“Exactly. But just as they begin to wear this fashion, I shall be on to something else.”
Even at the age of forty-nine, no longer at the height of her beauty and with a few lights of silver in her hair, Francesca’s daring but faultless fashion sense still held sway over the respectable ladies of the ton.
Lucia smiled. “I suppose you already have some new sensation in mind?”
“Of course,” Francesca answered as a maid entered the boudoir with a calling card in her hand. “That carriage Chesterfield ordered for me will be here in less than a fortnight. It has mother-of-pearl inlaid on the doors and the ride—oh, Lucia, Chesterfield assures me it has the smoothest chassis you can imagine. I shall wear the fullest skirt I can find so that it billows all around me—a white skirt, I think—and I shall glide upon the Row like a swan glides upon the water. Not now, Parker,” she added in English as the maid held out the calling card to her. “Heavens, can’t you see I’m only half-dressed? I couldn’t possibly see anyone now.”
“The gentleman claims he is here on a matter of great importance,” the maid replied. “He says that you were given to expect his arrival. Shall I have Mr. Fraser tell him you have gone out?”
Francesca shifted her position as the modiste moved to stitch up the other side of her bodice, then she glanced at the card. “Oh, dear, he’s downstairs now? I’ve mixed things up, for I thought he was coming tomorrow—” She broke off and gave Lucia a rather furtive glance. “Tell him—umm—tell him I shall be down in a few minutes.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Parker set the man’s card on the dressing table, curtsied, and departed.
“Who is he?” Lucia asked, her mother’s odd glance at her a moment before making her curious.
“Oh, I don’t know, darling,” Francesca answered. “Go on to Bond Street and enjoy yourself.” She tilted her head to look down at the modiste, who was on her knees stitching the gusset together under Francesca’s arm. “Annabel, you must hurry. It doesn’t do to keep a man waiting too long, especially when it’s a matter of business. They get so impatient, poor dears.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Annabel murmured around a mouthful of pins.
“A matter of business?” Lucia repeated, more curious than ever. “Are you breaking with Chesterfield?”
“Not that sort of business.” Francesca turned toward the mirror. “He wants to see me about some legal matter.”
“What legal matter?”
“Oh, I don’t know. Something deadly dull, I’m sure.” She waved a hand toward the door. “Take the carriage to Bond Street. Since I’ll be riding horseback to Hyde Park, I won’t need it. Go on, now.”
Lucia frowned, becoming suspicious. Her mother’s manner was decidedly odd, almost eager to have her gone. She stood up and walked to the dressing table, taking the card before her mother could guess her intent and pick it up.
“Sir Ian Moore,” she read aloud. “Ian Moore. I know that name.” Her frown deepened as she tried to recall why it was familiar. When she looked at the card again and read his title, she knew. “He’s the British ambassador who arranged for Elena to marry an Austrian duke. What is he doing here?”
“I told you, I don’t know. A note came from someone at Whitehall that he would be coming to call, and I should expect him.” She gestured to the card. “I can’t refuse to see him. He is an ambassador.”
“Elena’s never even met that duke, and she’s being forced to marry him to strengthen alliances. She’s devastated about it.”
“Indeed?” murmured Francesca as she picked up a blue velvet hat from the dressing table and put it on. “I wouldn’t know anything about that. You know how bad I am about politics.”
Lucia looked up and studied her mother’s reflection in the mirror, watching as Francesca tipped her hat first one way and then another on her head, trying to determine the most flattering angle. It did not escape her notice that her mother would not meet her gaze in the mirror. With sudden clarity, Lucia knew exactly what that British ambassador was doing here.
“They’re going to marry me off, aren’t they? Just like they’re doing with Elena.” She could see the truth in her mother’s face. “Aren’t they?”
Francesca sighed, took off the hat, and tossed it over Annabel’s head onto a nearby chair. “I didn’t want you to know anything about it until after I had talked with him myself.”
“That is why he’s here, though, isn’t it?” Lucia’s blood began to boil.
“He is here about the possibility of a marriage for you, yes. Oh, darling,” she added on a sigh as she studied her daughter’s face, “you’ve always wanted a home of your own, marriage, and babies. When you were a little girl, I can’t think how many times we used to plan your wedding, and dolls were the only toys you ever wanted to play with. Please don’t say that episode with Armand has sworn you off love, and you intend to be a spinster, for I know you too well to believe it. Besides, I should hate not to have any grandchildren.”
“Of course I want to get married, but I have no intention of letting Cesare arrange that marriage for me! I intend to choose my own husband, and I’m going to tell this oily little diplomat to pass that message along.” Her fist tightening around his calling card, Lucia turned and started for the door.
“Don’t do anything rash,” her mother pleaded after her. “Moore is a powerful ambassador. He has enormous influence. Remember what I’ve always told you. Honey catches more flies than vinegar.”
“Oh, I will be as sweet as honey,” Lucia promised, “when I tell him to go to hell.” Ignoring her mother’s exasperated groan, Lucia started downstairs to the drawing room.
Ian would have thought that Francesca, the most notorious demirep in England, would possess a house in keeping with her flamboyant reputation. In this, he could not have been more wrong.
The home in which she lived was a quiet, discreet address in Cavendish Square, her butler was as dignified and impeccable as a servant could be, and her drawing room was an elegant, thoroughly English one of slate blue and willow green, with a painted porcelain shepherdess on the mantel, a landscape by Turner on the wall, and a beautiful Axminster carpet on the floor. Everything seemed designed for solid comfort, not for show. Of course, it was Chesterfield, Francesca’s current protector, who paid the bills, and Chesterfield was a very conventional fellow.
The drawing room held a fine collection of books, and Ian was perusing their titles when the sound of footsteps caught his attention. He put a copy of Homer’s Iliad back in its place and turned as a young woman came to a halt in the doorway.
No one could ever mistake her for an English girl, and Ian knew at once that standing before him was Lucia Valenti.
An image flashed through Ian’s mind of this young woman running across one of Italy’s poppy-filled meadows, barefoot and laughing, with her skirts caught up in her hands and her coffee-black hair loosened from its combs to fly behind her in a thick, unruly mane. Odd, he thought, that his imagination should conjure such a vivid scene, for he was not a man given to flights of fancy. Still, there was a quality of barely restrained energy about her that made her seem vibrantly alive against the trappings of her conventional British surroundings.
She was tall for a woman, measuring about four inches beneath his own height. She had long legs, a small waist, and generous curves—curves that her low-necked, tightly corseted gown flaunted to full advantage. Her mother’s influence, no doubt.
With eyes as dark as chocolate and skin like the soft froth on top of a cappuccino, there was nothing of conventional prettiness about her. She did not possess the required pink-rosebud mouth of a fashionable beauty, for her lips were wide, full, and as red as the flesh of a ripe cherry.
Staring at her delicious mouth, Ian knew no man who met her was going to care about the dictates of fashion. The ladies of the ton would shred her, but to any man with eyes, Lucia Valenti was a long, luscious armful of pure dessert.
Ian drew a deep breath. No wonder her father had lock
ed her in a convent.
Chapter 2
He wasn’t at all what she had pictured. On her way downstairs, Lucia had imagined Ian Moore to be some oily, weasel-faced little fellow, oozing charm, who would couch his words in soothing, syrupy phrases that meant nothing. But when Lucia saw the British diplomat standing by the bookcase, his looks were so unlike the image in her mind that she came to an abrupt halt in the doorway.
He wasn’t oily, and he certainly wasn’t little. Lucia was taller than many men, but not this one. His wide shoulders and chest enhanced the impeccable fit of his striped waistcoat and buff-colored jacket. Dark blue trousers of an exact fit sheathed his lean hips and long legs. His linen shirt and silk neckcloth were snowy white. Looking at him, Lucia had an almost irresistible urge to muss his perfectly combed dark hair and untie his perfectly knotted cravat.
He probably wouldn’t like that, she thought as she entered the room. This man had a hard line to his jaw and chin, showing resolution and discipline. He’d have no patience with that sort of teasing, which made the impulse to do so all the more tempting. Still, she had to concede that he was quite handsome for an Englishman, and her passionate Italian heart could only approve of such splendid masculinity, but when she looked into his eyes, her momentary feminine appreciation evaporated at once.
Though his lashes were thick and long, his eyes themselves were a tragedy. Cool, impersonal gray eyes that spoke of a frigid nature, eyes that studied her with such impassivity, she was almost insulted. What was she, a specimen under a microscope? A great pity that such a man as this should have eyes without a spark of passion in them.
“Sir Ian Moore,” he said in well-bred accents. “How do you do, Miss Valenti?”
The mention of her name—the name her father had finally been forced to give her—was a forcible reminder of this man’s purpose, and when he bowed, she responded with a curtsy that was little more than a dip of her knees. She moved to a settee of blue and ivory toile, sat down, and indicated for him to take the chair opposite her. “You came to see my mother, I understand, but she is unable to receive you at the moment. You will have to make do with me.”
“I would not describe your company as making do,” he said, oh-so-politely. “Though I regret your mother is unable to receive me. I had been given to understand she was expecting my arrival.”
“She forgot about you,” Lucia was delighted to inform him. “She is upstairs with her modiste being fitted for a new riding habit, and any thought of you went right out of her head.”
“Perfectly understandable when a woman is with her modiste,” he said with a charming smile that did not reach those cool eyes. “May we expect her to join us?”
“Hmm.” Lucia tilted her head, pretending to think it over. “I could not say. The modiste is sewing the pieces of her riding habit onto her person. That is the only way to make it fit tightly enough to cause a sensation, you comprehend.”
One corner of his mouth curved downward just a bit, the barest hint of his opinion on that. “I see.”
That censure of her mamma, however slight it was, gave Lucia even more desire to needle him. “Dear me, I believe the gentleman disapproves,” she murmured, affecting a British accent. She turned her head to the side as if speaking to a third party and went on, “Most improper for a woman to wear such a garment in public. She’s the figure for it, I grant you, and that makes it even more indecent. D’you suppose she’s any underclothes on?”
Turning the other way, she went on as if in answer, “Not possible. Naked as the day she was born underneath, I’ll wager. What chemise and petticoat would fit under there?”
When Sir Ian did not respond to this raillery, she chose to forgo her imaginary companion and returned her attention to him. “Why did you wish to see my mother? The usual reason men visit her, I suppose?”
“I came to see both of you.”
“Both of us? At once?” She gave him her most provoking smile. “No man has ever wanted that before. What a wicked man you are, Sir Ian, to make such an interesting suggestion.”
He stiffened, a barely perceptible flex of his broad shoulders. “I hope you will find my suggestion interesting, once you stop making assumptions and learn what it is.”
Lucia made a face. “Judging by your countenance, I doubt I want to. Tell me, are you always so haughty?”
“Are you always so impudent?”
“I’m afraid so,” she said without apology. “Particularly to men who are haughty. Since you are not going to tell me why you came, I shall have to guess.” She reached into the pocket of her skirt and pulled out his card. “Sir Ian Moore,” she read. “G.C.M.G. Ambassador of—” She stopped and looked at him. “What do the letters mean?”
“His Majesty the King was gracious enough to convey upon me a knighthood, the Knights Grand Cross, of the Most Distinguished Order of St. Michael and St. George.”
“That sounds very grand. To warrant such a visitor, I must be more important to my father than I thought.” She lifted the card again, and continued, “Ambassador of His Britannic Majesty, King William IV. Arranger of marital alliances that are none of his business, destroyer of the happiness of princesses, and person who solves the inconvenient problems of princes.”
She gave him a wink and a mischievous smile. “I have no doubt,” she continued as she tucked his card into the crevice between her breasts, “that I am Prince Cesare’s most inconvenient problem. At least, I hope so.” Leaving the tiniest corner of the card showing, she leaned back against the settee, watching for his reaction.
There was none. The impassive countenance of the diplomat did not change, but his disapproval of her pert manner toward him was plain enough. Ian Moore, she decided, had no sense of humor.
“From the fictional titles you have accorded to me,” he said, “I can only conclude that you know my purpose in coming here is not to see your mother for the ‘usual reason.’” Before she could answer, he went on, “Though you are correct that I have come at the request of your father, Prince Cesare. And also at the command of my government.”
Now they were getting to the heart of the matter. It was time to be serious. “Ah, the English meddle in this affair, too.”
“Your father has decreed that you marry and has asked my government to assist him in finding a British husband for you. It is my assigned task to do so, and to negotiate the terms of your marriage settlement.”
Lucia thought of all the times she’d been shuttled from one place to another. “Si,” she said with a nod. “Now that I can no longer be hidden away in some school or convent or palace, I must be married off.”
“I regret that you see it in such an unfavorable light.”
“But how else should I see it?” Before he could answer, she went on, “It is incomprehensible, I know, but I see no need to marry simply to save my father from embarrassment.”
“Most young women are eager to marry.”
“True,” she agreed, “and most of us have the strange idea that we should choose our own spouses, not have them selected for us by diplomats.”
“You are the daughter of a prince. Illegitimate, and therefore without title, but of the blood royal, nonetheless. Your father has publicly acknowledged you as his daughter—”
“Only because giving me his name makes him able to use me as a pawn in international politics. I am important enough now, it seems, to warrant my very own matchmaker.”
“And that acknowledgment,” he continued as if she had not spoken, “places upon you certain duties. One of those duties is to marry well and appropriately.”
Lucia bristled at that. “What of my father’s duty to me? Cesare hid me away like a sordid secret, finally putting me in a convent. The nuns beat me. My room had no windows.” She shuddered. “There were rats.”
“Your father deeply regrets that action.”
“I’ll wager he does. Now that I am out of his reach.”
Something stirred in those cool eyes, impatience perhaps. “You
ng woman, you are never out of his reach. The fact that I am here proves that. If Cesare asked my government to hand you over to him, we would do so at once, and men of the Scots Guard would be here to escort you to the nearest ship. But your father has decided that arranging a marriage for you is the best course and for the sake of alliance, he prefers a British gentleman.”
“And if I do not share that preference?”
“I regret that my orders to find you a husband do not include a consideration of your preferences, Miss Valenti, although you may be reassured he will be a Catholic.”
His religion wasn’t what worried her. If her father and this diplomat thought she was going to marry a man of their choice and not her own, they were very much mistaken. She was not Elena, and she would not be bullied. “What a relief to know a man is in charge of my future,” she murmured, pressing a hand to her forehead. “The pressure of choosing my own marriage partner might have proved too great a strain for my poor, muddled, feminine mind. Who is the fortunate bridegroom?”
“I do not have any specific one in mind as yet, but he will be a peer, a gentleman of breeding, with an impeccable background and connections. In addition—”
“What about love?”
He did not even blink. “It is my sincere hope you will develop a fondness for whichever gentleman is chosen for you.”
It was such an absurd answer, she felt the desire to laugh, but the grave demeanor of the man opposite her made it clear that this was no laughing matter. “I did not ask about fondness,” she said. “I asked about love.”
“Real love takes time to develop, and we do not have that luxury. It is mid-June, and your father will be arriving in London for a state visit in August. My orders are to have a final marriage partner for you by the time of his arrival, based on his suitability for you and his desire to marry you.”
Guilty Series Page 85