To Kiss a Count

by Amanda McCabe

  ‘We are talking.’

  ‘Somewhere we can’t be interrupted. Will you walk with me tomorrow in Sydney Gardens?’

  Thalia swallowed hard. She certainly did want to talk to him, to express her confusion and anger! But she also had seen tonight how her rational thoughts just flew apart when he was near. How, despite everything, he still had that sensual, forgetful effect on her.

  Could she trust herself with him, even in a public park? Only moments ago she had been ready to jump into his arms.

  But her curiosity was stronger than her prudence, as always. She gave him a nod.

  ‘My sister is to take the waters in the morning,’ she said. ‘I will meet you there after breakfast.’

  ‘Grazie, Thalia,’ he answered. Before she could stop him, he reached for her hand, raising it to his lips. His kiss was warm and alluring, even through the thin silk. She felt his cool breath against her skin, and she shivered.

  He smiled up at her, a mischievous grin, as if he felt that small quiver. He turned her hand over, balancing her wrist delicately on his palm.

  ‘I don’t suppose I could tempt you to dance with me?’ he said teasingly. He placed another soft kiss just where her pulse beat, and she felt the light touch of his tongue between the tiny pearl buttons.

  Thalia snatched her hand away. ‘I don’t intend to dance tonight.’

  Marco straightened, still smiling at her so infuriatingly, as if he read her every thought. ‘And if you did it would not be with me, si?’

  ‘Si—I mean, yes,’ Thalia answered, with a firmness she was far from feeling.

  ‘Oh, but Thalia cara, I am a fine dancer. Do you not remember the masked ball?’

  ‘Of course I remember it. Your technical skills are not in question, Count.’

  Marco laughed, his head thrown back as if in sheer, abandoned delight. Thalia lunged forward, pressing her hand to his mouth to still that sound, even as something deep inside her longed to join in.

  ‘Shh!’ she whispered. ‘Someone will hear.’

  He moved her hand away, still holding it as he whispered in return, ‘Cara, I assure you, no one has ever complained of my—technical skills. If you would just give me a chance to demonstrate…’

  Thalia yanked away from him, whirling around to dash up the stairs. His deep laughter seemed to follow her, chasing her as she ran away.

  Infuriating man! He was so—so Italian. Could he take nothing seriously?

  And why, oh, why could she never stay angry with him?

  Thalia paused at the top of the stairs, her heart pounding as she watched the tides of people moving past, their conversation even louder after those quiet moments. She felt laughter rise up within her, a bright bubble that could not be denied or forced away.

  She pressed her hand to her mouth, fearing that once she laughed aloud she would not stop. She would fall to the marble floor, gasping and wheezing, until everyone knew what a lunatic she really was.

  But she could smell him on the silk of the glove, and the warm citrus-ginger scent made her head spin. She was a giddy fool, there was no denying it.

  Footsteps echoed on the stairs behind her, and she suddenly feared to encounter Marco again. She would not be able to resist his invitation to dance twice. Not when she remembered how well they moved together, how his touch felt on her hand. When she remembered his—yes, his ‘technical skills’.

  She hurried away, melding into the crowd and letting that irresistible tide carry her back to the ballroom. Calliope still sat in her chair by the pale green wall, talking animatedly with two other ladies.

  ‘Thalia dear!’ she said, reaching out to draw Thalia to her side. ‘There you are. I wondered where you had disappeared to.’

  ‘There was quite a crush in the ladies’ withdrawing room,’ Thalia answered lightly. ‘I’m sorry I left you alone.’

  ‘Not at all. As you see, Cameron abandoned me for the card room, but I found Mrs Smythe-Moreland and Lady Billingsfield. We met at the Hot Bath today, and discovered we have so much in common. Ladies, this is my sister, Miss Thalia Chase.’

  Polite greetings were made all around, and Lady Billingsfield exclaimed, ‘How pretty your sister is, Lady Westwood! She must meet my nephew, Mr Arthur Dashwood, who is just over there. Do you care for dancing, Miss Chase?’

  Thalia glanced toward the doorway. Lady Riverton stood there with some of her friends, unmistakable in a bright turquoise-blue feathered turban. She gazed around distractedly, her matching feathered fan fluttering in agitation, but Marco was nowhere to be seen. Had he abandoned his flirtation already?

  ‘I do enjoy a dance, Lady Billingsfield,’ Thalia said.

  ‘And so does my Arthur! How pleasant it would be to see the two of you handsome young people together.’

  Lady Billingsfield vigorously waved her fan to summon the hapless, though admittedly good-looking, Arthur Dashwood, who duly asked Thalia to dance with him. As they took their places in the set, Thalia at last saw Marco come back into the ballroom.

  He paused just past the knots of people in the doorway, his dark gaze scanning the room. Lady Riverton brightened at his appearance, waving at him, but he did not hasten to join her. His attention slid to Thalia in the dance, and he gave her a mocking little bow. His raised brow seemed to dare her to compare her new partner’s ‘skills’ with his own.

  She suppressed a fresh urge to laugh, and turned back to Mr Dashwood as the music began. Their walk in Sydney Gardens tomorrow should be interesting indeed!

  ‘Well, Miss Chase,’ her dance partner asked as they joined hands, ‘how do you like Bath thus far?’

  Chapter Seven

  Marco watched Thalia as she skipped gracefully through the figures of the dance. She looked like Aurora, the spirit of the dawn, in her pale pink gown, her pretty face lit up with a joyful smile. She was all light, elegant grace, laughing happily with her partner.

  Could she possibly be the same solemn woman he had glimpsed in the dim corridor? Studying herself in the mirror as if she had never seen her face before—and didn’t approve of it at all. She was certainly not as she was back in Santa Lucia, so fearless in her search for the truth, single-minded in her work. Here she was just the diamond of the assembly, light and pretty, the focus of so much admiration.

  Her fortunate dance partner gazed at her raptly, as if he could not quite believe his luck. As well he might. But did he, could he, see even an inch past her lovely façade?

  Marco would wager not. He watched, frowning, as she made a curtsy at the end of the dance and her partner took her hand to lead her back to her sister. She smiled up at him as he prattled to her, and Marco found he burned with a sudden flare of jealousy. Why would she not smile so at him? Dance with him? Most ladies seemed to like him. Why not Thalia Chase?

  He felt a touch on his sleeve, and was harshly reminded of why Thalia would not smile at him. He glanced down to find Lady Riverton at his side, her gloved hand proprietarily on his arm.

  Thalia did not understand why he was here with Lady Riverton, and he could not tell her. Not only did he refuse to put her in any danger, but he had promised his friend Clio, before she had left for her honeymoon, that he would be careful with her family.

  That vow had seemed easy enough to keep when he had left Santa Lucia, certain he would not see Thalia Chase again. Now that she was here before him, her beautiful, alluring presence all too real, it seemed one of the hardest promises he had ever made.

  He had been intrigued by her in Sicily, intrigued by the complex labyrinth of her mind behind that pretty face. By her creativity, her sly humour, her bravery, and the depth of her understanding of human nature. Human flaws and foibles, not often seen by well-bred English ladies.

  But it was just that understanding that could make her dangerous now. If she knew what he was really doing in Bath, she would insist on being involved, just as she had in Santa Lucia. And then his vow to Clio, and to himself, would be broken.

  He could not do that. Aurora be
longed to the light of day, not to the dark masquerade his life had become. The cause that was his real birthright.

  And yet—yet he could not take his gaze from her, as she laughingly fended off all the young men besieging her for dances. She drew him like a hapless, hopeless moth to a brilliant flame.

  Lady Riverton tugged harder at his sleeve. He reluctantly tore his gaze from Thalia’s pink cheeks to smile down at Lady Riverton. She scowled at him, those feathers trembling in her turban.

  ‘I vow you have not heard a word I said,’ she said petulantly.

  ‘Ah, dear Lady Riverton, forgive me,’ he answered. He summoned up his most charming smile, the one that seldom failed with the ladies—except Thalia, who seemed quite immune.

  Lady Riverton, though, was not. She smiled, too, as Marco raised her hand to his lips, kissing the air above her kid glove. He thought of Thalia’s hand in his, of the taste of her skin through the silk.

  Lady Riverton, unlike Thalia, did not appear to be immune to Italian charm at all. She giggled and smiled.

  ‘It is so very noisy in here,’ he said. ‘A “great crush”, as you English say.’

  ‘Perhaps we should go somewhere a bit quieter,’ she answered, her smile growing softer.

  Marco’s gaze sharpened. Was this it, then? The way into her well-guarded treasure vault of a villa? The way into her confidences? ‘What are you suggesting, my lady?’

  ‘The card room, of course!’ she said, tapping him with her feathered fan. Those feathers wafted under his chin, tempting him to sneeze. ‘La, sir, but what did you think I meant? I would have you remember that I am a respectable widow, entirely devoted to the memory of my late husband. Who was your friend, yes?’

  ‘I assure you, Lady Riverton, I remember that at all times,’ Marco answered, kissing her hand again. ‘As much as I might wish it otherwise.’

  Lady Riverton laughed. ‘And no matter how very tempting you might be, my dear Count. Now, shall we have a hand of piquet?’ Her gaze slid across the room to Thalia, who was still surrounded by admirers. ‘Unless you would prefer to vie for a dance with the lovely Miss Chase. If, of course, you care to battle every other young man in the room.’

  ‘Now, why would I care to battle for anything, when I am already having a thoroughly enjoyable evening?’ Marco said. He tucked Lady Riverton’s hand in the crook of his arm, leading her toward the doorway.

  As they passed Thalia and her coterie, her gaze met his for an instant. Her brow arched, as if in a hint of mockery, and just for a flash he thought he saw hurt puzzlement in the depths of her eyes. But then she was concealed by a wall of suitors, and he passed out of the ballroom with Lady Riverton.

  Yet that look haunted him. Marco seldom cared what people thought of him; he could not afford to, not when he did all he had to for his work. Why, then, was the thought of Thalia Chase’s contempt, her puzzlement, so hurtful?

  Why did he want so much to gain her admiration? To have her smile at him, so sunny and open, as she had with her young dance partner?

  That seemed as hopeless as his task here in Bath. Yet, just as he had to do all in his power to retrieve the silver altar set, he knew he had to seek one genuine smile from Thalia’s lips.

  No matter what the odds against him.

  It was quite late when Marco returned to the White Hart. Bath was not like London, with merriment and distractions at all hours, as most people had to be up and about early to take the waters. But Lady Riverton had met some friends in the card room, who had invited them for an informal card party when the assembly rooms closed.

  Now it was late indeed, and he was tired, bored and seemingly no closer to his goal.

  ‘I must be losing my touch,’ he muttered, dragging off his rumpled cravat. ‘And I am certainly too old for this now!’ Parties at all hours had been all well and good in his twenties, but now he was thirty they seemed silly.

  Or maybe he just longed for a different companion in revels.

  He threw himself into the nearest chair, running his fingers through his hair until the rumpled locks fell over his eyes. He had done a lot of crazy things for Florence, for Italy, before. He had turned thief, soldier, and, God help him, pamphlet writer. Now he had turned flirt as well, and the sad thing was it didn’t seem to be getting him where he needed to be. He was no closer to finding the silver than he had been in Santa Lucia.

  Maybe what he needed was to take lessons in flirtation from a true master. He closed his eyes and saw Thalia again, laughing, bright-eyed, surrounded by admirers. She surely made everyone, including him, long to give her whatever she wanted. Tell her anything.

  But he knew better than to give in to temptation. Even when it came in as luscious a package as Thalia Chase.

  He opened his eyes, and for an instant imagined he glimpsed her sitting in the chair across from him. She leaned back against the brocade cushions, one slippered foot swinging from beneath her skirt as she laughed at him.

  ‘You know I can help you, Marco,’ she whispered. ‘All you have to do is ask. Remember what a good team we were? It can be just like that again…’

  Marco shook his head hard, and she vanished. He was alone again, as always.

  That was how it had to be.

  He pushed himself out of the chair and went to the cluttered desk, looking for the pamphlet he was in the midst of writing. On top of his blotted parchment, his attempts to tie historic Italian glories to future freedoms, lay the afternoon post. Amid the invitations and a scented note from Lady Riverton, there was a creased letter from Naples. It had obviously followed him a long way to arrive in Bath.

  Marco tore open the seals, already sure who it would be from, and what it would say.

  Marco, we need you—the time is at hand, read the scrawling, smudged hand. There is none like you with a sword, with an inspiring speech. Where are you? Write as soon as you can. Domenico.

  Domenico de Lucca. Of course. Marco let the letter drop back to the desk. Domenico always thought the ‘time was at hand’, and that swords, not pens, were the answer.

  There might come the day when he was proved right, when Marco would have to leave the scholarly life behind and become again the warrior. But he did not want Thalia to be near when that day came.

  He would never put a woman he cared for in danger again.

  Chapter Eight

  Thalia fastened her pale blue spencer, turning before the mirror to judge its effect. Was the à la militaire cut stylish enough? Was it too stylish? Too—flirtatious? She did want to look pretty, but also serious. Scholarly. Trustworthy, so someone would want to entrust secrets to her.

  She touched the braid trim along one of the well-cut lapels, wishing she had some garments that were not pastels. The blues, pinks, and sea-greens of her wardrobe were fashionable, and suited her fair colouring, but perhaps Marco would think her more intelligent if she wore black. Or brown. Or vivid Turkey red and jade green, as Clio favoured.

  ‘Oh, blast it all!’ she muttered, taking off the jacket and reaching for a plain pink pelisse. She did not care if Marco preferred Clio or Lady Riverton, or any woman, to herself. She had only agreed to this meeting out of courtesy and curiosity. She did not need his admiration or respect.

  She did not!

  Thalia scooped up her bonnet and gloves, and marched downstairs. Calliope was still asleep, exhausted by the assembly, and Thalia had breakfasted alone in the pretty little dining room. She was glad of that; no one to ask questions, to query her about her plans for the day. Now the house was quiet, except for Psyche’s thin, high wail from the nursery.

  Her niece obviously wanted attention and she wanted it now, Thalia thought as she paused before the looking glass in the entrance hall. The baby was not really well named, for she could not have foresworn looking directly at Cupid. She would have berated him soundly for even suggesting such a harebrained thing! Much like the rest of the Chases.

  And maybe that was why Thalia herself was so nervous about meeting Marco. They would b
e in a public place, of course, but what if that burning curiosity, that cursed impulsiveness, overcame her? What if she knocked him down—if she could, which was doubtful, since he was quite tall—and demanded to know what he was doing in Bath?

  It was all too likely, and the last thing Calliope needed right now was to deal with a scandalous sister.

  ‘You must be calm and collected,’ she muttered to her reflection, plopping her bonnet on her head. ‘It is a quiet morning walk, nothing more.’

  ‘Where are you off to this morning, Thalia?’ Cameron said. Thalia spun around to find him coming down the stairs, so quiet she had not even heard him.

  Surely she could learn a lot about stealth from her brother-in-law. She had a feeling she was going to need it.

  ‘I thought you were with Calliope,’ she said, taking a deep breath as she tied the bonnet ribbons.

  ‘I persuaded her to sleep a bit longer, then I will take her to the baths.’ He paused at the foot of the stairs, leaning lazily against the balustrade. But Thalia was not fooled by the indolent posture. ‘I would invite you to come with us, but it appears you already have plans of your own.’

  ‘I doubt I could face yet more water,’ she answered. ‘Not just yet! I am going for a walk, then will do a bit of writing. I’ve been neglecting my work lately.’

  ‘I’m glad to hear it. Calliope has been fretting that you will be bored.’

  ‘How could I be bored in Bath? There are so many diversions.’

  ‘So many admirers?’ He grinned at her. ‘You were surrounded by quite the horde last night.’

  ‘They are diverting enough, I suppose, in their various ways.’

  ‘And is one of them accompanying you on this walk?’

  ‘They are not that diverting, Cam. Much like the water, I cannot face their prattle so early in the morning. I need to hear myself think.’

  ‘And you cannot do that here?’ Psyche let out a great shout from above, and Cameron smiled ruefully. ‘I suppose not.’