Guilty Series (100 page)

“Your unwillingness tells me I defeated you fairly, and you don't want to lose to me a second time.”

“Have it your own way.” Pretending indifference, she gave a huge yawn and patted her mouth with her fingers. “I am very tired, so if you don't mind, I am going to bed.

“After all,” she added as she stepped around
him and walked away, “it's exhausting to have so many men clamoring for my attention all the time. Good night.”

If she thought he would let her refusal to play chess with him again pass without consequences, she was mistaken. She got as far as the door before he spoke.

“A rematch, Miss Valenti. Or I shall take my revenge.”

She stopped and turned. “What sort of revenge?”

“Ugly men.” He smiled. “Old, ugly men.”

“But we agreed that I shall be allowed to choose from among my suitors.”

“With my approval. Awful for you if any suitor under sixty got crossed off the list.” He tilted his head as if struck by a sudden thought. “Of course, we could keep Walford. He's only thirty-nine, but he's short.”

“You are being impossible! What does a chess game matter compared to my future life?”

“Was that a yes or no answer?”

“Men! You are so childish about these things!”

“Calling me names won't help you.”

She could never read him. He might be bluffing, he might be serious. Lucia took a deep breath.
Think,
she told herself.
Employ strategy. Feminine strategy.

Glancing past him, she caught sight of the billiard table. With sudden inspiration, she envisioned what playing billiards with him would be like. She'd have to lean over the table, wouldn't
she? He'd have to show her how to hold the stick, wouldn't he? The possibility of igniting that passion inside him was an irresistible challenge. Besides, he was being thoroughly unreasonable over a silly chess game.

“All right,” she said, lifting her hands as if in capitulation. “You win. I will give you your rematch at chess. But—” She paused, and it was her turn to smile. “I have one condition.”

“What condition?”

“You will teach me billiards first.”

He stiffened, looking uncomfortable. “I do not think that would be wise,” he said, and tugged at his cravat, setting it askew.

Lucia watched him and realized he was thinking the same thing she was, and it unnerved him. How delightful. There was hope for him yet. “Teach me billiards, Englishman,” she said, “and I will give you your rematch at chess. Otherwise, no, and you may send all the ugly men you please. I have many suitors already who are not ugly.” With her sweetest smile, she added, “I am sure one of them would be happy to teach me billiards.”

Before he could reply, she vanished out the door.

 

The Cleopatra
was a three-masted yacht with a crew of sixteen. Its master cabin had no naughty frescoes, much to the disappointment of the ladies, but they were gratified by the fact that there was indeed a pink marble bath. The yacht also
possessed a dining room where a vast array of refreshments had been laid out for the fortunate few invited to the water party hosted by the Duke and Duchess of Tremore. At their leisure, guests could partake of cold duck and ham, exotic fruit from the duke's famous conservatory, chilled champagne, and tiny chocolates. They could also stroll along the wide promenade decks or mingle and talk. They could dance on the quarterdeck to the music of the string quartet.

Lucia participated in all of these delights and thoroughly enjoyed them, but at sunset, she wandered back to the stern of the ship on her own, leaning over the rail to watch the final rays of the sun disappear beyond the horizon as the ship glided eastward along the Thames, back toward London.

The duke and duchess were gracious hosts, the weather had been beautiful all day, and the party had been deemed a smashing success by all the guests, with the exception of Sir Ian, who could make no judgment about it. He did not attend. In fact, since she had issued her challenge to him three days before, Lucia had not even seen him. He was avoiding her, no doubt. Obviously, he did not find teaching her how to play billiards an appealing notion.

Lucia felt rather depressed.

“Miss Valenti, why are you back here all alone?”

She turned at the sound of Lord Haye's voice. “I am fond of sunsets.”

“It is a beautiful one.” He came to stand beside her. “A fine day all around, wonderful for a water party.”

“Yes.” The weather, she thought dully, was a fine topic.

“Why do you like sunsets?” he asked.

The unexpected question surprised her. “Because they are beautiful. Warm, vibrant, full of vivid color.”

“I like them for the same reasons.” He turned toward her. “That is why I like you.”

She opened her mouth to make a glib reply, but when she looked at him, she found that he was gazing at her in sincere, genuine admiration. “Thank you, my lord,” she said. “That is one of the loveliest compliments I have ever received.”

She turned again toward the sunset, and so did he. Both of them fell silent as they watched the sun disappear and twilight descend over the water. In the fading light, she cast surreptitious sideways glances at his profile, studying him as he looked out over the water. Despite her initial impression of his chin, he was not an unattractive man. The same height as she, Haye had sandy hair, hazel eyes, and a nice face. In fact, everything about him was nice.
Nice,
she thought wistfully,
is a good thing. Isn't it?

“We seem to be alone,” Haye said, breaking into her thoughts.

She glanced around and found that there wasn't another person in sight. “Yes,” she agreed. “We seem to be the only ones who like sunsets.”

“Miss Valenti,” he said in a brisk voice and turned toward her again, “I have been waiting for such a moment, and I must seize it. You must know that I admire you tremendously.”

To Lucia's astonishment, he took up her hand. “My lord,” she murmured, taking another look around. She tried to pull her hand away, but he held it fast.

“I know I should not be so bold,” he went on, “but I cannot help it. Your vivacity and your charm have…have quite captivated me. You must know it.”

Lucia looked up at him, tried to see if there was any passion in him. “Do you like billiards, my lord?”

He blinked. “I beg your pardon?”

“Do you like billiards?”

“Why, yes. Yes, I do.”

“You would teach me to play, wouldn't you? Help me hold the stick?”

“Cue,” he corrected. “Yes, of course.”

She smiled and moved a little closer to him. “You would stand behind me and guide my hand to hit the ball?”

“Of course I would, if you like.” The erotic aspects of such a situation obviously did not occur to him, for his face bore a hint of bewilderment that she was talking about billiards at such a moment but nothing more. She couldn't quite tell in the dim evening light, but she had the sinking feeling there was no spark of heat in his eyes.

“Miss Valenti, I realize that we have only
known each other three weeks, but your situation demands a hasty courtship and an even more hasty engagement. Sir Ian has already informed me of what happened in Bolgheri with Princess Elena, and I assure you that I regard the incident as nothing more than a minor indiscretion. I also want to say that in these three weeks, I have developed a deep, heartfelt regard for you. As to your dowry and income, all I can do is assure you it is not those which motivate my feelings. I have a substantial fortune and could secure your future and that of our children very well without your dowry.”

He was proposing. Lucia shoved aside her surprise and forced herself to consider the matter objectively, trying to decide if she could learn to love this man. She was right about his chin, but he had attractive eyes. If she married him, he would treat her well. He might even be persuaded to let her see her mother from time to time. She had no doubt his admiration for her was genuine. It might grow into love.

This wasn't quite what she'd been hoping for, but perhaps it was time to think realistically, not romantically. She had to marry somebody. She had no illusions about her situation. August was three short weeks away. If she did not have a groom by then, Sir Ian would pick one. If she refused to wed, her father would drag her to the altar.

Nonetheless, there was one thing she needed to know before she could even consider the
possibility of marrying Lord Haye. Lucia took a deep breath, put her free hand behind her back, and crossed her fingers. Then she kissed him.

That kiss, alas, told her everything she needed to know. So much for thinking realistically.

I
t was just a chess game, Ian reminded himself for perhaps the hundredth time. Stupid to be bothered by the notion that Miss Valenti had deliberately lost in some calculated attempt to curry his favor. During the game, he'd thought her to be a skilled but overly reckless player. Now, he wondered if the entire time she'd been playing him.

What a galling notion, to think he'd been outmaneuvered. And by a tantalizing, temperamental tease of a woman.

Even more galling was the idea of some besotted suitor teaching her billiards, and how that image kept distracting him from his work. During the past three days, he had left Miss Valenti
in the capable hands of Grace and the Duchess of Tremore and had filled his own schedule with international matters, including preparations for Prince Cesare's state visit, but he had only managed to keep half his attention on those tasks. He attended meetings at Whitehall and dined with Italian envoys and Prussian ambassadors, but throughout it all, his mind kept taunting him with images of Lord Haye or Lord Montrose showing Miss Valenti how to hold a billiard cue, touching her hand, leaning against her. He knew what they'd be thinking, feeling, wanting. Oh, yes, he knew damn well.

He had tried to keep his time occupied every waking hour with his duties, but tonight Ian found himself with a free evening. The Spanish minister, he was informed, had a cold. His dinner plans canceled, Ian returned to Portman Square quite early, but no one else was home. Dylan, Grace, and Miss Valenti had gone to Tremore's water party on the Thames.

Ian handed over his cloak and hat, then went upstairs to the library and tried to work. A diplomat always had stacks of correspondence to address, and over the next few hours he attempted to deal with it, but he made little progress. His gaze kept straying to the billiard table across the room.

The only reason she wanted him to teach her billiards was because he was refusing. And also because she was a tease who used that perfect
body of hers to torment men just for the hell of it.

Ian forced his attention back to his work, but he had just managed to refocus his thoughts on the letter he was composing when he was interrupted, and by the very person he'd been trying the past few days to forget.

“Has anyone ever told you that you work too hard?”

He did not look up. “Good evening, Miss Valenti,” he said as he continued to write. “Did you enjoy the duchess's water party?”

“Yes. I like the yachting.”

“I am glad to hear it. Dylan and Grace return with you?”

“Yes, but only to bring me home.” She came into the library and closed the door behind her. “They have gone on to another party.”

“You did not wish to accompany them?”

“No. Lady Sarah was also invited, and I do not like her.”

“Lady Sarah is invited to many parties. Even if you do not wish to marry Lord Blair, you will not be able to avoid his cousin all the time.”

“I know.” She paused, then said, “Lord Haye's sisters came with him to the water party today. You were right about him, Sir Ian. He is a good man, very nice.”

Ian stopped writing at the mention of Haye, and his hand tightened around his quill. “Excellent,” he said and tried to continue his letter, but
he could not remember where he had left off. He paused to glance through the last paragraph. “And therefore, Sir Gervase,” he murmured, and resumed writing.

Of course, she had to come sit on his desk again. It really was becoming a most distracting habit of hers. He found it impossible to work with the scent of apple blossoms wafting past. “Miss Valenti,” he said without pausing in his task, “would you mind moving off my desk? I need to refer to the letter you are sitting on.”

She did not do as he requested. Instead, she tilted onto one hip as if he was supposed to pull the document from underneath. Ian glanced up, expecting that she was being a tease again, but he was mistaken. She was staring past him into space, her thoughts clearly elsewhere. Ian reached for Sir Gervase's letter from Anatolia, and though he was careful not to touch her, the back of his hand brushed the fabric of her dress, and heat rushed through his body. He jerked the letter away as if he'd been burned.

The sound of rustling paper seemed to draw her attention back to him. “What are you writing?” she asked. “Or is it a secret?”

His work seemed a safe enough topic. “I am composing a letter to Sir Gervase Humphrey. He is the ambassador who was sent to Constantinople in my place so that I could come here, and he has written to tell me the Turks are being troublesome. Since I have worked with them before, he seeks my advice.”

“And what advice do you give him?”

“I am telling him that bullying the Turks won't work. I have suggested that since he is a diplomat, he should try something else.”

“What?”

“Diplomacy.”

She laughed. “You do not like Sir Gervase, do you?”

“No.” Ian signed his name and reached for blotting powder. “He is a fool.”

She was silent as he folded and sealed his letter. It wasn't until he had set the letter aside and was reaching for another sheet of paper that she spoke again. “Do not be too hard on him. He is attempting to measure up to you, and that would be difficult for anyone.”

“Nonsense.”

“It is not nonsense. Your brother feels it, I think, for he is younger than you. You are the good son, he is the wild one. That is why you and he do not always get along.”

Ian dipped his quill in the inkwell. “Dylan is a composer. He has an artistic temperament. He and I see life very differently.” With that, he began to address a letter to the Prince of Sweden.

His reserve did not discourage her in the least. “It is true that the two of you are like the oil and the water,” she agreed. “He is fun. You are stuffy. Have you always been this way?”

He took exception to that description. “I am not stuffy,” he protested. “As for Dylan, he was always rebellious, he did what he pleased and,
somehow, he always got away with it. I never had that luxury.”

“Your father expected more of you, no doubt, since you were the older son. It is a burden, the expectations of others.”

Unbidden, a memory from long ago sprang into his mind, and he stopped writing.

How could you disgrace the family with such a failure? Where is your pride? Where is your honor toward your family name? God, Ian, I despair of you. I truly do.

“It can be a burden,” he admitted, his father's voice echoing in his ears. He set down his quill and leaned back in his chair. “I remember one year at Cambridge I failed my examinations,” he found himself saying, “and my father was so disappointed in me and so incensed at my lack of attention to my studies that he did not speak to me or write to me for a year.”

“A year? That is a cruel punishment.”

“It took that long for me to take my examinations again.”

Lucia leaned back on his desk, palms flattened on the desk, her weight on her arms. “What caused your lack of attention to your studies? Gambling? Drinking?”

“A very pretty bedmaker.”

“I do not understand. What is a bedmaker?”

Ian shook his head, coming out of the past. “This is a most unsuitable topic for conversation. I should not have said anything about it.” With
that, he picked up his quill and resumed his work. Of course she could not let it go.

“You say pretty, so a bedmaker must be a girl. Was she your mistress?” When he did not answer, she leaned forward, scooting sideways on his desk until she was practically sitting on his letter to the Swedish prince. “You can tell me.”

He shifted in his chair. “It would not be appropriate.”

Lucia leaned forward, bringing her face closer to his. “I won't tell anyone,” she promised in a teasing whisper, tilting her head and trying to look into his eyes. “It shall be our secret. Was she your mistress?”

“No. Bedmakers are maids for the lads at Cambridge. They make the beds.”

“And unmake them, no?” She did not wait for confirmation of this, but immediately asked another question. “Were you in love with her?”

A pair of laughing hazel eyes and a radiant smile flashed through Ian's mind. “That is none of your business.”

“Did you want to marry her?”

He drew a deep breath, thinking of Gretna Green and the impossible dreams of sixteen years ago. “I am a gentleman, Tess was a maid. It would not have done.”

“That is not an answer to my question. Did you want to marry her?”

“My father never gave me the opportunity. He paid her off with a handsome sum, and she
married someone else. She was quite happy to do so.” With a hint of anger, he asked, “Does that satisfy your curiosity?”

“It is like me with my blacksmith,” she said softly. “You loved this Tess very much, I think.”

Damn her. She could worm secrets out of stone. “I must finish this letter,” he said, “and you are now sitting on it. Please move.”

She jumped off the desk and walked away, but if he thought the topic of his past was closed, he was mistaken. From the other side of the room, she spoke again. “Is that girl, Tess, the real reason you have never married?”

The quill slipped in his fingers, ink bled all over the word beneath the nib, ruining the letter. He would have to begin again. Completely frustrated, he tossed down his quill and stood up. “God, you ask the most improper questions! With all the time you spent in French finishing schools, did they never teach you manners?”

She looked at him, eyes wide with surprise at his outburst. After a moment, she spoke. “You are very impressive when you are angry. Did you know that?” Without waiting for an answer, she went on, “You should get angry more often. You would be less stuffy if you—” She broke off, waving one hand in the air as if searching for the right words. “How do you English say it? If you let off the steam.”

“I do not need to let off steam, and I am not stuffy. I merely observe the manners of good society, which means I do not probe into people's
private lives.” He shot her a pointed glance across the room. “Unlike some people.”

“Dry as a stick,” she went on, assessing his character with blithe disregard for his protests or his censure. “You do not enjoy life enough.”

“That is absurd.”

“Is it?” She pulled a billiard cue off the rack on the wall and held it out in front of her as if studying its straightness. “You obey all the rules,” she went on, “and you do all the right things.” She stood the cue on the floor beside her and pressed the fist of her free hand to her heart. “You keep all your feelings knotted up here. It is not good, that. Do you never have fun?”

“Of course I do.”

“I have not seen it. You work all the time. You never play.” She lifted the cue in her hands again. “I have to use the stick to hit the ball, no?” Without waiting for an answer, she experimented with the cue in an awkward manner, trying to figure out the proper method of holding it.

Ian watched as she faced the table between them and leaned over.
Provocative minx,
he thought, his throat dry as he stared at the view.

She pushed the cue hard through her fingers to take a shot and managed to hit the white cue ball, but instead of gliding over the felt, the ball jumped the bumper and went flying off the table, barely missing Grace's favorite vase of French porcelain. It landed on the carpet with a thud.

“Keep that up,” he said, “and you're going to break something.”

She came around the table and picked up the ball. “Not if you teach me the correct way.”

He shouldn't. But he was going to. Deep down, he'd known that all along. He began walking toward her, feeling as if he were headed for the edge of a cliff, yet he was unable to stop. “Do I get my rematch at chess?”

“Of course. I always keep to a bargain.”

Ian came to her side at the billiard table and took the cue and ball from her. He demonstrated how to hold the cue in the correct manner, then gave it back to her and watched as she tried to duplicate what he had done. After a moment, it was clear that in this, at least, she was not acting. She had never held a billiard cue in her life.

“No,” he said and stepped closer. Even as he reminded himself that it was highly inappropriate for him to be touching her, he put his hand on hers and moved her index finger over the top of the cue. “Hold it like that.”

Her skin was like warm satin. “And make sure the cue stays centered on top of your thumb,” he added, manipulating her hand with his. “Like so. And over your middle finger as well.”

Ian forced himself to pull his hand back, and she tapped the ball with the cue. It hit the red, and both rolled about eighteen inches before coming to a stop. He leaned over the table to retrieve them so she could try again. As he did so, his thigh brushed her hip, a brief, agonizing contact that sent him closer to the edge of reason.

He fought for equilibrium. “Use a bit more
force,” he advised as he set the pair of billiard balls in front of her again, “but not so much that you send the ball flying off the table.”

Even as he said those words, he did not understand how he was able to utter them in such a relaxed tone of voice. The shape of her hip was like an indelible brand against his body, burning him, dissolving his wits.

He needed a drink.

“Take a few practice shots.” He walked away to pour himself a glass of port from one of the decanters in Dylan's liquor cabinet, reminding himself he had known this would happen. When he returned to her side of the room, he kept to the opposite end of the table, but even that was its own special torture, for every time she leaned over, he was given a splendid view of what was out of his reach. Her smile at him every time she managed to make a proper shot was like a touch that reached for him across the table. In a desperate attempt at distraction, he began explaining the basic rules of the game to her.