The room was thoroughly masculine with thick tables made of dark woods and chairs upholstered in rich burgundy leather. Bookcases filled with leather-bound volumes. An enormous desk cluttered with papers. She tiptoed toward the desk and glanced at the papers. The documents covered a wide range of concerns ranging from shipping and insurance, freight and bills of lading, to other mundane business affairs. The ledgers looked as though they had been carefully scrutinized, for a series of small check marks were penned beside the columns. It occurred to her for the first time that Nicholas actually worked to maintain his wealth. Until that moment, she thought it had all just been handed to him. Like most men of his stature, she assumed he would leave the running of his business affairs to others. Apparently not.
Other than that surprising discovery, there was not much for her to see. She turned to leave and was stopped by two enormous portraits staring down at her.
Her eyes moved first to an enormous portrait of a man sitting astride a huge black stallion. He wore a dramatic black cape lined with deep crimson satin, and it billowed about him as though stirred by a savage wind. She knew at once that the man was Nicholas’s father, for the resemblance between the two was striking. Like Nicholas, he was large and powerfully built. He had the same dark hair and aristocratic features, the same piercing, coal-black gaze. But unlike the cool, sardonic expression Nicholas usually wore, his father’s mouth was turned down in a disapproving frown, as though the world didn’t quite live up to his standards. There was a subtle harshness and lofty arrogance about him that the artist had managed to capture. Katya guessed it was no idle coincidence that his portrait had been painted from a perspective that forced the viewer to look up. The elder Lord of Barrington was clearly a man of wealth and stature, but—if the painting was any guide—a man devoid of kindness. She gave a slight shudder and turned to the second portrait.
Again the dominant figure was Nicholas’s father. He stood behind two immaculately dressed boys, his hands resting firmly on their shoulders. Once more the family resemblance made it obvious that they were his sons. Her gaze moved first to the elder of the two brothers. Nicholas looked about twelve. His expression, if it could be described at all, was almost forlorn. His eyes were curiously empty, his features set in a look of grave responsibility. Katya’s heart panged at the look of such stark maturity on the face of so young a child. Her gaze moved next to his brother. Unlike Nicholas, the younger boy’s lips were curved in a small, slightly superior smile. His expression was almost haughty, as though he were accustomed to being given whatever he wanted. Their father was standing slightly closer to him, perhaps unconsciously signaling his favorite. Despite that prejudice, the hand resting on Nicholas’s shoulder wore the thick band of gold and onyx that bore the sign of the Maltese, sending an unmistakable message as to which of his sons would inherit the DuValenti legacy.
Katya turned away from the portraits and stepped quietly from the room. She moved through the tall glass doors that led from the informal parlor to a stone-and-masonry patio outside. Continuing away from the house, she moved down a wide set of stairs until she reached the formal lawn. Once there, she felt a tremendous sense of freedom and relief, as though a burden she had been wrestling had somehow been lifted.
The lush grass felt cool and spongy beneath her bare feet, luxuriously decadent. A gentle breeze caressed her face and arms and caused her robe and dressing gown to flutter about her. The gardens were bathed in the soft silver glow of the moon, offering an enticing invitation to enter and stroll about. Katya did just that. She wandered along the flagstone path in a seemingly endless maze, moving deeper and deeper into the overgrown gardens. An exotic array of plants and shrubs surrounded her, filling the air with their rich floral perfume.
She took a step toward the gazebo when a movement near one of the benches made her catch her breath. She heard the soft brush of fabric against the stone and realized at once that someone was sitting inside. Katya hesitated where she stood, halfway up the low wooden steps that led within. Her first thought was that it was Nicholas, that he had somehow followed her through the gardens without her realizing it. But the voice that spoke quickly dispelled that irrational notion.
“Are you entering, Miss Alexander, or do you prefer to stand there all night?”
Katya instantly recognized the imperious voice as that belonging to the Comtesse de Fiorini. “No, I…” she began, somewhat taken aback. She lifted her hand from the railing and took a step away from the gazebo. “Forgive me. I didn’t mean to disturb your solitude,” she murmured.
“Nonsense. Obviously you were intending to sit down. I should hate to think that the mere knowledge of my presence would render you incapable of enjoying the night air.”
A small smile touched Katya’s lips at the unmistakable ring of challenge contained in the Comtesse’s words. Boldly deciding to accept her offer, she moved up the steps and settled herself on the bench opposite the older woman. “Thank you,” she said. “It is lovely tonight, is it not?”
The Comtesse ignored her greeting and raised her lorgnette, her dark gaze indicating clear disapproval of Katya’s clothing. Or lack thereof, as Katya was attired in nothing but her nightgown and dressing robe. She self-consciously crossed her ankles and tucked her bare feet under her gown, wondering why she constantly found herself at such a disadvantage with the woman. Despite the lateness of the hour the Comtesse was dressed in a regal walking gown of deep forest green complete with hat and gloves, as though she were expecting company for tea at any moment.
“It appears as though something disturbed your sleep,” the Comtesse de Fiorini observed dryly.
Refusing to be baited, Katya replied, “Actually, I found I couldn’t sleep at all. I thought a walk through the gardens might relax me.”
“Ah.”
Silence fell between them. After a moment, Katya ventured, “And what about you? Were you unable to sleep as well?”
“One has less need for sleep as one grows older. I suppose it’s God’s way of allowing us more time to look back and reflect upon life.”
“Perhaps that’s why they say our elders are so wise.”
“Hogwash. I hear nothing from my peers but the same tired opinions, the same foolish gossip, the same dull lamenting over idiotic schemes and wasted opportunities. There is no wisdom at all, nothing to show for the years they have been on this earth but profoundly wrinkled skin, bad teeth, and creaking joints.”
Katya bit back a smile. “I see.”
The Comtesse stomped her cane on the ground in a militaristic gesture that uniquely suited her. “So what do you think of the gardens, Miss Alexander?” she demanded briskly.
“They’re lovely, truly.”
“I quite agree. They were the work of Nicholas’s mother. My brother oversaw the construction of the house and the setting up of its furnishings, but it was Marianne who planned the gardens.” She paused for a moment, as though lost in silent reminiscence. “She was constantly out here puttering. My brother thought it was beneath her. He directed her to leave the work to the gardeners and staff, but Marianne couldn’t resist. She tried to stand idly by but eventually she succumbed to the lure of the soil, snatching up a weed here, planting a shrub there. Nicholas and Richard used to love puttering along beside her, pulling up worms and digging holes.”
“Richard?”
“Nicholas’s younger brother.”
Katya’s thoughts immediately turned to the portrait of the young, impish boy she had seen in the study. “Were he and Nicholas very close?” she asked.
“Close?” the Comtesse repeated thoughtfully. “Perhaps as young boys, yes. Unfortunately they became quite estranged as they grew older. Richard had tremendous potential, but I suppose in the end he was too much like their father. Selfish, profligate, reckless, far too arrogant for his own good. His reputation as a notorious rogue preceded him wherever he went.”
Katya arched one dark brow. “It appears that that reputation runs rampant among the m
en in this family.”
The Comtesse sent her a disapproving frown. “I take it you are referring to the ridiculous title that is whispered behind Nicholas’s back.”
“The Lord of Scandal?”
“Yes, that bit of irresponsible nonsense.”
“It was Nicholas himself who warned me of his reputation. But from what I’ve heard, it’s well deserved.”
“You may also encounter fools who will try to convince you that the world is flat. I suggest you not believe everything you are told, Miss Alexander.”
“You are saying that your nephew is a perfect gentleman?”
“Hardly. How dreadfully boring.” She thought for a moment, then continued in a tone of somber reflection, “It is almost impossible to say anything completely correct about Nicholas; it is equally difficult to say anything entirely erroneous. He is not an easy man to know, but well worth the effort should you care to try.”
“I’m afraid you mistake my place in this household,” Katya replied. “I’m here to see if I can assist in recovering the scroll, that’s all.”
The Comtesse dismissed that with an impatient wave of her hand. “The scroll itself is of little importance. Surely that is clear even to you by now. What Nicholas seeks are answers.”
“And you believe I can provide them?”
The older woman studied her in silence for a long moment. “Perhaps. I’m glad you’re here in any case, Miss Alexander. For Nicholas’s sake. In my opinion he has suffered unnecessarily—both at the hands of society at large, and because of his own feelings of guilt regarding recent events.”
“Nicholas has been unhappy?” she asked, unable to reconcile any weakness with the strong, opinionated man she had come to know.
“Burdened,” his aunt corrected with a stern frown. “Only the truly self-pitying allow themselves to be unhappy.” She paused, then continued curtly, “You are attracted to him, are you not?”
Katya’s brows shot skyward. “I hardly—”
“You should be,” the imperious older woman informed her. “In my day a man like Nicholas would have been considered quite a catch, regardless of the lurid rumors that surround him.”
“I suppose great wealth is a rather potent lure.”
“I am not speaking of his wealth and you know it,” the Comtesse countered sharply. She paused a moment, then continued with an imperious thump of her cane, “I am an old woman, but I have learned a thing or two about men in my time. Allow me the indulgence of imparting a bit of advice—advice that will doubtless go unheeded, but I give it to you anyway. Character is what matters most. I would say that this is the ultimate test of any man who walks this earth. Character. Nicholas has that in abundance.”
Uncertain how to respond, Katya stood, moving to the battered wooden railing that encircled the gazebo. As she stared out at the gardens, she realized for the first time that the roses covering the latticework were white. Scores of tiny white rosebuds clung to the thorny vines.
“These roses remind me of Nicholas,” she said. “Each time he’s given me a flower, it’s been a white rose. Yet I can’t look at a white rose without remembering a bit of the gypsy lore I heard as a child. My mother told me that a white rose symbolized secrets kept between two people. She said the rose was never given—or received—without a cost.”
“Indeed?” The Comtesse mulled over her words. “It may surprise you to know that we English are not without a bit of whimsy of our own when it comes to botany. I seem to recall that Marianne shared a word or two with me regarding the flower as well. Not about the rose itself, but about the tight little buds you see before you. She said a white rosebud symbolized innocence and awakening, the opening of a heart untouched. There are two courses the flower might take: it may stretch toward the sun and become a rich, full blossom, or it may draw inward and wither away.”
Katya reached out and brushed her finger over a tight, velvety bud. “And which course do these flowers take?”
“If you look closely, you’ll see that the buds are shriveling, the petals turning brown. I don’t think they’ve bloomed once since Marianne died.”
“How very sad.”
“What brought you out here, Miss Alexander?”
Katya gave a small shrug. “Too many thoughts whirling through my head, I suppose. I couldn’t sleep.”
The Comtesse sent her a look of cool reproach. “There are far better things to do with the night than sleep through it. If you haven’t learned that by now, perhaps it is time you do.” On that astonishing statement, she rose to her feet, regally inclining her head. “Good night, Miss Alexander.”
With those final words, the Comtesse strode proudly away. She moved across the rocky flagstone path and disappeared into the moonlit gardens.
Nicholas waited until half past noon for Katya to make an appearance for breakfast. When the servants began setting out the luncheon dishes and she still had not surfaced from her room, he set aside the journals he had been browsing and strode upstairs. He moved down the long hallway and rapped purposefully on her bedchamber door.
He heard the sound of swishing skirts and the soft padding of feet across the carpet. Katya opened the door and peered out. Any concern he may have harbored that she had kept to her room because she was unwell was instantly dispelled once he saw her. She wore a simple gown of pale pink muslin that brought out the gentle glow of her skin and the rosy hue in her cheeks. Her eyes were bright and alert—if partially hidden behind the spectacles that sat perched on the end of her nose.
“Oh, it’s you,” she said, looking more than a little surprised to find him standing there. “I thought you were the maid.”
He crossed his arms over his chest and relaxed against the doorjamb. “I suppose that’s my greatest failing,” he said. “People are constantly confusing me with the servants.”
A small, embarrassed smile curved her lips. “I meant, I was expecting the maid,” she corrected. “I’ve kept to my room all morning and I fear I’m preventing her from seeing to her duties.”
“Anything wrong?”
“Not at all I had some correspondence I’d been putting off and I decided to shut myself in until it was finished.” She paused for a moment, then asked abruptly, “Did the Comtesse send you?”
“The Comtesse? No, why?”
She shook her head. “Nothing, I… I thought she might have, that’s all.”
“Well, she didn’t.” His gaze moved slowly over her form, resting on the mass of silky ebony curls that tumbled over her shoulders and down her back. “So you do wear it down,” he observed.
She raised her hand in a self-conscious motion and smoothed it over her hair, as though attempting to restore sort of order to the wild riot of curls. “I was going to wash it later so I haven’t bothered with it.” She hesitated, then continued in what sounded suspiciously like a subtle reprimand, “I wasn’t expecting company.”
“I didn’t mean to disturb your privacy. I waited for you in the dining room, but you never came downstairs for breakfast.”
“No, I wasn’t hungry. I had a pot of chocolate and some toast sent up.”
His gaze moved past her and to the tray that sat on her bedside table. A few slices of toasted bread, a dish of marmalade, fresh creamy butter, and a small plate of sliced melon and strawberries remained half-eaten. The rich scent of chocolate wafted through the air. Her bed was tousled and unmade, the sheets were thrown back and the pillows scattered about in seductive disarray. For a moment Nicholas allowed himself the unprecedented luxury of letting his imagination run wild. He imagined coaxing Katya into bed, then slowly disrobing her and making love upon those warm, messy sheets. He imagined running his hands over her body as he learned what pleased her and what did not, slowly exploring every delicate, erotic inch of her form.
Reluctantly returning his thoughts to what had brought him here, he said, “I wonder if I could speak with you privately for a moment.”
“Certainly.”
“Down the
hall, if you don’t mind.”
A look of surprise flashed through her eyes, then she nodded briskly. “Very well.”
She stepped out of her room and allowed him to guide her down the hall. Once they reached the end of the passageway, he paused and pushed open a set of broad oak double doors, gesturing for her to precede him. She glanced inside then looked back at him in wary hesitation.
“Your bedchamber?”
“Yes.”
“Exactly what is it you would like to discuss?”
A broad grin curved his lips. “Are you always this distrustful?”
She tilted her chin. “Whenever a man tells me he would like to speak to me, then leads me to his bedchamber for that discussion, yes, I am.”
“How very prudent. Does that happen to you often?”
Aware she was being mocked, she replied primly, “It’s the principle of the matter that’s at issue here.”
“Of course.” He nodded somberly. “If it’s any comfort to you, bear in mind that I have a full staff of servants within earshot. Should I make any untoward advances, you need only raise your voice and they will all come running.”
Katya considered that. “True,” she agreed, reluctantly stepping inside.
Nicholas followed her and closed the door behind them. Leaning against the heavy oak panels, he added with a mischievous grin, “They all are in my employ, of course, so should anyone try to intervene on your behalf, I would threaten him with immediate dismissal and banish him from the room.”
She sent him a dry smile. “Thank you. That’s very comforting.”
She turned her attention from him to his room, studying it with open curiosity. Nicholas followed her gaze, wondering if she liked what she saw. His bedchamber was rather large, its masculine furnishings dominated by a huge four-poster bed made of dark mahogany. A stone fireplace occupied one corner; a set of oversized chairs and ottomans were grouped around it. A set of tall windows flanked one wall, offering a sweeping view of the cliffs and sea. On the opposite wall was a huge mosaic made from thousands of pieces of tiny, shimmering tile.
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