"Let them wait a little," he said. "I will not move from here until you listen to me."
She put a hand on her hip. "It is rather difficult to take you seriously when there are cobwebs in your hair, and I know your bottom is going to be as dusty as a baby's."
"Would you like to help me clean up?"
It felt so normal, so ordinary to be with him. She sank down next to him, shaking her head, and took his long, beautiful hand into her lap, holding it between her own. She touched the half-moon nails one by one, and traced the lines over his palm. "I am only free to be totally myself when I am in your company, Basilio. What accident of fate caused that to happen?"
"I do not know," he said. "In this moment, I am more myself than I have been since you left Tuscany." His mouth quirked. "I have no answers. But when I know you are close enough in the world that I can look into your face, I don't have the strength not to do it."
"And here we are, back to the beginning." That loose curl on his cheek called for her fingers to smooth it into place, but she resisted.
"Not quite. For it came to me that there is no crime in our loving one another as long as we are chaste."
His liquid eyes were clear. "In honor, we are free."
"So simple," she said quietly. "And so very difficult."
"I am kissing you now," he said softly. "And you are kissing me in return. Our eyes kiss. And our hands.
We know."
Her heart caught. "Yes," she whispered.
"In time, I must return to Italy—but until then, Cassandra, can we not be chaste in body and passionate in spirit? I can't bear to be away from you, to waste these days we do have."
She had not thought it was possible for her to love him more, but the rush inside filled her, making her dizzy. She swallowed. "How much time?"
A wash of regret crossed his face. "Probably only a week or two."
"All right, then. We will not waste it."
He smiled and stood, tugging her to her feet. "Come. It will be better if we do not spend too many minutes in private, tempting places. Introduce me to your beautiful sisters."
"Can you stay the night here?"
He paused to tuck a lock of her hair behind her ear. "No, but we have the afternoon. You can show me your home."
"I'd like that," she said.
"Do you have your seashell collection here?"
She laughed, surprised that he remembered. "I do."
"Then after your sisters have satisfied their curiosity, you can show them to me."
If she had been free, she would have kissed him then. Instead, she only tugged his hand, and they went back the way they had come.
Chapter 19
As she worked in her garden that day,
Analise thought and thought how to discover Basilio's secret love and begin to put it together. The key, she suspected, lay in his poetry. But how could she unlock the English when she barely had enough of the language to greet people? Who could translate it for her?
The first and obvious solution was a dead end: Lady Cassandra was not at home. Analise pursed her lips in the carriage, holding Basilio's book of poems in her lap, trying to think what next to do. Surely someone in this city spoke Italian and English, and would not mind translating the poems for her.
The coachman waited patiently for her instruction, and while Analise puzzled over the problem, a man on a horse rode up, tall and swarthy and a little daunting-looking. With him was a man she recognized: Cassandra's brother, Lord Albury, equally severe and straight, his blond hair shining in the low gray day.
He leapt easily from his horse and gave the other man his reins, then dashed up the steps to Cassandra's door. Drawn by the stillness she'd glimpsed in him that day at Court, Analise opened the coach door.
"Sir!"
As she climbed down, Lord Albury turned. She was struck by the simple elegance of the movement, and reached inside herself to see what appealed about that. As she approached he did not speak or move, only waited, and she thought perhaps it was the fact that he seemed completely aware—of himself; of the other man, who must surely be his half-brother; of the passersby and the taste of the wind. An unusual quality, particularly in an English lord, most of whom struck her as all too eager to drown away any impression of anything.
Analise struggled for words of English. "Hello," she said. His height and air of lethal grace made him a bit intimidating, and his gray eyes were as still as a pond at dawn. "Do you speak Italian?"
"Very little," he said in that language, but gestured to the other man, who dismounted and came over with an easy expression. And, she thought with an inward smile, some mischief about him. She liked him instantly.
The dark-haired man grinned and gave a short bow. "How may I help you?" he asked in her language.
She showed him the book she carried in her gloved hands. "I am seeking someone to read me these poems in my own language. Where might I find such a person?"
His expression sharpened. "Are you the poet's wife? The Countess?"
" Si." She smiled. "Do you know his work?"
He nodded slowly, then looked to his brother. Analise had the sense that they were both a little disturbed. "Will he not read it to you?"
"He would, if I asked," she said calmly. "For reasons of my own, I would like to know what they say myself."
"I see. A moment, if you please."
"Of course."
The men went a little way down the walk, their heads bent together. Lord Albury's hands were clasped loosely behind his back, while his brother gestured gracefully with one hand. In form they were much alike, with long limbs and broad shoulders, and she saw a likeness in their high cheekbones and beautifully sculpted mouths, but their coloring made them an extraordinary pair. She smiled. The ladies likely swooned at the sight of them.
At last Lord Albury nodded, and they returned. "Have your driver follow me," the dark-haired brother said. "I know a woman who might help you." He turned to the driver and gave him an address, then turned back to Analise. "Tell her Gabriel St. Ives sent you."
"Thank you." Before he could leave, she asked, "Are you the Lady Cassandra's brother, too?"
"Yes. How did you know?"
"She spoke of you."
A flicker of surprise went across the pale green eyes. "You know her?"
"She and my husband are acquainted," she said. "They are both writers, you know."
"Yes," he said. There was a faint wrinkling of his brow, then all expression was gone. "I do."
And in that short pause, Analise knew. It was so obvious that she felt a fool for not recognizing it before.
Who else would Basilio love but a woman who was as passionate as he, who loved words and the world, as he did?
Lifting her chin against the press of emotion in her chest, she managed a smile. "Thank you for your assistance, sir."
He bowed in a courtly fashion. "The pleasure was mine."
The carriage moved, and Analise leaned back against the plushly appointed cushions and probed the emotion in her. Was it betrayal? Sorrow? Jealousy, perhaps?
No, none of those things. It was fear. A new, sharp, and terrible fear. She had been imagining a mild-mannered creature, an Italian beauty from the stage, perhaps, a woman unsuitable to Basilio's station.
She allowed the driver to take her to the address Cassandra's brother had given them, and took the poems inside to the severe-looking middle-aged woman who answered the door. When Analise gave her Gabriel's name the woman fluttered a little, and color touched her sallow cheeks, and Analise could not help but smile.
They sat together in a room that expressed the beauty the woman lacked—appointed in rich reds and lacquered blacks, with touches of brass and gold. It was a very sensual place, and as the woman began to read and translate Basilio's poems, Analise thought it was a perfect backdrop for it.
If there had been any doubt lingering in her mind that Cassandra was indeed the woman who held Basilio's heart, the poems removed it. Every word was dre
nched in the colors of the woman—the russet and red and gold of her hair, the whiteness of her face. And although not even one line said anything sexual or even anything about women, there was such voluptuousness to their spirit that Analise found her ears hot.
"Oh, my," the woman breathed. "This is extraordinary work."
Analise nodded. "It is, indeed." And all at once, she was filled with an inexpressible sense of joy. Of alignment.
Yes. She loved them. They loved her. They loved each other. Somehow their lives had been entangled, and Analise did not believe in coincidence. There was a reason, and it was left to her to discover it.
Cassandra let everything go for the space of that afternoon—all guilt, all sorrow—and let herself enjoy the company of this man who had so transformed her life. They walked the grounds of Hartwood, up the hills and across green meadows dotted with sheep, and settled on a hilltop beneath an ancient oak that was said to have magic in it. Basilio put his palms against it, whistling in admiration. "I have never seen such a tree!"
"I thought it was alive, when I was a child. That I could hear it speaking." She grinned.
"Like my grandfather chair!" His eyes crinkled at the corners. "And what did it say?"
"Oh, I don't know. Warm things. Fatherly things." She lay back in the thick grass and looked up through the branches. The leaves were so thick they were nearly a roof, with only the smallest chinks of light passing through. "I thought if I ever ran away, I would live here."
Basilio, too, fell back in the grass. His body angled away from hers, but his head was close enough she felt his curls against her ear. "Did you want to run away?"
"Not particularly." She folded her hands over her stomach. "But it did seem an exciting adventure in the novels I read."
"I wanted to run away with gypsies and dance all night long."
Of course he had. "You did not write a poem about gypsies. Now you shall have to."
"Mmm." The word was so lazy, she knew he was as sleepy as she. She closed her eyes. Birds twittered and insects hummed, and she could hear the distant shout of a man, perhaps working in his field.
Moments, Basilio had said. Perfect moments. This would be one she'd save: lying peacefully in the grass with Basilio nearby, his hair against her ear, his simple presence making her feel whole. Impulsively she reached for his hand, and found it coming toward hers. Their fingers twined and fell to rest.
Behind her eyelids, Cassandra saw plums, and then just the color of plums. She was aware of her banked need of him and was oddly content to simply feel it, rising and falling with her breath, pulsing now here, now there, as if looking for some break in the wall so it could come spilling out.
His thumb drifted over her index finger. Hers touched the heart of his palm. Love, pure as morning light, moved through her, and somehow mingled with the color of plums. "I think," she said quietly, her eyes still closed, "that Boccaccio would have liked days like this very much."
There was no answer, and Cassandra turned her head to see if he'd fallen asleep. He had not. His dark velvet eyes were fixed on her face, steady and deep and full of love.
They moved at once, she scrambling to her feet with a pounding heart, he pulling his hand free, turning away from her. She brushed her skirts, giving him time, and realized with a sinking heart that they could not even allow this small measure of companionship. Danger and temptation lay at every turn. With a pricking of new loss, she turned away, trying to find the words to send him away, finally, for good. She felt him behind her, warm and close but not touching her. His breath wafted over her neck as he spoke.
"My love," he whispered softly into her hair, "my love, my love. My only, only love."
"Stop."
"I cannot. It is the truest thing there is to say."
"There is no honor in it."
"Then perhaps I care no more for honor."
She shook her head. "If that were true, I would not love you. And God help me, Basilio, I love you with all my heart."
"Such an ordinary phrase."
A soft, breathy sigh. "She is so kind, so good, so… holy." She raised her head. "And she is beautiful, Basilio. Perfection. How can you bear to let her down?"
He met her eyes honestly. "She kissed me last night."
"And?"
"I felt her against me, her breasts and her woman smell. I tried to want to put my hands in her hair, and touch her body—"
"I do not want to know that much."
"But you opened this, and must listen now." He lifted his eyes to hers. "Analise is beautiful, and kind, and"
—he frowned—"unique. I like her." His mouth tightened. "But touching her was like kissing a sister. It horrified me."
"It would not always be that way."
"Perhaps it would not. Perhaps I can learn. I want children. I want to do what I must—and if you had not appeared in my world as you did, perhaps it would have been bearable." He shook his head. "But it is not bearable now, and I do not know what to do, Cassandra. I look at it from every direction, and each way leads to trouble for one or the other of us." Slowly, he drew a leaf through his fingers. "We are trapped, all three of us, in a net of the world. I cannot leave her to the wolves who would devour her.
Yet I cannot bear to think of my life without you in it."
"I sent her to you," she confessed suddenly. "I went to see her and urged her to be a real wife to you. I told her not to be afraid, that you would be a gentle and good lover to her."
"She did not care for it—the kiss." He looked up at the dappling of gold and green light above them, frowning. "I think that my mother was right to worry over her, and I must wonder why God made a woman so beautiful who was meant to only serve Him." "But to God, are we not all beautiful?" He made a soft sound of laughter. "So we must be." He leaned close to her again. "But Analise was made for the pleasures of men. One man.
God must know that, too."
"Perhaps He meant to teach a lesson to men: to stop trading on the physical attributes of women."
His lips turned down in surprise, and Cassandra had to smile. "You had not thought about that," she said.
"No." A faint scowl pulled down his brows. "But perhaps you are correct. And if that be so, what lesson then, for us?" The frown deepened. "For me?"
"I don't know," she said. "But surely if there is a lesson in Analise and her vocation, there must be a lesson to us, too."
"I am not a religious man," he said. "I dislike bowing to lessons or fate."
"But you opened the box," she said, reminding him of his earlier words. "And now must see it through.
What lesson to us, Basilio?"
He watched the light play over Cassandra's hair, red and gold, and struggled for answers. He did not want to claim the lesson he thought was being given here—that the world had failed Analise, who wanted to serve only God, so it fell to Basilio to protect one of God's own. "I cannot answer. Were you brought to me so I might compose better work? Because I did. But then, what of you? What did you learn?"
Her face grew radiant. "I learned to be free, Basilio. I learned there are good and kind and honorable men in the world apart from my relatives. I learned there is beauty in moments." She took a breath, her hand fluttering to her throat. "I learned that making love can be beautiful."
"I wish there was some way to make this right, my Cassandra." He sighed. "I fear there is not— that we will spend our lives writing letters, thinking of this moment, and of those other moments we've shared."
He tucked his hands behind him to avoid the temptation of touching her. "We will have children with others, and learn to be happy, but there will always be this part that is apart, separate. It makes me so sad to think of it."
"But maybe that's part of our lesson: to accept the moments we are given!"
"I had already learned that lesson."
Suddenly earnest, she stepped forward. "I do not much care for the male sex in general. I do not wish a husband." A faint crease appeared on her brow. "I wish
I might have children, though. And you must promise to write to me of yours."
"Are we ending it this way, then? I will go back to Italy with Analise and give her children and write to you on summer nights?"
"I think we both know there is no other answer."
Cassandra stood with him by his horse as afternoon began to slant toward evening. Mindful of the all-too-curious eyes of her sisters that might be watching from the windows, Cassandra kept her hands clasped loosely behind her back. Basilio's mouth was tight with his own misery at this parting. She wanted only to go inside, take him to her bed, and lie there all night with him, making love and eating and talking.
"You must go," she said, taking a step backward to release him. "The road is not safe after dark."
"Cassandra, I do not think I can—"
"Do not say it. We both know you must."
He scowled. "What will anything be worth to me if I lose you? Nothing!"
"And I will mean nothing if you lose your honor," she said patiently. "We have been over this ground too often, my love."
He nodded, but Cassandra saw with a ripple of worry that he did not appear convinced. "Come to see me in London before you go," she said. "Bring Analise and we will have a farewell dinner."
He sighed, and with an obvious effort, changed his expression, lifting his eyebrows in a rueful expression.
"How can we both care so much for the woman who stands between us?"
Cassandra smiled her agreement at the irony. "Go. She will worry if you are late."
Finally he mounted his horse and lifted a hand, and rode off down the road. Cassandra watched him, a thudding melancholy mixed with the joy of the hours they'd shared. She watched him until he was out of sight, then turned to the house. A figure stood on the steps, gilded by the long fingers of sunlight: her sister Phoebe, leaning on her cane, her pale brown hair kindly painted with gold by the sun.
Cassandra did not want to break the spell over her senses, and with any of her other sisters, would have stalked toward the house and brooked no question. But Phoebe was different, had always been different.
She was the most like their father, and not only in appearance. The same depth of human understanding lived in her, the same kindness. One could not brush her off.
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