When her partner, a tall, patrician-looking man dressed as a Roman with wreath and toga, had put his hand on her arm with obvious familiarity, Nicholas’s fingers had reached convulsively for the pistol hidden in his velvet jacket.
For one shattering instant he had forgotten the debt he owed Peter Everdean. He had forgotten everything, and only seen this Elizabeth as a woman.
A lovely woman he wanted for himself.
He wanted to feel her small, pale body naked against his, to breathe in her scent, to ease into her welcoming warmth, and hear her sigh and cry out his name....
He needed some air.
Nicholas evaded the clinging arms of his hostess, and retreated in haste to the darkness of the terrace, to breathe in the quiet, the solitude.
He was not to be solitary very long.
No sooner had he lit a thin cigar and leaned back to enjoy it, than a bundle of green velvet and lilies-of-the-valley scent tumbled through the doors and landed at his feet.
“H—hello,” the bundle whispered.
Nicholas found himself gaping like the veriest green lad at the lady’s stocking-clad calves and slim ankles above high-heeled green satin shoes. He blinked and quickly raised his eyes to her face. She was half in shadow, yet he could still see the flush across her high cheekbones, and the way she was, in turn, gaping up at him.
“Signorina,” he murmured, automatically making a polite leg. “Or ... is it signora?”
“It ... it is signorina,” she answered, still whispering.
Nicholas’s smile was white and predatory in the darkness as he looked down at her. At last—Signo—rina Everdean.
Chapter Three
Elizabeth silently willed the marble beneath her bottom to open up and swallow her whole. When it chose not to oblige, and instead left her sprawled inelegantly at the feet of the most attractive man she had ever encountered, she slowly opened her eyes and dared a peek up at him.
“Good evening!” she chirped, then closed her eyes again when she heard how mortifyingly high-pitched her voice had suddenly become. Coughing as delicately as possible, she tried again. “Delightful party, is it not?”
“Delightful,” the man answered, his voice warm and rough, dark as the night around them. Indeed, he seemed almost a part of the night, his black hair and attire blending into the midnight darkness, leaving only the glow of his eyes as he looked down at her, unsmiling.
Elizabeth resisted the urge to titter, something she had not been at all tempted to do since she left the schoolroom. Instead, she leaned back and said coolly, “I do not believe I have ever seen you in Venice before, signor.”
“No. I have only just arrived.”
A man of few words. Excellent. Then Elizabeth’s eyes widened, as she registered that the man’s words had been in perfectly unaccented English. “You are English!”
“Indeed I am.”
“I thought I knew all the English who were staying here.” She ran through all her acquaintances in her mind, but all of them, even the most eccentric poets and painters, seemed far too, well, ordinary to be associated with this man. And no one had mentioned they were expecting a new houseguest. “But then, we have only been here three months ourselves, though Venice is so wonderful it feels only days! We were in Milan before. Have you been to Milan?”
“No.”
“You ought to go. It is quite fascinating. I learned a great deal there. In fact, I did not want to leave, but Georgie—Georgina—insisted we come here for Carnivale.”
Elizabeth almost slapped herself. She was babbling—she, who could fend off every overbold swain with a sharp word and a snap of her fingers! She, who a disappointed suitor had once dubbed the Ice Duchess. She was rattling on like a sapskull, all because a handsome man was looking down at her in the moonlight. She snapped her mouth shut and fell silent.
He held out one hand to help her to her feet, quite startling Elizabeth since she had forgotten she was sprawled out on the cold marble with her skirts about her knees. She reached up tentatively and took the proffered hand; his slightly callused palm felt warm and cool against her skin. She did not want to let go, even when she was firmly on her feet again.
And he seemed quite willing to let her go on holding his hand.
“Where were you, before you were in Milan?” he asked softly, so close that his breath stirred the loose curls at her temples.
“What?” she murmured absently, quite absorbed in the smell of him, evergreen and starch and something darker, richer. She wanted to bury her nose in his satin waistcoat and inhale him.
“I said ... where did you live, before you were in Milan? In a rose petal?”
“A ... what?”
“A rose petal. Is that not where all fairy princesses curl up to sleep?” His aged-cognac voice was lightly amused, as if she were a diverting child he was attempting to humor.
A child was the very last thing she wanted to be in this man’s eyes. Fairy princess, however, sounded slightly more promising. “I don’t know about fairies, signor, but I sleep in an ordinary feather bed.”
“Indeed? And I thought I had found an escapee from fairyland, with eyes the color of the stormy sea.”
Elizabeth giggled despite herself. She looked down, turning his hand between both of hers, and imagined raising the bronze flesh to her lips, pressing kisses along the callused ridge of the heel of his palm, where he would grip a sword. Suddenly lightheaded, she dropped his hand and stepped back, forcing herself to take in deep breaths of the cool night air.
But her lungs were still filled with the scent of him.
It was just the champagne, clouding her very judgment, making her behave foolishly. That was all. She was only tipsy. Really.
“We lived in Rome,” she answered finally, turning her back on his disturbing presence to look down over the Grand Canal and the gondolas filled with revelers that floated there. One couple, cloaked and masked, waved up at her and she waved back. “In rented rooms, remarkably free of any resemblance to a rose petal. Before that we were at the small villa Georgie owns, at Lake Como.”
“We?” He had moved silently closer, and she could feel his warmth against her velvet-covered back.
“My ... my sister and myself. We are artists, and must travel to find patrons.”
“Women artists?”
Elizabeth stiffened, bracing for the inevitable mockery. Please, not him, too. Yet there was only curiosity in his voice, and an odd sort of tension, waiting. “Yes,” she answered. “Georgina, my sister, is becoming quite well known. In England she painted Mrs. Drummond-Burrell’s portrait. Perhaps you have heard of her? Mrs. Georgina Beaumont?”
“I have indeed.” He leaned against the marble balustrade behind him, his velvet sleeve brushing lightly against her hand. “She was quite the on dit in London. Even from afar she excites much interest.”
Elizabeth couldn’t help but laugh. “Every bit of it true, I assure you! Georgie causes a stir wherever we go.”
“I was not aware she had a sister who is also an artist.”
“Oh, I am still a student, really. I am, however, working on a new commission at the moment.”
“Indeed?”
“Yes. A portrait of Katerina Bruni.” She glanced at him from the corner of her eye, gauging his reaction to the name of the infamous, and very beautiful, courtesan. “Another scandalous lady, n’est-ce pas?”
He laughed, the rich sound of it flowing through her like creamy chocolate. “The mistress of the Marquis of Rothmere is well known everywhere, yes. She is a famous beauty, and notoriously particular about who paints her portrait. You are doing very well for a mere student.”
Elizabeth shrugged, secretly pleased at the compliment. “The Italians are very friendly, and quite receptive to new artists. Much more so than the English.” As the moon appeared from behind a bank of clouds, she turned back to her companion, to study his beautiful, scarred face. “That does not, however, mean they are any more prompt in paying their debts. And
my name is Elizabeth Cheswood. It was quite rag-mannered of me not to introduce myself earlier.”
“I am very pleased to meet you, Miss Cheswood.”
Elizabeth waited expectantly, but no reciprocal information was forthcoming. “You have not told me your name, signor, or where you were before you came to Venice.”
He shrugged, the dark cloth of his coat rippling impressively across his back and shoulders. “I am not at all interesting, Miss Cheswood. I fear I would bore you with the mundane details of my life.”
“I am not bored yet,” she answered quietly.
A muscle clenched in his smooth-sculpted jaw. “My name is Nicholas, and I was in London before I came to Venice ... and found you.” He smiled at her tightly. “There you see, Miss Cheswood. Quite ordinary.”
“Oh, I hardly think you could be called ordinary, Nicholas of London.” The champagne seemed to be making her bold. She traced the jagged scar on his cheek lightly with her fingertip, and, though his entire body was tense as a cracked whip, he did not move away. “Quite the opposite, I would say.”
“Oh, yes?” His voice was hardly more than a rough whisper, and he reached out to lightly caress her cheek.
“Yes.” Elizabeth hardly knew what she was doing. She had never in her life been so very close to a man, a stranger. But she went on tiptoe, her palm flat against his cheek now, their breath mingling. His arm crept about her waist. “Have you ever had your portrait painted, Nicholas?”
“Never. Should you like to be the first to paint it?” His mouth almost, barely, delicately touched hers. Her eyes drifted shut....
“Elizabeth! What are you doing out here?”
“Blast!” she breathed, jerking out of Nicholas’s embrace and turning to glare at the interloper. “Stephen.”
“Elizabeth!” Stephen said sternly, waving his shield at her. “Your sister wishes to speak with you, and she feels you have been out in this cold air long enough.”
“Georgie sent you?” Elizabeth fumed, her tiny fists planted on her hips. “I hardly think that is the situation! What do you—”
Her words ended in an indignant squeak, as Stephen seized her arm in a surprisingly strong grasp and marched her from the terrace. Her feet did not even touch the floor as he swept her back inside the doors and into the midst of the noisy, overheated party.
She only managed one frantic glance over her shoulder at the shadowy figure, who blew her an impertinent kiss. She did not see Georgina lurking behind a potted plant, twisting her brocade sleeve thoughtfully as she watched the man who, shaking only slightly, was lighting a thin cigar and turning to watch the canal again.
“Signor!” she called, rustling forward. “Signor, we have not been formally introduced, but my name is Mrs. Georgina Beaumont. I could not help but notice that you were just in earnest conversation with my sister....”
“Ah. So you are the famous Mrs. Beaumont?”
“I am. And you are ... ?”
“Nicholas Carter.” He made an elegant leg. “At your service.”
Georgina flashed a roguish smile. “I do hope so, sirrah. Or rather, that you are at my sister’s service.”
“I am afraid I do not understand.”
“Would you perhaps be in need of employment, Mr. Carter? While you are in fair Venice? Something I think you would find ... amusing.”
His dark eyes flashed down at her. “Just what are you suggesting, Mrs. Beaumont?”
Chapter Four
“Bianca! How can I draw if you persist in wriggling about so?” Elizabeth snapped. “You swore you would remain still this time.”
The little Italian maid, garbed in classical draperies formed of sheets and a braided curtain cord, twisted about again, pouting extravagantly. “But, signorina! Someone is knocking at your door, and it is my duty to answer it! I am maid.”
“Your predominant duty at the moment is to be my model,” Elizabeth muttered. As she lowered the drawing pencil clutched in her fingers, she finally heard Georgina pounding on the bedroom door. Georgie sounded far too cheerful by half, considering it was not even noon yet.
“Yoo-hoo! Lizzie!” she sang, beating a pattern on the door. “Are you there, dear?”
“Come in, if you must,” Elizabeth answered, bending back over her sketchbook. She had spent a sleepless night, going over and over in her mind the encounter with the dark Englishman, coming up with witty repartee she should have made instead of the nonsense she had spouted. As a result, she was bleary-eyed and cranky, with no patience for Georgina’s shining good cheer.
“Oh, Lizzie.” Georgina tsked, peeking around the door with bright eyes and perfectly coiffed auburn curls. “You are still in your night rail! And here it is almost time for luncheon.”
“I am busy. And are you not supposed to be working?” Elizabeth pushed a tangle of black hair out of her eyes and watched, disgruntled, as Georgina bustled about, opening the armoire and searching through the jumble of Elizabeth’s gowns.
“Indeed I do have work to do, a sitting with that tiresome old contessa and her nasty poodle. But right now I have a much more amusing task!”
Georgina was fairly vibrating with the need to tell something, so Elizabeth gave in with a sigh, and set aside her sketchbook. “Very well, what is it?”
“You have a caller.”
“What? Who? At this time of day? If it is Stephen, you can tell him to go away. I am still angry with him over his high-handed behavior last night. We are not engaged, and the fact that—”
Georgina sniffed deprecatingly. “No, it is not that fussy old Stephen! I do not know why you bother with him at all, Lizzie. He is a talented sculptor, I admit, but he is so very English! We came to Italy to get away from that, did we not? There are so many attractive men in Venice. You could do ever so much better.”
Elizabeth rattled her sketchbook impatiently at this oft-repeated refrain. “Enough, Georgie! I already know your opinion of poor Stephen. He and I are merely friends, in any case. So, if he is not downstairs, who is?” Her lips thinned. “Not a bill collector!”
Georgina paused to examine herself in the full-length looking glass, and straightened the green spencer that matched her green-and-gold striped walking dress. She was too obviously enjoying Elizabeth’s impatience. “For once, Lizzie, it is not. You ought to pay more attention when those past-due notices arrive, dear. And you know I will loan you anything you need.”
“I have more important things to worry about than bills, and you know I cannot take any more of your money.” Elizabeth waved her pencil significantly. “And there is this sketch I am working on.”
“Oh, I know you have better things to do than bother with ledger books and bills and contracts. And this caller is the very one to solve your problems.”
Elizabeth frowned suspiciously. “Yes?”
“Yes. It is someone come to inquire about the position of your secretary.”
“I told you, Georgie, I have no need of a secretary! We do well on our own, do we not? This hiring of an extra man was all your idea. And I could hardly pay another set of wages, could I? Not since my advance from Signora Bruni is almost gone, and Bianca costs so much.”
The maid rustled her draperies in a great show of Italian indignation. “I am not just maid, signorina, I am model! Is very hard work.”
Georgina merely smiled the smugly secretive smile that had been infuriating Elizabeth since their long-ago days at Miss Thompson’s School for Young Ladies, when Elizabeth had idolized the sophisticated older girl. “Oh, believe me, Lizzie, you will want to meet with this person.”
Elizabeth froze. No. It could not be. Could it?
“It is the dark lord from the ball last night!” Georgina crowed dramatically.
Elizabeth let out a tiny squeak. Her pencil fell from numb fingers, scattering parchment every which way. “Nicholas,” she whispered.
Georgina clapped her hands, dancing around the room on her small green half boots. “Is it not wonderful, marvelous?”
&n
bsp; “But ... how?”
Georgina suddenly whirled to a stop, and looked innocently down at her fingernails. “Fate, Lizzie. It was meant to be.”
Elizabeth clicked her tongue knowingly. “Um-hm. Fate. A redheaded fate.”
“Oh, Lizzie, don’t fuss! What does it matter how he came here? It was obviously meant to be.” Her eyes narrowed. “It is just such a pity you look as if you had been dragged through a cow pasture, dear. You are not a charwoman, you know.”
Elizabeth’s gaze flew to the mirror. She did indeed look like the proverbial beggar-girl. Her hair straggled from its loose plait, falling over her face and her nightgown-clad shoulders like limp black linguini, and her face was chalky and hollow from lack of sleep and a surfeit of champagne. She dragged the nightgown over her head, and fled to her dressing room clad only in a silky chemise.
“Fear not, Cinderella!” Georgina sang, producing a comb from her pocket. “Your fairy godmother is here.”
The Elizabeth who finally emerged from her room was completely unrecognizable as the shrieking ragamuffin she had been not fifteen minutes before. Her hair was neatly plaited and coiled in a gleaming coronet atop her head, fastened with ivory combs. She was freshly attired in a blue sprigged muslin morning gown, and she smelled of her favorite lilies of the valley. Bianca and Georgina waved her off like proud mamas at a night at Almack’s.
And if she was tugging on stockings and slippers as she hopped one-legged down the stairs, who was to notice?
She paused at the foot of the stairs, half hidden by the newel post as she peered through the open door of their small drawing room. It was Nicholas. The dark man who had almost kissed her in the moonlight, and who had haunted her night. She had almost come to the conclusion that he had only been a dream, an enchantment of the night. Night in Venice could be quite intoxicating, after all; it could make things, and people, who were really quite ordinary seem almost earth-shattering.
Now she saw she had been quite wrong to suppose he could ever be ordinary in any light. He was impossibly, piratically elegant amid the comfortable shabbiness of their rented furniture. Today, his unfashionably long hair was held back in a neat, black ribbon-tied queue, revealing the clean, strong line of his throat and jaw as he tilted back his head to look at a painting on the wall. His blue coat and buff breeches fit him like a second skin; his boots were glossy with a champagne polish.
Scandalous Brides Page 3