“Sorry?” His father punctuated the shouted word by slamming his fist on the table, making everything rattle and poor Sophia jump and squeak. “You are not sorry. If you were truly sorry, you would make amends.”
Now they were getting to the crux of the matter. Didn’t his father know he could see through his tricks? Ennio shouted, waved his hands, insulted and denigrated until the person he was berating would do almost anything he asked to make it stop. What would his father demand of him now? More designs for the shop? More of his time? That he return to the stuffy workroom full-time, break his back and lose his eyesight in the creation of some expensive bauble that would, more likely than not, live in some ungrateful society matron’s jewelry box?
He had no illusions that the skills he imparted as a dance master were important to anyone other than the social-climbing mamas who dreamed of their daughters rising above their stations. It was, in a very real sense, fools’ work. But it was his, built on his ability and drive to succeed, owing nothing to anyone else’s influence or skill. He was proud of what he had achieved, even if no one else was.
Sergio took a breath, tightening his grip on the rage boiling in his stomach. Get it over with. Let his father say what it was he wanted so Sergio could have the pleasure of denying it to him. “Amends?”
“Yes,” his father roared. “Amends.”
“What kind of amends, Papa? Tell me what it is you think I should do to make up for my egregious sins.”
The words were soft, low, yet so laden with sarcasm Ennio’s face went red, his eyes widening until it was a miracle his eyeballs didn’t fall out of their sockets. And when he next spoke, his voice had fallen yet was no less filled with rage and determination.
“Fabrizio Bertuca’s daughter is coming to London. When she arrives here, you will marry her. If you will do nothing else for your family, this you will do.”
It was not completely unexpected. How could it be when they had married Marco off the same way, bringing him a wife aligned with one of the best intaglio carvers in Rome? Fabrizio Bertuca was one of the foremost goldsmiths in Italy. Another attempt by his father to solidify his trade aspirations through marriage should come as no shock. Yet the words made Sergio freeze, a ball of icy rage and denial forming in his belly.
And just like that, in an instant, he thought of Jane. His sweet, licentious Jane, whose memory he had willfully tried to push aside while he sat at his mother’s table, surrounded by his family. A memory that hovered, just beneath all other thoughts, despite his best intentions.
And instead of increasing his anger, somehow just that brief whisper of her name through his head, the equally quick recollection of her smile, steadied him.
“Marco,” he said quietly into the thick silence, without taking his gaze from his father’s face. “How many designs have I brought to the shop in the last six months?”
“Um,” his brother hesitated, whether to count or with the wish he hadn’t now been brought into the argument, Sergio didn’t know, or care. “Twelve, I think.”
“Fourteen.” Sergio corrected him, watching Ennio’s face get redder. “And do you know if any have sold?”
“All of them,” Marco said.
“And my payment?”
“You refused payment, even though I offered it.”
“Thank you, brother.”
“That signifies nothing.” Ennio was shouting again, both fists planted on the table, ready to pound, just as he’d like to pound his will into his son. “We could have sold double that, triple that, if you dedicated yourself to the task. Since you will not do that, since you will not help us in that small way, you will marry Lucretia Bertuca. Then I can once more consider you a true part of this family.”
Sergio put down his cutlery, distantly surprised to realize he’d been clutching it so tightly his fingers ached as he let the knife and fork go. Picking up his napkin from off his lap, he set it beside his plate and pushed his chair back from the table, aware of the entire family watching him, waiting to see what he would say.
“I’m sorry my production hasn’t met your expectations.” His teeth were clenched so tightly it was all he could do to speak. “And I’m sorry you feel my contributions are too paltry to be considered worthwhile.” He paused, watching his father’s face, letting the older man see his anger, letting it bleed out through his eyes, even as he kept any hint of it from his voice. “I will not promise to do better. In fact, I find myself too busy to continue supplying you with designs. I also suggest, sir, that you inform Signor Bertuca his daughter will not be marrying me when she arrives on England’s shores.”
He turned away then, ignoring his father’s shouts, his brothers’ interjections, Sophia’s wide-eyed shock. By the time he was shrugging into his coat in the small entry hall, his mother was by his side, her hand on his arm.
“Sergio, please…”
“Non, Mama.” He tried to be gentle with her, not wanting his anger to color how he spoke, but wasn’t completely successful. “In this I will not be moved.”
“Too much like your papa.” She made a sound, half laugh, half sob, and, surprised, he looked down at her. There was the unmistakable sheen of tears in her eyes, and his heart wrenched to see them. “Stubborn. Pigheaded. Will you tear our family apart over such a little thing? You must have known your father would arrange a marriage for you. It is our way.”
He shook his head, unable to explain to her his reluctance—no, repugnance—at the thought of taking a wife when his body, his heart, craved another. She would not understand, would be horrified to know he was placing his feelings for a woman, one not only outside of their culture but not even of their class, above the wishes of his father and the future of the business.
“I will not relent, Mama.” A tear beaded on her thick, black lower lashes, then dripped down her cheek, and he touched it with his fingertip, aching with the knowledge he made his strong, brave mother cry. “I’m sorry.”
Bending, he kissed her cheeks, and she hugged him hard. “We will work this out, Sergio. It can be done, if one of you will bend, just a little.”
A huff of laughter, raw and derisive, broke from his throat. “You mean if I will, Mama.”
Grazia just shook her head as she stepped back, and the last thing Sergio heard as he left his parents’ house was his father’s voice, shouting for him not to return until he came to his senses.
It hurt. Of course it did. Especially since, in this situation, he knew his father meant it and Sergio would not contemplate backing down either. This was an impasse, and he could think of no way it would be resolved.
As he turned up the collar of his coat in an attempt to block the cool night air, Sergio knew he wouldn’t, couldn’t accede to Ennio’s demand. There had always been within him the need to be independent, to live life the way he wanted, rather than how his father or society deemed fit. This was just one of many battles his father and he had fought over the years, as Ennio tried, with little success, to bring Sergio to heel. But somehow this felt the most important. As though if he should give in on this one thing, the rest of his life would follow suit, leaving him nothing of his own, rendering him just a marionette whose strings were twined about his father’s fingers.
And then there was Jane.
Sergio groaned quietly, holding the sound in his chest so the people passing by him on the pavement wouldn’t think him a lunatic. Just the thought of her, the way she so fully gave in to his every demand, made his cock hard in an instant. Yet there was more to their association than just lust, at least on his side. He admired her, even more so since he’d coaxed from her the story of her life. Abandoned as a child and yet able, through her wits and strength, to make her way in the world. Dio, he didn’t know if he, in similar circumstances, could do as well. He’d always had his family, always known if things went wrong they were there, or should he need help, it would be forthcoming. His heart ached to think of her, young and innocent and alone.
Jane was no longer inn
ocent, that much he knew, but she was still alone.
The former he could do nothing about, and even if he could, he wouldn’t. It didn’t matter to him where she had gotten the experience she so freely exhibited, although he had his suspicions. He was just happy to be the beneficiary of it and wanted more. More of her soft flesh, her responsiveness, the taste and scent of her and the little cries of pleasure she was unable to suppress. He wanted to unwrap her from the cocoon she hid within, lay her on his bed with her legs sprawled wide and her body fully exposed, explore and tantalize every inch of her, until she found release so many times she begged for mercy.
And he wanted more from her than just her body, which should have surprised him but didn’t, really. Over the hours they’d spent together, he’d come to appreciate her nimble, inquiring mind, the sly wit that sometimes escaped her carefully placid mien. He found himself looking forward to their conversations, storing up observations and bits and pieces of information to share and discuss with Jane. The interest and enthusiasm in her eyes as they spoke of art or books or events of the day echoed his own pleasure. The sentiments they shared, and even the matters they disagreed on, which she argued with calm reasonableness, only made him admire her more.
She was becoming his obsession, and Sergio had no idea where that would lead. The situation was fraught with danger for them both. If what they were doing were to become known, she would be turned away without a reference, and his reputation would be sullied. He had only just begun to get commissions from members of the landed gentry to teach their children to dance, as word of his skills spread beyond the newly rich. To be known as the dance master who seduced one of his employer’s housekeepers would be the end of his current career.
Yet he couldn’t stop thinking of her, wanting her time and smiles, to hear her voice. Wanting to take her body in every way he could imagine, and perhaps to expand beyond the imaginable into new and even more licentious acts.
He wanted all of her.
The thought brought him to a standstill in the middle of the pavement, his heart thudding with the realization that somehow, somewhere, she had become of tantamount importance to him. There was nothing else he could think of right here, right now, that seemed even slightly significant in comparison. Madre di Dio, was this love or just the intensity of lust?
Sergio didn’t know. All he could feel was his need for her, like molten silver, burning through his veins. And there was only one thought that stood out in his head.
Whatever it took—the loss of reputation, family, the very life from his body—he would have her. Take her over and over until he understood what he was feeling, until he could make sense of it and decide what to do.
Chapter Seven
The days had crept by, each minute like an hour, each hour passing with the slowness of a year.
Somehow Jane had made it through, comporting herself with enough of her usual aplomb that no one questioned her or even seemed to notice she was, in fact, totally and irrevocably changed.
Sergio had awoken in her such a torment of desire she hardly knew what to do with herself, hardly remembered who she was supposed to be or how to act the part.
Yet, as she forced herself not to hurry but to walk at her usual pace toward her sitting room, she knew her ability to dissemble was what had allowed her to carry on. Inside she quaked with indescribable hunger, her craving for Sergio a constant thrum between her legs and heat deep in her belly. Any moment not taken up with a chore was filled with the delicious memories of the dance master’s tongue on her slit, his cock in her mouth. At night, as the household lay slumbering around her, she relived every second of their encounter, touched herself until she exploded in ecstasy. Without those nightly releases, she sometimes thought she’d go insane.
And if he denied her today, she still may lose her mind.
She hadn’t gone to the minstrels’ gallery, knowing the sight of him would completely undo her. Already she was so wet for him that her thighs slipped one against the other as she walked. Her padding was wet with perspiration, for as the day progressed and the time they were to meet got closer, waves of heat rushed over her skin until it felt as though she were suffering from a fever.
Finally she was at her door and slipped into the quiet of her sitting room. Even this place, which used to be her little sanctuary, no longer felt the same. How could it, when it had been the scene of such abandoned behavior? Prior to the Friday before, the room had seemed the staid, prim epitome of all a housekeeper of spotless reputation and morals could wish for or aspire to. Now as Jane, with shaking hands, prepared the pot and set the tea table, she thought there wasn’t a bawdy house in all the Empire with an atmosphere as lustful as this tidy little place.
Glancing at the clock, she realized she was, once again, early. She had rushed through her chores, kept everyone on their toes. So much so she had gotten a nod of approval from that old bastard Grimond, who liked to see everyone “step lively”, as he was wont to say.
Looking at the door, at the table already prepared and just awaiting the tea itself, she had a naughty, enticing idea. She hiked her skirts up, reaching behind and under her padding to find the drawstring tying the two legs of her drawers together around her waist. It took some tugging, and a bit of cursing, to coax the garment out from under her padding, but eventually it came free, and she stepped out of it. Going around behind her desk, she opened a drawer and stuffed the garment into it. It would be impossible to put them back on after Sergio left, but somehow she would smuggle them back up to her room at a later date. And she’d have to make sure she didn’t fall down the stairs or any other such thing this evening. What a scandal it would be if the rest of the staff realized she was without undergarments!
The thought made her giggle, even as she once more faced the danger of what she was about. There was a part of her that truly wondered if she had been put under a spell, or was slowly losing her faculties. How could she risk everything she’d worked for, lied and cheated to get, for a man? For a swive, an afternoon fuck?
Then the image of Sergio invaded her head, and it suddenly seemed completely, undeniably worthwhile.
Her little clock struck the quarter, and her heart leapt into her throat. The lesson would be ending, Mrs. Moorecroft rushing her nieces away in case any words not involving the movements of the dance might, perchance, be exchanged. Sergio would exit through the servant’s door and, even now, should be on his way to her.
Jane put her hand over her heart in a vain attempt to quell its racing, heat rushing to her face, a shiver chasing down her spine to lodge between the lips of her cunt.
She should greet him as she always did—give him the chance to tell her, through words or actions, whether today would be like all the days they had spent together before, or like last Friday. Wondering whether he would revert to their prior, cordial relationship, revealing a lack of true interest in her had been the only dark stains marring her thoughts. She had tried to push them aside, but now, as the time of his arrival finally drew close, she struggled with doubt, with the potential pain of his rejection.
Busying herself with the tea, measuring the leaves and pouring the water did little to steady her, and her hands were shaking as she set the pot on its stand and sat in her usual seat. Unable to stop herself, she turned slightly so the door was fully in her line of sight. When the expected knock came, it took her a moment to catch her breath and call out, “Come in.”
Then he was there, striding in, shutting the door behind him, and all the questions, the doubts and fears melted away at the gleam in his eyes, the set of his delectable mouth.
But he didn’t come toward her. Instead he leaned back against the portal, his gaze sweeping her from head to toes and, like a touch, igniting sparks of arousal each place he looked.
“Sweet Jane.” Oh, how those low, velvety words stole her breath, made her ache. “Tell me you’ve missed me as I have missed you.”
“Yes. Oh yes.”
It never occur
red to her to lie, to play the coquette. Not when he asked in that demanding way. And she was rewarded by the sound he made, deep in his chest, as though he couldn’t hold it back any more than she had been able to hold back her words.
His eyes closed for a moment, long, thick lashes sweeping his cheeks. How she wanted to kiss his lids, run her fingertip over those lashes, touch him intimately, tenderly, seek out and learn every inch of him. Then his eyes opened, and his gaze locked once more on hers. It had changed, seemed veiled, as though now he hid something from her, when before she would have sworn to the openness of what she saw reflected in his eyes.
“I cannot stay today, Jane.”
Unable to stop her little cry of dismay, she put her fingers over her lips, hoping to seal away any further evidence of the pain he was causing. It was the least she could do for the sake of her pride.
He shook his head, as though negating what he had said, and when he next spoke, his voice was a low, growling rasp.
“If I touch you, I will want more, and more, and I will not stop until you are naked and beneath me, my cock driving into you. I will want to make you scream with pleasure, will do everything I can to make it happen, Jane.”
“Sergio, please…” The words whispered out from between her fingers, and she shuddered, wanting him so badly she thought she could easily die from it. “Stay.”
Yet even as she spoke, as she saw him shake his head again, she understood and knew he spoke the truth. What they had done before was truly just a prelude, satisfying to a point, but not enough to slake the thirst they had for each other. Caught between agonizing fear that he would never return or touch her again and joy that he obviously yearned for her, as she did for him, she could only watch him and wait.
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