Your Scandalous Ways

by Loretta Chase

  “‘That sort of farthing candlelight which glimmers/Where reeking London’s smoky caldron simmers,’” he quoted Byron.

  “I miss it sometimes, though, the farthing candlelight,” she said.

  “Enough to wish to go back?”

  She felt a stab, sudden and surprising, of loss. She had not felt it in a long time.

  Perhaps that was what loosened her tongue. Or maybe it was the way he watched her, the way he listened so intently, truly paying attention, as men so rarely did. Even with her, their attention was not, really, on what she said but how she said it and how she looked saying it.

  She knew this about men. She used the knowledge to manipulate them. She was finding it impossible to manipulate him.

  She said, “I do wish, sometimes, to go…home. I know it’s silly. Upon the Continent, I’m merely a divorcée. In many places that’s respectable enough. I’m invited nearly everywhere, except where English society gathers. I ought to be happy, not needing to abide by their tedious and endless rules or to bear their special brand of hypocrisy.”

  “All the same, you’re a foreigner here,” he said. “It’s natural, from time to time, to miss the world in which you grew up.”

  Of course he understood, and it had nothing to do with their being soulmates, she told herself. There was no such thing between men and women. She’d learned that the hard way. He understood her feelings because he was a wanderer, too. Early on he’d told her he’d spent little time in England.

  “I miss the voices,” she said. “I miss the sound of my own language in all its accents, high and low. And I do miss London Society, the Season. I was good at that, you know. I was a good hostess. I did everything I ought to do. I was a good wife, truly. I loved my husband. I wanted to be the best wife in the world. I thought it was part of the bargain, that we would be as good to each other as we could. I thought, if one loved somebody, and married that somebody, it was forever, exactly as the vows say.”

  Her chest heaved and the tears started. She brushed them away and said, “Curse you, Cordier. What is it about you that makes me weepy? How could you let me drone on about my misbegotten marriage? What wine was that, to make me so maudlin?”

  He reached out and lightly stroked her cheek with his long fingers. “Maudlin or angry?” he said. “Women weep oftentimes because they’re angry. Unlike men, they’re discouraged from expressing strong feeling physically. Throwing someone in a canal, for instance, is a good way of dealing with a lot of annoying emotion churning inside.”

  She laughed, and the shocking pain subsided, as though it had never been. He drew his hand away, though, and she wished he hadn’t.

  “It’s true,” she said. “Women are trained to smile and be brave—or to relieve our feelings with words.”

  “You could write a novel, a thinly disguised roman à clef, like Caroline Lamb’s Glenarvon,” he said. “Only think how wonderfully she savaged her beloved Byron.”

  Francesca shook her head. She raised herself up, took up her wine glass, and sipped. She looked into it as though it would tell her what to do, what to say, how far to trust.

  “I have my own way,” she said after a moment. “More direct. I write to Elphick, at least once a week.”

  Cordier’s dark eyebrows rose. “So often?”

  “Oh, yes. I’m quite faithful—in my correspondence.”

  “You write to rail at him, after all this time?”

  She laughed at his baffled expression. “Certainly not. Then he’d believe I was unhappy and suffering. Instead, I let him know how delightful my life is. I tell him who calls on me, and what we talk about, and who invites me where, and who has commissioned a portrait of me from which famous artist, and who has bought me this and that and what it’s worth. My letters are filled with great names—painters and poets and playwrights and such. But most important, they’re filled with the names of Continental royalty and nobility—precisely the kinds of people he likes to hobnob with. I know he grinds his teeth when he reads such things, and it is a pleasant revenge.”

  Silence.

  She drank more, bolstering her courage. “I think it serves him well. He’d turned every friend I had against me. My father had bolted. I had no one to take care of me. Naturally Elphick expected me to sink quickly into the gutter.”

  “Instead you’re a queen.”

  “A queen of whores, but upon the Continent that is almost as good as being a real queen,” she said. “Did you know that in some courts, there was an official position, the King’s Mistress? It was so in France, and is still so in Gilenia, I’m told.”

  His expression changed, turning stony in an instant. He sat up, his face hard. “Were you aiming for that position with Lurenze? Have I thrown your careful plans into disarray?”

  “I do not aim to belong to any man,” she said, “king or not.” She made herself laugh. “Compose yourself, sir, or I shall imagine you’re jealous.”

  “I am,” he said. “Will you write to your former husband about that, as well?”

  “Heavens, no,” she said. “You’re merely a younger son. He won’t give a damn about you.”

  “It’s stupid, you know,” he said tightly. “A stupid, dangerous game. Your marriage was over five years ago.”

  “He won’t leave it alone,” she said. “Why should I? He taunts me with the social events he attends. He tells me who was there and what was said. He knows I miss it. He knows I miss my so-called friends. And so he makes sure to rub salt in the wound. I know he wants me to be scorned by everybody and left miserable and penniless—and so I torment him with my successes. What would you do in such a case?”

  He took the wine glass from her hand and set it down. “I should never have let you get away in the first place.” He moved quickly, then, gathering her into his arms. He kissed her, angrily, fiercely, and in a moment so deeply that she lost her moorings. Her head fell back and she let him take her where he would, do what he would. In no time at all she was flat on her back, laughing, while he pulled up her skirts.

  Chapter 13

  The heart is like the sky, a part of heaven,

  But changes night and day, too, like the sky;

  Now o’er it clouds and thunder must be driven,

  And darkness and destruction as on high:

  But when it hath been scorch’d, and pierced,

  and riven,

  Its storms expire in water-drops; the eye

  Pours forth at last the heart’s blood turn’d

  to tears,

  Which make the English climate of our years.

  Lord Byron

  Don Juan, Canto the Second

  James was angry for a hundred reasons: She played a dangerous game with a dangerous man; she was being hunted by some of the worst villains in Italy—and that was saying something; he had been false and she’d hate him when she learned the truth; and she must learn the truth—soon—for her own protection.

  There was more, a great deal more, but he was in no mood to contemplate all the nuances of his state of mind. He dealt with it as men usually deal with strong feeling, in physical action. He claimed her in a deep, impatient kiss. His impatience amused her and she laughed against his mouth. She laughed as he pushed her onto her back and pulled up her skirts, and he was aware, through the tumult of feelings, of the quality that had intrigued him from the first: the rare exuberance of her nature. He understood it better now: She felt deeply, experienced deeply, loved deeply…and she would hate him with the same ferocity.

  He didn’t trouble to undress her or himself. He unbuttoned his trousers and pushed them down, as he’d done in the Campanile. He was as mindlessly impatient as any schoolboy. He didn’t care about his lack of finesse, and neither did she.

  She tangled her fingers in his hair and whispered wicked words, in English and then, more arousing, in her English-accented Italian. He laughed, too. He couldn’t help it. It was heated laughter—at his impatience, his mad lust, and at the sheer joy of her, the joy of tou
ching her, and finding her heated and ready, too, in the soft, sweet place between her legs. Her fingers touched his as he guided himself inside. The touch melted thought and quieted anger, and he was lost again, inside her. He didn’t even try for control this time. Theirs was a quick, fierce joining, a pulsing race to climax and completion.

  He rolled off her, taking her with him. He held her tightly, her backside against his groin. He concentrated on the feel of her in his arms, where she fit so perfectly. He tried not to think of what the near future held. He refused to ask himself what he’d do, afterward, when she hated him.

  She didn’t hate him now, though.

  She’d need to know the truth…soon, too soon. He couldn’t go on playing games with her. They hadn’t time. She was in too much danger.

  But she didn’t need to know the truth yet.

  They had this night.

  The moon had risen during their frantic coupling. Its light streamed faintly through the long window. In its glow, her skin shimmered like pearls.

  He kissed the place behind her ear where she liked to be kissed, and she trembled, as she always did when he kissed her there. He kissed the nape of her neck, then drew back and began to undo the fastenings of her dress. The back slid down, revealing the shocking tattoo. He kissed the serpent.

  He eased her out of the garments: the gown, petticoats, stays, and shift. She let him play lady’s maid, smiling as he turned her this way and that until she was naked. He took off his own garments, not hurrying this time.

  She turned fully onto her back, her hands behind her head, and watched. That was all she had to do—let her green gaze trail over his body—to stir his cock to life.

  This time, though, it must wait.

  This time he went slowly, exploring and memorizing her.

  This time he drank in every inch of skin he exposed and touched. This time he savored the scent of her and let it burn into his memory. This time he learned by heart every curve his fingers traced: the sweet arc of her neck, the slope of her shoulders, the soft fullness of her breasts and the way they fit his hands. He traced the perfect contours of her waist and hips, the luscious swell of her bottom. He followed the gentle turns of her long legs, sliding down to trace the shape of her feet.

  He kissed her toes, her ankles, her knees. On upward he went, to the soft, sweet place. While he pleasured her with his mouth and his hands, he memorized the scent of her and the taste of her and the sound of her: sighing with pleasure…laughing a little, too…then crying out softly when she came.

  He slid up, kissing her as he went, imprinting her in his mind as he went, while he made it last as long as he could. Finally, when the last thread of his control began to slip, he entered her, and they rocked together, slowly, sweetly. She kissed him, her fingers moving gently over his face and neck. Her mouth followed where her hands went; and these kisses and her touch, so loving, stabbed him to the heart a hundred times.

  He kissed her in the same way. His were traitor’s kisses, but tender for all that, most unfortunately for him.

  And when at last their bodies pulsed together, he surrendered with more regret than he ought to feel or wanted to feel. He let himself be swept away, on the silvery tide, for the last time.

  For the second time in less than a day, Francesca slept like the dead. She might have gone on sleeping, if she hadn’t felt him stirring beside her. Then she became aware of the noise outside.

  While she was still half-asleep, he was up, pulling on his trousers and moving to the window. “That bitch,” he said. “Is she mad? Or…Ah, I see.”

  Francesca came fully awake. After some fumbling about, she found her shift. Pulling it over her head, she hurried to the window.

  Across the canal, flames were leaping from the ground floor of the Palazzo Neroni.

  “Good God!” She stared in horrified disbelief for a moment. Then she turned away and began hunting for her clothes.

  “Stop it,” he said. He grasped her upper arm and drew her upright. “I was fooled, too, at first. But your house is not going to burn down. They daren’t risk that. It’s a diversion.” He led her back to the window. “Look. They’ve used some sort of incendiary device. Fireworks, perhaps. It’s meant to make a lot of show and noise. Wakes people up in the dead of night and throws them into a panic. Your servants will all be running this way and that, leaving the place unguarded, and—”

  “What are you saying?” she said. “We can’t stay here. Someone could be hurt.”

  “It’s a diversion,” he repeated carefully, as though to a child.

  Francesca thought he meant to say something else but he paused, his gaze upon her but seeing through her or past her. Then he nodded. “It’s a trap, very possibly. The last thing you want to do is hurry over there. Someone may be waiting for exactly that.”

  “For me,” she said.

  “Yes.”

  Simple panic about her servants and house gave way to a darker, more insidious feeling. She felt as though the ground beneath her was shifting, and she wasn’t sure where to step, where it was safe to step. “What do you mean?” she said. “Why me? What do you know of this?”

  “I’m going to tell you,” he said, “and you’re going to hate me.” He released her arm.

  “Cordier.” She felt sick. She’d trusted him. She wanted to trust him still. And yet she couldn’t shake off the feeling that she stood on uncertain ground. What had he to tell her? She remembered the first night, the night he’d killed a man too easily.

  “But before I tell you,” he said, “I need to steal your clothes.”

  “You what?”

  He didn’t answer and she could only stare, trying to make sense of what made no sense. Of all the answers she’d awaited, some good, some intolerable, this was the last, the very last she could have imagined.

  She stood, mouth agape, while he hurriedly gathered up her clothing from the floor. He straightened, clutching the garments to his chest. “I have to be you,” he said.

  The sick dread washed away. She wasn’t sure whether she ought to laugh or cry. She knew of men who liked to dress in women’s clothes. Some were extremely virile. Even so, she was not happy.

  “They won’t fit,” she said.

  He hugged the garments to him. “We’ll make them fit.”

  “Cordier, you’re nearly twice my size, and that’s my second favorite gown!”

  He looked down at the clothing he held in the way a child might jealously guard a favorite toy. “I wasn’t worth your favorite gown?”

  “My favorite gown is ruined! You threw it—with me in it—into the canal!”

  “I didn’t throw you,” he said. “You threw yourself.”

  “You looked as though you were going to throw me,” she said.

  One side of his mouth quirked up and he looked like a boy, the wickedest boy who ever lived. He crossed to her, still clutching her garments. “God, I’ll miss you,” he said. He kissed her hard. Her body melted, and most of her mind with it. But something wasn’t right. He’d distracted her, about the dress. A diversion?

  He drew away. “I’ll be back soon,” he said.

  “Tell me where you’re going,” she said. “Tell me what you mean to do.”

  “It will take far too much time to explain.”

  “No, it won’t. I’m not an idiot, Cordier.”

  But he was already through the door. She went to the threshold, and watched him stride down the portego.

  “Cordier,” she said.

  “Later,” he said.

  She swallowed an oath but she refused to run after him in her shift, and let all his servants gawk at her…for free. Not that running after him would stop him doing whatever he meant to do.

  “Don’t you dare spoil it,” she called after him.

  James had donned women’s garments before. But those had been carefully selected, cut to fit large women and adapted to his height and broad shoulders.

  Bonnard’s gown was far too small, smaller than
he’d realized until he was down in a musty office off the andron, trying to get into it.

  “We’ll have to cut it, sir,” said Sedgewick.

  “You can’t cut it,” James said. “She’ll kill me. This is her second favorite gown, and I’ve already ruined her favorite one.”

  Sedgewick gave Zeggio that aggravating look. “Sir, we haven’t time to unstitch it,” the valet said too patiently.

  “No, no,” said Zeggio. “To remove the sewing is unnecessary. Here is what we do, signore. Very easy. We leave undone the part where she keep her breasts.”

  “The bodice,” said James.

  “So. Everything there we leave it open. Then I think it is possible to bring it up, so, from the floor.” He made a gesture descriptive of pulling a garment up over the hips. “Here”—he indicated his hips—“you are not so big as here.” He gestured at his chest and shoulders. “Recall, it is not needed to see all of the gown. From here is enough.” He indicated the area from his waist down. “Enough to show the color and to cover your legs, to hide the pantaloni. You put the shawl over your head, over the top of you, and no one can see that the neck of the dress is around your middle. It is night time. Even with the moon, how much can they see of you, when you are inside the felze?”

  “Good point,” James said. He should have thought of it. He should have seen instantly what to do about the gown. He was used to thinking on his feet.

  “You’ll be able to move easier, sir,” Sedgewick said. “Want your arms free, for when they try to kill you.”

  Of course James needed his arms free. He knew that. The whole point was to trick the villains into attacking him—and the gown was bound to be spoiled anyway.

  What difference would it make? She was going to hate him no matter what he did.

  Ah well. For king and country. One more time.

  They’d locked her in.

  After she’d reentered the room, a servant brought Francesca a tray of food and drink. When he left, he closed the door behind him. She assumed he was shielding her scantily clad body from the household’s curious eyes.