To Sin With A Scoundrel (41 page)

“A few,” she conceded.

“So let’s just say that the modern variation of the tale has a very happy ending, indeed.”

She touched his cheek, reveling in the warmth of his closeness, the caress of his laughter.

“Amen to that.”

Y
ou tied my daughter to a
tree?
”

Rendered momentarily speechless, Alessandra della Giamatti flashed a very unladylike gesture at the gentleman who stood on
the edge of the terrace, stomping great clumps of wet earth from his mud-spattered boots.

“
Si grande nero diavolo
—you big black devil!”

He stilled, and his dark face tightened in a fearsome scowl. “Damnation, it was for her own good.”

“For her own good,” she repeated. “
Santa cielo,
if I had a penny for every time a man said
that
to a woman, I would be richer than Croesus.”

Lord James Jacquehart Pierson muttered something under his breath.

Alessandra narrowed her eyes. “I’ll have you know that I am fluent in German, sir. As well as French and Russian.”

“Well, it seems that your command of the English language leaves something to be desired, marchesa,” he shot back. “For you
don’t appear to have comprehended the situation quite clearly.”

Squaring his broad shoulders—which were made even broader by the fluttering capes of his oilskin cloak—he set a hand on his
hip and glowered. His olive complexion and wind-whipped tangle of raven-dark hair accentuated the shadows wreathing his chiseled
features. In the fading light, his eyes appeared to be carved out of coal.

No wonder the man was known throughout London Society as “Black Jack” Pierson
.

Alessandra did not doubt that his pose was an intentional attempt to appear intimidating. However, the man really ought to
know her better by now. A delicate English rose might wilt at the first sign of masculine ire, but she was only
half
English.

As for the rest of her…

Meeting his gaze, she deliberately mimicked the gesture, adding one slight variation. As her shoulders weren’t quite as impressive
as his, she stuck out her bosom.

His dark lashes flicked up a fraction.

Tit for tat, sir,
she thought.

After another long moment of silent standoff, he cleared his throat. “Would you rather I had let her follow me to the cliffs?
It was pelting rain, the winds were blowing at gale force, and one misstep on the splintered rocks would have meant a sheer
drop into the surging surf.” His black brows angled to a taunting tilt. “But perhaps she is a Nereid,” he continued, referring
to the sea nymphs from ancient Roman mythology. “Or maybe her father was Neptune, God of the Oceans.”

Alessandra sucked in her breath at the thinly veiled barb.
Men.
Most of them seemed to prefer females who were smiling, simpering—and stupid. So it was hardly a surprise that Lord James
Jacquehart Pierson should choose to mock her. A noted scholar of classical archaeology, she was used to such a reaction when
the opposite sex learned of her intellectual accomplishments.

And yet it still stung.

“Heaven knows,” exclaimed Jack, “it would have required divine intervention to save her from certain death had she slipped.”

That he was right only added an edge to Alessandra’s indignation. “She said you handled her in a
very
ungentlemanly manner.”

Her daughter looked up, lips quivering and a glint of tears in her eyes.
“Si.”

Alessandra recognized that look of assumed innocence all too well. She was aware that Isabella deserved a good scold for what
had happened. But for the moment, she was too relieved at finding the little girl unharmed to do more than brush a soft kiss
to her curls. A lecture would come later. Right now, all her fears were still fierce—and the fury of her pent-up emotions
was directed at Black Jack Pierson.

“His hands were like ice against my bare skin, Mama,” added her daughter in a small voice.

Jack sputtered in disbelief. “Is she… are you… accusing me of impropriety? You are mad—both of you!”

“Va’ all’inferno,”
piped up Isabella.

“I can’t believe my ears,” he muttered. “I’m being cursed at by a six-year-old.”

“I am
eight,
” said Isabella, lifting her little nose into the air.

Alessandra winced as her daughter added several more phrases in Tuscan cant.
“Isabella!”
Forgetting her anger with Jack for the moment, she looked down in chagrin. “Those are
very
bad words. Wherever did you learn them?”

“Marco says them,” murmured her daughter.

She felt a flush steal to her cheeks, well aware that Black Jack Pierson’s frown had curled into a smirk. “That does
not
mean a young lady should repeat them.”

“Foul language seems to run in the family,” observed Jack.

It took every ounce of self-control for Alessandra to keep a rein on her tongue. She knew she was behaving badly. After all,
the man
had
kept her impetuous daughter from plunging headlong into danger, however unorthodox his methods. But something about his manner
set her teeth on edge. He always appeared so steely, so stiff—as if a bayonet were stuck up his…

I am a lady,
she reminded herself.
And a lady ought not be thinking about certain unmentionable parts of a man’s anatomy.

Even if those parts were extremely impressive. Jack’s cloak had fluttered up in a gust of wind, revealing well-muscled thighs
and a solid, sculpted—

Forcing her gaze away from his lordly arse, she replied, “Italians are known for their volatile temperament, especially when
upset.”

“Oh, please accept my abject apologies for causing you mental distress,” replied Jack with scathing politeness. He bowed.
“Along with my humble regrets for keeping your daughter from smashing her skull into a thousand little pieces.”

“I
did
say thank you, sir.”

“It must have been in a language incomprehensible to mortal man.”

Uno, due, tre
… Alessandra made herself count to ten in Italian before gathering what was left of her dignity and lifting Isabella into
her arms. “If you will excuse me, my daughter is shivering. I must take her inside and get her out of these wet clothes.”

“Oh yes, by all means take the little cherub up to her room, give her a nice, warm bath.” The flash of teeth was clearly not
meant to be a smile. “And then wash her mouth out with soap.”

The splash of brandy burned a trail of liquid fire down his throat. Perching a hip on the stone railing, Jack took another
quick swallow from the bottle, hoping to wash the stale taste from his mouth.

Va’ all’inferno,
he repeated to himself.
Go to hell.

Those were precisely his sentiments, he decided. The ungrateful lady and her imp of Satan could fall into the deepest hole
in Hades for all he cared. This was not the first time he had offered his sword—metaphorically speaking, of course—to the
marchesa. Only to have it thrust back in his arse.

So much for noblesse oblige.

To tell the truth, he wasn’t feeling terribly noble at the moment. Against all reason, the thought of swords, coupled with
the rapier-tongued Alessandra della Giamatti, was stirring an unwilling, unwanted physical reaction.

That fine-boned face, exquisite in every ethereal detail… emerald eyes, fringed with smoky lashes that set off their inner
fire… sculpted cheekbones that looked carved out of creamy white marble… a perfect nose, supremely regal in its delicate shape.

Oh, there was no denying that the spitfire was a stunning beauty—if one could ignore The Mouth.

On second thought, that proved impossible. Jack closed his eyes for an instant, recalling the firm, full lips, the rich, rosy
color, the silky, sensuous curl of its corners…

No, he must not let his mind stray to forbidden territory.

The marchesa’s lovely body would tempt a saint. But her fiery temper would singe Satan himself.

Swearing under his breath, Jack took another gulp of brandy. Indeed, she was the most infuriating, exasperating woman he had
ever encountered. There was no rational reason to explain why she seemed hell-bent on deliberately misinterpreting his every
action. Save to say she simply disliked him.

“So don’t get your hopes up,” he growled, staring balefully at the growing bulge in his breeches.

What a pity that a penis did not possess a brain. Then it might comprehend how utterly absurd it was to imagine that the aloof
marchesa would ever consent to a physical liaison, no matter that widows were allowed certain freedoms if they were discreet.

An intimate joining of flesh? Hah! They couldn’t be further apart in temperament. It was as if they came from two different
planets.

Venus and Mars.

An apt allusion, given her expertise in classical archaeology.

Looking up at the heavens, he let his gaze linger on the constellations. Like the ancient Greek and Roman goddesses immortalized
in the stars, Alessandra della Giamatti was a force to be reckoned with. That she had a mind made for scholarship and a body
made for sin was intriguing. Her aura of cool self-assurance was alluring…

However, every meeting between them seemed to spark nothing but thunder and lightning. It was ironic—had they dug into the
subject of classical antiquities, they might have discovered that they shared some common ground.

Jack pursed his lips. Along with a taste for fine brandy and beautiful women, he also had a passion for the architecture and
art of ancient Rome—though he kept it a private one, save from his closest friends. But given their most recent clash, it
seemed impossible to imagine that he and this woman would
ever
reveal their most intimate secrets to each other.

Sliding across the cold stone, Jack leaned back against one of the decorative pediments and stared out into the night. A mizzle
of moonlight cast a faint glow over the gardens and lawns, its glimmer reflected by silvery tendrils of mist rising up from
the nearby sea. Above the chirping crickets, he could just make out the sound of the surf and its rhythmic rise and fall against
the cliffs.

Lud, what a day.

As one of his gambling cronies was wont to say, no good deed goes unpunished. The only reason he had come to be at daggers
drawn with Alessandra della Giamatti was on account of trying to help his best friend, Lucas Bingham, the Earl of Hadley—who
was engaged to Lady Ciara Sheffield, the marchesa’s closest confidante.

Well, not
precisely
engaged, amended Jack. But that was a whole other story…

He expelled a wry sigh. Hell, the next time he was tempted to play the knight in shining armor, perhaps he should think twice,
rather than risk his neck trying to do something noble. Scrambling over the rocks to help rescue Lady Sheffield’s young son
and the marchesa’s daughter from danger had been no easy feat.

Thank God the adventure had resulted in no real harm, although there had been a few harrowing moments when his friend Lucas
had been compelled to take a dive into the surging sea.

The more startling plunge had been his friend’s announcement that he was, once and for all, renouncing the life of a rakehell
bachelor and marrying Lady Sheffield for real.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the blaze of lights in the main wing of the manor house. Laughter drifted out through
the diamond-paned windows, punctuated by the faint pop of champagne corks. The impending state of matrimony had set off a
great deal of merriment this evening—in no small part because Lucas’s elderly uncle had also become betrothed during the day.

Striking a flint, Jack lit a cheroot and drew in a mouthful of smoke. First Haddan, then Woodbridge, now Hadley… Was he really
the only single man left from the pack of rowdy scamps who had banded together at Eton? He blew out a perfect ring and watched
it dissolve in the breeze.

Shaking off his black mood, Jack took another swig of brandy, telling himself he ought to be celebrating his freedom. He was
damned lucky not to be leg-shackled to a wife.

“Won’t you come join us?”

Jack looked around as his friend Lucas took a seat beside him on the railing. “Thank you, but no,” he replied after exhaling
another mouthful of smoke. “I fear I would only put a damper on the festivities.”

Lucas held up a bottle of champagne. “If you insist on drowning your sorrows alone, at least submerge yourself in a superb
vintage of wine.” He took a drink himself before passing it over.

With a wordless grunt, Jack downed a long swallow.

Tilting back his head, Lucas smiled up at the night sky. “Did you know that Dom Perignon, the monk who discovered the secret
to champagne’s sparkle, compared it to drinking the heavenly stars?”