Cassandra grinned, surprised it was so easy to don a mask. Robert did not particularly care for poetry, thinking it fanciful. His was a solid world. "You missed little."
"Did he read?"
"No."
"They let him get away with that?"
"I believe he had another appointment," Cassandra said vaguely. She held his arm as they walked, enjoying the first roses of spring and the fresh green of the landscape. The pathways were busy with others drawn out by the same soft weather, and Cassandra nodded pleasantly to a matron with a young child in tow. "I do love this time of year," she commented, hoping to change the subject.
But Robert did not take the hint. "I expect he needed full props to pull it off. All that emotion. I find it too much."
"Oh." Cassandra blinked against a tic in her eye. "Have you read the work, then?"
"Of course, of course. One wouldn't want to appear the cretin." He gave her his sideways grin. "Have you not?"
"Not yet."
"Overwrought, I'd say, though I expect the ladies will like it."
"Love poetry, then?" Perhaps if she learned enough this way she would never have to actually read it.
"Sonnets and the like?"
He pursed his lips in thought. "Not love poems, or not exactly, anyway. Sonnets to nature and festivals and plums."
A memory, too genuine, rushed through her. "Plums?" she echoed. It sounded passably ironic.
"I like that one, I must say. It's vivid."
Cassandra swung her reticule. "Well, I expect Fashion will find some new marvel before long. A fickle lot is the public, particularly for poets."
"Oh, yes. That Ovid fellow is simply not to be borne."
She laughed, suddenly glad she had come out with him. "I do enjoy your company, Mr. Wick-low. I always feel as if you've blown away the cobwebs in my all-too-serious brain. Thank you."
A soft pause. "I would that you enjoyed it more, Cassandra."
She looked up, hiding her alarm in a light smile. "What more could I possibly offer?" She gave the words a slightly ribald edge.
He did not smile, only turned earnest eyes to her. "I have made no secret of my attraction to you, but aside from these little crumbs you toss my way, there is little encouragement." He paused on the path.
"Should I turn my attentions elsewhere?"
"My husband made me a happy widow," she said, looking at him as directly as she knew. "I am in no hurry to sacrifice myself to that altar again."
"No hurry? Or determined to do it never?"
"Once, I would have said never. But that may not be true."
He nodded seriously, his hands clasped behind his back. He stepped aside for a boy chasing a ball down the walk, then raised his head again. "I would not require a declaration of love, you know. I do not expect that."
A stab of guilt touched her. "Robert, I—"
He lifted one hand with a rueful smile. "Forgive me. Do not answer."
Troubled, she said quietly, "I did not mean to mislead you, Robert. I am very sorry if I did."
"You have never given me any indication that we were more than good friends." He offered his arm. "I hope I have not endangered that with my rashness. Perhaps that poet stirred me more than I believed."
"Poetry does have that power at times."
He smiled with his usual jovial good humor. "Come, my lady. Shall we find ourselves some refreshment?"
Cassandra plunged herself into a whirl of activity, accepting every invitation she was issued to every rout, every assembly, every dinner. More soon came her direction, more than she could begin to accept.
It seemed that she'd become something of a curiosity. Partly on her own merits, and partly thanks to her sister Adriana, who'd become a legend in their set in a duel.
But more than herself or her sister, Cassandra suspected the invitations were issued to her in hopes that her brother Julian might accompany her—which he did, but only rarely.
She even, to her astonishment, discovered the pleasures of shopping, a pursuit she'd found empty-headed in the past. But armed with a footman and her coach, she found she could avoid thinking of Basilio for entire afternoons.
It was one such day, spent in mindless amuse-ment at the milliners, that she emerged into a bright, warm afternoon, and spying a tea shop across the street, decided to revive herself with a cup and a pastry. She deposited her packages in the carriage and sent the driver home. There was plenty of time to walk home after, and walking eased her restlessness as well or better than any other pursuit.
Inside the shop, she paused, blinking in the darkness after so bright a day. Voices rose and fell, the constrained low murmur of ladies engaged in gossip, the laughter of a young woman, and the clatter of china and silver. The air smelled of sugar and yeast.
And something more. The hairs on the back of her neck raised as she caught the scent of Basilio—a hint of sunlight, that memory of olive leaves. With a little shake of her head, she told herself she was imagining things to make up for her momentary blindness. But as her vision cleared, she saw that she was not mistaken.
Basilio sat alone at a table nearby a window. Sheaves of paper littered the space before him, and an empty cup, and the remains of a pasty. As if he had been waiting for her, one arm was flung over the back of the chair, and his dark eyes pinned her.
She froze, one part of her moving toward him, the other running away.
His smile settled it. It was that easy, nearly impish expression that she could not resist. "I will join my friend there," she said to the girl. "Bring tea and something sweet."
He rose to greet her. "Do you come here often?"
"Never."
"Nor do I." That glitter in his eyes. "It must be fate, no?"
"Or accident," she said acerbically, taking her chair. "But I am famished and it would be more pleasant to take tea with a friend than alone."
"So we are to be friends?"
"I suppose we will."
"I was not sure, last night." He sat down and gathered his papers.
"Is that more poetry?"
"Yes." He held it out to her. "Would you like to read it?" A dangerous light on his face, that faint flaring of his nostrils.
She shook her head. "No, thank you." Arching one brow, she added, "You've been very productive."
"I am inspired." He blinked, his gaze lighting on her mouth, then her brow. A mockingly innocent smile, then. "By your country."
"I see."
The girl brought a tray and Cassandra waited as she settled it: a fine feast of little cakes and jam and tiny, perfect strawberries with a pot of cream. Cassandra made a sound of approval, her stomach feeling suddenly as empty as a dry well.
"How do you find our pastries, sir?" she asked, plucking a strawberry and dipping it in the pot.
"Very good." He watched with intense focus as she carried the strawberry to her mouth. His lips parted the slightest bit, and Cassandra saw the edge of his lower teeth. A bolt of desire raced up her spine. She felt a perverse and powerful wish to simply lick the cream from the berry, showing him her tongue.
But what would it accomplish? More thwarted desire? There had never been any question that they desired one another.
He watched her intently, leaning forward over the table, and suddenly, their eyes locked. Before she could react, she was snared in that world that only the two of them occupied. There was only Basilio's face.
And he felt it, too. Dismay and wonder warred on his mouth.
Her breath caught, and she knew what she had wanted a moment ago with her impulse. Slowly, she looked at the strawberry in her hand, and put it down with a sigh. Pushing the dish toward him, she quietly said, "You must try them. Not as lovely as your plums, but quite good nonetheless."
She watched as he plucked one from the bowl, and dipped it, and raised his eyes. The red fruit met his beautiful lips and he sucked it into his mouth, his eyes on her face, burning.
Beneath the table, their toes, safely covered in shoes, touched, tip to tip. S
unlight streamed down between them. They ate strawberries, one by one, speaking not at all.
When there was only one left, they both reached for it and their fingers touched, nail to nail, in the shallow white bowl. As if dancing to the same strings, they turned, touched fingertips, then drew away.
A dog suddenly jumped against the window, his nails making a sharp tapping sound as he grinned at them, tongue hanging sideways out of his mouth. "It's your Siren!" Cassandra said with a laugh.
Just as quickly, the dog was distracted by some better prize and ran off down the street, but his purpose had been served—they were no longer in that dangerous, drifting world.
He smiled at her when she looked back at him. "I cannot feel tragic while I look at you. I should, perhaps. I should beat my hand against my breast and howl with sorrow. But you make my heart lift. I thought I would never look on your face again."
Cassandra smiled in return. "I dislike tragedy."
"All that excessive emotion."
She laughed. "Yes." Picking up a cake frosted with a thin layer of sugar, she said, "Did you enjoy meeting my brother?"
"Gabriel? Yes—I seem to see him quite often. He's quite interesting."
"He's the one who fences. You'd enjoy a match, I'm sure."
"So he said. Except he said he would enjoy trouncing me."
She laughed. "And he would, I'm afraid."
"Will you come and tie a ribbon around my sleeve?"
"No. That should be Analise."
His face bled of all emotion. "Yes. Analise." He stood, nodding, a tinge of anger on his jaw. "Good day, Cassandra."
She let him go; it was what she had wanted.
The last strawberry lingered in the bowl. She picked it up and examined it, but it no longer held any interest. Her fingers trembled as she held it, betraying the power of emotions he'd roused. She let it drop back in the bowl, wanting to make him ache as she had ached these last months.
It was so unlike her. Twirling the berry by its stem in the pool of thick cream, she congratulated herself on resisting the wickedness, the urge to lead him into temptation.
Friends. She snorted inwardly, dropping the berry. They could not be friends. It was absurd to even consider it, when his very nearness made her tremble, when her mind fell to dangerous visions and memories when she was with him. How cruel it was to have him here, so close, yet so completely unattainable!
She hoped his visit would not be a long one. Please, not much longer.
She redoubled her efforts to keep busy. She invited her sister Phoebe to come stay with her, and wrote piles of letters to friends and cousins, to her sisters and fellow scholars. She took brisk walks. She poured herself into the Boccaccio translation, discovering it carried her away from herself.
Phoebe sent regrets, saying she had too much to do with summer arriving. No new letters came from Leander or Adriana.
And everywhere, people spoke of Basilio: the dashing poet, the charming Count. The women fluttered and the men tried not to mind. His caricature appeared in the scandal sheets.
Desperate to keep herself distracted, Cassandra approached Julian about the possibility of bringing Ophelia and Cleo to Town for presentation at Court. He promised to consider it for the upcoming season, but failed to understand the magnitude of planning that such an event would require.
To press her case, she insisted he attend open Court with her one evening, hoping he might begin to see what was required if he saw the other marriageable women who would be vying for the same pool of husbands. Julien had agreed.
She had dressed as finely as the occasion warranted, in a deep blue silk brocade with a low cut bodice, and now sat with her shoulders covered with a towel as Kate wound her hair into an elaborate style, then powdered her face.
In a moment of whimsy, Cassandra dug out a box of rarely used patches and adorned herself with a star below one eye and a heart above her mouth. A stunning complement of sapphires—a fall of them around her throat, drops hanging from her ears, a bracelet clasped around her wrist—completed the adornment, and she stepped back to admire herself in the mirror. She would do. Very nicely, if she said so herself.
What would Basilio think of her like this? She smiled sadly at herself. Each time she left the house, she was dressed to stun him if he should appear. His name was so much on the lips of society—at formal dinners, in small clusters at routs, over cards at an assembly; even the Queen was rumored to have read the poems—that it was a miracle Cassandra did not meet him at every turn. But she had not. Which was how it should be.
A footman tapped and told her that Julian had arrived. Brushing away her foolish musings, she hurried down to join him.
Chapter 15
Analise had never seen anything so grand as the palace of the King of England and the people in it. There was so much she almost did not know where to look first. Everywhere there was color and glitter—on the walls and the tapestries, in the jewels of the women, and the brocades of the men. Their voices murmured and swelled and fell, interwoven with the music from a quartet playing on a raised dais to one side. Warm sunlight spilled through the mullioned windows, and air blew in through open doors leading to the grand gardens beyond.
Basilio held her fingers against the crook of his elbow tightly, giving her courage. When the invitation had arrived, he had sent out for a dressmaker immediately to have something made for her, and although Analise had never worn anything like it, she was glad he'd insisted.
It had seemed quite immodest at first, with the deep square neckline and the close fit that displayed her hips and breasts and waist. But she had been seduced by the bold turquoise color that reminded her of the sky over the cloisters where she'd been so happy. It suited her complexion, bringing out golden tones to her skin, exaggerating the darkness of her hair, setting her eyes afire.
Dispassionately, she had seen she was very beautiful in it, and because the summons to be presented to the queen meant so much to her husband, she was pleased. She had donned the diamonds he found for her, and let her hair be dressed in a simple way.
Next to her, Basilio was more splendid than any man at Court. He carried himself as the Count that he was, his Italian manner of dress only a little more romantic than that of the English gentlemen in the room.
But Court was more than a little terrifying. Analise had been attempting to learn a few English phrases with the help of the cook, and she'd believed she had been making progress until she entered this vast room and heard the language spinning out all around her.
Basilio looked down as they approached the monarchs. "Do not fear," he said with a smile. "We are not important enough to warrant more than a word or two."
She nodded.
And it proved to be true. They were presented to the stout king and his kind-eyed wife. Analise could understand nothing of the few sentences exchanged, though the queen had considerately greeted Analise in her own language. She smiled and curtsied deeply, as she had been instructed.
Then they were free. Basilio guided her to one side and fetched a cup of wine for her. "Now we must linger a little while, then we can depart." He squeezed her hand. "Thank you."
"Of course." Her tension easing, she looked curiously at the people, taking it all in to remember for later.
"It looks like a room full of butterflies," she said. She admired a slim blond girl, not much older than herself, who moved so gracefully she nearly seemed to float. "Oh, look at her!" she said softly.
"And this one," Basilio said, nodding to a gentleman in the most outrageous suit of clothes Analise had ever seen, shiny satin in a most incredible shade of yellow-green. Acres of lace dripped from his sleeves and cravat, and he tottered dangerously on high heeled shoes.
Analise laughed, then covered her mouth. "It is sinful to laugh at the vanity of others."
His eyes twinkled. "Then I fear I'm doomed today."
Analise grinned. She wished she could love such a man, so kind and easy to be with. But she felt nothing, e
ven when she tried. It made her a little melancholy.
To distract herself, she lifted her head and looked to the crowd. At the entrance, a footman in splendid livery announced the attendees as they arrived. Each paused at the door, though no one paid particular attention, as he called out their names in a bored voice.
A man and woman appeared at the door, and paused to wait for the footman to announce them. Analise caught her breath. The woman was breathtakingly beautiful, a beauty dependent less upon her features than her coloring. Large dark eyes in an oval face, a glory of red hair piled high. Sapphires in three tiers circled her neck. She spoke to the man at her side, gesturing with her fan. He nodded.
But for all her beauty, it was the man who captured Analise's attention. He was quite tall, and rather soberly dressed in dark green without adornment. His breeches were tucked into tall boots. He was not nearly as handsome as many in the room, but she liked the character in his face much more than the simple prettiness of many of the other men. There was living in the creases of sun lines around his eyes, and a lack of illusion in the firm mouth. "Basilio, look at this pair, with the red-headed woman. Are they not a striking couple?"
"Where?"
She looked up at him, surprised by the hint of urgency she heard in his voice. "Just there, coming in. The very tall blond man."
There was no mistaking the soft intake of breath, quickly hidden. "Ah, yes." He smiled.
"They are siblings. I am acquainted. Would you like to meet them?"
"Oh, I don't know, Basilio" Her throat went dry. "I feel so foolish."
"Lady Cassandra speaks several languages. I believe Italian is one of them." He did not give her time to object again but he hurried her over, as if he was afraid they would disappear.
Cassandra saw Basilio bearing down on them with purpose in his eyes, a tiny, very young and beautiful girl on his arm. For a moment Cassandra wanted to flee, but something in the girl's terrified expression made her hesitate. She felt a burst of sympathy, and touched Julian's arm. "Do not give me away, Julian,"
she said quietly.
He glanced up and assessed the situation in the blink of an eye. "Good God. She's a child."
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