Your Scandalous Ways

by Loretta Chase

  Women, women, eternal gods,/Who can fathom their minds?

  Without hesitation, she answered—not in the soprano meant for Rosina but in a husky alto, “‘Ah, tu solo, amor, tu sei, /Che mi devi consolar.’”

  Ah, you alone my love, only you, /Can console my heart.

  His heart skipped a beat, and another.

  He followed her down the stairs. “There, you see,” he said. “That’s the trouble. We have too much in common. You know Rossini. You know Byron. Or at least, the same bits I know.”

  “Half the world knows those bits of Byron,” she said. “Half the world has The Barber of Seville by heart. Keep looking for reasons, Cordier. Keep trying to explain why you can’t keep away from me. You’re the same as Lurenze. Infatuated. The difference is, he’s man enough to admit it.”

  James was not infatuated. He knew what that was. He’d fallen over head and ears in love with the wrong sorts of girls numerous times in his mutinous youth.

  “It’s lust, you stupid female!” he said. “What Lurenze feels is the normal hankering of a healthy young man for a beautiful woman. In his case, it’s more intense than usual because they’ve kept him in the royal nursery for so long. What you see in his case is years of pent-up need for a good plogging.”

  “A plogging?” She laughed the wicked laugh that made his skin prickle and his prick come to attention. “A right good rogering, do you mean? You’re ridiculous, Cordier, do you know that? You took me to the top of the Campanile on a starlit night. It was romantic. So romantic that I wept. I shall probably start blubbering again now—because my heart aches—with pity, because you are such a hopeless, utter blockhead.”

  She moved along the outer edge of the bellfry, looking out through the arches.

  He clenched his hands so hard that the nails dug in. He looked down at his hands. Carefully he unclenched them. What was the matter with him? He had no reason on earth to be in a turmoil, he told himself. None at all. She was right. This was supposed to be romantic. He was supposed to win her over, win her trust. He knew exactly what he was doing. He was doing his job.

  But matters were not proceeding as they ought.

  For about the hundredth time.

  He’d tripped. He never tripped.

  He was getting dull, clumsy, and stupid—and no wonder. He was tired and disgusted and should have gone home months ago. He was worn out, used up.

  What he was not was infatuated.

  “I know what you want,” she said. “You want the upper hand. Abandon that hope, my dear. I did not come this far and achieve all I’ve achieved by letting anyone have the upper hand.”

  That surely included Elphick, James thought. Were the letters her way of maintaining the upper hand with her former husband? Was that why she’d so obstinately refused to admit she had them?

  He didn’t want to ask, even if it had been wise to do so. He didn’t want to think about Elphick and those accursed letters.

  He crossed to her and stood behind her.

  She was looking down on the Piazzetta.

  He looked over her shoulder, to see what she saw: not simply the square below but the city surrounding it, the gold domes faintly glowing in the pale promise of sunrise. Beyond it the lagoon’s islands lay scattered upon the glittering water.

  He felt a queer constriction in his heart. He had not wanted to come here. To him, Venice was a city in decline, a melancholy place. But at this moment, gazing over her shoulder and seeing it through her eyes—the eyes of one who’d found refuge here—he felt its enchantment.

  “I’m not a blockhead,” he said.

  He let his hands rest alongside hers on the stone railing, his arms boxing her in. He drank in her scent, mingled with the scent of Venice, and that of the ancient stones about them and the metallic smell of the great bells over their heads. His head bent and he pressed his lips to her neck, then, lingeringly, to the special place below her ear.

  She shivered, then ducked under his arm, and slipped away, laughing.

  The beckoning sound echoed through the belfry.

  “You’re an abominable tease,” he said.

  “So are you,” she said.

  He strode to her and pulled her into his arms, “I’m done playing games.” He shouldn’t be done. He had work to do and the games were part of the work. But his arms were full of her, full of whispering silk and the scent of jasmine and the feel of warm curves and velvety skin, and he didn’t want to think about his work.

  His lips had only to touch hers and the heat, never fully suppressed, rushed through his bloodstream, melted his reason, carried off his guardian common sense, and left him stupid and wanting.

  She twisted free. “I’m not.”

  She danced away, humming. He followed her. She began to sing. He knew the words. As she’d said, who didn’t? From The Barber of Seville. The aria, Una voce poco fa. Meant for a soprano, it sounded far more suggestive at her lower pitch.

  “Docile?” he said. “Respectful? Obedient? You?”

  “Dolce, amorosa,” she sang.

  “Sweet and loving? I think not.”

  “Ma se mi toccano /Dov’è il mio debole, /Sarò una vipera, sarò.”

  But if my will is crossed, I can be a viper.

  “That’s more like it,” he said. “A viper, indeed.” He recalled the snake tattoo on her shoulder blade. “That would explain the…” He caught himself in time.

  He’d seen the tattoo only once, at the Fenice, when he’d been disguised as a servant. Even her nightdress—or shift or whatever that indecent silk thing had been—concealed it.

  Clumsy, clumsy.

  But she seemed not to notice. Perhaps she hadn’t heard. She was humming, still keeping a distance from him, moving from one arch to the next.

  “Cara,” he said.

  She put up her hand. “Don’t call me that. No endearments, even in fun.”

  “Bonnard.”

  “Not that, either.”

  “Francesca,” he said, and his face heated—as though he were a boy who’d done something thoroughly outrageous. When had he blushed last? But her name fit on his tongue the way her hand had fit in his, the way her body fit against his. “She-devil.”

  She laughed softly but she stopped and leaned upon the wall, looking out.

  He went to her. Once again he rested his hands on the wall, caging her between his arms. “Let’s try this again,” he said.

  She shook her head.

  He kissed her neck. She shivered and tried to slip away but this time he nipped her neck. She stilled.

  He gently bit her ear, and she trembled.

  He slid his tongue down the side of her neck, to her shoulder. He kissed her, and when she trembled, he bit her.

  “Oh,” she said softly. “Beast.”

  “Your beast,” he said. He tugged down the neckline of her gown, baring more skin, and followed with his mouth, making a slow trail of kisses to the top of her arm.

  He tasted the cool night air on her skin, inhaled the mingled scents of jasmine and the salt breeze of the lagoon and the teasing notes he’d never been able to find a name for, which must simply be some essence of her. The mixture filled his mind, filled the world, and became a sea in which he was ready to drown. Everything about her lured a man to destruction.

  He ought to be immune to her allure but he wasn’t.

  At this moment, he didn’t want to be.

  He wanted her, that was all.

  His moved his hands over her bodice. He wanted skin under his hands. He wanted to cup the soft swell of her breasts. His mind was thick but a modicum of reason remained, enough to remind him where they were. They stood in a corner of the belfry, deep in the shadow of one of the columns. Even so, it was a public place, and the sky was lightening. He drew her shawl up over her shoulders and used it as a curtain while he loosened her bodice and bared her breasts, so warm and smooth and soft. He let them spill into his hands. She squirmed against him, pushing her backside against his groin.
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  He lightly bit her neck, to hold her still, and dragged up her skirts and petticoats. “You’re a bad girl,” he whispered. “A very bad girl.”

  “Oh, yes,” she said. “I certainly am.”

  Francesca was a very bad girl, and that, she told herself, was what she wanted to be.

  She only wished…but no. It was maudlin and stupid to wish the past undone, to wish to start fresh, with a clean slate. She couldn’t wish it now, for this moment was too darkly, wickedly magical.

  Her eyes drifted open. Below, all of Venice spread out before her like a jewel box spilling its treasures: the firefly lights, the glitter of golden domes, the boats dancing on the glistening sea. She drank in the salty air and the scent of the man behind her. She heard the whisper of silk as he lifted her skirts. A good girl would make him stop but she wasn’t a good girl and didn’t want to be. She was bad, very bad, trembling with need, with impatience, while his hands slid over her thighs, over her naked bottom, and finally, between her legs.

  She couldn’t pretend to play cat and mouse anymore. She couldn’t pretend she was playing at anything. The truth was too obvious. She couldn’t hide her heat from his questing hands. She’d been ready even before he touched her. She’d danced away, but it was all pretense, masking desperation…infatuation.

  She wasn’t a man. Unlike him, she had a very good idea what her trouble was.

  She didn’t want to think about it. Not now.

  She was a deity looking down on all the world, and for this moment, she had all she wanted: his touch, his kisses, the teasing nip of his teeth, so playful and so knowing…his long, clever hands touching her. And at the first intimate touch, her knees gave way. If not for the stone balustrade bracing her, she’d have sunk to the floor of the belfry.

  Desire was an ache, a nagging pull in the pit of her belly. She squirmed against his hand but it wasn’t enough.

  Please. Now, please.

  She wouldn’t beg aloud but he understood. She heard the rustle of clothing as he bared himself. He pressed against her and she gasped. He was big and hot and she had an instant of panic—absurd panic, as though she were still a girl.

  He pressed one hand to her back, gently pushing her down, angling her as he wanted. His fingers slid over her, where she was slick, all too ready. He touched her, parted her, then he pushed inside her. She gasped, and the sound slid into a sigh. Pleasure blossomed inside her, in a great surge of feeling, like the mad swell of the overture of La Gazza Ladra. It was like the aching joy the music brought her, and she thought she’d burst with happiness.

  Oh, yes, oh, yes. It seemed she’d waited all her life for this.

  She felt his mouth at her neck while he moved inside her. She turned her head and he understood, and kissed her, long and deep and with a strange tenderness that made her ache. But the ache for release was stronger, and she moved with him while sensations pounded through her, wild and unfamiliar. Her heart was too big, swelling in her chest, beating too hard. She tried to find her way back, to regain control, her precious control, but she couldn’t find her footing.

  It was too late for control. She’d wanted him from the moment she’d met him, and all she could do now was want him to be hers. All she could do was own him for this moment and want to be his, only his. She gave herself up to the wild, mad happiness, rocking with him as his thrusts grew fiercer and faster, until at last the world exploded.

  The ground seemed to shake beneath them, and it was a moment before she recognized the vibration and the deafening clang of the bells ringing above their heads. He laughed and covered her ears. She laughed, too. She couldn’t help it. Then she opened her eyes and looked out and saw on the horizon the small red arc of the rising sun.

  She felt his warm breath at her ear. “Tell me, mia vipera,” he said hoarsely, “is this romantic enough for you?”

  It was far too romantic for James. He told himself it was too much, so ridiculous: the bells ringing as they climaxed, the sun bursting up from the horizon.

  But in the golden afterglow of lovemaking, he could only laugh as he helped reassemble her garments and smooth petticoats and untwist skirts. He could only laugh, when in the midst of doing so, she told him to pull up his trousers.

  He looked down and discovered he was growing aroused again. He thought about England, pulled up his undergarments and trousers, stuffed his shirt inside, and concentrated on buttoning the flap. “By gad, you are a precious jade,” he said.

  “I had no idea I was a miracle worker,” she said. “That is a remarkably quick recovery for a man of your age.”

  “My age? What about Magny?”

  “What about him?” She was rearranging her breasts in her bodice.

  “He’s old enough to be my grandfather.”

  “Surely not that old,” she said. She frowned down at her bosom. “Are they even? This is my favorite corset, but if my bosoms are not arranged just so—”

  “They’re splendid,” he said. “Everything about you is splendid. But I’m not infatuated.”

  She moved to him. She smiled. She reached up and patted his cheek. “If that’s what you want to believe, mio caro, I haven’t the heart to disillusion you. Especially not now. It really was quite wonderful, inexpressibly romantic, and dreadfully naughty. A perfect combination—and an experience I shall not soon forget. Grazie tante, amore mio. But it’s long past time I said good-bye.”

  She turned and moved swiftly away.

  Thanks very much? Good-bye?

  He was slow to react, his mind still in a post-coital haze. He stood for a moment, staring in disbelief at her retreating back. Then he started after her.

  “Plague take you, Bonnard.”

  “Don’t call me that.” She moved quickly down the stairs.

  “Francesca.”

  “Don’t follow me. The sun is up, and you don’t want all of Venice to see you looking like a lovesick puppy.”

  Lovesick puppy?

  He came to a dead stop. “I am not—”

  “It was great fun but it’s done,” she said, never turning her head. She flung up her hand in that aggravating gesture of dismissal. “Addio.”

  Chapter 10

  Oh Love! How perfect is thy mystic art,

  Strengthening the weak, and trampling on

  the strong,

  How self-deceitful is the sagest part

  Of mortals whom thy lure hath led along—

  Lord Byron

  Don Juan, Canto the First

  If one could not obtain the upper hand, the next best thing was to pretend one had it.

  Francesca left with a mocking wave and a mocking smile that dissolved as soon as she started down the ramp.

  She feared he’d follow her.

  She feared he wouldn’t.

  She made herself hurry away, because she was too strongly tempted to linger, to find out whether he’d pursue her or not. If he did pursue her, she was too strongly tempted to let him catch up with her.

  Games, stupid games. You’d think she was a dewy-eyed miss from the schoolroom, expecting her swain to chase after her.

  Though she’d been no dewy-eyed miss when her marriage began to fall apart—or her dream of marriage, at any rate—she’d expected John Bonnard to hunt her down and wrench her from the man into whose arms she’d gone for consolation. She’d expected to make John jealous, to hurt him the way he’d hurt her.

  But he wasn’t jealous or hurt.

  He was disgusted.

  You filthy slut. You’ve no more morals than your father. No wonder he was so generous with the marriage settlements. He feared he’d never get you off his hands in time, before the world discovered what you were.

  Her eyes burned and her face as well. Inside she went cold, cold as death, then hot with shame, her heart pounding as it had done that day, that terrible day when she saw all her husband’s love curdle into hate.

  Light filtered through the windows of the Campanile but she couldn’t see through the haze of
rage and misery. She stumbled. She flung her hand against the wall and regained her balance.

  “Idiot,” she muttered. “Break your neck, why don’t you? And give Elphick cause to celebrate.”

  This was what happened when one gave way to feelings, she told herself. Emotion took over. One became maudlin, fretting over the past. The husband she’d loved so dearly, so deeply, had called her a slut, a whore, and worse.

  Very well. She had become a whore. A magnificent one.

  No sniveling now. She’d made a fine exit. She would not spoil it by hesitating or hoping. She would not spoil it with old grief and grievances.

  She hurried down the ramp as quickly as skirts, petticoats, and stays permitted.

  When she left the building and came out into the square, she slowed only enough to preserve her dignity. In the early morning, the small square was as busy as its larger counterpart.

  She made her way past the Ducal Palace to the Molo, where her gondola waited.

  Uliva, who was awake, woke up Dumini, who was not. Whenever the gondoliers had a long wait, they took turns napping, so that one was always on the alert.

  “Take me to Signorina Sabbadin,” she said.

  From the top of the belfry, James watched her cross the Piazzetta. No matter what she said, no matter how angry he was, he should have followed her, if only to see her safely home.

  It was no good telling himself how small the chances were of anyone’s attacking her at this time of day. The place was abustle with vendors and others who had their livings to get and could not lie abed until noon. Along with the worker ants were those straggling home after enjoying a night and early morning of dissipation.

  “Unlikely” wasn’t the same as “impossible.” If someone did attack her, what excuse would he offer his superiors?

  Sorry, but she hurt my feelings. Then she threw me into a mindless rage. I dared not follow her because of the strong chance I’d strangle her—and throw her luscious, lifeless body through the nearest window.

  “What an idiot,” he said. “What a complete, utter imbecile.”