Wanton Angel (Blackthorne Trilogy) (33 page)

      
Oh, Beth, I am so sorry!

      
He looked at the wreckage of the room. His clothes were strewn hither and yon, but her beautiful wedding dress was not there. Other than the slippers, nothing else of hers remained. He remembered yanking the sheer silk undergarments from her body, not even bothering to remove her shoes or stockings. He was certain no servant had come in to take her clothing. She must have done it herself. God above, please don't let me have injured her!

      
He rose and pulled on his breeches, then went in search of his wife. The moisture from a bath hung in the dressing room air, fragrant with the faint essence of vanilla, her favorite scent. There he found her wedding gown, carefully hung on the wall rack. One hand reached up to touch the crisp brocaded silk, his eyes scanning it for damage. Only a couple of buttons were torn loose, thank heavens. Then he saw the dull gleam of white from one corner. Her chemise, slip and stockings lay hopelessly ripped and snagged, but at least there was no blood on them. He must find her and beg her forgiveness.

      
Derrick found her asleep in the guest bedroom at the opposite end of the hall. She lay on top of the covers, as if unwilling to disturb them and let the servants see that she was not sleeping with the master. Her body was coiled into a fetal position, wrapped in a heavy dark robe, and Percy lay cuddled in the curve of her legs. Swallowing the lump of misery in his throat, he walked silently to the bed and sat down beside her. The dog watched him warily, not quite growling but very alert as Derrick reached over and gently stroked a few stray tendrils of hair from her face.

      
Were there traces of tears? In the dim moonlight he could not tell, but his puss was not given to tears. She was the bravest woman he'd ever known. When he leaned down to kiss her, the dog did growl, sitting up as if to protect her from his erstwhile master. “So,'tis apparent you've switched your loyalties. Can't say I blame you,” he murmured.

      
She blinked and opened her eyes, rolling over and looking up at him. He could see no alarm or revulsion on her face and thanked God for that. But he did see confusion and a deep hurt. “Are you injured?” he asked, his voice a croaking whisper over the soft growling of the dog.

      
She shook her head, patting Percy to quiet him. “No, no, I'm not injured.” He reached out then and gently touched one curl hanging over her shoulder. She felt his remorse even before he spoke.

      
“Beth, I am so sorry.” His voice cracked and he removed his hand from her hair and turned away, staring out the window at the night sky. “I only wanted to make you belong to me, no one else. Can you forgive me?”

      
She scooted up against the pillows, then replied, ”I do belong only to you, Derrick. You are my husband and I will try to be a good wife.”

      
Percy sat at the foot of the bed, watching protectively as Derrick asked again, “Will you grant me your forgiveness? Let us begin anew?”

      
He held his breath. She could sense it. “Yes, Derrick. I forgive you. I understand that you wed me out of obligation, to protect me.” When he started to protest, she placed her fingertips over his lips, shaking her head. “No, my love, do not deny it...I have something to tell you.” Her hair dipped like a curtain, hiding her face in shadow as she explained, “My courses began tonight. I am not with child.”

      
He felt as if the weight of the world had lifted from his shoulders until she added, “If you wish, you can obtain—”

      
“No!” Derrick surprised himself with the vehemence of his answer. Only later would he recognize that he was far more concerned with keeping her as his wife than he was with learning that she was not pregnant. His outburst startled Percy, who began to growl once more. Ignoring the dog, he took one of her hands in his, saying, “We'll not dissolve this marriage. You are my wife and I will have no other. I will try my damnedest to be a good husband.”

* * * *

      
And so the days passed as summer drew to a close. Derrick and Beth resumed a variation on their original relationship. She continued to paint, converting one of the extra bedrooms into a studio. Although it was much smaller than her quarters at the contessa's villa, the east light was good. She found that overseeing their small household was a pleasure and continued her old rounds with the fishermen and produce vendors, much to her father's dislike. His daughter had always been a tomboy, dressing unconventionally and running with her brothers, but that was back in the safety of Georgia, not in cutthroat-infested Old World slums!

      
Derrick completed his assignment with the British charge d'affaires, then devoted his energies to helping Piero establish a shipping operation in the city. Quint Blackthorne stayed on, helping with the business, since he, too, was one of Dev's partners. When Derrick was not busy at the new office of Torres Merchandisers, he often accompanied Beth on jaunts to bargain for oysters and figs. Her commissions on portraits were lucrative and his business income began to grow steadily, assuring them of a comfortable—if unconventional—life. They had both vowed to make their unusual arrangement work. And it did...after a fashion.

      
Derrick found himself drawn into the contessa's circle of belle lettres, attending poetry readings and art exhibits with his wife. She, in turn, attended court functions with him whenever the British Government requested his presence. If their days were at times an uneasy compromise, their nights were unfailingly filled with heady passion. Derrick had never imagined that he could be content with one woman, but he was. Beth, relishing the permanence of a relationship that did not interfere with her art career, no longer felt compelled to test her husband's patience or stir his jealousy as she had earlier.

      
Within a few weeks of their marriage, they received the handsome gift of a sterling tea service from Drum, who congratulated their having the good sense to see reason and regularize their relationship as Alex and Joss had done. Derrick and Beth read his clever, witty missive, glad to know that he had survived the ordeal of a storm-tossed return voyage to “Albion's soil” after leaving them in Algiers.
 

      
He also informed them that he had just had a run of good fortune at the gaming tables, winning some sort of tavern in the backwoods of Georgia, and he was off to America to visit his friends and inspect his new property. A chapter in their lives had ended with Drum's exodus. After all, it was his letter to Quintin Blackthorne that had changed their relationship forever.

Chapter Eighteen

      
“What am I going to do,
cara?
” the contessa asked Beth as they shared a late-morning meal one crisp day in September. “Piero says he will sail before winter comes. He demands an answer.”

      
“As much as I would hate to lose my dearest friend, I think you should marry him and go to America,” Beth replied gravely.

      
“It would mean giving up the life I've worked so hard to build,” Vittoria protested.

      
“What would you have to fear?”

      
“How about his family? Have you considered what they will think when Piero brings back a bride such as I? They're Sephardic.”

      
“And they're Americans. The rules of the Old World no longer apply. Your noble blood, his lack of it. Anyone can wed anyone they choose, no matter their religion or station in life, something that certainly wouldn't have happened if Derrick and I had met in England.”

      
“It did not happen here in Naples when we were young either.” Vittoria sighed.

      
As if echoing her thoughts, Beth said, “You and Piero have waited too long to waste another moment.”

      
The contessa's expression turned arch as she replied drolly, “Ah, but
cara,
we have not wasted any time at all since we've been reunited.”

      
“You know perfectly well what I mean,” Beth scolded. “You must marry him. Take the gamble.”

      
“And it was worth it for you and Derrick?” Vittoria's smile was tinged with a faint bit of worry.

      
The question, coming out of the blue, unsettled Beth. She had gone to great lengths to assure her friend that everything was good between her and Derrick. “I cannot imagine living without him,” she answered honestly.

      
“Nor can I think of losing Piero again.... Men are such a bother,
cara
. Why do we put up with them?”

      
“Oh, I can think of at least one reason,” Beth replied with a hearty chuckle.

* * * *

      
With Beth, Derrick and Quint as witnesses, Piero and Vittoria were married in a quiet ceremony presided over with considerable misgivings by Father Vivalde. Performing a marriage for two members of the Church of England was one matter; performing one for his lifelong friend Vittoria and a Jewish American was quite another! Yet he could not help liking the charming outsider who had won the contessa's heart so long ago.

      
After the celebration, Quint planned to sail for home, finally satisfied that he had done the right thing leaving his child in the care of the Englishman. But then fate intervened when a black-bordered letter arrived from the Earl of Lynden's solicitor in London. Beth received the missive from a special courier who had been sent directly from the harbor. A feeling of dread swept over her as she held the heavy velum envelope in her hands. Although she knew Derrick was not close to any of his family, it boded ill that someone had died.

      
“What's troubling you, puss?” he asked, coming from his office at the rear of the villa into the foyer after hearing the echo of hoofbeats.

      
“Tis for you,” she replied gravely, giving him the letter with trembling hands.

      
He tore it open at once and began to read, then cursed succinctly beneath his breath. As he continued to scan the pages, he began pacing like a caged cat.

      
“Tis the earl, isn't it,” she said, fighting the wave of dizziness that swept over her. Pray God that the countess had been safely delivered of an heir by now!

      
“Yes. Leighton is dead. He broke his fool neck when his mount went down during a foxhunt,” Derrick snarled with an oath.

      
Beth sank into a chiavari chair, awash in misery, her whole world vanquished by this stroke of a pen. “And the countess?”

      
“Twas a girl.” His eyes met and held hers. ”I am now the ninth Earl of Lynden.” The despair in his voice was mirrored in his eyes.

      
Beth understood better than anyone how strong was her husband's sense of duty. He would go to London and assume the title, look after his sister-in-law and infant niece, restore the honor of the family name—and his own. But Beth would be an albatross about his neck, utterly unsuitable.
Tis not as if I were the earl and you my countess...

      
“I must sail for London as soon as possible.”

      
Thoughts tumbled about in her mind helter-skelter until his clipped words broke into her trance. He'd said
I,
not
we
. Beth fought back tears as she said, “Of course, I shall remain here in Naples.”

      
Derrick was too engrossed in the enormity of the calamity that had just befallen him to think coherently. He knew Beth would hate London, hate giving up her life here every bit as much as Vittoria had. And lord knew, if the social arbiters of the ton found out about her shocking background, it would certainly put a period to any hope of redeeming his name from disgrace.

      
And still he could not imagine leaving her behind. “Of course you will go with me to London,” he snapped, feeling put-upon. He did not want to examine his feelings about her as his countess any more than he wanted to think about being the earl.

      
Beth stood up on shaky legs, taking a deep breath to clear her spinning head. “I do not think it wise, Derrick.”If he had hinted that he did not give a fig for the opinion of the ton, declared that he cared too much for her to leave her behind—if he had said anything at all conciliatory, matters might have proceeded differently.
 

      
But Derrick was not feeling particularly conciliatory at the moment. “What you think—or what I want—does not signify at this time, m'dear. Duty calls.”

      
“And we both know how seriously you take your duty, don't we, husband?”

      
The stark pain in her voice seemed nothing but bitterness to him. “Twas your father who forced the issue, puss,” he replied in a low, deadly voice.

      
Beth recoiled as if he had struck her. “And I agreed after your most dutiful importuning. More fool I for giving up my freedom!”

      
“A fate worse than death—becoming a countess. Many of your countrywomen would sell their souls for English titles.”

      
“While I only had to sell my body?” she asked icily.

      
“You've given it readily enough in the past—Quinn, Kasseim, God only knows who else before them. At least this time you'll get Lynden Hall and the Jamison jewels in return. A more than generous recompense, madam.”

      
“You bastard! You...you...” She launched into a tirade of the worst oaths she'd learned on the waterfront, spewing them out in Italian as she advanced on him, ready to claw his eyes out.