To Deceive a Duke (18 page)

She held tight to Edward, calling out to him incoherently as at last she touched that sun, and flew apart in a million flaming fragments. A shower of bright release that sent her tumbling back to earth, weak and trembling.

He caught her as she fell, holding her safe in his arms as she suddenly, inexplicably, burst into tears.

‘Oh, Edward,’ she sobbed. ‘That was—marvellous.’

He cradled her against his chest, and she felt the deep rumble of his laughter as he kissed her hair, her temple. ‘Marvellous, my dear,’ he muttered, ‘doesn’t even begin to describe it.’

‘Y
ou are such a
duke
,’ Clio said, laughing. She sat on the worn brocade couch in the cottage’s only parlour, wrapped in her dressing gown and watching Edward attempt to light a fire. She had just finished drinking her infusion of smart-weed leaves and rue—vile, but Rosa had solemnly assured her it would prevent pregnancy—and Edward’s efforts were an excellent distraction from the bitter taste.

He glanced back over his shoulder, grinning at her. He wore nothing but his breeches, his hair carelessly tied back, and he looked—happy. Happiness was certainly not something she ever associated with him, yet it certainly looked good. His eyes, his smile, the golden glow of his skin, it was so very beautiful. Her bright Apollo.

She felt quite happy herself, light and giddy, as if her feet floated right off the ground. Despite being a prisoner here, she couldn’t remember ever feeling quite so carefree.

Sex certainly wasn’t overrated, then.

‘I’ve been called worse,’ he said, trying again to light his haphazard pile of wood and kindling. ‘What about me is particularly duke-like right now? My fine raiment?’

‘The way you can so handily kidnap someone, yet you can’t light a fire,’ she said.

‘Would you care to try, then, madame? Not that
you
live daily with a houseful of servants, of course. I’m sure you have far more experience with domestic chores than I would…’

‘Oh, here, give me that!’ Clio pushed him out of the way, taking the flint from his hands. She studied it carefully. She had certainly watched the maids light fires dozens of times—surely it could not be so hard?

Edward leaned back against the abandoned couch, his hands behind his head as he watched her with smug satisfaction. It made her all the more determined to build the best fire ever seen!

‘Surely I am not so completely useless,’ he said. ‘Even dukes have their advantages.’

‘Oh, yes? Like what?’

‘Did I not carry in vast quantities of water, just so you can have a bath?’ He gestured toward the buckets lined up on the hearth.

Clio laughed. ‘So you did.’ And he had also brought a shining brass hip bath, piles of fluffy towels and her own lily-scented bath salts and soap. All the finest
ducal
luxuries. Yet it would do them no good if they could not heat the water.

At last she got the flint to catch, and lit some of the kindling. She pushed it under the wood with the poker, watching with a great sense of accomplishment as the flames caught and built.

‘I’m exhausted.’ She sighed. ‘And famished! What have you brought for my supper?’

‘So very demanding,’ Edward teased. ‘Build me a fire, find me some rue, give me supper.’

Clio laughed, snuggling back into his welcoming arms as the fire heated the room. His embrace surrounded her, warm
and safe, and she felt his chin nestle atop her hair. She thought she could surely stay there for ever, curled up next to Edward with a good fire and a soft bed. They seemed to be the only two people in all the world.

It could not last long, she knew that. It was far too sweet, too perfect. She would have to escape soon, to find out what was happening in the wide universe outside their little cocoon. But not yet. Not tonight. It had taken her and Edward too long to come to this moment of understanding; she had to enjoy it to the fullest.

While it lasted.

‘As a matter of fact, I did bring supper,’ he said. Not letting her go, he reached out with his bare foot and hooked a covered basket, dragging it close. ‘Bread, cheese, olives, prosciutto. Some fruit and lemon cakes. Wine.’

‘Hmm, so there
are
advantages to being a duke,’ Clio said, rummaging in the basket until she found a loaf of bread. She tore off a soft white bite, popping it into his mouth before eating the rest herself. ‘Delicious.’

‘A true ducal repast, one worthy of you, my dear, would have at least twenty courses.’

‘Served on golden plates?’

‘Of course. And ruby goblets.’

‘With an orchestra from Vienna to serenade us while we eat our roasted swan and lobster patties.’

‘And doves to soar overhead, carrying banners embroidered with your name, “Clio the Most Fair”, as they dropped diamonds and pearls into your lap.’

Clio laughed at their silliness as she poured out the wine, not into ruby goblets but into plain pottery. ‘Knowing doves, it would
not
be pearls they dropped, but something far less glamorous.’

‘Not ducal doves.’

‘So, even birds do your bidding?’

‘Certainly. The only creatures who don’t are Muses.’

‘We don’t do anyone’s bidding, I fear.’ Clio dug about among the food, laying out the meat and cheese, the glistening lemon cakes. At the very bottom of the basket was a small nosegay of Sicilian wildflowers, gold and purple and sage-green, tied up with white satin ribbons.

‘For “Clio the Most Fair”,’ Edward said quietly. ‘I wish they were diamonds.’

She shook her head, inhaling the crisp, clean scent of the flowers. They smelled of nature, of wildness, of freedom. Of everything she had found here on this ancient island, with him. ‘Flowers are surely far better than any diamonds.’

‘I knew you would say that. So I sent those earrings back to my jeweller…’

Clio laughed, falling back into his arms. ‘Oh, Edward. I can see now that even dukes might make good husbands, given the proper training.’

He held her close, his breath stirring the loose curls at her temples. She felt the quick press of his kiss on her ear, and it made her smile. ‘You could find a hundred better husbands than me, Clio.’

‘Oh, undoubtedly. A kind husband who would do my bidding without complaint, and not lock me up in funny little cottages with no servants to prepare my bath.’ Men who weren’t somehow involved in shadowy antiquities deals…

‘Italian counts with handsome faces and hand-kissing manners?’

‘My goodness, Edward, are you jealous? Of Marco?’ For some reason, the thought that he might be just a little bit jealous gave her a twinge of satisfaction. Edward had surely
been in love, or at least in lust, many times in the past, whereas she had only him. But he didn’t have to know that just yet.

‘Marco and I are merely friends,’ she said airily. ‘Colleagues, I suppose you could say.’

‘And where did you find this
colleague
? Skulking around a gypsy camp in disguise?’

‘Of course not,’ Clio said, laughing. ‘He wrote a very stirring pamphlet, on the sad fate of some Italian antiquities, stolen from Florence and Tuscany and hidden away in foreign private collections. He’s very passionate about such things, about culture and heritage.’

‘And you approved of his views right away, I’m sure.’

‘I did. I had often despaired of many of the more, shall we say, unscrupulous collecting habits I saw in some of my father’s acquaintances. I just had no idea what I could do about it. So, when I read Marco’s pamphlet, I wrote to him about it.’

‘You wrote to a strange man?’ Edward said incredulously.

‘It wasn’t a romantic letter at all! And really, Edward, are you surprised I would disregard propriety in such a way?’

He gave a rueful laugh, his arms tightening around her. ‘I suppose I should not be. Nothing you do ought to surprise me any longer.’

‘No, it should not. I have ceased to even surprise myself.’ Though, in truth, she was rather surprised at herself at this moment. Sitting alone with Edward in an isolated cottage, half-naked, chatting casually about her most closely held secrets. A month ago, even a week ago, she couldn’t have imagined it. ‘But that is how I came to be friends with Marco. And when I devised the idea of the Lily Thief, I knew who to turn to for help.’

They were silent for a long moment, nibbling at their
repast to the crackle of the flames, the whistle of the night wind outside their cottage refuge.

‘You’re really not in love with him, then?’ Edward said at last.

Clio laughed. ‘Not at all. He is far too charming for me.’ She turned in his arms, looping her hands around his neck. He watched her cautiously, and she pressed tiny, light kisses along his jaw and cheekbones until he smiled at last. ‘I much prefer mysterious, taciturn dukes.’

He held her against him, cradling her to his bare chest as he buried his face in the curve of her neck. ‘Oh, Clio,’ he muttered. ‘We’re two of a kind, whether we want to admit it or not.’

Two of a kind
? Before Clio could say anything, could question him or demand that he finally stop being so blasted mysterious, he kissed her lips and she forgot everything else. She just knew that kiss, his breath and skin, the now-familiar way his body felt under her touch. The hot, sharp need their lovemaking had created rose up inside her again, more urgent than ever.

Could she ever have enough of this man? Could her yearning ever truly be satisfied? Clio feared the answer was
no
. Never. The more she had, the more she wanted. She wanted every part of him, his body, his spirit, his secrets. For he surely possessed all of
her
.

They tumbled back on to the floor, the heat and smoke from the fire wrapped around them as they shed their clothes, the last barrier to their touch. Clio welcomed him into her body, into her very heart and soul. Even as she lost herself in their lovemaking, she feared he would stay there, locked in her heart, for ever.

This time out of time, with the world shut away from their secret bower, was a rare and fleeting gift. She wanted to make the most of every second, every touch and kiss.

Because it surely could not last long.

T
halia glanced down at the slip of paper in her hand, then up at the house. It seemed to be the right address, yet she wasn’t sure. It didn’t look like the residence of a count.

She didn’t know what sort of abode she expected for Marco di Fabrizzi. A vast white baroque palace, with stucco flourishes and wrought-iron balconies? A medieval castle, cold and forbidding, bound in ancient stone and overgrown ivy? Whatever she imagined, this wasn’t quite it. A tall, narrow town house in a part of Santa Lucia tucked behind the palazzos, inhabited mostly by shopkeepers. Neat and respectable enough, but not grand.

Thalia’s estimation of him went up a small notch. He was not a snob, then, like his friend Lady Riverton. But that did not mean she intended to leave him alone. She had come here for answers, and answers she would get.

She drew her cloak’s hood closer about her face, staying in the night’s shadows. Chase Muses were known for being daring, for being fearless bluestockings, yet coming to a man’s house would be too much even for daring young ladies! Luckily there was no one on the street; respectable shop
keepers probably retired early. And there were no lights to be seen in the Count’s windows.

If she was fortunate, he would be out and she could rifle his desk in search of secret papers and letters without being hurried. She wanted to discover something, anything, to tell her where her sister really was.

Unless—unless they had gone off together. Eloped. Was there some form of Gretna Green in Sicily?

Thalia knew that Marco was not all he pretended to be. No, he was definitely more. More than a charming, peripatetic, not-too-bright Continental aristocrat who cared only to flirt, dance and acquire artwork. When he had talked to her, in the dark of the masked ball, she saw such fierce intelligence in his eyes. Saw the intensity he tried to hide. He held secrets, many of them. He had a purpose here in Santa Lucia far beyond going to parties. Yet she—and Clio—seemed to be the only ones who saw that.

That was the thing about great beauty, Thalia reflected. It was a blessing and a curse for those who possessed it. A blessing, because most people seldom looked past it to see the ugliness and pain, the secrets and plans, hidden beneath. There was always a certain power to being underestimated, as she well knew. Yet it was a curse, too, because most people also didn’t
want
to see past fine eyes and glowing skin. They wanted only the fantasy.

She knew Marco was up to something, something hidden behind the glory of his face. He thought himself well disguised, but he had not reckoned with her.

Thalia hurried back behind the quiet row of houses, counting until she found the right one again. A set of shallow stone steps, set behind an iron railing, led down to the kitchen. It, too, seemed quiet, as if the servants were out. Or perhaps he kept no servants, all the better to hide his secret deeds.

She tiptoed down the steps and carefully tested the door, finding it unlocked. When she peered inside, she found a narrow corridor piled with crates of produce and wine bottles, but no noise or movement. No people. From the gloomy light coming through the open door she dashed through the kitchen to the servants’ stairs.

How thrilling it all was, she thought, to be doing something so very
wrong
! She could see now why criminals, like that Lily Thief who had struck London last year, kept on doing it, despite the danger. Thalia suddenly felt so very alive, tingling with excitement and fear all at the same time. It was like a suspenseful play, and she held her breath to see what would happen next.

She pushed open the door at the top of the stairs and found herself on a landing, a high-set window illuminating two partially opened doors. She glimpsed a dining room and a drawing room, simply furnished and dark. The whole place had a chilly air of disuse about it, an abandoned quality that made her think of ghost stories.

Her hand trembled, but she kept moving. She had to; she had come too far to turn away, to miss what the next act might hold.

She crept up the stairs, higher and higher into the darkness. Finally, along another narrow corridor, there was one door with a thin line of light around the edges. She could hear no sound, no murmur of voices, no screams or shouts. Just the enveloping silence of the rest of the house.

Steeling her nerves, Thalia ran forward, shoving open the door with a great bang. At first, she dared not look, dared not see what horrors she might have found. But when she peeked, she saw—well, not much at all.

It was a small bedchamber, well lit by lamps and a cosy fire in the grate. Marco di Fabrizzi sat at a desk by the heavily
curtained window, papers and books scattered before him. He wore a brocade dressing gown, his black hair rumpled over his brow, yet as he glanced up in shock his hand shot to a wicked-looking dagger resting on the desk. He held it balanced expertly on his palm, prepared to do battle.

Thalia’s gaze darted around the room, but she saw no one else. Marco appeared to be alone.

He came slowly to his feet, still holding the dagger. ‘Signorina Thalia?’ he said incredulously. ‘What are you doing here?’

‘I came to find my sister,’ Thalia cried. ‘Where have you hidden her?’

‘Clio?’ he asked. He watched her closely, his lovely dark eyes full of wariness, suspicion, and—and laughter? ‘Is she not at your house?’

‘Of course she isn’t, or I wouldn’t be here looking for her, would I?’

‘I’m sure I could not say.’

‘I am not as big a fool as all that.’ But she was, Thalia realised with a horrible sinking sensation, something of a fool. Once again, she had dashed into things without pausing for thought. Without thinking of the consequences. Now she was alone in a silent house, with a man in possession of a dagger.

‘I thought she had eloped with you,’ she said weakly.

He gave a startled laugh. ‘I do not believe so.’ He went to the wardrobe, opening the doors to show her the interior, empty of everything but clothes. ‘No ladies there, alas.’ He knelt to peer under the bed. ‘Nor there. Though I must speak to the maids about dusting.’

Thalia watched him, more and more chagrined, as he stood up and smiled at her. It was a beautiful smile, of course,
carving unearthly dimples into his whisker-roughened olive cheeks. But it was also careful, as if he humoured the crazy lady who had broken into his house.

Thalia stepped back, pressing her hands to her burning cheeks. ‘Then you don’t know where she is at all?’

‘I fear I have not seen her since your dinner party,’ he said gently. ‘Has she really disappeared?’

‘Yes. No. I don’t know.’ Thalia groaned. She felt the most ridiculous, childish urge to stamp her feet and sob! But was this whole exercise not another way to make her family see she was grown up now, not a silly child? Not someone to protect? So, she kept her shoes firmly on the floor, determined to stop and think for once in her life. Now that it was too late.

‘Here,
signorina
, sit down,’ Marco said. He put down the dagger and moved slowly toward her, holding his hands out as one would to a skittish horse. Thalia let him take her arm and lead her to a chair. ‘Have some wine, and tell me what has happened.’

‘I really don’t know
what
has happened,’ she said, watching as he poured out a glass of wine and pressed it into her cold fingers. She sipped at it automatically, but it was indeed bracing. It helped her slow her racing thoughts.

‘You say your sister has vanished?’ he asked, sitting down beside her.

‘I thought she had. She sent us a message saying she had decided to go to Motya with the Darbys after all. But things have been so very odd lately…’

‘Odd?’ He spoke quietly, as if he feared to scare her, but she heard the concern in his voice.

‘Yes. Clio has been rather, I don’t know, moody. Quiet. Especially since you arrived. I thought perhaps you two had decided to elope, and I was angry she was keeping secrets
from me. I decided to find out for myself.’ She took another fortifying sip. ‘I see now I was wrong.’

He smiled wryly, as if amused she could think him a seducing eloper, even though he himself seemed to want to appear a heartless flirt. ‘Why would you think I would run off with your sister?’

‘I saw the two of you on the terrace at our party, talking together so intimately,’ she said. ‘And did you not know each other before?’

‘Before?’ The dimples vanished.

‘Before Santa Lucia. In England, even.’ Thalia laughed. ‘You needn’t look so surprised. There are some advantages to looking like a silly blonde bonbon, you know. I see things my sisters think I do not.’

‘I
am
surprised, Thalia,’ he said. ‘Yet I should not be. I knew you were dangerous the very first time I saw you.’

‘Not half as dangerous as you, I’m sure—Count.’ She put down the empty glass with a sigh. ‘But I am no closer to finding my sister.’

‘Is it possible she really did go to Motya?’

‘It is possible, of course. She has gone off on such excursions on short notice before, and my father doesn’t seem concerned. Yet…’

‘Yet
you
are concerned?’

‘Yes. It doesn’t feel right to me somehow.’

Marco shook his head. ‘Nor to me. She would not go now. You are right to be concerned.’

Reassured by the fact that he seemed to take her seriously, and did not just laugh her fears away as her family would, Thalia turned to him, reaching for his hand. ‘Tell me. What do you know of the Duke of Averton?’