Guilty Series (105 page)

“Nothing,” she said in that small voice women were wont to use when something was very wrong indeed.

“You've been crying,” he accused.

She looked at him, eyes wide. “I think I have a cold.” She bit her lip, then lowered her chin.

“Don't you know by now I can always tell when you're lying? Something is wrong, and I want to know what it is.”

A small cough interrupted them before she could answer, and Ian looked up to find Osgoode standing in the doorway with a small, paper-
wrapped package in his hands. Before the servant could say a word, Lucia gave a cry, tossed aside her book, and jumped to her feet. She ran to Osgoode, and by the time she reached the butler, she was laughing.

Ian blinked at this startling transformation. How did a woman go from melancholia to ecstasy in the space of a few seconds? he wondered, baffled.

“At last!” she cried. “It has come at last!
Grazie,
Osgoode,
grazie!
“

She took the parcel and placed a smacking kiss on its brown-paper surface. This purely Italian show of sentiment no doubt shocked poor Osgoode, but ever the impassive servant, the butler did not show it. He departed with a bow.

“What is it?” Ian came around the desk and leaned back against it, watching as she untied the strings wrapped around what was clearly a jeweler's box. “A gift from an admirer?” he guessed, knowing it had better not be anything of the kind. “If so, it must be returned. You cannot keep anything more significant than flowers. Otherwise, you'll have another poor fool thinking you're engaged to him.”

“This is not from a man!” She shook her head as she tore off paper with all the impatient joy of a child. “It is from Mamma. For my birthday. She did not forget me!”

“Is today your birthday?” he asked in surprise.

She nodded. “I waited all the day, but nothing
came, and I began to think she had forgotten. But no.” Lucia succeeded in getting the paper off at last. Triumphant and laughing, she opened the box. “Oh, Mamma!” she cried in amazement.

She lifted her hand, and Ian saw that twined in her fingers was a delicate bracelet of rubies set in platinum. It glittered like a ring of red fire in the lamplight.

“Very lovely.” He looked into her face, expecting to see smiles of delight.

She was crying again.

He stared at her. A tear rolled down her cheek, and he felt the world sliding sideways. The only conclusion he could make about this was that her seesawing emotions were sending him over the edge at last. “What's wrong now?”

When she didn't answer, he straightened away from the desk and moved to stand in front of her. “Lucia, what the devil is the matter?”

“It is rubies,” she said, as if that explained everything.

He folded his arms and tried, with sensible male logic, to determine the problem and effect a solution. “You don't like rubies?”

She shook her head as another tear spilled over and ran down her face. “I love rubies.”

Desperate, Ian tried again. “You don't like bracelets?”

With a sniff, she wiped the back of her free hand over her cheek. “I love bracelets.”

He pulled out his handkerchief and handed it to her, resigning himself to a game of Twenty
Questions. “Prefer gold over platinum, do you?”

Lucia gave a sob, and he couldn't take it anymore. “What is the damned problem?” he shouted.

She looked up into his face. “I miss my mother.”

Ian drew in a sharp breath and realized he'd just been outmaneuvered. Sucker punched. Checkmated by a woman's tears, the one move no man could ever defend against.

Hell.

He grabbed her by the elbow. “Come on.”

“Where are we going?” she asked, clutching her bracelet with one hand and blowing her nose into his handkerchief with the other as he propelled her toward the door.

“Don't say a word, Lucia,” he ordered. “Quit while you're ahead.”

He ordered Jarvis to go out and hail a hansom cab, giving the footman very specific instructions that when the cab arrived, the top was to be up, the windows and curtains closed, and no lamps lit in the interior of the coach. The last thing Lucia's reputation needed right now was for someone to catch sight of them. As they waited in the foyer for Jarvis to return with the hansom, Ian's sensible side tried to reassert itself, reminding him that his orders had been very specific, that violating those orders was stupid, and that whenever he did something stupid, he paid for it.

When the hansom arrived, he ushered Lucia into the vehicle, gave their destination to the driver, and stepped up into the carriage. Then he
sat down and looked at the woman across from him.

The curtains behind him had not been completely closed, and the moonlight through the window was a slash across her astonished, tear-stained face. “You are taking me to see Mamma?”

His sensible side told him he was going to regret this. “Happy birthday.”

Through her tears, she smiled at him as if he was king of the earth.

Ian told his sensible side to shut up.

“M
ia bambina cara!”
Francesca crossed the drawing room, arms opened wide to enfold her daughter. “What are you doing here?”

“Oh, Mamma,” she cried in Italian. “I have missed you terribly!” Those words were all Lucia could manage before her throat clogged up. Unable to say anything more, she hugged her mother tight, so happy to see her, she felt as if her heart would burst.

Francesca patted her back in affectionate, soothing motions. “I have missed you, too, daughter. So very much. But what's this?” She pulled back, lifted Lucia's face, and smiled. “Some things do not change. You are a woman now, not a little girl,
yet you cry every time I see you. We say hullo, we say good-bye—it does not seem to matter. You cry both ways.” She pressed her lips to Lucia's cheeks, kissing tears away. “Did you get your present?”

In answer, Lucia pulled back the edge of her cloak and lifted her wrist. “It is beautiful. But rubies, Mamma?” She began to laugh through her tears. “That is so wicked of you.”

“You are a child of the House of Bolgheri, and you should have jewels of the House of Bolgheri. The fact that I was never married to your father should have nothing to do with it.”

“Cesare has never allowed me to have rubies. You know that. He would be furious if he knew you had given me such a present.”

Francesca made a careless gesture with her hand. “I care nothing for Cesare's fury. I never did. He rages, he shouts, he stomps his feet. He is like a bull, your father, so unreasonable. So stubborn. But what can he do to me? Nothing.”

“So, if he is a bull, the rubies are the red cape you wave in his face?” Lucia asked, smiling.

“Not in his face, no. Only behind his back. Be sure you never wear the bracelet around him, Lucia, for he will take it away.” Francesca glanced past her. “But who is this who has come with you?”

“Oh!” Lucia realized her mother had never met Ian, and she performed introductions in English. “Mamma, this is Sir Ian Moore. Sir Ian, my mother, Francesca Pelissaro.”

“Excellency.” If she was surprised by Ian's
presence in direct defiance of Cesare's orders, she gave no sign of it. She curtsied. “Thank you for bringing my daughter to visit me. I am most grateful.”

“Not at all.” Ian took off his hat and bowed, then turned toward the fireplace, causing Lucia to realize there was another person in the room. “Chesterfield,” he said with a nod to the other man.

“Sir Ian.” Lord Chesterfield bowed, then he crossed the room to greet Lucia, a smile on his round, rubicund face. “My dear child. It is good to see you.”

She returned his smile with sincere affection. The baron had been quite kind to her during her stay at Cavendish Square, and he was very generous to Mamma. In fact, he had the good sense to be in love with her. “It is wonderful to see you, my lord. I hope I do not disarrange your evening by interrupting?”

He patted her arm. “Of course not. I shall leave you to a nice, long visit and adjourn to the study.” He turned to the man by the door. “Join me, Sir Ian?”

“My pleasure.” Ian glanced at Lucia. “We cannot stay long.”

She nodded, and the two men left the room, closing the door behind them.

Francesca led her to the settee. “I heard that you might be engaged to Lord Haye?”

“Ugh!” Lucia flung off her cloak and tossed it onto a nearby chair, then she kicked off her
slippers and curled up on one end of the settee. “No, I am not engaged to Haye. It was all a misunderstanding.”

She explained the circumstances.

“Soiled goods?” her mother cried when she had finished. “My daughter? That is an outrage! I should like to walk up to Lord Haye and slap him for such an insult. I might do it!”

“No, no, there is no need for that. I do not love him, so it does not matter.”

“Still—” Francesca broke off and made a sound of contempt that sounded rather like a cat sneezing. “If that is how he thinks, it is no surprise he kisses like a fish.”

“It does explain it,” Lucia agreed. “I feel as if I have had a most fortunate escape. Still, Cesare comes in less than three weeks. What am I to do?”

“Since Haye is not a possibility, what of the other gentlemen I have been hearing about? This Lord Montrose, for instance, who gave Sir Ian the black eye. What of him?”

She shook her head decisively. “No. Not Montrose.”

“Perhaps you should kiss him,” Francesca teased, “before you make up your mind.”

“Mamma!” she said in exasperation. “You are not helping!”

“You are right. I am sorry.” Chastened, Francesca tried to be serious. “What of Walford?”

Lucia stared at her, horrified.

“Good,” Francesca said, noting her expression
with a nod. “I'm glad your heart does not lean in his direction, for he is rather a fool. You would never be happy with Lord Walford.”

“I quite agree with you, Mamma. I don't even have enough interest in Walford to
want
to kiss him.”

Francesca nodded in understanding. “A man's kiss is very important. You will always be able to tell by a man's kiss how you feel about him.”

“Do you think so?” Lucia sat up a little straighter on the settee, struck by those words. “Is a kiss enough to know?”

“You kissed Haye, and you were certain that he was not right. With Armand, you kissed him, and you fell in love. It seems to always be so with you.”

“Yes, but I was wrong about Armand. I loved him, and he broke my heart. He did not love me, Mamma.”

“Stupid man! He had no sense.”

“Yes, but—”

“Just be sure you only kiss men with good sense, and all will be well.”

She looked at her mother's smiling face, and she couldn't help laughing. “Oh, Mamma, you are impossible! I want advice!”

“But what is it you want me to say?” Francesca leaned forward and patted her hand. “Lucia, I am not like most women. Although I know what it is like to be in love with a man, having a man's love and giving him mine for a lifetime has never mattered much to me. I have always seen romantic
love as a transient thing, here today and gone tomorrow.”

“Love does not last.” Lucia's spirits began sinking. “Is that what you are trying to tell me?”

“I am saying that is how I feel about it. But then, I am perhaps too cynical. Too hard.”

“Mamma, you are not hard at all! I think you are wonderful, and if Chesterfield had any brains, he would marry you.”

“He has offered many times. I have refused.”

“But why?”

“Oh, my darling!” Francesca lifted her hand to Lucia's face and caressed her cheek. “You are so different from me.”

“In what way?”

“You have such an enormous capacity for love. It astonishes me. It always has. When the right man comes, you will be able to throw all of yourself into loving him—your body, your heart, your soul.”

“Of course.” She stared at her mother, still not comprehending. “What other way is there?”

Francesca smiled a little, but it was a sad smile. “I envy you, Lucia. I loved one man, and that was all there was for me. Now, my body is the only part of myself I can truly give away to a man. That, and a bit of my affection. The rest, I hold back from him. I do not know why, but that is how I am. It is what I have become. It is what a courtesan must be.”

Lucia did not know what to say. She had never thought of her mother in this light before. She
said the only thing she could think of. “I love you, Mamma.”

“I love you, too, my beautiful girl. More than I can say.” She leaned back against the arm of the settee. “So it is advice you want of your mamma? Very well. As I said before, you need to fall in love with a man of good sense, enough good sense to love you in return.”

“In three weeks? I am beginning to think it is impossible.”

“Ask Sir Ian to persuade your father to give you more time.”

“He offered to do so, but he did not think Cesare would consent. I am afraid he is right.”

“Sir Ian offered to go to your father on your behalf?” She clapped her hands together with a laugh. “So you have succeeded in charming him, just as I suggested.”

Lucia gave her a rueful look. “Most of the time, Mamma, he does not even like me.”

“Nonsense. He brought you here in defiance of Cesare's orders, did he not?”

“Only because I got your present, and I missed you so much I started crying. He felt sorry for me.”

“Men never do things for women because they feel sorry for us. Never. No, you have succeeded in charming him.”

“He didn't seem very charmed after he got that black eye the other night,” Lucia said and began to laugh. “Oh, he was so angry with me! If dragons were real, Mamma, that man would be one,
for when he is angry, his eyes flash like dragon fire. It is extraordinary.”

“Like a dragon, is he?” Her mother sounded amused.

Lucia scarcely noticed. She leaned forward on the settee. “Mamma, do you really think a kiss tells a woman what she needs to know?”

“I think it tells
you
what you need to know, Lucia. It is not so for all women, but for you, I think, yes.”

“But—” Lucia bit her lip, wavering, uncertain. She wanted Ian's kiss more than she'd wanted anything in her life. On the other hand, she now had his good opinion and she didn't want to lose it. If she kissed him, it would confirm his original assessment of her as a flirt and a tease.

Her mind flitted back briefly over other men she had kissed. Some had been like Haye, a true disappointment. Some had inspired in her a sort of mild interest, but nothing more.

Then she had met Armand. She thought of him and their nights together in the dark. So lonely she had been then, and he had been the antidote. They had talked and laughed and held hands. There had been anticipation and secret plans and the ache of longing. There had been kisses, many sweet kisses. He had always wanted more. He had wanted to touch her in forbidden places, and she had always stopped him. He had wanted her to lie down with him in the grass. She never had. As much as she had loved him, never had she lost her head, never had she lost control. Always,
she had held back, waiting for the declaration of love, waiting for the marriage proposal. Neither had ever come. Armand had wanted her, but he had not loved her.

She looked over at her mother, who was watching her with a little smile. “A kiss can never tell a woman how a man feels, can it, Mamma?”

Francesca's smile faded. “I'm afraid not, my darling. That is where a woman takes a leap of faith.”

“I took that leap of faith with Armand, and I got a broken heart.”

“But you still have utter faith in love. You want to love again, and you will.” She paused, then said, “Perhaps that is the difference between us, Lucia. When I took that leap of faith as a girl, I ended up both ruined and devastated, and I could never find the courage to love again. You will find the courage. You are made that way.”

The sound of the door opening interrupted her, and Ian walked in. He paused just inside the door, and Chesterfield stepped past him into the room.

“Forgive me.” Ian looked at Lucia and donned his hat. “We must be going.”

She did not try to argue, for she knew he had risked a great deal just to bring her here. She got to her feet, put on her slippers, and slipped her cloak around her shoulders. Then she took a deep breath and looked at her mother. “Another good-bye, Mamma.”

“But there is always another hello, Lucia. Remember that, and do not be sad.”

“I will try,” she promised, kissed Francesca, and said farewell to Chesterfield. Ian beside her, she left the house without a backward glance. After assisting her to step into the carriage, Ian gave the driver instructions to return to Portman Square and followed her into the vehicle.

“Did you enjoy your visit with your mother?” he asked, settling himself in one corner of the carriage opposite her.

“Yes, I did.” She pushed back the hood of her cloak and looked at him, but the carriage was so dark, she could not see him. “I know what it cost you to bring me here, and I—” She stopped, her heart so full of gratitude that she found it hard to speak. “Thank you. It was a wonderful birthday present.”

“I am glad you enjoyed it.”

She heard him rap his fist on the ceiling to tell the driver they were ready to leave. The carriage jerked into motion.

Lucia stared at the corner where he sat, wishing she could see him. Moonlight fell through an opening in the curtains of the window behind him, and though that slash of silver light illuminated part of her side of the coach, it left his side in darkness. She could make out his cravat, a ghostly glimmer of grayish-white, but that was all. She could not see his face, but even had she been able to discern his expression, it would have told her nothing. It never did. His eyes could sometimes tell her things, but in the darkness of the coach, she could not see them.

Never had she met a man like him. His un
yielding sense of propriety baffled her. His control and his discipline fascinated her. His laughter enchanted her. His kiss delighted her. He was an intriguing, enigmatic mystery, and she wanted to understand him.

“There is something I want to know about you,” she said, “something I have wondered ever since that night we played chess. How did you get the scar? And how did you break your nose? You must have been in a fight.”

“Yes.”

“What happened?”

“I lost my temper.” He stirred in his seat. “I don't really like to talk about it.”

“I understand. Because you are so controlled, so disciplined, you do not want to talk about the times when you are not.”

“Yes.”

She waited, not saying anything more, and her silence seemed to impel him to explain. “It was at Harrow. There was a fellow ragging me about my brother, and when he made a derogatory comment about Dylan's music, I just snapped. I went after him. He broke my nose, yes, and the ring on his hand gave me the scar, but I did far worse to him.” He drew a deep breath. “I broke his jaw and three of his ribs before I was able to stop myself and walk away.”