by Juliana Gray
“You,” Alexandra said at last, “are a vastly overconfident man. I look very much forward to proving you wrong.”
Mr. Burke rose and tossed down the last of his wine. A bright flush stained the skin beneath his freckles. “If you’ll excuse me,” he said, eyes glittering, and strode from the room.
* * *
The trouble with rustic Italian inns, thought Phineas Burke, much later, hurrying through the rain-soaked midnight toward the inn’s ramshackle stableyard, was not the lack of general creature comforts, of which he took little notice. He’d lived in student rooms at Cambridge and hide tents in the Siberian steppes and his godfather’s mansion on Park Lane, and all were more or less equal to his abstemious taste.
No, the real trouble was the lack of space. From childhood, he’d made a habit of securing himself a retreat, wherever he was: an unused cupboard, a hollow tree, a shed. A place to flee, when the pressure of company became too much, or when an idea flashed into his brain and took over all his conscious thought.
Or when a talkative and damnably alluring woman invited herself to dinner.
Well, to be fair, she hadn’t quite invited herself. A precise observer would have to admit that Lord Roland, the lovesick puppy, had actually issued the fatal request. And perhaps it would have been, according to the rules of so-called polite behavior, rather rude to ignore the ladies when they sat at the adjacent table, not three feet away in a room crowded with foreigners.
But Lady Morley had accepted with far too much eagerness. She had fairly dragged her companions into their company, when it was obvious even to Finn—no expert on feminine behavior—that the beautiful Lady Somerton, for one, had no wish to join them.
To make matters worse, she had gone on in that lilting, self-assured voice of hers, practically forcing everybody to converse, raising daring subjects and flashing witty remarks; asking questions he should have thought impertinent, except that Lady Morley had the irritating trick of making it all seem clever and confidential and sophisticated instead. Even Wallingford had been moved to laugh, once or twice. It was intolerable. Hadn’t the three of them left England expressly to avoid such distractions?
When Lady Somerton and Miss . . . what the devil was her name, Lady Morley’s sister . . . Miss Harewood, that was it; when the two of them had taken the little boy upstairs, Finn had drawn a deep sigh, expecting Lady Morley to rise as well and leave them in masculine peace. But she hadn’t. She’d stayed, damn it all, and now he’d revealed far more than he’d intended, and committed an unspeakably rash act as well.
A wager.
Why on earth had he done it? He must have been mad, he thought angrily, tucking the brim of his hat more firmly against his forehead and quickening his steps. The rain had eased since the afternoon’s deluge, but it still coursed coldly against the back of his unprotected neck and inside the collar of his coat, doing little to improve his mood. Unbidden, her image rose again in his brain: Lady Morley, with her gleaming brown eyes and the faint blush coloring her high, wide cheekbones, leaning forward until her neatly wrapped bosom had hovered, with excruciating promise, just above her dish of marscapone. The rise of her eyebrows as he cracked that damned walnut, as if she could divine the nervousness of the gesture.
A wager implied further contact, made further contact necessary. That, of course, was why he’d done it. He’d lost the wager simply by making it.
Finn darted through the doorway into the stables. “Hallo!” he called, the word echoing faintly off the old stones. He heard the rustle of animals moving about and smelled the earthy scents of horse and hay and manure through the dank air. It wasn’t much warmer here, despite the presence of God knew how many beasts, and certainly not much lighter, with a pair of dark lanterns providing the only illumination. Finn stood still, allowing his eyes to adjust, to pick through the shadows until they resolved into shapes and details. No point stumbling about aimlessly, after all.
He’d watched the hostlers unload the wagon this afternoon, and he knew exactly where his machine had been placed. He’d supervised everything, down to the plain wool blanket thrown over the top and tucked into the corners. He had no reason at all to be here, no reason for concern, other than the same watchfulness a father might bear for his child, wanting to check its sleeping head one last time before retiring, to be sure of the slow steady pulse of its breathing.
When at last he could make out the contours of the building around him, Finn walked with soft feet in the direction of the remote corner into which he’d directed his man earlier, past the inquisitive heads of several horses, noses reaching forward for treats; past rusting bits of farm equipment in winter storage; past various stacks of wooden boxes and crates, wine perhaps, waiting for transport elsewhere.
Until the last moment, he wasn’t aware of the other presence at all. A scent, a warmth flashed across his senses, just before he reached his destination.
“Who’s there?” he snapped out, bracing himself.
A faint rustle in the shadows. He listened a moment, and then moved forward: one step, another, the floorboards sighing under each foot.
Another rustle. “Look here,” he said, softening his voice, “I know you’re there. You might as well come out.”
He thought he heard a sigh slipping through the darkness, and then a voice spoke out, just above a whisper: “I beg your pardon, Mr. Burke. You quite startled me.”
Lady Morley. He saw her shape emerge from the shadowed corner, straight and queenly, features indistinguishable and yet as clear as day in his mind.
“What the devil?” he demanded, without thinking. “Lady Morley?”
Her hesitation filled the air. “Yes, I only . . . a bit of fresh . . .” She paused and seemed to compose herself. “You’ll think me foolish, of course. I must have got myself turned around, you see, in the night. I thought I’d reached the inn, and realized I hadn’t, and then the rain started up again. I beg your pardon if I gave you a fright.”
He felt her warmth, the vibration of her nerves a few feet away. He could reach out and touch her, if he wanted.
“I must say,” she went on, after her pause went uninterrupted, “you gave me something of a fright yourself! I thought you were one of the stableboys, come to ravish me.” She laughed, a light, musical laugh, redolent of Belgravian drawing rooms and entirely out of place in the Italian countryside.
“And if I were?” he heard himself ask, in a dark voice he hardly recognized as his own.
Another laugh. “Well, then I should be obliged to smite you over the head, of course. Though you’re so fearfully tall, I don’t suppose I should manage it very well. I should have to climb upon a stepladder to do the job properly.”
Her words fell away. In the silence, Finn heard the drum of rain against the roof tiles, harder now, the storm regaining strength as if determined to hold the two of them in place. A horse whuffled behind him, whether in encouragement or disapproval he couldn’t say.
“Lady Morley,” he said, “what the devil are you doing here?”
Her body shifted. “I told you. I was out for a walk to clear my head and wound up losing myself in the stables.”
The falsity of it seemed to rattle against the walls around them. She was lying, and he knew she was lying, and of course she must know he knew it. But what could he say? He couldn’t accuse her of falsehood. It would be tantamount to accusing her of murder: no, worse. And so they stood there, the lie squatting between them, like an incontinent lapdog that must be politely ignored. Finn let out his breath, long and heavy with the realization that he might never know exactly what Alexandra, Lady Morley was doing at midnight in a Tuscan stable, hovering over the physical representation of his life’s work.
“Mr. Burke? Have I offended you in some way?” Her voice was low and subdued, conscious of the debt she owed to his delicacy.
Damn it all. It was too much; she was too much: her cleverness and beauty and incandescence, the faint scent of lilies that seemed to rise from her
skin and drift through his mind like the headiest wine. He never could speak properly around women, never could feel like himself; they were an alien species, a code to which he had no key. He felt a stammer rise in his throat and forced it back down.
“Mr. Burke?” she asked again, very close, and he thought he could feel her breath settle into the hollow of his throat.
“No. No, of course not.”
“Will you, then, be so kind as to escort me back to the inn?”
He hesitated, for a fraction of an instant, because as much as her company unsettled him, he couldn’t quite bring himself to leave it. “Certainly. But . . .”
“But, Mr. Burke?”
He lowered his voice. “But not before you satisfy my curiosity on a single point, madam.”
She made a slight intake of breath. “Curiosity isn’t considered polite, Mr. Burke.”
“I rarely bother with such considerations.” Something about her answer, about its faint frisson of uneasiness, gave him confidence. He leaned his head down, until his lips nearly brushed her temple. “Tell me, Lady Morley, the real reason you’re here in Italy.”
She didn’t back away. “I told you, Mr. Burke. We’re embarking on a year of study, just as you are.”
“Devil of a coincidence.”
“Yes, isn’t it?”
“And so unexpected of you. After all, you’re a leading figure in London society.” He closed his eyes and drew in her scent, the warmth of her skin so near his own. Without looking down, he knew the tips of her breasts just brushed the wool of his greatcoat.
“You’re well-informed.”
“Why, I ask myself, would such a woman give up her life’s work, the adulation of friends, in order to steal away for a year of rustic living?” He dropped his voice almost to a whisper, in order to keep her close.
“Perhaps I’m bored of London life,” she breathed back. Was it his imagination, or did she sound unsteady? Surely not. Surely not the Dowager Marchioness of Morley, standing in a hay-strewn Italian stable, next to him.
God, it was tantalizing.
“Are you? Bored of London life?”
“Among other things, yes.”
“Nothing to hide, then? No secrets to disclose? I am, I assure you, the most discreet of men.”
Something wavered in the air, some current of expectation, and then it was gone. “Nothing so thrilling, I’m afraid. Three dull ladies, embarked on a dull mission.”
“Ah.” He moved his hand, just grazing the gloved tips of her fingers. The small contact streaked through his body with unexpected force. “In that case, I suppose we should return to the inn.”
She sighed. “Yes, of course.”
Her arm slipped through his, resting with extraordinary lightness on the curve of his forearm, her kidskin fingers just touching the back of his wrist. His bones stiffened beneath the pressure. He led her through the stables and out the door, where the cold shock of spitting rain dashed away the last remnants of the spell between them.
On the portico, as he reached for the door, she turned to him.
“Mr. Burke, it occurs to me that . . .” She hesitated.
“Yes?”
Her hand, still resting on his arm, fell away to fist at her side. “Well, as I said, we’ve no secrets. But all the same, I’d be rather grateful if you forbear mentioning our presence here to . . . to any mutual acquaintance, back in England.”
The inn was dark; the night was dark. He looked hard at her face but couldn’t read her expression. “Of course not, if you’d rather.”
“Thank you.” She made a dry little laugh. “I should hate to have all London come galloping down to join us, after all.”
He didn’t answer, only opened the door and allowed her through, to scamper up the stairs to the room he’d vacated for her.
Thank God, Finn thought, as he settled into his meager room. Thank God he’d be leaving at daybreak for a remote castle hidden in the rugged Tuscan hills.
Thank God he’d spend the next year far away from whatever corner of the world the maddening Lady Alexandra Morley planned to occupy.
THREE
The baggage would have to be unloaded, the driver told them, shaking his head in sorrow. There was no other way.
“What does he mean, no other way?” demanded Alexandra. “It will take hours, to say nothing of the mud ruining all that beautiful leather.” She ran her eyes over the neat rows of trunks in the cart, covered with a thick sheet of the best sailcloth to ward off the lingering damp.
“The mud’s the difficulty,” Abigail said. “He says it’s too”—she rubbed her first and middle fingers against her thumb, searching for a word—“too sticky, too heavy, for the horses to move. Unless the weight is removed from the back, of course.”
“For the amount of money he’s charged us,” said Alexandra, “he ought to have been more careful. The road is perfectly dry on the other side. Or . . . or at least rather less muddy.” She knew she was being petulant and didn’t much care. She had drunk a little too much wine last night, which was not her usual habit, and her head felt as if several dancing elves were presently becoming sick between the folds of her gray matter.
It was all that Mr. Burke’s fault, of course. He’d examined her from across the dinner table, silent and lion eyed, shoulders squared beneath the plain dark wool of his jacket. She’d felt his brain turn over her words, analyze her expressions, judge her character. It was impertinent! A mere scientific gentleman, no matter how celebrated. Irish, probably, with that name and that coloring and that outrageous self-assurance.
And then to find her in the stables, inspecting his machine, when she’d been quite certain the inn was quiet and somnolent! Stupid, stupid, to go for a look. What had she hoped to gain from it? She put one gloved hand to her temple and rubbed furiously, as if that would erase the image of those long, blunt-tipped fingers cracking a walnut in half.
“It was bound to happen,” said Lilibet, lowering herself onto a large rock and drawing Philip into her lap. “The road’s impossible; we were mad to have left the inn at all.” Her voice held just the faintest trace of annoyance.
“Rubbish,” Alexandra snapped. “We’d be mad to linger in a public inn. No, we’ve got to reach that castle tonight, and the earlier the better. Come along, ladies.” She stepped toward the cart and gave the broad canvas cloth an angry jerk. It rippled along the lumps and ridges of the baggage but did not quite come loose. “Abigail, come along the other side of the cart and help me. At this rate we shan’t push off until midnight.” She said the last words loudly, so that even the Italian driver would understand her.
“Oh, look!” Abigail said.
Alexandra turned. Her sister stood tall and straight, looking down the pitted road behind them, holding her hand above her eyes, though there wasn’t any sun to speak of. “Aren’t those the gentlemen from last night?” she asked, her voice high and eager against a gust of breeze.
“Oh, the devil take them,” Alexandra muttered under her breath. “It would be, wouldn’t it?”
She rose on her toes and stretched her considerable neck, trying to peer through the dank air. Sure enough, that unmistakable ginger hair popped into view, pale red gold against the grayness of rock and road and sky, before disappearing again under the blackness of his hat. They were all riding horses, presumably far ahead of whatever vehicle was conveying their baggage, and Alexandra cursed rather more picturesquely. She ought to have ridden, too, on these roads. If it weren’t for the little boy . . . but she quashed that thought instantly. They could never have left Philip behind.
For one wild instant, Alexandra imagined hiding between the massive rocks by the roadside. Or, more romantically, throwing the sailcloth over her head and pretending to be a peasant woman. She looked at the cart, at the shabby brown horses, at the driver, at the mud: Anything at all to escape the unfolding horror.
“Come, ladies,” she said, because she’d be damned if she’d accept imminent humiliation li
ke a dumbstruck peasant awaiting the emperor’s arrival. “Let’s sort out the trunks, shall we?”
The driver had already climbed down from his seat, pulling back the rest of the sailcloth with the languorous movements of a man who saw no reason to rush any of life’s adventures. Abigail skipped up next to her and reached inside for one handle of her single leather-bound trunk. Alexandra took the other and heaved.
It was heavy. Much heavier than she’d expected, and firmly wedged against its neighbors. “What the devil did you pack, my dear?” she asked, breathless, pulling again, to no effect.
“Only clothes. And . . . well, and perhaps a few books. A very few.”
“Books! I expressly forbade books!” The words came out in a puff of lost breath that lacked the weight Alexandra intended.
“Only a few, Alex! Not more than a dozen, I promise! I knew”—she huffed and tugged—“I knew this castle of yours wouldn’t have anything recent . . .”
“Novels! You’ve brought novels!” Alexandra accused, and then, quite by coincidence, the sisters managed to heave at the same time, and the trunk gave way into Alexandra’s chest, knocking her into a particularly sloppy patch of mud.
Cold, sloppy mud.
Abigail dropped to her knees. “Oh, Alex! I’m so awfully sorry! Are you all right?”
“Quite all right, thank you,” Alexandra gasped, “if you’ll perhaps be so good as to remove this damned crate of novels from my chest.”
“Oh yes, of course.” Abigail tugged the trunk from her sister’s wool-covered torso and into the mud beside her.
Alexandra struggled to sit upright. “After I gave express instructions that only academic subjects are to be considered . . .”
“Alex,” said her sister, in a strange voice, “you might . . .”
“If you don’t mind, Abigail. These damned useless skirts . . .” She struggled to plant her feet in the slick layer of mud.
Lilibet interrupted. “Er, Alexandra, my dear . . .”
“Aren’t either of you going to help me? Those damned gentlemen will be here in a matter of minutes . . .”