Guilty Series (107 page)

Ian also took charge of Lucia's gifts, promising to see that they reached her as soon as possible and expressing the opinion that she would be delighted and grateful to receive them. The jewels were a most generous gift for an illegitimate daughter, but Ian could not help noticing that among the pearls and diamonds, there was not a single ruby.

He remembered that conversation between Francesca and Lucia about the rubies. Not surprising, for he remembered every single thing about that night in excruciating detail. Over and over. He worked himself to exhaustion, but that did little good, for every task he was required to do brought Lucia to the forefront of his mind. Even sleep was no refuge, for he dreamed about her, waking with his body in the agonies of full arousal so often that he began to wonder if he had died without knowing it and gone to hell. Only hell could offer such torment.

For the seventeenth night in a row, Ian cursed her, raged at her, and tried to hate her, but he could not stop remembering that night in the carriage, he could not stop imagining her warm, willing body beneath him, he could not prevent her soft moans of pleasure from echoing through
his mind. Though she haunted him every hour, he could not hate her, no matter how he tried.

Two weeks after Lucia's departure for Tremore Hall, he received a letter from the duchess, saying that preparations were under way for the country house party. Invitations had been sent, menus planned, and amusements arranged, culminating in a grand ball, at the end of which Lucia would make her choice.

Those words were a sharp reminder to Ian of the brutal truth. She would choose Montrose, Blair, or Walford. One of those men would be the one to kiss her, touch her, bed her, possess her. With that thought, Ian no longer had to wonder if he was in hell. He knew it for certain.

Ian folded the duchess's letter and put it in his dispatch case, reminding himself that his own private hell would not last long.

Prince Cesare was arriving in one week. Once that happened, there would be a fortnight of events to attend—diplomatic affairs to discuss with the prince and his ministers throughout the days, and state dinners and balls that would last through the nights. There would be plenty of activity to keep his mind occupied and hopefully put his body into such a state of exhaustion that even Lucia wouldn't be able to torment what little sleep he would get.

There would be a few days at Tremore Hall for the party, where Lucia would make her choice. He could endure that. Then there would be a
wedding, but he wouldn't be there. Thank God Sir Gervase had messed up the Turkish situation so badly because it meant that by the time Lucia Valenti became the wife of some British peer, Ian would be on a ship for Anatolia. He would have his life back and, hopefully, his sanity.

T
remore Hall was a vast estate and every bit as grand as Prince Cesare's palace in Bolgheri. The grounds and gardens were lovely, the interior of the immense house richly decorated, and the duke's conservatory filled with exotic plants from all over the world. The duke and duchess were thoughtful, gracious hosts, and did everything possible to make Lucia feel welcome. The food was excellent, there were plenty of amusing things to do, and Cesare's ministers had sent a slew of dressmakers from London to begin preparing her bridal trousseau. In such circumstances, most women would be ecstatically happy.

Lucia was miserable.

It was not in her nature to be sad for long, yet
she could not shake the gloom that hung over her. She put on a good show, for she did not want to hurt the feelings of the duke and duchess, or have them think she was ungrateful. She helped plan the entertainments and amusements for the upcoming house party, a party to which over one hundred guests had been invited. She learned to play croquet, archery, and whist. When the guests began to arrive, she was equally gracious to each of her three suitors. All of them were perfect gentlemen in return, even managing to be polite to each other. Lucia smiled, acted content, pretended to be happy. Inside, she felt as if she were dying.

She thought of running away. It wouldn't be the first time she had done such a thing. If she could get to her mother, Francesca would give her money. She could run, hide. But her father would eventually find her. He always did. She had run away from so many bad situations in her life. Had it ever solved anything?

Another option was to choose one of the men, get to the altar, and then scream, “No!” at the proper moment, in front of all the wedding guests. That idea held a bit more appeal than running away, for it would completely humiliate her father. But it would also humiliate the poor groom, who would have done nothing to deserve such treatment. In addition, Cesare would probably send her back into a convent, have her locked in a cell so she couldn't run away, and leave her there to rot.

During the week of the house party, she asked the duchess every day if Ian had arrived, but every day, the answer was no. Time was set aside for her to spend with each of her three suitors. She walked with each of them, talked with each of them, danced with each of them. She tried to forget the man who did not want her and tried to appreciate the qualities of the three men who did. She tried to consider each suitor on his own merits, tried to see herself married to him, having children with him, being content with him. Women married men they did not love every day, she told herself over and over, and many of those women managed to be happy.

By the night of the ball, Ian had still not arrived at Tremore, but it did not matter. The only reason he was coming was to know which man she had chosen, and she had not made that decision. How could she?

Lucia stood before a mirror in her room as one maid fastened all the tiny, fabric-covered buttons down the back of her pink silk ball gown and another dressed her hair with fresh pink rosebuds. Through it all, she studied herself in the mirror with an odd sort of detachment, as if she were looking at someone else, and she realized she was. This was a wraith, a shadow of herself. She no longer knew who she was. She felt as if she were lost in a mist, trying to find her way home. But she had no home, and without love, she never would.

When she was dressed and ready, she sent the
maids away and walked to the window. She looked out over the vast expanse of Tremore's lawn, where lanterns had been lit and carriages of local gentry invited to the ball clogged the drive.

She was out of time. She had to choose. Blair, Montrose, Walford. Which would it be? A sob escaped her and she pressed her white-gloved fingers to her mouth. It was an impossible choice, for she could not bear the thought of being kissed by any of those men. She could not bear to be touched by any of those men. Not now. Not ever. Not after Ian. The very thought of it sickened her.

“Pardon me, miss?”

Lucia turned to see one of her maids had reentered her room. “Sir Ian Moore has arrived, and he wishes to see you before the ball.”

Her heart leapt in her breast, twisted with sweet, painful pleasure. Ian had come. “Where is he?”

“He said he would wait for you in His Grace's conservatory. Do you know where that is?”

“Yes, yes, thank you.” Lucia reached for her fan and followed the maid out of the room. She went down the three flights of stairs to the ground floor, impossible hopes spinning through her mind. What if he had come to take her away? Hope quickened her steps, until she was running down the long corridor of crimson carpet and gold draperies that led to the conservatory. What if he had decided he loved her?

Ian's valet, Harper, was standing by the double doors at the end of the corridor, and he opened
one for her. Lucia gave him a nod of greeting as she passed by. Once she was inside, Harper closed the door behind her.

The Duke of Tremore's famous conservatory was a glass-ceilinged room larger than the ballroom of her father's palace. It was filled with trees and plants from all over the globe and decorated with statues, fountains, and urns. Iron brackets set high in Roman columns held gas lamps and illuminated the room. Out of breath, she came to a halt, trying to find Ian amid the dense foliage, but she could not see him.

“Ian?” she called.

He stepped out from behind a thickly covered trellis of vines, and looking at him filled her with a joy so intense, she couldn't speak. She could only stare, drinking in the sight of him, hoping she was not dreaming.

He was dressed in formal attire for the ball. A fine jacket of black wool encased his wide shoulders, and matching black trousers sheathed his long legs. Not a single wrinkle dared to mar his waistcoat of gold-and-black figured silk. His linen was immaculate, of course, snowy white and perfectly pressed. He had not a hair out of place and not a speck of lint on his clothes. Even the black eye that had given him a sort of rakish air had faded to near invisibility. She had never seen a more splendid sight in her life. Her joy bubbled over and she began to laugh. “You really do have the most amazing valet,” she said, still out of breath from her long run. “When
you look like this, I always want to muss you up.”

He did not laugh with her. His expression was composed, grave, inscrutable. His diplomat face.

Lucia felt her laughter fading away. “When did you arrive?” she asked.

“A few hours ago. I brought a gift for you from your father.” He turned away, beckoning her. “Come with me.”

She followed him behind the trellis of vines and saw a long, carved-marble table, where a vast array of orchids was displayed. Some of the orchids had been pushed aside to make room for a gold chest about eighteen inches square and six inches high.

He opened the chest, revealing a small but dazzling collection of jewels. “Your father felt you should have these. They will become part of your dowry.”

She glanced at the diamonds and pearls on the red velvet interior, then she looked at him.

Not a flicker of emotion showed in his eyes. No flash of fire. His eyes were cool and impersonal, reminding her of the first time she had ever seen him. “This is only part of it,” he said. “There is also gold plate, silver, and crystal. Service for thirty, I believe. I thought you might wish to wear some of the jewels tonight so I brought them with me. Everything else is in London.”

She studied the chest and its contents. “Not only service for thirty, but jewels, too. Very generous of Cesare. No rubies, though, of course.”
She forced a laugh, but it sounded hollow to her own ears. “I suppose it is a good thing that Cesare has not given me rubies. They would clash with my dress.”

She set aside her fan and reached into the chest. She pulled out the tiara and put it on her head, setting it at an absurdly crooked angle. She turned to give him a whimsical smile, hoping it would make him laugh. “What do you think?”

He did not smile back. He did not straighten the tiara for her. Instead, he stepped back. “You must tell me whom you chose,” he said, clasping his hands behind him in his most stiff and formal manner. “I have already received written approval from your father for any of the three, so I will be able to call the man of your choice aside during the evening and give him my formal acceptance. Then I will make the announcement.”

Those words pierced her heart like an arrow, killing all the wild, crazy hopes she'd had while coming down the stairs. She ducked her head to hide her expression. Some of his rigid control must be rubbing off on her because pride would not allow her to let him see how she felt. Head bent, she toyed with the jewels. “I have not made my choice yet.”

“I see.” There was a long pause, then he gave a heavy sigh. “You must choose tonight, Lucia.”

“Yes, I know.” She pulled a diamond necklace from the chest and studied it. “I never gave you that rematch at chess.”

“Forget about it.”

“Don't you want to know if—” Her voice broke, and she held up the necklace, forcing another smile. “I want to wear this, but I cannot fasten the clasp with my gloves on.”

He made a sound, impatience perhaps, and yanked the necklace out of her hands. “Turn around.”

Lucia did, and felt the coolness of platinum against her collarbone as he wrapped the piece of jewelry around her neck. His knuckles brushed her nape as he hooked the clasp. Then his hands stilled, but he did not pull them away.

“I can hear the musicians tuning their instruments,” he said. “The ball is about to begin.”

“Yes.” She didn't move. “Ian—”

“I had best take you there.” His hands slid away, and Lucia felt as if he had just grasped at the arrow in her heart and twisted it.

“Of course,” she murmured, picked up her fan, and turned to take his arm. He took up the chest with his free hand, and they left the conservatory.

His valet was still standing in the corridor. “Take this, Harper,” he said, and handed over the chest, then he escorted Lucia to the ballroom at the other end of the long corridor. Neither of them spoke.

The music grew louder as they approached the ballroom. Its immense double doors had been flung back, and couples were beginning to take the floor. Standing just outside the doors was
Lord Blair. She had promised the first dance to him, and he was waiting to claim it.

Ian saw the other man as well and came to a halt. “Enjoy your evening,” he murmured to her. “I'll be in the conservatory. When you've made your choice, have him come and find me so I can give my formal consent. I'll return here with him and make the announcement.”

She watched him as he turned away. “You're not attending the ball?”

He paused. “No,” he said over his shoulder without looking at her. Then he started down the corridor.

Lucia watched him as he walked away, and she thought of the prayer she'd made that day in Lady Kettering's garden. Every word of her prayer had come true. She had found the man she wanted to marry. She'd found the man who made her pulses race and her breath catch. She'd found the man she could talk to and laugh with and love for a lifetime. The problem was that man didn't love her in return, and she realized she had forgotten to ask God for that part. Lucia crossed her fingers, closed her eyes, and said another prayer. But when she opened her eyes, Ian was still walking away.

 

Dawn was breaking. Ian leaned back against the stone wall in Tremore's conservatory, staring at the place beside the table of orchids where he had stood with Lucia and given her the jewels from her father. He wondered when she would find the ruby. At his order, a London jeweler had
removed one of the tiny baguette diamonds in her tiara and replaced it with a ruby. He'd had it placed at one end of the circlet, where it would be tucked into her hair, where Prince Cesare wouldn't be able to see it when she wore it to her wedding. But whom would she marry?

Ian lowered his gaze to his evening jacket, waistcoat, and cravat. They lay where he had tossed them hours ago, in a careless heap of black and white on the floor that would have horrified Harper. Ian stared at the garments. He'd meant to attend the ball. He'd been expected to attend, required to attend. It was terribly bad taste not to attend. Hell with it.

For the hundredth time, he wondered whom she'd chosen, and he forced himself to stop. It was not his concern. He would know her choice when that man came to him.

Only a few more hours, and he could leave. Only a few more days, after he'd seen her father, he would be done with this whole affair. Then he could be himself again. This hunger, this need, this madness that had been threatening to overtake him and ruin his life would pass. He could leave, put all of this behind him, and get on with things. Important things.

The Greeks and the Turks were about to go to war, and war would be catastrophic for British interests there. Within a week he'd be on a ship headed for Constantinople to try and find a diplomatic solution. That was the work he did. What he was meant to do. Strange that the trivial task
of finding a husband for a beautiful, capricious, impossible, unpredictable tease of a woman was the hardest assignment he'd ever had.

In the distance, the music stopped. The ball was over. He waited, but no one came. He listened for the tap of some man's heels on the conservatory's stone floor, but none came.

As he waited, he closed his eyes and tried to concentrate on how he was going to prevent a war in Anatolia, but instead, he found himself imagining the nape of Lucia's neck, where dark wisps of her hair had come loose from the intricate knot at the back of her head. They had been like curls of silken thread against his fingers when he'd fastened that necklace.

He smiled, remembering how she'd put her tiara on crooked. Like a little girl playing dress-up, he thought, and he stopped smiling. In that moment, he'd seen her future—he'd seen what her daughters would be like. They'd be like her. Sweet, soft, beautiful, impossible girls with vulnerable, romantic hearts and smiles like warm Italian sunshine, girls who wanted to be loved and demanded to be adored, who would grow up to bedevil and enchant the next generation of honorable British gentlemen. The only question was who the father of those girls would be.