What Wild Moonlight (9 page)

A plushly appointed coach stood in the street before the inn. Given that such expensive vehicles were a rare occurrence in this section of town, her first thought was that Nicholas Duvall had come to pay an unexpected call. There was no sign of the man, however. Upon closer inspection she noted that two groomsmen were busily tracking back and forth between the inn and the coach, their arms loaded with an assortment of clothing and miscellaneous personal belongings.

Her
clothing and personal belongings.

Katya sucked in her breath as a rush of furious indignation flooded through her. She stalked toward the coach and demanded of the tall, elegantly attired man who stood supervising the groomsmen, “Just what do you think you’re doing?”

The man turned toward her. He was probably in his mid-thirties, but had the authoritative air of someone much older. His pale blue eyes surveyed her from head to toe, revealing nothing but polite disinterest. “Might I presume that you are Miss Alexander?”

Katya drew herself up and nodded tightly. “And you are?”

He gave a small bow. “Allow me to present myself. Edward Litell, Lord Barrington’s personal secretary.”

“Just what do you think you’re doing with my belongings, Mr. Litell?”

“Lord Barrington instructed me to see to their transfer to his villa.”

“By whose authority?”

Litell arched a dark blond brow. “Why, his own, I presume.”

The reply was uttered with such cool indifference that Katya was momentarily struck speechless. “I believe that I locked my room before I left,” she finally managed.

“Indeed.” He cast a significant glance toward the inn’s front landing. “But you needn’t worry. I can assure you that the proprietor of this household was amply compensated for the trouble of letting us inside.”

Katya saw her landlady standing beside the stoop, a contented smile on her face as she counted the thick stack of francs in her hand. Obviously, Nicholas Duvall thought he could buy whatever he wanted—including her. Her fury mounting by the minute, she watched as the groomsmen loaded the last of her meager belongings into the coach.

Litell pulled open the coach door with a flourish. “If you’re ready, Miss Alexander, I believe Lord Barrington is waiting to see you.”

Katya took a deep breath and resisted the urge to vent her anger on the punctilious head of Edward Litell. After all, she reasoned, the man was just doing as he had been directed. With that in mind, she gave him a curt nod and stepped wordlessly into the luxurious confines of the coach, reserving the heat of her wrath for the man who deserved it most, Nicholas Duvall.

Nicholas had been riding. He wore a simple white linen shirt that was open at the collar, revealing a generous expanse of the bronzed skin of his chest. His dun-colored trousers were perfectly fitted and tucked into a pair of rich leather boots. Leaving his mount with the stable boy, he moved through a manicured garden awash in color. Fragrant bunches of chamomile, oleander, bougainvillea, and wild roses blossomed in rich abandon. Tall eucalyptus and wizened olive trees swayed in the soft breeze like gently dozing sentries. The villa itself had been constructed of the same native stone that paved the courtyard. The deep beige-and-brown stone was offset by a roof of terra-cotta tile and flanked by deep green shutters. A brilliant sapphire sky hung above the scene, framing the villa with its rich hue.

He stepped inside and moved through the interior of the villa. Aubusson carpets, Sèvres vases, Biedermeier desks, Dutch and Flemish paintings, crystal chandeliers, velvet draperies, and silk-covered settees were placed about the rooms with meticulous perfection. Everything was kept spotless by teams of servants who patrolled the rooms like squads of highly trained guardsmen, keeping the villa safe from offending bits of dust and debris.

Nicholas disliked all of it. He disliked the pomposity of the furnishings, the overstated opulence of the fabrics, the crowded stuffiness of the rooms, the formality of the servants. He disliked the enormous scale of the home and its remote position on the cliff above the city, perched like a dark cloud over the sparkling warmth of the Mediterranean below.

It had been his father’s villa. And though legally it passed to him upon his father’s death, Nicholas had never lived there. Never wanted to. His brother had. This had been Richard’s home. And though Nicholas hadn’t visited the villa in years—his time spent with Richard had always occurred during Richard’s visits to London—Nicholas had harbored a vague assumption that Richard would have made his mark on the place somehow.

Surely the fact that the villa was exactly as his father had left it meant something, but Nicholas wasn’t sure what that was. A sign that Richard had grown more like his father in the intervening years? Or was it proof that his younger brother didn’t really see the villa at all, using it as nothing but a staging area from which to drink and gamble and seduce a never-ending stream of women? That seemed more like Richard, but Nicholas couldn’t be certain any more. All he knew was that Richard’s clothing still hung in the bedchamber upstairs, his shaving supplies and toiletries rested on the dresser, his boots were polished to a high sheen and placed beside his armoire.

As though he was due home at any moment. As though he was still alive at all.

The sound of his secretary’s distressed voice pulled Nicholas from his brooding reverie. “If you’ll allow me a moment to announce you, Miss Alexander—”

“That won’t be necessary,” came the sharp reply. “I don’t intend to stay.”

The door to the library flew open and Katya Alexander swept inside, trailed by an overwrought Edward Litell. “I’m terribly sorry, Lord Barrington,” his secretary stammered, “but I was unable to impress upon the lady—”

Nicholas gave a brief shake of his hand, indicating to his secretary that his services were no longer necessary. Although Litell seemed shocked at the abrupt dismissal, particularly given the unprecedented disruption that proceeded it, he nevertheless recovered himself enough to manage a curt bow and withdrew quietly from the room.

Nicholas’s gaze moved to Katya. High spots of color stained her cheeks. Her hair, perhaps originally tucked into a neat bun at the nape of her neck, had loosened, allowing a few dark tendrils to fall in disarray about her shoulders. As she strode toward him, her eyes, hidden though they were behind her damned spectacles, shot fire.

He propped one hip upon his desk and regarded her coolly. “Problem?”

“Yes,” she hissed.

“Ah. You’re angry because I took the liberty of sending my men to fetch you and your belongings.”

“That was a liberty you had no right to take without consulting me first.”

He gave a light, indifferent shrug. “When you agreed to play the part of my mistress, you agreed perforce to reside under my roof. Obviously it wouldn’t do for you to stay in a dreary boardinghouse on the outskirts of town.”

“That boardinghouse suited me just fine.”

“It didn’t suit me.”

“No one asked you to stay there.”

Tapping his riding crop absently against his thigh, he asked, “Are you always this difficult?”

She took a deep breath, as though struggling to hold her anger in check. “When I agreed last night to take part in your little scheme, I made it perfectly clear that this charade was to be in name only.”

“So I recall. What exactly are you objecting to?”

“I object to the high-handed manner in which your servants bribed their way into my room and helped themselves to my belongings without so much as a by-your-leave. I object to the way you arrogantly assumed I would agree to live under your roof. I object to your making decisions that concern me without consulting me first. If that is what you had in mind, this arrangement will not work after all.”

He allowed himself a small smile. “How very honorable and virtuous you sound, Katya. Almost as though you don’t stand to profit at all from our agreement.”

She tilted her chin. “I merely mean to ascertain your intentions.”

“I think you know my intentions.” He let his gaze drift over her for a moment in teasing silence, then finished with a slight bow, “I shall resist the allure of your considerable charm. I have no intention of disturbing the privacy of your bedchamber.” He paused, then continued smoothly, “Unless, of course, you invite me to.”

Katya stiffened her spine. “I can assure you that will not happen.”

“Oh?” He stepped away from his desk and slowly crossed the room, stopping only inches in front of her. He reached out and captured one stray ebony curl in his palm. Then his gaze locked on hers. In a voice that was no more than a whisper he inquired, “Are you so sure?”

“Quite sure.”

“Why is that?”

“Because,” she said slowly, enunciating every syllable, “William wouldn’t like it.”

Nicholas abruptly dropped his hand and stepped back a pace. A jolt of surprise and irritation shot through him. The thought that there might be another man in her life simply had not occurred to him. Fortunately, the sound of a cane thumping on the parlor’s thick carpet echoed from the doorway, sparing him the necessity of a reply.

“For Heaven’s sake,” an imperious voice interrupted shrilly, “stop toying with the girl, Nicholas. And move out of the way so I can see her properly.”

Katya’s gaze flew to an elderly woman who was looking with undisguised curiosity at her and Nicholas. As she recalled the disgraceful content of their conversation, her cheeks flushed crimson.

Nicholas, however, appeared entirely unaffected by their indecorous circumstance. He grasped Katya lightly by the elbow and ushered her forward, stopping before the other woman. “Aunt Eleanor, may I present Miss Katya Alexander,” he said, smoothly performing the tardy introductions. “Miss Alexander, my aunt, the Comtesse de Fiorini.”

Katya managed an awkward curtsy and pushed aside her embarrassment enough to murmur a few customary words of greeting. As she did so, she briefly surveyed the other woman. The Comtesse de Fiorini had the same piercing coal-black eyes as Nicholas, the same aristocratic bearing and chiseled features. Her body appeared thin and frail beneath her gown of gray silk chiffon, yet inner strength and an indomitable spirit emanated from her unwavering gaze. Her elegant silver hair was coiffed into a neat chignon at the nape of her neck; three long ropes of glistening black pearls hung about her throat. One elegant hand, slightly weathered with age, rested on a polished walnut walking cane with an intricately sculpted ivory handle. Katya had the distinct impression that the cane was used more to summon others than for any weakness in the Comtesse.

The older woman moved into the room and seated herself on a chintz-covered sofa. Then she returned her attention to Katya, studying her in cool, contemplative silence. Finally she remarked, “My nephew told me of this arrangement, Miss Alexander, but I insisted upon meeting you myself before he embarks upon an escapade that would only serve to further damage our family’s reputation.” Before Katya could decide how to respond to that astounding statement, the Comtesse turned to Nicholas and said, “She certainly doesn’t look like one, does she? A wayward schoolgirl, perhaps, but not a sleight-of-hand artist. How very intriguing.”

“Yes, it is remarkable, isn’t it?” Nicholas replied. A hint of amused admiration filled his voice.

The Comtesse nodded thoughtfully. “I daresay one would hardly suspect.”

“My thoughts exactly.”

“If she’s to pose as your mistress, she could use a bit more polish though, couldn’t she?”

Katya shifted, growing increasingly impatient with their none-too-subtle examination. “Shall I open my mouth so you might check my teeth and gums,” she put in, “or have you both seen enough?”

Nicholas turned toward her with a wry smile. “Do I detect a note of dissatisfaction?”

“I am not accustomed to being discussed as though I weren’t in the room.”

“Indeed?” The Comtesse raised one brow in haughty disdain, as though she had been corrected by an impudent servant. “Very well. I shall address you directly. That odious shade of yellow does not suit you at all, Miss Alexander. You’re old enough to know that by now.”

Katya coolly met the challenge in the Comtesse’s dark gaze. “Had I known that I was to be summoned before so august an audience, I would have been better attired. Unfortunately, your nephew neglected to inform me of his plans—as you no doubt heard.”

“There is no need for you to take that tone with me. I am merely offering a constructive criticism. With your coloring, you should wear nothing but blues, lavenders, and purples, to bring out the extraordinary shade of your eyes. At least, from what I can see of them behind those ghastly spectacles Are the glasses truly necessary?”

“They are if I wish to read.”

“Well, you’re not reading now, are you?” She gestured impatiently at the settee across from her. “Do sit down, both of you. Gazing up like this is most uncomfortable.”

Katya settled herself on the settee across from the Comtesse, refusing to let herself be bated by the elderly woman’s tactics. Nicholas took a seat in a sturdy armchair that sat at right angles to the two women. A heavy silence filled the room as their conversation came to an abrupt halt.

After a moment, the Comtesse lifted her lorgnette and examined the modest strand of opalescent pearls that hung about Katya’s neck. “If you must wear paste, my dear, do so only at night, when it is not so easily discerned.”

“The pearls belonged to my mother, and they are quite genuine.”

“Really? How remarkable.”

A discreet rap sounded at the door and a serving girl entered, balancing a heavily laden sterling-silver tray. She set the tea service on the plush ottoman between the settees.

“Thank you, Jeanne, I shall pour,” the Comtesse said, dismissing her. Once the tray was settled, she turned to Katya and inquired briskly, “Do you prefer India or China?”

It took Katya a moment to realize the Comtesse was referring to the tea. “India,” she replied, accepting the fragile cup and saucer the older woman passed to her.

Nicholas wordlessly accepted a steaming cup of tea. His gaze rested on Katya. “Who,” he said, as though their earlier conversation hadn’t been interrupted, “is William?”