Authors: Julia Ross
THE PATH TO THE ARBOR WAS LIT WITH SMALL
LANTERNS. JULIET followed them like a moth. It was almost fully dark now. The
trees hung silent in the placid air. Hot brick radiated. The petticoat and the
lightweight indigo robe billowed about her legs as if she Boated.
Α cloth had been spread on the table. Silk
cushions covered the rustic seats. Drapes of white muslin stirred gently in the
now cooling air along one side of the arbor. Glass sparkled in the soft glow
of more lanterns, hanging from the arbor roof. Two wineglasses, bottles,
several covered dishes waited on the table.
The pieces were already set up on the chessboard.
Juliet touched the white king with one finger.
"Α light supper," he said softly
behind her.
"
And our game, of
course."
She froze, standing
completely still with her back to him, looking down at the chessmen, while her
blood sang with awareness and her hands trembled at her sides. She seemed to
feel his gaze run over her body like the brush of a feather.
Α
hot blush Bared on her cheeks.
Juliet lifted her head.
Her shoulders longed for his touch. Her waist anticipated the span of his
hands. Her hair waited for him to stroke it aside, to put his fingers, his
mouth, on her sensitive nape. The deadly, knowing treachery of the body. The
desire that had led her into a disastrous marriage. Her great weakness.
She waited, tortured by
that beckoning of the flesh. She knew he would see it, yet not act unless she
invited him.
She would never invite
him.
"Ι
am wearing the Italian
dress," she said. Her voice was too sharp. She took a deep breath.
"You
do not compliment me on
it?
"
"Would you like
compliments?" The husky tones caressed. "They would be
superfluous."
Light fabric brushed over
her burning thighs as she turned to confront him.
His long white robe fell
smoothly from shoulder to ankle.
Α
black dressing gown
draped over it, embroidered in silver thread. The open collar revealed his
naked throat and chest, the muscle that meshed from masculine shoulders into
strong neck. His skin shone like ivory. Only loosely gathered by a ribbon, his
hair pure as beaten gold - flowed down his back.
Simple flat slippers,
similar to hers, had allowed him to approach silently, like a night-time creature.
The garments were more
shocking on a man, too close to night attire, a frightening abandonment of
formal coat and cravat. Yet she had seen him half-naked, cutting hay. Why was
this worse? Juliet glanced down, trying to gather anger or indignation, hoping
he would not see the confusion in her eyes.
"The question the
English visitor usually asks in Italy," he said dryly, "is whether
the gentleman wears any breeches beneath his gown. It is, of course, too
immodest a question to answer."
Her cheeks burned, but
she looked up and laughed at the sheer impudence of it.
He smiled as he held out
a hand.
"Wine?"
She put her fingers on his and allowed him to
help her to her seat - a defiance, if he expected she would be petty over such
minor details. Such a foolish convention, that a gentleman must assist a lady
as if she were completely helpless! Yet as he touched her hand, a sense of
fragile femininity unfolded at the core, as if she truly might shatter without
his support.
"I would like wine." It took nerve to
speak at all. "Thank you."
In a smooth flow of robes he sat down opposite
her. The lantern light burnished the table, but cast the man into shadows. Only
his hands were lit as he filled the glasses. Hungrily she watched his loose
sleeves fall back - that beauty of masculine strength, knit smoothly from
forearm through wrist into long, square-tipped fingers. Α perfection of
form. Stunning.
Red liquid poured from the bottle like melted
rubies. Leaning back into her own cocoon of darkness, Juliet sipped at the
full-bodied wine. Better than she had tasted in years. Delicious. Heady. She
wasn't surprised.
"Supper?" He lifted the lids from the
serving dishes. The scent of bread enveloped her: warm, fresh, fragrant with
rosemary and onion. "May Ι serve you?"
Α lady, delicate, helpless, unable to serve
herself-? She had almost believed it once.
"Thank you," she said.
He sliced white cheese and a red fruit, which
oozed juice and small seeds from a starred center. He sprinkled it liberally
with salt and black pepper.
"The Italians call these the apples of
love," he said. "Otherwise known as the tomato. We don't usually eat
them in England."
She lounged back against the luxurious cushions -
as if she were perfectly comfortable to be in her garden with a man in his
nightclothes. "They are commonly thought to be poisonous."
He set slices on two plates. "That's a risk
we must take."
"And
you like risk."
He gazed quizzically down
at the tomatoes. "So do you."
Her pulse was pounding, a
madcap rhythm, galloping. She felt exhilarated, alight with exuberance.
"Only in safe doses."
Juliet watched as he tore
apart bread to layer cheese, tomato and basil leaves on the warm surface.
Apples of love and rosemary bread.
There's rosemary, that's
for remembrance;
Pray
, love, remember.
"By definition, risk
cannot be safe," he said. "It is all or nothing."
"
Ι
refuse to believe that," she said.
"
Ι
make my own rules,
tonight at least. So why
apples of love?"
His gaze locked with
hers. His hair shimmered, shadows and golden gleams in the night. He smiled.
"Because they're an aphrodisiac, of course."
The whisper-soft
petticoat tingled over her thighs. "Thus a favorite food for a rake?"
His eyes were dark,
echoing the mysteries of night. He set her plate down in front of her, then
speared a piece of tomato on his fork.
"You think a rake's
pleasure is to be found only in the bedroom?" He bit into the red fruit.
"Where else is it
found?" With a mad bravado, she deliberately let her fingers fondle the
stem of her wineglass.
He swallowed the tomato,
then lifted his wineglass and matched her gesture, the smile haunting his
cheeks. "My pleasure isn't simply in bedding a woman. It's in seducing
her."
"Because her heart
is a trophy?"
"No, because the
better the seduction, the better what happens later in bed."
"Ah," she said.
"Then if she gives you her heart, that's just an unfortunate
accident?"
His glass tipped. He took
a long swallow. "Why unfortunate?"
"You've never been
in love?"
He bit into the bread,
savoring it before swallowing. His gaze scorched over her like a hot wind.
"Of course. Madly, passionately.
"
Juliet tried to control her breathing, the rush
and flood of emotion. "Where?" she asked.
"
In Italy?"
He speared a piece of tomato and held it up.
"Italian food. Toxic or an aphrodisiac. What do you think?"
She leaned forward and boldly took the fork from
his hand.
"
Either way, perhaps
it is only deadly to women-"
He leaned back, cradling his wineglass as he
watched her taste the red fruit.
Sweet, tangy, salty, peppery, the taste burst on
her tongue. Saliva filled her mouth.
"It’s
very good," she said, surprised.
He laughed.
"I’
faith, ma'am, would Ι bring you something
that was not?"
Another slice released a torrent of flavor in her
mouth. "How can Ι know, sir? They say the Italians are equally
proficient at poisons and love. Do you claim to have found only love while you
were there?"
He speared another slice.
"
Her name was Maria. She was like honey, a
distillation of flowers. Ι found only love."
Like honey!
Α bat flitted past, a silent shadow.
"Did you marry her?"
"She was already married. In Italy unmarried
ladies don't go out in society."
Juliet set down her fork.
"
Yet you and she became lovers."
"Her husband was sixty-seven. She was
nineteen. Ι was a lot closer to her age than his. Ι carried her
shawls, accompanied her to the opera, helped entertain their friends. Of
course, Ι also shared her bed. Would you have had us do otherwise?"
"Her husband knew?"
He sipped wine, still watching her. "He and
Ι shared an interest in antiquities. When Ι came home, Ι brought
back a collection of Roman sculpture, dug from fields and the foundations of
new houses. We became good friends. Of course he knew. We liked each other. He
was proud that his wife had taken an English lover."
The cheese was smooth, tangy. She tried to
concentrate on the taste of it, close out the enormity of what he was saying.
"
You make it sound so civilized."
"It was. As long as certain rules are
followed, it's a common enough arrangement in Italy, especially when the
husband is so much older."
She could imagine them, Romeo and Juliet,
nineteen-year-old lovers, and the husband, wise enough to accept it. Insanely,
her heart felt like breaking, shattering into tiny pieces.
"Is passion ever civilized?" she asked.
"Only the poor wed for love. Society marriages are for property and
status-"
"So passion must find its own path."
His smile remained soft, almost sweet.
Like honey-
"Yet there's no
reason it cannot be civilized. "
"Of course! It's the way of the world, where
rakes seduce married women. So much safer and easier, especially when the husband
is compliant." He didn't seem to react to the sharpness in her tone.
"
Yet it's not so simple for females. Did Maria
also love you?"
"Yes." Light flickered over his face,
highlighting his severe bones as he leaned forward to refill her wineglass.
"Passionately. Madly. Or she was clever enough to let me believe so.
Italian women are very good at managing men. They have to be."
"How else should a female protect herself?
Even English girls learn how to flirt and tease-"
"Which can be used to control a man, turn
his desire against him."
She wanted to press the point. "It’s her
only power-"
"But is essentially dishonest."
"Certainly, it comes with a cost-"
"Maria had no regrets. We indulged our
passion flagrantly. It went on for six years."
Wine flowed, heady and strong, into her blood.
"Yet you came home and became a rake?"
"I was already a rake." It was almost a
whisper, soft with smiles.
"What else should Ι do with all those
Italian skills? With everything Maria had taught me?"
The darkness breathed intimacy, safety, the hush
of night shrouded secrets. Juliet caught a breath and let her next question
escape her lips unhindered. "So what did she teach you?"
He leaned back. His features disappeared in the
duplicitous shadows, though his eyes glittered. Lantern light glimmered richly
on his wineglass and highlighted his fingers.
"How to make a woman tremble with a look,
moan with a touch, melt with a kiss. How to take my pleasure from pleasuring
her. How to yield to her as she does the same to me. Maria's husband had fifty
years of experience. He taught her. She taught me. Now Ι teach
others."
Shivers ran up and down her spine, as if her skin
wished to melt, to moan, as if her heart trembled. "Love isn't
enough?"
"Every plowboy falls in love, but pity the
poor maid who's doomed to know only his inexpert fumbling." Light flared
across his supple hands. "Physical love is an art - it deserves
comprehensive practice."
"With many partners . . ."
He refilled her glass. "Neither Maria nor
Ι was faithful, which is how we perfected our skill."
Α white shape flitted through the shadowed
flowers. Abednego hunting.
"There's no room in your philosophy for
romantic love?"
"A boy fell romantically in love with an
Italian girl who had nothing to offer but honey. Α man prefers a keener
passion, which he feels for every woman who enthralls, engages, delights him
body, mind and spirit. Yet true intensity cannot last, so a passionate man
loves many women. From fairness, he does not expect constancy."
She tried to match his lightness, the
sophisticated cynicism, though she didn't feel it. "So you learned
irresistible techniques for flirtation-"