An Innocent Abroad: A Jazz Age Romance (3 page)

Rain
drummed against the window panes. Isobel stared listlessly out at the view,
hidden now behind a veil of mist and rain. She pressed her forehead to the cool
glass of the window. The room smelled of kerosene from the lamps that burned
against the darkness of the day. Raucous laughter filtered through from the
drawing room, where the other guests played Parcheesi.

She
had no desire to join them. An unusual restlessness kept her on her feet,
prowling the house like a caged bird longing to spread her wings and fly.

Anything
is possible. If you want it enough.
Stefano’s words lingered, opening up dangerous ideas she couldn’t control, and
didn’t want to control.

She
had come alive in the moment they’d met, that moment he’d held her hand and his
lips had touched her skin. His smile had banished the heaviness she’d felt
since her arrival, and in Montepertuso her eyes had opened to a world full of
unimagined possibilities. A world in which she was welcomed and admired.

Last
night she’d dreamed of him. She’d never dreamt of a man before, and certainly
no dream like this one. She’d dreamed he held her in his arms. His hands stroked
her skin, igniting such a storm of desire in her that she’d woken in a fever,
reaching out for him. When she’d realised she was alone, that it had been
nothing more than a dream, she’d wept salty tears into her pillow.

Perhaps
it was this infernal rain making her restless. Day after day of it, trapping
them inside the villa.

Another
burst of laughter intruded, sounding abruptly louder as the door between the
rooms opened.

“I
wondered where you’d got to.” At the sound of the clipped male voice she dragged
herself away from the window and turned to face him. The practiced smile on her
face would have made her mother happy. He was, after all, the sole reason that
she was here, entrusted to the care of previously unacknowledged relatives all
because Christopher Barrett was their house guest.

“I
was thinking,” she said.

“Why
bother that pretty head with thoughts that make you sad? If I cannot persuade
you to join in Parcheesi, perhaps I could interest you in a quieter game, just
you and me? Anything to put the smile back in your eyes.”

He
was trying to flirt with her, she realised. She was no expert in these things,
but it seemed a clumsy attempt.

“Thank
you, but I have a headache. I think I’ll have a rest before dinner.”

He
gave a small bow. “Another time then?”

“Yes.
Another time.” He stood in the doorway still, and she brushed against him as
she passed. There were none of the sparks she’d felt with Stefano. Not even the
barest flicker of heat between them.

Another
of those traitorous thoughts intruded. Would it be possible to find a man who
was both eligible
and
able to invoke her desire? Did she have to choose
between them?

Not
that she had much choice in the matter. If Christopher could be brought to
offer for her, there would be no-one else. And if he didn’t, she would be
paraded before all the eligible bachelors in London like a prize brood mare.
She stifled a sigh. Christopher was certainly the lesser of two evils.

He
stepped aside to let her pass. As she headed for the stairs, she sensed his
gaze on her. With the new insight the last few days had given her, she knew
without a doubt that Christopher admired her, that he wanted her. She felt it
like a prickling along her neck, an awareness of her power over him.

He
was a nice enough man, attractive and well mannered, as pale as Stefano was
dark. He was quiet and bookish, and in another lifetime, before she’d met
Stefano, she’d have been only too happy to have his regard. But now the thought
of his hands on her skin made her flinch.

As
soon as she was out of his sight, Isobel raced up the remaining stairs, taking
them two at a time. She paused only when she reached the wing she shared with
Frances. Half way along the corridor, a small sound brought her up short. A
whimper.

Then
a moan.

Concerned,
Isobel followed the sound. At the end of the corridor Frances’ bedroom door
stood ajar, scarcely an inch but wide enough to allow her a glimpse into the
room.

She
froze.

She
should leave. Avert her eyes. Run away.

But
she did none of these.

She
stood aghast, eyes wide, and stared at her cousin who lay naked on the bed,
dark hair spread out in a cloud upon the pillow. And beside her, on the edge of
the bed, leaning over her, sat a man as naked as she. Frances did not appear at
all shy of her nakedness. She ran a slender hand over the curve of her hip, a
smile of invitation parting her lips.

Who
was this man? He was certainly not a house guest. He looked Italian, with the
trademark olive skin and black hair. What madness was this, that Frances would
expose herself this way to a man, who had not been introduced in the usual way
and who was no doubt wholly unsuitable?

Isobel
stepped slowly backwards into the shadow of the door, careful not to make a
sound. But she could not tear her eyes away. Through the crack between the door
and wall she watched, terrified and entranced, as Frances’ lover stretched out
beside her on the bed. He was an attractive man, stockier than Stefano and
somehow coarser, yet still as perfect a representation of strength and youthful
beauty as the statue of David she and her school friends had giggled over
during their visit to the Galleria dell’Accademia.

Isobel’s
heart stuttered as dark, dangerous thoughts swirled through her. Would Stefano
look like this unclothed?

No.
Like David, Frances’ lover was the embodiment of the common man. There was
nothing at all common about Stefano.
He
would be utterly beautiful
naked.

Isobel
could scarcely breathe. She watched, fascinated, as the man ran a brown hand
over Frances’ bare skin, skimming lightly over her breasts and downward,
disappearing between the pale mounds of her thighs. Frances sighed, the sigh
becoming another moan as she arched into the slow, sensual movement of his
hand. He slid a thick finger inside her, into the folds of her womanhood,
moving slowly at first, then with growing urgency. Frances’ breathing grew
ragged, and her limbs thrashed against the sheets, not in pain but in a
pleasure unlike any Isobel had ever imagined.

The
man took his engorged manhood in his other hand and began to stroke along its
length. Isobel’s eyes widened. He seemed impossibly large, the organ swelling
even further in his hand. No sculpture or painting had ever prepared her for
the sight.

“Now,
Carlo. I want you
now
.” Frances’ voice was low and urgent.

Isobel
stifled a gasp as the man rolled astride Frances, his back to the door where
she hid. He forced Frances’ legs further apart and lowered himself onto her.

As
he thrust his full length into Frances, Isobel covered her mouth, more than a
little afraid for her cousin. But far from appearing to feel any pain, Frances’
moan sounded ecstatic. The muscles of the man’s back rippled as he lifted
himself off the bed, arching back as he pulled out of Frances, affording Isobel
an unimpeded view of the glorious mechanics of an act that until now had meant
nothing more to her than late night whispers in the school dormitory.

Something
disturbing and darkly pleasurable stirred in her. She had never imagined the
act of love would be anything like this. To have a man inside her, penetrating
her – what did that feel like?

Her
body heated as she imagined a man’s hands on her skin, the weight of his body
on hers, having him move inside her, in the place so private even she dared not
touch.

Frances’
face contorted in aching need. She pressed her hips up against Carlo’s, urging
him deeper as he plunged into her.

Isobel’s
heart beat hard against her ribs. Her muscles clenched as wet heat gathered in
the apex of her legs.

Frances
cried out her pleasure, a sound intensely joyful.

“
Silenzio
,”
Carlo hissed. His voice, rough with passion, broke the spell that wove around
Isobel. She turned and ran.

In
the silence of her bedroom there was nothing but the gentle song of the rain
falling on the tiled roof above to drown out her cousin’s carnal moans. Though
she buried her face in the pillows, Isobel could still see hear that cry, and
see their naked bodies entwined, as though the image had been burnt against her
retinas. The need still ached within her, unleashed for the first time, darkly
disturbing and yet so wonderful.

What
did it feel like? Isobel rolled onto her back and raised up the edge of her
dress, sliding her hand beneath her silk drawers, into the secret cleft between
her legs. Her body was warm and moist and the need to rub the delicious itch
was irresistible. She stroked between the silky soft lips, as Frances’ lover
had done, slowly, firmly, then as the blood began to pound in her head, faster
and harder.

Images
flitted in and out of her head, of Frances and her lover. Only the woman was no
longer Frances but herself, and the man had Stefano’s face.

Her
heart raced. The sheer impossibility was a sweet, torturous delight.

Was
this how Frances felt: deliciously naughty, enthralled by the pleasure?

She
slipped a finger inside, exploring the soft warmth, feeling herself tighten
around her finger. The sensation was dizzying, more intoxicating than
limoncello
.

Her
palm rode against the folds of her womanhood, the friction sending waves of
pleasure through her, rising like a storm. And like a storm the climax broke
through her, wiping out all thought, all resistance.

She
lay unmoving on the thick quilt for an age as the world slowly righted itself
again. She should feel guilty about what she had witnessed, about what she had
done. So why did she suddenly feel so alive, so excited and eager for more? The
world seemed to have become coloured by her illicit act, as though every sight
and sound and scent had grown more vivid.

You
need to feel the passion
, her art
teacher had once said.
You bring no soul to your work
.

Well
now she had felt passion. She knew what it was like to have her heart beat
faster for a man, to feel her body grow warm at the mere thought of him. She
knew what it was like to give herself pleasure.

It
was a start, but it wasn’t enough. She wanted more. She wanted the slide of a
man’s body against hers. She wanted to both give and receive pleasure. And the
man she imagined sharing the moment with wasn’t Christopher.

She
closed her eyes against the tumble of alien emotions, and breathed in deeply.
The only way she could sort her feelings was on paper. She reached for her
sketch pad on the bedside table and opened it to a clean page.

Without
thinking, the pencil moved across the paper, capturing the soft curves of a
feminine body, and the harder, more powerful lines of a masculine one, the two
intertwined.

Anything
is possible. If you want it enough.

But
was she brave enough to go after what she wanted?

Could
she do what Frances had done, and cast aside everything she’d ever been taught,
everything she’d ever believed, just to experience this momentary pleasure?

She
sighed, looking down at the sketch with a critical eye, before tearing it from
the book and crumpling it into a ball.

No.
She wasn’t Frances, ready to risk her reputation and her future for a moment of
passion. For her, Stefano could be nothing more than a dream.

Isobel
bathed and dressed carefully for dinner. By the time she had pinned up her long
hair, she was sufficiently composed to face company. The elegant reflection in
the mirror, swathed in an evening dress of rose pink that swirled softly about
her calves as she turned before the mirror, looked like a stranger, like the
woman she wanted to be.

In
the drawing room, the Parcheesi boards had been cleared away. The room was
empty, apart from her cousin Adam who stood beside the silver butler’s tray and
mixed cocktails.

“Your
usual, Izzy, or can I tempt you with something exotic tonight?”

It
was a game they played, with Adam tempting her to try one of his alcoholic
experiments and Isobel always insisting on a small, safe glass of sherry.

But
tonight she felt daring.

“I’ll
try something exotic.”

Adam’s
eyes widened momentarily, but his perpetual grin reasserted itself. He handed
her a tall glass of pink liquid, the rim decorated with sugar, and watched as
she took a sip. Fire burned through her. The aftertaste was bitter, but the
drink fired new courage in her veins.

“What
is it?” She tried hard not to sputter.

“It’s
a pink gin. Gin with a dash of angostura bitters.” He laughed as she grimaced
before taking another sip. “You’ll get the taste for it soon enough.”

“What’s
this?” Her uncle’s boisterous voice intruded. He entered the room, as imposing
physically as he was verbally. “You finally breaking out of your shell, Izzy?”

A
familiar flush burned her cheeks.

“Let
her be,” said Adam.

She
smiled gratefully at him for coming to her defence, before retreating to the
sofa across the room. This was a good spot to view the guests as they arrived.
Adam mixed a medley of drinks, each more exotic than the last, as the guests
drifted in.

First
came the English Major, dapper in his dress uniform, with her aunt on his arm.
An incorrigible flirt, the Major’s presence discomforted Isobel, but Aunt Alice
didn’t seem to mind. She batted her lashes at him and laughed.

Then
came Lotte, who’d lost her husband in the Great War, with the French Baron
who’d made his fortune selling banned champagne to the Americans. Frances had
hinted that they were lovers. Isobel watched them as they took their drinks and
moved to stand beside the long windows. Though they did not touch, she could
almost see the sparks between them as they moved, in a subtle dance she was
only beginning to appreciate.

Then
Christopher, pale and neat, slipped quietly into the room. Taking the glass of
creamy liquid Adam offered him, he came to sit beside her on the sofa, keeping
a respectable distance between them. No sparks at all.

The
last of the guests were the Americans, uncle Padraig’s nephew Tom and his
pretty wife, Beatrice, overdressed in a cascade of ostrich feathers. Tom was a
business partner of the Baron’s and though Isobel was sure he was a gangster,
she liked him most of all the company.

She’d
never met anyone like Tom before. He dressed in tight-fitting suits and
listened to jazz music, and spoke in a lazy drawl interspersed with slang.

Her
parents would definitely not approve.

At
last, Frances made her entrance. She wore her coal black hair cut in a stylish
bob. Her dark eyes, inherited no doubt from her Irish ancestors, smouldered.
She wore a drop-waisted dress of palest gold, with a hemline barely below her
knees. A half dozen strings of pearls wound around her neck drew the eye to her
décolleté neckline and the swell of breasts beneath. Every man in the room
turned towards her, as flowers turned to the sun.

Isobel
wished she had the courage to dress as Frances did. But her parents would never
allow it.

“Dinner
is served, ma’am.” The elderly butler opened the doors for them. Though the
guests dressed for dinner, there was no standing on ceremony here, so Isobel
downed the rest of her cocktail and followed the others across the vast
vestibule to the dining room. She found herself seated between Adam, more
intent on flirting with the American Beauty than talking to his gauche young
cousin, and her uncle, who was more intent on his wine.

As
the first course was cleared, the footman poured more wine into their glasses.
Isobel waved him away.

“Do
try some,” Adam encouraged. “It’s a local Italian wine and worth the
experience.”

“Italian
wine, of course, cannot compare to the great French vintages,” the Baron said.

It
was the start of a familiar argument, but this time Frances joined in. “There
is a lot to like among the local Italian produce.” She winked at Isobel.

Her
words echoed Stefano’s. How could she know? Had she seen Isobel with Stefano?
Or was she thinking of her own lover?

Isobel’s
cheeks burned. She gulped down the rich dark wine as soon as the footman had
poured it. In an attempt to change the subject she said, “I visited the
Galleria dell’Accademia last year. The artworks are impressive.” But that only
brought back the memory of the statue of David, and the image of a firm,
masculine body astride Frances. She drowned out the image with another long
draught of wine.

The
dinner conversation ebbed and flowed about her. Gentle warmth stole through her
veins, spreading into her limbs, as she finished a second glass of wine. Warmth
that reminded her of Stefano, though the wine had none of the delicious heat
she now recognised as desire.

As
the servants cleared away the remnants of the meal, Adam suggested playing
gramophone records. Isobel rose from her seat and the room eddied about her,
followed swiftly by a feeling of lightness and freedom that filled her with the
urge to dance.

They
pushed the drawing room sofas aside to clear a space, and Tom wheeled out the
gramophone cabinet. He loaded a shellac disk onto the turntable and set the
needle in place once it was spinning.

“What
is this music?” Isobel asked, her feet tapping to the lively music.

“It’s
Ragtime. The band is Kid Ory’s Original Creole Jazz Band. The first black jazz
band to make a recording. Aren’t they great?” Tom swept her into a two-step,
swirling her around the room. His touch was nothing like Stefano’s thrilling
touch, but it felt good to float in a man’s arms, to have the weight of his
hands on her waist. She allowed herself simply to move with him, not counting
the steps as she usually did. She had only ever danced with her school friends
before now. There was no comparison at all.

As
they shimmied across the terracotta-tiled floor, she spotted Christopher across
the room, watching with an expression that looked remarkably like a
thundercloud. Was it the dance he disapproved of, or the fact that she was
dancing with another man? When Christopher pushed himself away from the wall
and invited Tom’s wife, Beatrice, to dance, without the severe look ever
subsiding, she decided it was the latter. A small smile tugged at her mouth. It
was a delicious feeling, as heady as the wine, to have such an effect on a man.

“You’re
a natural,” Tom said as the record ended. He left her breathless on the sofa
beside Frances and went to change the music.

“That
was so much fun! Is this how it feels to dance at a ball?” she asked Frances.
Until this moment, she’d been more than a little afraid of her upcoming social
debut. The company of strangers was disconcerting enough without being put on
display. Christopher’s attention had almost been a relief, a way out of having
to catch the eye of an eligible husband when there were prettier, livelier
girls to compete with.

But
if dancing with a man meant this dizzying, magical sensation, then perhaps
there were some compensations after all for having to endure the Season in
order to find a suitable husband. Perhaps she could have a little fun before
settling into the life Mother planned for her.

“It’s
nothing at all like
this
,” Frances said. “The girls line the walls and
wait to be asked to dance. Then some dull, pimply Englishman asks you to dance
and holds you like you’re a stick as he walks you around the floor to the most
deadening music. And everyone is whispering and wondering who you’ll catch,
like some dreadful disease. It’s a slave market, only better dressed.” She
dropped her voice to a whisper. “And there’s nothing more substantial than
lemonade to bolster the spirits with.”

Isobel
was sure she could taste the tang of
limoncello
in her mouth.

In
the centre of the room, Tom cut in on Christopher in order to dance with his
wife. Christopher cast a glance in their direction, and Isobel wondered if he
considered asking her to dance. She straightened a little in her seat.

Instead,
he crossed to the bookshelf at the furthest end of the room. Her heart sank as
she watched his retreating back, the heady sense of power deserting her.

“How
well do you know Christopher?” she asked Frances.

“I’ve
known him all my life. His mother and mine were school friends. But the last
time I saw him was before he went up to Cambridge, and he still seemed so young
and gawky. He’s grown up rather well.” A ghost of a smile crossed her face. “He
has a good heart, but he really needs to lighten up a little. He’s grown so
serious. Perhaps he simply needs the right wife.”

There
was an undercurrent of affection in Frances’s tone.

Christopher
drew a book from the shelf and began to flip through the pages. His straight
fair hair flopped forward over a high forehead and bright blue eyes. He was tall
and slender, without the athletic build of Stefano or the stockiness of
Frances’ lover. Until she’d met Stefano, she’d thought Christopher a handsome
man.

“Why
don’t
you
marry him?” she asked her cousin curiously.

She
still couldn’t fathom why Frances would choose a foreigner over this perfectly
respectable and agreeable man, though she’d spent most of the evening spinning
the question around in her head. Pretty and vivacious as she was, her cousin
could surely have any man she wanted.

“His
parents would never allow it.” Frances shrugged carelessly. “Mother might be
listed in Debrett’s, but polite society will never forgive her for marrying an
American. Worse, Daddy has money, but he has no family connections worth
anything.”

“I
thought he was descended from Irish aristocracy?”

Frances
leaned closer. “Mother likes to tell people that, but the truth is that Daddy’s
family were farmers who fled the potato famine. And you know what?” Her voice
dropped to a whisper. “I’ve only met them the couple of times we visited the
States, but they’re ever so much nicer than Mother’s family.” She sighed.
“There’s so much more to life than a title, you know.”

Isobel
didn’t know. But now she understood why her mother had never acknowledged this
side of the family – not until this moment, when they could be of use, and were
at a sufficient distance not to be an embarrassment.

For
Mother, nothing was more important than rank and social position.

Not
that it had done her much good. She might have married a man of impeccable
breeding, but she’d got nothing more than a draughty house in rural Shropshire
where she had to count every penny and survive with the smallest possible
compliment of servants. Isobel hadn’t minded, never knowing what she lacked,
but it chafed at Mother.

Enter
the Barretts, with their wealth and their perfectly acceptable family
connections. “You simply must catch his eye, Izzy,” she’d said as she put
Isobel on the boat to Naples. “Your future happiness depends on it.”

What
she’d meant was
our
future happiness depends upon it. There were still
two more sisters at home to be married off, as Isobel had heard often enough.

But
after only ten days in Italy, Isobel wondered whether either money or position
ensured happiness after all. In spite of their pariah status, her cousins
seemed happy, so perhaps social position didn’t mean as much as she’d been
taught.

“What
else is there in life?” she wondered out loud.

Though
the question was more for herself than Frances, her cousin answered in a voice
turned dreamy. “There’s love.”

“You
believe love really conquers all?” Isobel couldn’t quite keep the scepticism
from her tone. Surely Frances couldn’t imagine she had a future with her
Italian lover, no matter how passionately she loved him? If he hadn’t been
introduced in the drawing room, he was a nobody.

Frances’
dark eyes burned feverishly. “I know it does.”

“What
are you young ladies gossiping about?” Adam called across the room from where
he wound up the gramophone.

A
familiar blush rose up Isobel’s cheeks but Frances remained cool. She flashed
her brother a smile. “Isn’t the Feast of the Assumption this week?”

“It
is. On Tuesday. Hope the weather clears by then.”

“It’s
the feast day in honour of the Assumption of the Virgin, and it’s a big deal in
Positano.” Frances explained to the room at large. “They call it
Ferragosto
,
and the celebrations last two full days. Shall we make a jaunt of it?”