Authors: Juliana Gray
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
T
he 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 like 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 . . .”
“Lady Morley.”
The words moved low and quiet through the sodden air.
With a lurch of her innards, Alexandra looked up into the face of Mr. Phineas Burke, bent toward her with grave care, his black-gloved hand outstretched. “May I be of assistance?” he inquired.
As if she had a choice.
She let out a little sigh and placed her hand in his.
His walnut-cracking fingers closed around hers, large and capable, and she found herself rising weightlessly from the Tuscan mud to stand before him, entirely too close to that formidable chest. She stared at the plain horn button a few inches from her nose and realized again how disturbingly tall he was, up close. She wanted to take a step back, but found that she could not.
Not from reluctance, thank God, but because the mud had already closed around her trim ankle boots, holding them fast.
“Lady Morley?” Mr. Burke’s voice rumbled next to her ear.
“My boots,” she said feebly, looking down. “It appears they’re stuck.”
“A curious species of mud,” he observed, bending in a sinuous motion and grasping at her ankle. “Extraordinarily viscous.” He pulled firmly, freeing one foot and then, as she was forced to lean against him, the other.
Then he lifted her, actually lifted her—her breasts pressing against the ridge of his shoulder, his broad arm lying firmly against the backs of her legs—and placed her on a rock. She felt the round eyes of her companions, staring.
“Thank you,” she said primly, shaking free the folds of her mud-slicked coat.
“Not at all.” He had evidently ridden on ahead. She could hear the sound of hoofbeats to her left, Wallingford and Penhallow drawing near, but she could not, for a few vital seconds, bring herself to look away from Phineas Burke’s green eyes. Their color had muted, out here in the chill gray Italian morning, more lichen now than grass, rimmed with lashes a few shades darker than his hair. They regarded her with sober warmth, completely absent of any sort of invitation or flirtation, scattering her wits.
Such a particular stare, a knowing stare, teeming with the memory of last night’s encounter in the stables. Alexandra could hear the beat of her heart thumping against her eardrum. Surely his curiosity hadn’t been piqued; surely he hadn’t discovered her secrets already?
No, it was impossible. He could have no knowledge of her personal affairs, no idea of the straits to which she’d been reduced. All the world knew that Lord Morley’s widow must be a wealthy woman.
“Look here, Burke,” came Wallingford’s voice, making a sharp crack through the charged air. “You’re supposed to be leading us wretched sinners down the path of scholarly virtue, not seducing the first willing woman to cross your path.”
Mr. Burke’s head snapped up, as if someone had nudged him with a cattle prod. He stumbled backward, his boots slipping in the mud, and turned to the brothers. “For God’s sake, I was only offering my assistance.”
The duke pulled up a few yards away, his wide mouth turned upward with amusement. “What an unseemly predicament you’ve gotten yourself into, Lady Morley. Typically impulsive behavior, to set out in carts with the roads knee-deep in mud.”
“We’re in a hurry,” she said, preparing to rise in full haughty splendor and shatter the duke’s disdain. She was brought up short, however, by the realization that she wasn’t wearing any boots. Those, she saw in horror, still dangled absently from Mr. Burke’s right hand.
She closed her eyes and cleared her throat.
“Mr. Burke, if you would be so kind as to return my boots.”
He gave a start and looked down at his hand. “Good God. I’m so terribly sorry. Here you are . . . If you’ll allow me . . .” He made a motion as if to put them back on her himself.
“Quite all right,” she said swiftly, snatching them from his hand. She could feel her face erupt in a blush. “You needn’t bother.”
Her words seemed to startle Abigail out of her shocked immobility. “Oh, Alex, let me,” she said, darting forward contritely and taking the left boot.
“Tell me, Wallingford,” gasped out Alexandra, since she could not quite bring herself to address Mr. Burke’s green eyes, “what hideous mischance brings you along the same road this morning? Are you headed for Siena?”
“No,” he answered, and then, after a brief pause: “Are you?”
“No.” Her heel slid down at last and she began to relace the boot. “Are you determined to watch the entire process, Your Grace? Perhaps you’re unfamiliar with the proper lacing of a lady’s boot.”
“Oh no,” he said. “Quite familiar. I was only hoping for a glimpse of your stocking, but I see such privileges are allowed only for my fortunate friend Burke.”
She heard Mr. Burke grumble something, under his breath. “The other one, if you please,” she said to Abigail, fuming inwardly at Wallingford, the ass. She spoke without thinking. “I don’t allow such privileges to anyone. Least of all Mr. Burke.”
An icy silence descended. Alexandra glanced up in time to see Mr. Burke turn away, walking back to his horse. He had apparently tossed the reins in haste to the driver of the cart, and he retrieved them now, swinging aboard the animal with a single lithe movement, not scholarly at all.
“That is to say,” she said helplessly, “since we have only just met.”
“Excellent,” drawled Wallingford. “For I should hate to see you lose our wager so easily. No sport in it at all.”
“I have no intention of losing the wager, Wallingford,” Alexandra snapped. “And certainly not in
that
manner.”
Mr. Burke’s horse shifted about impatiently, its hooves making deep sucking noises in the mud.
Lord Roland cleared his throat. “I say,” he chirped out, “that’s hard luck, about your cart. How exactly are you expecting to go on?”
Alexandra rose. “We’re unloading the baggage,” she said, with dignity, “in order to push the cart out of the mud.”
Wallingford gave a low whistle. “Do you know, I should almost like to see you do it.”
“You’re a beast, Wallingford.” Lord Roland swung from his horse, looped the reins about one of the slats on the cart, and reached inside for a trunk.
“Oh, I say,” Alexandra said gratefully, “that’s awfully kind of you.” She picked a path back to the cart between the stickier patches of mud and fell in beside Lord Roland. “Come along, then, Abigail,” she called, over her shoulder.
“Oh, bugger it,” Wallingford muttered, and dismounted in resignation.
* * *
F
our hours later, trudging along a winding narrow track into a fogbank, his left boot rubbing a blister the size of a guinea on the knuckle of his fourth toe, Finn found himself cursing the name of Alexandra, Lady Morley.
“Just how far along is this inn of hers?” he grumbled to Wallingford.
“My dear man,” sighed Wallingford, “you don’t suppose it actually
exists
, do you?”
Finn drew in his breath. “She wouldn’t!”
“The thing is, she used to be a nice sort of girl,” Wallingford said, kicking viciously at a stone, until it tumbled over the ledge and fell in long dramatic plunges to the switchback below. “I believe I first met her in Lady Pembroke’s ballroom, directly after she came out. Fetching creature. Round cheeks, glossy hair, fresh from the country. Bit of a sharp wit, of course, but charming enough, all told. If I’m not mistaken, I kissed her once, on someone’s terrace, moonlight and all that. And then . . .” He paused to kick another stone.
“And then?” Finn prodded, a little too eagerly.
“What’s that? Oh, I suppose I got distracted. I was chasing after Diana at the time, and . . . oh, gad, yes. Now I remember. Diana caught me at it, you see, on the terrace, and . . . well, Burke, old fellow, if you ever want to get a particular woman in bed—which I daresay even
you
must, from time to time—the thing to do is to get caught kissing another one.” He chortled mirthlessly and sent another stone flying off the ledge. “Bloody hell, yes. The desk in the library, it was. I had to borrow her handkerchief, as my own was . . .”
“Look here,” Finn broke in, “about that inn. Do you really think she made that up?” He narrowed his eyes to peer some twenty or so yards ahead, where the graceful figure of Lady Morley floated along the road atop his own horse, her black skirts gathered cunningly to accommodate the saddle. In the shrouding mist, the two beasts blurred together like a kind of female centaur, only with rather more clothing.