Clifton Manor had become.

How very, very wrong she had been.

Elizabeth was torn from her memories by a sound from the small terrace outside her open window. The tap of a cane, as soft as cat’s paws. She pushed back the blankets and slid out of bed, threw on her dressing gown, and crept outside.

“Hello, Nicholas,” she said, somehow not at all surprised to see him awake so far past the witching hour. There was, after all, a sort of fatedness about a moonlit night during Carnivale that made all things seem possible.

He was barefoot, clad only in an open shirt and black trousers as he leaned back against the marble balustrade. The red tip of his thin cigar glowed in the darkness, and the moonlight gleamed off the half-empty crystal snifter of brandy balanced next to him. The night was chill, but he did not seem to feel it, and neither did she.

“I did not mean to wake you,” he said, his voice rough with smoke and brandy. “Georgina said you were feeling unwell.”

“I am feeling much better. And I was already awake.” Elizabeth saw the brandy, and gestured toward it. “May I?”

He wordlessly held the snifter out to her. They stood in companionable silence, with Nicholas looking down at the canal and Elizabeth looking at his bare chest. At the way the light dusting of black hair across the smooth muscles disappeared into his waistband. His skin looked like Georgina’s gold satin dress, and Elizabeth longed to rub her palm across it and see if it was as sleek as it looked, to press her lips against the joining of his neck and collarbone. She wanted to bury her nose in that hair and inhale deeply of his clean, spicy scent.

That clean smell that seemed to wash away all the wickedness she had seen.

Elizabeth shook her head fiercely to clear it. “I had such dreams,” she said. “I could not go back to sleep.”

Nicholas took a long sip of brandy before he answered. “It is this place.”

“This place?”

“Venice.” He waved the red glow of his cigar at the houses, sleeping pale gray in the twilight. “There is witchcraft in it. It must have enchanted your dreams.”

She was startled. She would never have thought him the poetic sort. Intelligent, flirtatious, and even appreciative of art, yes. But not poetic. “That it has. But a very good sort of enchantment.”

“Even though it disturbs your sleep?”

“Even then.”

“And the same enchantment is not to be found in England?”

“No. That is exactly why I love it here. It is like no place else—especially
not
England.”

“Do you ever think of going back there?” he asked. “To your home?”

Elizabeth narrowed her eyes as she looked at him. There was a sort of tension in him now, a stillness, a waiting. This was not just idle chatter, she felt. He wanted something from her, wanted her to say something, but she could not begin to fathom what. She reached for his brandy and took another fortifying swallow before she answered. “I
am
home.”

“Yet surely you miss England. Surely your life there was easier than it is here, wandering like a nomad,” he pressed.

“Easier!” The memory of her recent dream, of Peter and the dead duke, was still fresh and powerful, and she lashed out at this gorgeous man who seemed strangely intent on bringing all that ugliness into the light. “Easy, to be nothing but a prisoner, to be helpless and never free to be myself? You know nothing of me, Nicholas, or my life in England. You don’t know what it was like when Georgina left. You don’t know what Italy, what being here, means to me.”

“No,” he answered quietly. “I do not.”

“No.” Elizabeth was suddenly tired, achingly tired to her very toes. And appalled at how very much she had almost revealed.

“Will you tell me, Elizabeth?”

“Tell you?”

“About your life in England.” He placed his hand over hers where it rested on the balustrade, his palm warm and comforting. He was a cipher to her, but he was so large and solid. It was tempting, just for a moment, to lean against him and put all her worries onto those wide shoulders.

But only for a moment. To give up her hard-won independence would be so dangerous. What if this man came to hear of what she had done? He would hate her, and could even turn her in to the authorities.

She wiped at her damp cheeks, and stepped away from his tempting warmth.

“Please,” he said softly. “I want to know.”

“There is not much to tell,” she answered, forcing a lightness she was far from feeling into her tone. “I had a very ordinary life there, one some women would find enviable.”

“Not you.” It was not a question.

“No. I could not breathe,” she admitted. “I was... drowning. I had to leave, or lose myself completely. I had a certain security, but it was not enough.”

“You had family there?” His voice was tight.

For an instant, Elizabeth thought of Peter as he had once been, golden bright and laughing, swinging her into the air to hear her childish giggles. She shook her head. “No. Georgie is my only family.”

“You left a secure life in England for the uncertainties of a life abroad? You and your... sister?”

“Yes. It sounds insane, I know. Perhaps it is insane.”

“No. Not insane. I understand the need to escape.”

Elizabeth studied the glow of his eyes in the night, and somehow she knew. “You do understand. You understand why I left comfortable respectability to become an artist, a professional artist and not some drawing room dabbler. Why I won’t go back.”

He gave a sharp bark of singularly humorless laughter. “Respectability is quite overvalued, my dear. You were absolutely correct to run in the opposite direction.”

“Is that what you are doing, Nicholas? Running from something?”

“Isn’t everyone doing that, in one way or another?”

“Yes. But everyone’s
something
is different.” Elizabeth turned to him, giving in to the temptation to place her palm against his skin, against the strong beat of his heart. “What is your something, Nicholas? What are you running from? And what does your heart want more than anything else?”

“I do not know.” He put his hand over hers, pressing her paint-stained fingers into his skin. “Perhaps to escape from myself. To cease being myself, for just one day, and become someone... better.”

“I told you why I left England,” she whispered. “Will you tell me why you left?”

“I was searching for something. A lost object.”

“What was it?”

He smiled crookedly. “Maybe it was you, sweet Elizabeth.”

She tried to push back. “Don’t tease.”

He held her, refusing to let her leave. “I am not teasing. Far from it.”

Then he bent his head and kissed her, softly at first, his cool lips barely brushing hers. But when she offered no objection, he deepened the pressure, bending her back over his arm as he kissed her deeply, warmly, seekingly. She had never, ever been kissed like this before, and it was utterly delicious.

Elizabeth finally drew back slightly, drawing the breath deeply into her starved lungs. She stared up at him, dazed. Slowly, details like the cold marble balustrade against her back, his hand on her hip, began to penetrate the pink haze of her passion.

She trailed one fingertip over his features, his glistening lips, the pale scar. “Oh, Nicholas,” she breathed, unable to say anything else. “Oh, Nicholas.”

Chapter Eight

“O
h,
cara
!
Molto bene
!” Katerina Bruni, the famous courtesan, purred. She stretched on the red velvet chaise, her emeraldlike eyes never leaving the figure of Nicholas, who was bent over the account books at Elizabeth’s desk and taking no notice of anything else.

Even when the loose sleeve of Katerina’s blue velvet robe slid off her shoulder and she took her own time shrugging it back into place.

Elizabeth couldn’t help but giggle just a little. She turned away to mix a bit more of the blue pigment.

“Where
did
you discover him, Signorina Cheswood?” Katerina continued. “I never saw him before the princessa’s ball last night.”

“And you know every man in Italy?” Elizabeth teased.

Katerina laughed. “I do, I do! All the ones worth knowing. It is my business. But your new—secretary, is it?”

“Yes.”

“He is something different. Very handsome, very mysterious.” Katerina tapped at her chin with one pink fingernail. “Yet very serious at the moment. Must be English, no?”

Elizabeth giggled again. Nicholas, serious? She truly liked Katerina Bruni, not something to be said for most of her clients. Signora Bruni showed up as scheduled for her sittings, sat still, and her “patron” always paid the bills on time. She was also an amusing conversationalist, and Elizabeth valued her opinions on men and business. But obviously her powers of observation were not so acute where Nicholas was concerned.

“He is English. But, between us ...” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “Seriousness is not among his many qualities.”

It was Katerina’s turn to laugh. She covered her mouth with her white feather fan, the sapphires in its handle catching the sunlight from the windows. “So what are some of the qualities he
does
possess? Or is that too, um, private?”

Elizabeth thought of the previous night, of their kiss on the terrace, of his hands on her back, his lips warm and soft on hers. She could feel her cheeks pinkening. “Oh, assuredly private, Signora Bruni!”

Katerina pouted a bit.
“Cara!
And after all I have told you about the marquis. Am I not your friend?”

“Well ...” Elizabeth glanced at Nicholas from the corner of her eye. “He
does
have the grandest...”