To Kiss a Count

by Amanda McCabe

  ‘A light that burns with the pure joy of life itself,’ he said. ‘You are more alive than anyone I have ever known. To see that vitality dim, that light flicker under the weight of ugliness—that would be a tragedy.’

  She covered his hand with hers, holding it tightly. ‘But it is that very life—real life!—that stokes that fire. Without it, surely existence is just a pale echo? The life of books and dreams. I need more. Don’t you?’

  He laughed harshly, raising her hand to his lips for a lingering kiss. ‘Life as we found it in Santa Lucia? With thieves and danger around every corner?’

  ‘Exactly like Santa Lucia. I had a purpose there, my work mattered.’

  He stared at her over their entwined hands, his black eyes burning like winter coals. ‘What of life as we found it in that dark little closet, hmm?’

  Thalia swallowed, feeling again her legs tight around his waist, the touch of his tongue on her skin, on the pulse that beat with her life’s blood.

  ‘That, too,’ she said hoarsely. ‘Perhaps especially that.’

  Marco groaned, pressing her palm to his cheek. Her fingers curled around the sculpted contours of his face, caressing. ‘Thalia, mia, what you do to me!’

  ‘Tell me, Marco. Tell me what I do to you. Because if it is even half what you do to me…’

  ‘I did not come here to seduce you,’ he said, dropping her hand. ‘You—a respectable young English lady! My friend’s sister.’

  Thalia stepped back, trying to take in a deep, cleansing breath. ‘Why did you come here? To resurrect the Lily Thief? To find the silver? To what end?’

  ‘That is also not my secret alone.’

  She shook her head. ‘Just know this, Marco. I want to help. I know I can help you! You can’t protect me, no one can. I just have to be myself, be a Chase Muse. If, when, you want to tell me something, I am always ready to listen. To do anything I can for you, for I know we care about the same things.’

  That speech took every bit of Thalia’s courage. She turned away before he could break her heart by dismissing her again, pushing the pram as fast as she could out of the gallery. Psyche seemed enthralled by the little scene, staring up at Thalia in wide-eyed silence.

  ‘We need not mention meeting the Count to your mother,’ she said as they emerged into the daylight. ‘It would only upset her unnecessarily.’

  Psyche sucked on her fingers, as if contemplating the new joys of secret-keeping. Thalia felt terrible about corrupting her, but it could not be helped.

  She was not quite ready to go home yet, not until she had fully composed herself. She went to Bond Street, hoping that a bit of window-shopping would do the trick. As she neared the end of the street, she caught a glimpse of Lady Riverton emerging from a shop, the scarlet plumes of her elaborate hat quite unmistakable. Thalia kept to the edge of the pavement, watching her as she strolled off, followed by package-laden attendants.

  Thalia peered closer at the shop window, and saw that it was the modiste where she herself intended to commission a costume for their Venetian masquerade.

  ‘Modistes always have the best gossip,’ she told Psyche, resolutely pushing the pram toward the door. ‘Shall we just stop here for a moment and look at some ribbons, my dear?’

  If Marco wouldn’t tell her what was going on with Lady Riverton, she would just have to find out for herself.

  Chapter Thirteen

  The Theatre Royal was crowded, every gold-and-crimson box in the three tiers filled with fine gowns and sparkling jewels, every seat below in the stalls overflowing with rowdiness. As Thalia slid into her velvet chair, she gazed around at the way the chandelier light glinted off the gilding.

  And she studied every face in the surrounding boxes through her opera glass. But the one she sought was not there. Either Marco had no taste for Shakespeare, or he was one for fashionably late arrivals, as at the Grimsbys’ card party.

  Lady Riverton was obviously not. She was most prompt, sitting across the u-shape of the theatre in her own box, comfortably ensconced with—Domenico de Lucca.

  As Thalia stared through the glass, Lady Riverton leaned close to her golden-haired escort, the green plumes in her turban nodding. Signor de Lucca smiled, seemingly enraptured by whatever she was saying.

  Well, well, Thalia thought, lowering her glass. Another little wrinkle in the plot.

  She recalled her little chat with the gossipy modiste. Thalia had delicately dug for nuggets of information about Lady Riverton as she chose fabric for her costume. When Thalia mused that she was not sure what she wanted to portray, but that she did not want to look like anyone else at the party, Madame Sevigny had tsked.

  ‘Just as long as you are not Cleopatra, mademoiselle,’ she had said. ‘My client who just departed, that is her choice. I told her that might be a soupçon too youthful, but alors! She will not listen. Now you, mademoiselle—you would have made a magnifique Cleopatra.’

  Yes, Thalia had thought wryly—if the Queen of the Nile decided to masquerade as a fluffy blonde shepherdess. So, that was what they decided on, a shepherdess. And now she knew of Lady Riverton’s disguise, and the fact that she hoped to lure an admirer with her fine, er, asp.

  Which admirer was it, though? Marco, or Signor de Lucca? Or maybe the young man she had arrived with at the Pump Room? And where, by Jove, where had she hidden the silver?

  ‘Isn’t this lovely, Thalia?’ Calliope asked, taking her seat next to Thalia. ‘Just as up to the mark as London.’

  ‘And just as crowded,’ Cameron said. ‘We’ll be lucky if we can hear a word the actors say.’

  His wife playfully tapped his arm with her fan. ‘You will just be looking at the pretty actresses anyway!’

  ‘Not at all,’ he protested. ‘I will be far too busy looking at you, Cal. You outshine every other lady here.’

  He kissed Calliope’s blushing cheek, and the two of them exchanged such a sweet, intimate smile that Thalia had to turn away. Their love glowed so brightly, like a corona of sunlight that enclosed only them in its blessed light. Just like Clio and her Duke.

  ‘One would think you two were newlyweds, instead of old married parents,’ she murmured teasingly, staring down at her programme. ‘Shall I leave you alone?’

  Calliope laughed, blushing an even deeper rosy pink. She was looking better, Thalia thought happily, not as pale and tired. ‘Speaking of parenthood, Thalia dear, I hear you committed an act of great courage today.’

  Thalia started guiltily. Had Calliope heard of her conversation with Marco at the Bath Society, then? Or the way she had grilled the modiste for gossip? ‘Whatever do you mean?’

  ‘The nurse told me you took Psyche out in her pram. Quite alone.’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ Thalia said, laughing. ‘We went to the Bath Society of Antiquities to look at the offerings to Sulis Minerva. She seemed to enjoy it.’

  ‘She was sleeping like an angel when we left for the theatre,’ Cameron said. ‘A most silent angel. You, sister dear, are a miracle worker.’

  Thalia shook her head. ‘Just read her some ancient myths. I’m sure it will do the trick when you want her to be quiet.’

  ‘Yes. She is a Chase, after all,’ said Calliope. ‘Did you meet anyone else on your outing?’

  Thalia thought of Marco holding her hand. Staring deep into her eyes, as if he could see all her most secret thoughts and dreams written there. ‘Not really. I went to Madame Sevigny’s shop to discuss costumes. She had the loveliest white silk, Cal, which I’m sure would do well for you.’

  Calliope peered at her suspiciously for a moment, but she just said, ‘I must get there myself, then. Perhaps I will feel up to it tomorrow, if you will go with me.’

  ‘Of course. I can buy some new ribbons for my bonnet.’

  Cameron said something to his wife, distracting her, and Thalia went back to perusing the audience. It was only as the curtain was rising that her patience was rewarded.

  Marco appeared in a box, just a few down from hers, strangely
alone. He slipped into his seat, his attention on the stage as the Montagues and Capulets appeared in a burst of Renaissance bellicosity.

  ‘“What, drawn and talk of peace! I hate the word, as I hate hell, all Montagues, and thee…”’

  Thalia studied Marco through her glass for several long moments, sure that he must feel the weight of her regard. Yet he never glanced toward her, never turned from the stage.

  Puzzled, Thalia focused her own attention on the actors. She was quickly absorbed into the action, into the lush, romantic, dangerous world of Verona. Romeo and Juliet was one of her favourite plays; she watched it whenever she had the chance, and knew all the lines by heart. Yet it never failed to engage her. And she never failed to hope, deep down inside, for a happier ending.

  To love like that, so freely and openly, so passionately that not even decades of hatred could stop it—how glorious. How full of life.

  She watched through her glass as the Capulets’ masked ball burst into music and colour. As Juliet, so wide-eyed with wonder—despite the fact that the actress was obviously no longer close to fourteen herself!—danced with one partner, then another, until she met a man she did not know. A stranger—yet she felt, so very strongly, that she knew him well. Knew him intimately. And nothing would ever be the same.

  ‘“Thus from my lips, by yours, my sin is purged.”’

  ‘“Then have my lips the sin that they have took.”’

  ‘“Sin from my lips? Oh, trespass sweetly urged! Give me my sin again.”’

  Suddenly, Marco rose and left his box. Thalia slumped back in her chair, as if released from a tight, binding cord. But she knew very well that the invisible ties between her and Marco were only briefly loosened. They could not be undone, not yet.

  The scene on the stage shifted, from the noisy party to Juliet’s ivy-covered balcony. She appeared there in her white nightrail, sighing with all the wistful frustration Thalia felt in her own heart.

  ‘“…if thou wilt, be but sworn my love and I’ll no longer be a Capulet.”’

  Thalia could not bear it any longer. The helpless desire, the longing that led only to disaster yet could not be stopped. She felt as if she couldn’t breathe, as if she was being drawn inexorably into that Verona world and leaving her own behind.

  She whispered a quick excuse to Calliope and left the box, hurrying into the dimly lit corridor. Even there she could hear the muffled, distant words from the stage.

  ‘“My bounty is as boundless as the sea, my love as deep; the more I give to thee the more I have, for both are infinite!”’

  Thalia pressed her hands to her ears, shaking her head. No! She did not want to feel that way, not for Marco. Not for someone she didn’t completely understand. Someone who refused to trust her. She couldn’t be like Juliet, dashing heedlessly toward love.

  ‘Are you ill, Thalia?’ she heard Marco say, that musical, caressing voice so concerned. So gentle, and alluring.

  She opened her eyes to see him emerging from the shadows. He was so much a part of them, with his black hair and black velvet coat, his fathomless dark eyes, she had not seen him. He was always a part of the shadows.

  ‘I just needed some fresh air,’ she managed to say.

  ‘Yes,’ he answered. ‘The play—it affects me, as well.’

  Thalia leaned back against the wall, grateful for its support. ‘Were you like Romeo when you were a youth?’

  Marco laughed, leaning beside her. The soft fabric of his sleeve brushed her bare arm, just above the edge of her glove. She shivered, but did not move away.

  ‘Was I always fighting, you mean?’ he said. ‘Or mooning over heartless Rosalines? I have to confess, yes to both.’

  ‘I can’t imagine that even Rosaline would ever spurn you, Marco.’

  ‘She did not. But her protector rather took exception, and he challenged me to a duel.’

  Engrossed in the story, in the sound of his voice, Thalia slid her fingers across the wall between them, just barely touching his hand. ‘What happened then? Did you kill him?’

  ‘I never had the chance. My father heard of it, and decided he had had enough of my youthful foolishness. He packed me off to the army.’ Marco paused, entwining his fingers with hers. ‘I did my killing there, and learned my lesson very well.’

  ‘And your Rosaline? What happened to her? Did you ever see her again?’

  He shook his head. ‘A gentleman never tells.’

  ‘Are you a gentleman now, Marco?’ she teased. ‘Despite your fine title, I am not sure…’

  ‘I try to be, cara. But some people do not make it easy.’

  She swung around to face him, bracing her arms against the wall to either side of him. He could easily brush her aside like a piece of tulle, but she liked the illusion of holding him prisoner. Of being in control for once in her life.

  ‘I am sure you cannot mean me,’ she said softly, going up on tiptoe so their bodies brushed together.

  ‘Not only you,’ he answered roughly. His eyes were completely black in the shadows, his shoulders tense. ‘There are also your sisters. You are misnamed the Muses. You are surely as stubborn and dangerous as the Furies.’

  ‘Did you say such things to your Rosaline? If so, Marco, no wonder you had such trouble with her!’ Thalia pressed closer to him, revelling in his body’s reaction to hers. If she was going to fall heedlessly, she didn’t want to go entirely alone.

  ‘Tell me what happened,’ she whispered. ‘Did she come to you the night before the duel? Throw herself into your arms? Like this?’ She pressed a soft kiss to his jaw, just above the folds of his cravat, inhaling deeply of his scent.

  ‘Thalia.’ He seized her shoulders, setting her away from him. ‘We can’t do this here.’

  She glanced along the corridor, suddenly coldly aware of how right he was. Anyone could have walked past and seen them, just like at the museum. It was probably yet another sign that she was headed straight to Bedlam. Yet she could not quite make herself care. Not yet.

  She took his hand, drawing him with her down the hall until they found a quiet, contained niche, storage for chairs. ‘What about here?’ she whispered.

  ‘Thalia, bella,’ he groaned, taking her into his arms at last. ‘I was wrong in naming you a Fury.’

  ‘Then what am I?’

  ‘Aphrodite herself, surely.’

  Thalia chuckled, and at last pressed her lips to his, their breath mingling. Whenever they were alone like this, enclosed in the sweet darkness, wrapped up in each other, the rest of the world just melted away. There was only Marco, the essence of him and how he made her feel. As if she could soar free. As if he was the other half of herself, and in his arm all illusions dropped away. There was only their bodies, their spirits—together.

  But that in itself was surely the greatest illusion of all. Marco’s whole life was made of smoke and mirrors, a black curtain she could only part an inch and glimpse the whole, shining truth for an instant.

  She eased away from the lure of his kiss, resting her head against his chest. Through layers of linen and velvet, she heard the pounding of his heart, echoing her own.

  She closed her eyes, holding on to him tightly. ‘Are you going to vanish now,’ she whispered, ‘and leave only a white lily in your place?’

  He went very still. ‘I told you, bella. I have changed my ways. Surely your sister also told you that.’

  ‘She told me many things.’

  ‘Ah, yes, I am sure she did.’

  ‘Is that all you have to say about keeping such a secret?’

  ‘I told you, it was not only my secret to keep, it was your sister’s. And I am glad you know now.’ Marco gently framed her face in his hands, turning her gaze up to him. He was pale in the shadows, all stark black and white angles. ‘I hate keeping secrets from you, Thalia.’

  ‘Then don’t!’ She pressed her hands over his, holding him to her. Holding on to that connection between them. ‘I will hold all your secrets safe.’

 
‘What do you want me to tell you? What do you want from me?’

  Thalia laughed, but it was a humourless sound. ‘I hardly know where to start. Just tell me the truth about Lady Riverton. You have come to find the silver altar set she stole from Santa Lucia, yes?’

  He nodded shortly.

  ‘And have you found it?’ she said.

  ‘If I had, I would no longer be here. I would be taking it back to its home. And if she does still have it, she keeps it very well hidden.’

  ‘Perhaps she has already sold it?’

  ‘My connections in the antiquities trade have heard about no such object coming onto the market. And anyone who bought it would not hesitate to brag of it!’

  ‘Very true. So, Lady Riverton has it still—and you are after it. But why?’ Thalia frowned up at him in the dark. ‘Why come all this way? To get it for yourself?’

  ‘Thalia…’ he began. There was a sudden burst of conversation from the corridor outside their niche. Startled, Thalia jumped back from him, his touch falling away from her.

  ‘We cannot talk now,’ he muttered as the noise increased, intruding on their little world.

  Thalia glanced back over her shoulder. Time grew short for them, as it always did. Yet she could not quite let him go. ‘But you will tell me?’ she said hastily.

  He nodded, a crooked half-smile on his lips. ‘If I do not, you will certainly hound me until death.’

  ‘Of course I will! I can never resist a puzzle.’

  ‘Then go now. We will talk later.’ Marco kissed her once more, quick and deep, and spun her around, nudging her towards the corridor.

  Thalia quickly smoothed her hair, the bodice of her gown. She glanced back, but he had already melted into the shadows. Taking a deep breath, she dived into the crowds of people emerging from their boxes for the interval.

  She did not see Calliope and Cameron, so they were surely still in their box waiting for visitors—and for Thalia to return. Yet Thalia could still feel the heated blush in her cheeks, and she did not feel quite up to facing her sister’s too-observant eyes. Instead, she turned toward the stairs, thinking to seek out some refreshments.