Wanton Angel (Blackthorne Trilogy) (11 page)

      
Are you sure that is all you want?
some tiny voice deep within her whispered. When his hand cupped her chin gently and raised her face so he could gaze into her eyes, she was almost undone. She could have drowned in the depths of his dark blue eyes if not for the troubled expression on his face.

      
“Yes, it was exceptional, quite extraordinary, as a matter of fact...but why, puss, do I suspect I'd be considerably better able to assess that than you, hmmm?” His hand moved from her face down between their bodies, sliding between her thighs.

      
She flinched, not in pain but embarrassment. There it was, that faint smear of blood Vittoria had warned her about. “Do you mind terribly?” she asked, trying to read his expression.

      
He raised himself up on one elbow, looking down at her. “It has been quite a while since I deflowered a virgin. I never expected you to be one.”

      
“I did not intend to mislead you,” she replied, her earlier euphoria quickly turning to misery.

      
“You did much to mislead me—dressing like a peasant wench, traveling unchaperoned, allowing me to take liberties, returning my kisses with considerable fervor, not to mention skill.”

      
“I've practiced kissing with other men,” she said stiffly, never expecting to be so hurt by his words.

      
“But quite obviously never allowed any of them what you allowed me.”

      
“Don't preen overmuch.” She struggled to keep her tone light. ”I decided it was past time I had a lover. I'll make no claim on you, Derrick—you do not have to marry me.”

      
“I did not offer,” he replied, his voice cool, flat.

      
“I cherished no hope that you would,” she snapped back, hurt giving way to anger now. She rolled away from him and started to climb off the bed, but he caught her wrist and pulled her back down beside him. “Let me go.” She bit off each word.

      
“Not until I'm satisfied.”

      
“I may be new at this, but I'm reasonably certain you have been quite ‘satisfied,’ ” she replied sarcastically.

      
He caressed the pulse on her wrist with his thumb, feeling the thrum of her anger. “Let me rephrase that. I only want to understand why you chose me to bestow your virginity upon—not that I did not greatly enjoy it,” he hastened to add, still massaging her wrist, refusing to release her.

      
“You appealed to me more than any of the other men I've met at court. 'Tis as simple as that.”

      
He chuckled, laughing more at himself than at her. “Nothing about this or you is simple. I take it your decision to take a lover was made after you came to Naples, not back in America—or did none of the backwoods bumpkins appeal?”

      
“You are an arrogant lout.” She tried to pull away again. And again he refused to release her. If only he would cease that maddening caress with his thumb!

      
“It's part of my charm. You are a bold vixen, which is also part of your charm. I imagine your interest in the amorous arts began at the contessa's urging?”

      
“I told her I had no desire to tie myself to a husband who would forbid me to paint and live my life as I choose. Men, here or in America, are mostly the same.”

      
“And you speak from such vast reservoirs of experience,” he replied, his tone growing lighter.

      
“The only way to obtain the experience and see if Vit-toria's descriptions of what I was missing were correct was to take a lover.”

      
“I wait with bated breath for you to give me your evaluation.” Now his teasing grin was unmistakable.

      
When he began to pull her back to him, she did not resist. How could she when he looked at her that way? She reached up to brush that lock of hair from his forehead, returning his grin. “Vain man. Yes, she was right. I was missing something quite delightful. Are you satisfied now?”

      
“Oh, no, not satisfied at all...remember, I gave my word this would last all night...and the word of an Englishman can never be broken...”

* * * *

      
“I must say, you look inordinately pleased with yourself...or mayhap you are pleased with your new bit-o-muslin,” Drum said sourly as he unleashed Sir Percival after returning from their morning walk, a chore he considered slightly above cleaning privies but below sweeping chimneys.

      
The spaniel quickly trotted over to the gondola chair in the corner and climbed onto it, his nails snagging in the expensive velvet upholstery. Feeling utterly sated and mellow, Derrick ignored the infraction. Dressed in a navy blue silk banyan, he leaned back against his chair and stretched contentedly, then picked up his mug of steaming black coffee and took a sip. “I am pleased, and yes, 'tis because of her, but the term ‘bit-o-muslin' seems inadequate.”

      
“She is quite a fetching piece, I'll grant, if one prefers the Amazonian sort.” At Derrick's quizzical look, Drum explained, “I witnessed your fond adieu from across the plaza.” Drum cocked one eyebrow in sardonic amusement. “It must have been quite an entertaining evening...judging by the lingering farewell.”

      
“Oh, it was...she was.”

      
“I say, old fellow, surely you aren't smitten?''A look of consternation flashed across his face.

      
“Hardly anything that would involve leg-shackling, no. Beth Blackthorne is an utter free spirit who—”

      
“Blackthorne?” Drum interrupted. “Of the Georgia Blackthornes?” His tone was incredulous...and deadly.

      
Derrick set down his cup and studied the little dandy's inexplicable expression. “As a matter of fact, yes, she is, but how the devil would you know about them? They're Americans.”

      
“As it happens, Alex Blackthorne, late of London, is a very dear friend...who has fondly mentioned a time or two over the years the only daughter of his uncle Quint. She is his favorite cousin, an innocent from a very prominent family, not at all some ‘free spirit’ for the likes of a bored aristocrat to despoil!”

      
“I am not a bored aristocrat,” Derrick shot back.

      
“Ah ha! But you did despoil her, did you not?” When Derrick made no immediate disclaimer, he huffed, “I thought as much. Well, you shall simply have to wed her, old chap, and there's an end to it.”

      
“Are you insane!” Derrick jumped up from his seat and glared down at the much smaller man. ”I shall do no such cork-brained thing.”

      
“Do not make me call you out,sir. I assure you I am a far better swordsman or pistol shot than you.” Drum looked up his nose at the thunderous expression on Derrick's face, utterly undaunted.

      
“Don't be absurd. We are on a mission for his majesty's government. Enough blood's been spent between England and the thrice-damned French without one of us killing the other while Bonaparte escapes to resume the war.” Derrick fought to rein in his temper, although what he truly wished to do was throttle the arrogant little dandy, whose boast about dueling skills was not at all idle.

      
Drummond appeared to consider for a moment, stroking his chin. “No, I imagine that would be sapskulled. If I killed you, your Miss Blackthorne would have no husband, would she? Hmmm. Perhaps I should merely lame you. Then you could not run from your duty.”

      
“There is no ‘duty’ from which to run, you chuckle-headed fool,” Derrick gritted out. “You're completely misjudging the circumstances—”

      
“Pray, enlighten me then.” The little man crossed his arms over his chest and waited, his foot tapping on the rug impatiently.

      
“She has spent the past three years under the tutelage of the Contessa di Remaldi.” At Drum's horrified expression, Derrick said dryly, “It would seem you've heard of her.”

      
“Considering that female's reputation, I am considerably amazed that Miss Blackthorne remained a virgin for you to despoil—although the fact is that you were the one to do the deed,” Drum reiterated stubbornly.

      
“She wished to be relieved of her innocence and knew precisely where our relationship was headed from the moment it began. Beth is a painter of some skill who wishes to earn her own way, shackled to no man.”

      
“How convenient. If she cannot support herself by painting, she can always fall back on the skills you have taught her.” Drum's tone was more appalled than angry now.

      
“Whatever the young woman does, it signifies nothing to you.” Turning his back, Derrick stalked from the room. Sir Percival growled very softly as he passed.

      
“We shall see about that, old chap...we shall just see,” Drum murmured to himself.

* * * *

      
“I cannot imagine why you don't like him, Derrick. He's an absolute dear,” Beth said, scratching Sir Percival's ears.

      
“It is not so much that I dislike him as that he dislikes me, but since he was a gift from my best friend at Eton, I dare not give him away.”

      
“He reminds me of Barnsmell.”

      
“I rest my case,” Derrick replied with a mock shudder. “He nearly broke my neck.”

      
“Twas the chicken's neck he broke, not yours.” Now she could laugh about their first meeting. “But this noble beast”—she gave the black-and-white spaniel an affectionate thump—“has broken nothing whatever.”

      
Overjoyed with her attention, the dog began beating his tail on the floor and jumping around. Just as Drum stepped down onto the terrace carrying a heavily laden tray, the spaniel gave a loud bark and lunged backward, directly in his path. A Sevres coffeepot, a pitcher of cream and a loaf of sugar all went sailing from the tray as the startled Drum tried to regain his footing. Pieces of china shattered on the flagstones of the terrace balcony, which was now liberally coated with coffee, cream and gritty sugar.

      
The dog beat a hasty retreat, tracking the muck into the house as Drum cursed creatively under his breath while kneeling to scoop up the broken dishes. Derrick laughed uproariously, turning to Beth. ”I believe you were saying something about this noble beast...”

      
She put her fingers to her mouth to stifle a chuckle as the servant's smothered cursing grew louder. Poor man could have broken his neck, and here they were laughing about Sir Percival! “Oh, Derrick, you really place too much burden on Drummond. I'm certain the contessa knows some reliable maids who could help with cleaning and such about the place. Do you want me to inquire for you?”

      
“I require no assistance whatever, save for someone to resurrect Lucrezia Borgia so she may poison that cursed hellhound,” Drum snarled, tossing the last of the china on the tray and stomping back into the house.

      
“I do not believe your manservant approves of me,” Beth said, her good humor evaporating like bay fog. In truth, vestiges of her strict Episcopalian upbringing in a close-knit family still made her uncomfortable about her relationship with Derrick.

      
“Tis not you of whom he disapproves but me.” He raised his wineglass and sipped lazily. They had spent the late morning abed after Beth had given the sunrise hours to painting under the critical eye of J. M. W. Turner, the preeminent English landscape artist. Glowing with his praise, she had come rushing to Derrick's place to share the good news. He had spent the preceding night at the villa of a French officer, pretending to be drunk while gleaning information about how Murat and Napoleon exchanged correspondence, not returning home until well past four. Beth had teased him about being a lazy slugabed before he had pulled her into his embrace. That had been several delightful hours ago.

      
When they finally emerged from his bedroom, after what Derrick was certain was a rather noisy romp, he had ordered Drum to serve them a light repast. For the past several days since their appalling argument about marriage, the little dandy had said nothing more regarding the unsettling matter. But his disapproval oozed from every pore, while at the same time he gave off an aura of sly satisfaction, which might have worried Derrick if he had not been so occupied with Beth and his mission.

      
“Whyever would you employ a servant who so openly dislikes you?” she asked, more puzzled than upset. She would gladly have taken Sir Percival if Derrick could have given him away, but as to Mr. Drummond, that was another matter entirely. When they had walked into the salon that morning, obviously disheveled and sated, the servant had done little to conceal his disapproval.

      
How to explain that one? “Er, he has certain skills that are invaluable.”

      
“Such as?” she asked, raising one eyebrow, now more interested in teasing him than in learning about the stuffy little Englishman. Lord, but Derrick Jamison was the most splendid figure of a man she had ever seen. Nothing, not even her own puritanical qualms, could for long daunt her delight in being with him.

      
A bit of the truth would not hurt if generously leavened with fabrication. “I fear my family insisted. He's a crack shot and quite deadly with a foil. I have a penchant for trouble, which you may have noticed that first evening at the palace...not that you don't share it.”

      
“I can understand how you might drive a man into a killing rage, but Drummond a bodyguard? That gnat of a man?” Just as she said the words, Drummond appeared at the door. If he had overheard, he gave no indication, except to Derrick, who noted the imperceptible narrowing of his cool green eyes. “A message for you, sir.” He presented a small silver tray with a note on it, then turned and left the terrace.