An Innocent Abroad: A Jazz Age Romance (4 page)

Isobel
admired the tone her cousin achieved: exactly the right amount of boredom so
no-one would realise how eager she truly was. Only Isobel caught the glint in
her eye.

Frances
whispered, for her ears only. “Last year Adam went, but Mother wouldn’t let
me.”

“Ooh,
that sounds like fun!” The American Beauty squealed. “Let’s go, Tommy!”

Please,
please, let’s go
, Isobel begged
silently.

Aunt
Alice wrinkled her nose. “There will be a lot of commoners.”

“We’ll
be there to escort the young ladies,” Tom said. “It’ll be fun.”

“I
disapprove.” Christopher sent Tom a quelling look.

“Then
you need not join us,” Tom shot back, his face and tone amiable, though Isobel
caught a glimpse of steel in his eyes. For a moment she could see the mobster
lurking behind the smooth façade. So did Christopher, she thought, as he sat
back and said nothing, merely pressing his lips together in censure.

“Dance
with me, sis.” Adam’s diversion lightened the tension in the room. As Frances
rose to join her brother on the makeshift dance floor, Christopher laid aside
his book and edged around the room to sit beside Isobel on the sofa, in the
spot Frances had vacated.

“I
cannot approve of this expedition,” he said, keeping his voice low. “I urge you
not to join the others. It would not be right for a delicate young lady like
you to mix with the lower classes.”

Rebellion
flared. “At home, we always attended the harvest dance, and every Christmas Mother
hosts a party for the local farmers. Is this any different?”

“This
is not England. Here in Italy there is no telling what might happen.”

She
couldn’t quite suppress a sigh. Christopher might have a good heart, but his
stuffiness grated on her. Would she be able to lighten him up, as Frances had
suggested, or if she married him would every pleasure in life be denied her?

Once
again, the image flashed into her head of Frances and her lover, limbs
entwined, moaning in pleasure. She pressed her hands against her cheeks, but
that did nothing to cool the flush that burned her face.

Stefano
had asked what she wanted in life. She was slowly discovering that she wanted
it all. Not only the safety of a big house and a good name. She wanted fun and
laughter and adventure too. And the thrill of passion and pleasure.

Isobel
closed her eyes. The room spun gently about her, setting up a whirring in her
stomach.

If
only she didn’t have to return to dreary London and her parents’ expectations.
If only she could stay here in Italy, wandering the sun-dappled olive groves
with her sketch pad, or reading poetry … find herself an Italian husband, as
Stefano had suggested.

She
giggled and opened her eyes to reality.

Mother’s
views of foreigners coincided with Christopher’s. She would not allow Isobel to
marry an Italian, not unless he were the King of Italy himself.

But
before she returned to England, and marriage, she would make the most of every
experience. She would taste and explore and
live
while she could. And
tomorrow she would go alone to meet Stefano.

The
narrow path wound away from the house, down through the dappled light of the
olive groves, through steep terraces of lemon and orange trees, to the low wall
that edged the property. From here, Isobel could no longer see the sea. It was
early enough for the rest of the household to still be asleep, but already the
sun was high in the cloudless sky. She pulled the wide brim of her straw hat
low over her face to protect her fair skin. She was glad she’d worn nothing
more than a loose cotton dress. Already the sheer fabric clung damply to her
curves.

The
morning bells echoed around the mountains, calling the faithful to mass. Back
home in Shropshire, her sisters would be walking across the sodden fields to the
parish church, under the watchful eye of the servants and their mother. And
she?

She
was in Italy, breathing in the heavy fragrance of lemon and flowers, springy
grass beneath her feet. And walking alone. Not to worship, but to meet a man.
With not an ounce of guilt or shame.

The
path dropped steeply and there below her was the road. Her heart began to
pound. What if he hadn’t come?

But
he had.

Stefano
sat on an enormous boulder above the road, his back to her, and though she made
no sound, he turned, looking for her. His quick smile lit up his eyes, and that
burning look, so full of pleasure at sight of her, made her feel like a
Goddess. As though she could do anything;
be
anything.

He
rose and held out a hand to her. “You came.”

“I
wouldn’t miss seeing Giotto’s frescoes.”

“But
of course.” The corner of his mouth twitched. She didn’t fool him. He knew she
would have walked twice the distance to see him.

He
helped her down the bank to the road, then loosed her hand as they headed
towards the sun, following the dusty, meandering road as it curved around
cliffs and chasms. They walked side by side, not close enough to touch, though
the air between them crackled with awareness.

She
sneaked a look at him. He was bare-headed, and the breeze ruffled his hair. Her
fingers itched to brush aside the wayward lock that fell forward over his
forehead. He was dressed with a casual elegance that surprised her, a stark
contrast to the plain working clothes he’d worn before. The cut of his grey
flannel trousers looked tailored, and the soft-collared shirt, which he wore
open at the neck, was of finely textured fabric. His Sunday best?

He
was a mystery, this man who dressed as a fisherman one day, yet wore
gentleman’s clothing another. Yet he wore them like no gentleman she’d met
before in her sheltered life.

She
glanced sideways again, glimpsing hard muscle beneath the shirt, and her heart
did another dance.

Christopher
Barrett would not dream of going outdoors, even on such a day as this, without
a blazer and tie. The thought made her smile.

Stefano
turned and caught her looking at him. His crinkling eyes dropped to her mouth
and heat washed through her, flushing her cheeks and leaving her emotions
transparent.

She
looked away.

They
strolled in comfortable silence, the only sound the cicadas humming in the
trees. After less than half a mile they turned off the road, onto a cart track
that ran beneath fragrant pines, their sweet resin smell heavy on the still
air.

“There
it is,” he said at last. “The private chapel of the di Cilento family, one of
the oldest noble families of the Campania region.”

“It’s
charming,” she breathed.

The
building was simple in design, a rectangular shape with a squat bell tower at
the far end. Its unadorned honey-coloured walls glowed in the sunlight. The
chapel stood in a glade, encircled by a near perfect circle of cedars.

“Won’t
they mind us trespassing on their land?”

“They
won’t mind.”

He
led her beneath the portico, unlocked the chapel with a large key that hung on
a rusty nail beside the door, then they stepped into the cool shadows of the
church. Isobel unpinned her hat, and gasped as her eyes adjusted to the dim light.

Roman-style
arches rose to a round, vaulted ceiling bright with colour. The church was unadorned
but for the large wooden crucifix behind the altar, its walls plain and
white-washed, drawing the eye upwards to the heavens and the spectacular
frescoes painted there.

In
the centre of the ceiling sat a young girl with her head bowed. An angel stood
before her, wings outspread, a hand extended in blessing. All around them
stretched a sky as blue and cloudless as the one outside. At the very edges of
the painting, where the vault met the walls, wove a band of intertwined vines
and acanthus leaves.

“This
chapel is dedicated to the Madonna.” Stefano’s whisper echoed off the walls.
“But this place was sacred long before the chapel was built. That circle of
cedars outside is all that remains of an ancient pagan temple.”

“I
can feel the magic.” Isobel spun around, arms outstretched. “I’ve never seen
anything like it. It’s not the sort of thing Giotto usually painted, is it?”

“No,
it’s not.” He shrugged. “Perhaps it was only a student of his, working in his
style.” A roguish look lit his eyes. “But the local legend says that the Conte
di Cilento brought Giotto here from Naples and gave him free reign to paint
whatever his heart desired. And this is what he created.”

She
closed her eyes and breathed in deeply. The fragrance of the cedars was
prominent even here.

“You
are not like other English girls I’ve known,” Stefano said.

She
opened her eyes but did not look at him. “And how many English girls have you
known?” She ignored the sudden pang. Did he do this often, pick up
easy
English tourists?

“I
lived in London for a while. And New York.”

“Oh.”
To cover her relief, she turned her eyes back up to the magnificent painted
ceiling. “How am I different from other English girls?”

“You
have more warmth and passion in you.”

She
shook her head, rueful. “My art teacher always told me I lacked passion.”

He
took a step closer, and she turned to look at him at last, her heart missing a
beat. The look of mischief had gone from his eyes, replaced by a smouldering
heat. “Perhaps because Italy had not yet awakened you. But it’s there in your
eyes. You are open to new ideas, to new experiences. You want to explore. You
are not afraid. Most English girls I’ve met are afraid.”

She
contemplated this new vision of herself, and liked it. Except that she was not
as brave as he seemed to think her; there were a lot of things she was afraid
of.

He
looked up at the ceiling, and her gaze followed his.

When
he spoke again, his voice was light, conversational, without the heat and fire
that discomforted her as much as it stirred her. “It is also said that the
Conte di Cilento who commissioned these paintings was a heathen, and that he
built this chapel not as a place to worship God, but as a place to worship
pleasure.”

“And
what do you think?”

His
full mouth quirked into a smile. “I think I would have liked him. He was a man
who appreciated God’s finest creations, nature and art, and he brought them
together. He was a man who appreciated the beauty in everything he saw.”

He
was no longer talking about the paintings or a long-dead nobleman. Once again,
the bare skin of her arms prickled where his gazed touched her.

Needing
a respite from the simmering tension beneath the surface of her skin, Isobel
walked away down the length of the chapel, eyes turned to the ceiling. She
marvelled at how beautifully preserved the paintings were, how fresh the
colours. Whoever the di Cilento family were, they took care of this place. The
appreciation of art was clearly still a family trait.

The
stillness seemed unnatural though. The churches she knew were community places,
alive with the small sounds of life passing through. This church felt like a
museum, beautiful, revered but unlived in.

“Is
the chapel still in use?”

“Not
for a long time. The family use it for marriages and christenings, but the di
Cilentos have had neither in many years.”

“That’s
sad. This was a place built for celebration, for family and friends.” For
laughter and exuberance and life, all the things that Italy had come to
represent for her.

His
eyes burned. “Yes.”

If
she could choose any place in the world to be married, it would be here. Too
easily could her vivid imagination paint the scene. Afternoon light falling
through the high windows; the blur of a congregation she could not see, for her
eyes were only for the man who waited before the altar for her. In her imagination,
the man turned to look at her as she walked down the aisle, and her heart
soared.

The
face that turned to her was Stefano’s.

She
swallowed against the sudden constriction in her throat and resumed her stroll
around the nave. When she reached the pulpit, a plain raised dais carved of the
same cedar wood as the circle outside the church, she paused to look up again.

Though
she did not hear him move, she knew that Stefano had come to stand behind her.
Then his hands were on her arms, holding her safe and tilting her body back so
that she could look up at the ceiling without straining her neck.

“She
prays for what her heart desires.” His voice brushed against her cheek, soft as
silk. “And the angel grants her prayers, as he grants the prayers of everyone
who is brave enough to ask for what they want. What do you pray for, Bella?”

Her
voice was little more than a whisper. “I don’t know.”

She
turned in his arms. Though she wasn’t yet sure what she wanted for her future,
she knew what she wanted right now. She dragged her gaze away from his mouth,
aware of the heat flushing her cheeks as their gazes caught.

The
chapel faded away and she was aware of nothing but his darkening eyes, bright
as though illuminated from within. She was sure her breathing must be as
unsteady as her hammering heart.

“I
know what I pray for.” He leaned close, reaching up to slide his hands into her
hair, slowly unpinning the weight of it until it spilled around her shoulders.
Hair pins clattered to the uneven floor.

“
Bellissima
.”
His voice was low, reverent. “The colour of spun gold.” He ran his fingers
through the loose curls that fell around her face. She resisted the mad urge to
close her eyes and arch her head back.

Then
his hands cupped her face, drawing her inexorably closer, and she was helpless
to resist. No, not helpless. She smiled to herself. She didn’t
want
to
resist. Inspired perhaps by his vision of her, she boldly lifted her chin.

As
his lips touched hers, her eyes drifted closed. Her entire body, all her
senses, focussed on that one point of contact, the slow, soft brush of his
mouth across hers.

The
pressure of his lips deepened, and she sighed, opening her mouth. His tongue,
as though awaiting the opportunity, slid into her mouth. Her eyelids fluttered
in surprise, but she could not open them, so deliciously heavy did they
suddenly feel.

She
laid her hand on his chest, fingers spread as if to push him away. The warmth
of his body seeped through her fingers, and unbidden her hand slid down over
the hard planes of his torso, feeling his heartbeat through the thin cloth of
his shirt.

His
mouth tasted of coffee and almonds, a bitter-sweet taste that sent her senses
into overdrive. The madness inside her grew insistent, irrepressible. She
darted out her own tongue, to explore the heat and hardness of his mouth. His
lips curved against hers in a smile. He wasn’t put off by her boldness. He
liked it.

Then
slowly he pulled his mouth away from hers, and her body cried out in agony, not
wanting to be separated from him. It was as well his hands had slipped down to
her shoulders. Without his support, she might have sunk to the floor. She
seemed incapable of standing on her own.

“
Grazie
,”
he said.

She
fought the mad urge to wrap her arms around him and pull him close again, to
explore him and press her mouth once more to his. Instead, she dropped her hand
from his chest and took a shaky step backwards.

Where
had this new, wanton Isobel emerged from? Was this her, allowing a strange man
to caress her, to drive her beyond all propriety, when she should have pushed
him away? A man she didn’t even know!

“Isabella.”
His voice was gentle, turning her name to music. “I must tell you who I am,
what I am …”

“No.”
She lifted a finger to his lips, silencing him. “I don’t want to know.”

She
wasn’t ready to let reality intrude on the fantasy yet.

His
brow furrowed, and he pressed his lips together.

“Please.”
Her voice sounded so low and sultry she barely recognised it as her own. “This
moment is magical. Please don’t spoil it with talk.”