Lessons of Desire (8 page)

"You call read another time. I think you are a woman who already does so too much." She rose and beckoned Phaedra to follow. "You may be content in your dress, but Signora Whitmarsh is not a happy guest. She thinks you are a witch trying to enchant her husband, and you are so unusual she does not know how to compete. She is mad to think it, but I can see her suspicions on her long face. We will make you presentable and ordinary for dinner tonight so she does not sit there like a dark cloud."

Rebelling al being coerced but unable to form an excuse to thwart her hostess's plan, Phaedra stood. Signora Roviale linked her arm through Phaedra's and firmly led her up the stairs.

Elliot stripped off the shirt now damp from sea spray. He handed it lo the servant to wash, then groomed himself for dinner. The fishing excursion had been good sport, made more jovial by the wineskins that Matthias had thrown into the boat.

He stepped off on the balcony and listened. No sounds came from Phaedra's chamber. Assuming that she had already gone below, he made his way lo the drawing room. The whole party had assembled, except the one woman he looked forward lo seeing.

He wondered if she had used his absence to slip away. He cursed his negligence. The relaxing combination of sun and sea, the low arousal that would not cease, had made him forget the reason she was with him in the first place.

He spoke with Whitmarsh and Greenwood. With each passing minute his suspicions about Phaedra's escape increased. He was about to ask Signora Roviale about Miss Blair's activities today when Whitmarsh suddenly stopped talking and stared past Greenwood's shoulder. The expression on Whitmarsh s face made Elliot look in that direction too.

Greenwood
turned his head. "Oh, my. Is that our Miss Blair?"

Apparently it was, but this Miss Blair did not look much like the one Elliot knew. The black robes were gone, replaced by an azure dinner dress with ivory lace and short gigot sleeves. Its satin sash hugged her midriff and its neck and shoulders revealed a lot of white, dewy skin. The elegant, firm swells of her breasts rose above the décolleté.

Her hair had been dressed too. No longer streaming free, it formed a style thick with coils and braiding that appeared very fashionable. She sported a bit of paint on her face, or maybe the attention aimed at her merely caused her to blush.

"She is even more beautiful than her mother." Whitmarsh muttered. "If she can look like this, one wonders why she hides herself in that nun's habit."

Elliot knew why. The reason filled the drawing room. Silence fell as men eyed her and women assessed her. He walked through the stunned party to spare her from being a spectacle any longer.

"You look very beautiful tonight, Miss Blair. Let us find you some wine."

She fell in step with him while he led her toward the servant with the glasses. The party returned to its conversations.

"Signora Roviale did this to me. Il is her dress," she said. "The woman is implacable. There was no way out."

He handed her a glass of wine. "You were kind lo indulge her." He tried like the devil not lo lei his gaze linger on the white expanse above the dress. He wanted to lick and nibble the creamy skin all along the azure edge.

"It took
hours.
I had forgotten that part. And these stays—well, you can imagine how my poor body did not
like that."

Not really. He could imagine her in chemise and stockings, before the stays, however, and after, before the pretty dress was donned.

"I expect with practice it all gels easier"

"There will be no practice. As soon as dinner is finished this experiment will be over. I merely pray that I do not faint first. I cannot wait lo be relieved of this torture. It is unbearably hot, for one thing. The Arabs wear flowing clothes in hot climates for a reason, I have discovered. Furthermore—"

Suddenly in mid-sentence her harangue halted. She flushed furiously, as if she saw in his eyes what unfolded in his imagination, of the dress dropping and the slays loosening and her body emerging. The dress gave a better view of that body than her black robes and he pictured her naked very clearly now.

Whitmarsh approached, oozing charm. Greenwood kept an eye on Miss Blair while he spoke with others. Miss Blair took a deep breath and sallied forth to dazzle with her brilliance as well as her beauty.

When the dinner party broke up, Phaedra fully intended to escape al once to her chamber to shed her uncomfortable garments. She changed her mind when she saw Matthias Greenwood walking toward his
studio.
On an impulse she followed him, catching up as he opened the door.

"Mr. Greenwood, I wonder if I can speak privately with you," she said.

"Certainly, Miss Blair. Please join me. My attention will be yours alone in here."

She accepted his welcome and his offer of a chair beside his desk. Perched there under his tutorial scrutiny, she felt a bit like a student petitioning a don.

"Mr. Greenwood, al home I have been speaking with people who knew my mother. I have some questions about events at the end of her life. You knew her too, and your name came up several times. There are others who have suggested you may be able to help me."

"Others?"

"Friends of hers. Women who have helped me piece together who attended my mother's salons and such."

"I will aid in any way I can, but I was not a close friend. My duties al university meant that I saw her infrequently."

"I understand. However, it is your relative distance that may have enabled you to see more clearly than her closest intimates did."

He appeared skeptical, but willing. "What information do you seek?"

"You may find my questions a little bold."

He laughed. "I would be disappointed if they were not. If you are searching the world for answers I hope the questions are not the middling sort."

His good humor made it easier. She decided to start with the boldest question of all. "Did you ever suspect that my mother had a new lover the last years of her life?"

For all his demands for boldness, the question embarrassed him a little. The chiseled angles of his face softened into something approaching chagrin. "I had no real cause to think that. However
...
well, Drury was ever-present when I first met your mother, and much less present the last year or so."

"Do you know who the other man was?"

His eyes warmed with sympathy. His small smile was that of an uncle for a favored niece. "I do not even know there was one. Are you so certain there was?"

"My father thought there was."

"Men can be wrong about such things. Passion cools, distance grows—he could have misunderstood."

She knew that was possible. Matthias was not the only one who had said as much. Several of Her mother's friends had suggested the same explanation. She rather hoped that was the answer herself.

"Was there anyone whom you considered a likely possibility?"

He shook his head. "Is it so important to know the name, or even if the suspicion is correct?"

"If it had been a normal affair, I would say not."

He wailed patiently for her to continue, neither encouraging nor discouraging further revelations with his comforting demeanor. She understood why Elliot liked this man. There was something to Matthias Greenwood that inspired confidences and trust. He possessed a solid openness that refused even slight dissembling.

"My mother bequeathed me a cameo" she said. "Her will said it came from Pompeii. She intended it to provide me with some security, and I always assumed it would as well. However, before my father died he claimed it was a fraud, sold to her by this other lover."

A frown formed. Concern entered his eyes. "Are you dependent on the value of this cameo?"

"My financial situation has become more complicated of late. I might need to sell it. However, if it is a fake—"

"It will be worth a mere fraction of what she thought and probably what she paid. Nor can you sell it at all unless you know for certain, unless you want to risk being a party to fraud yourself."

"Exactly."

"I see your dilemma. I am dismayed that your legacy is in question. If an admirer took such ruthless advantage of Artemis, the scoundrel should be hung. She was nothing but generous to all whom she met, but—well, perhaps too trusting and too slow to see that there were those who would use her."

He glanced an apology for this mild criticism.

"She did perhaps trust to a fault, Mr. Greenwood. And her generosity means that she left little besides that cameo. I suppose I could keep it as a memento, but if it symbolizes the theft of both her affection and her funds it will have no sentimental value for me."

"I would ask to see the cameo in an attempt to lay your concerns to rest, but I regret that I cannot claim

expertise in such things. We could show it to Whitmarsh, of course. He is better schooled in gents than I am. However, it would make more sense to ask the experts al Pompeii—" His frown cleared. He chuckled. "Which is why you are in Italy, isn't it? Of course, I see."

"Do you think they will be able to give me a secure answer there?"

"As secure as is possible. As you may already know, opinions can vary. I will write to the superintendent, however, to smooth the road for you. He has been involved in the excavations for twenty years, and can speak to your item's provenance as well as its visible signs of antiquity."

"I appreciate your willingness to help me. I wonder if I can impose on your kindness a bit more. I fear that it means asking for speculations that you may not want to make."

"I am not too good to gossip, Miss Blair. Up to a point."

She suspected she would broach that point, and perhaps step over it. "If in fact this cameo, real or fake, was given or sold to my mother by a man during the last years of her life, can you think of any man in her circle who would have had access to such things?"

His hawk eyes turned hooded and his sharp gaze looked inward. He pondered her question al length. She thought she saw him picking through memories of salons and dinner parties long ago, examining faces and recalling conversations.

"I do not have a name for you," he finally said.

Disappointment stabbed, but not very deeply. It would have been nice to have the whole mystery explained today, but she had not really expected that to happen.

"However, perhaps..." The hawk gaze flashed inward for another moment. "You see, I am remembering a gem said to come from a cache in Pompeii, only it was not owned by your mother. I recall its availability being discussed during one of those salons that she liked to hold. It could be the same one you now own, or a different one."

"Do you remember what was said?"

"Not much. I had no interest in it. I cannot even place this conversation in time very well."

She looked over her shoulder to the glass cases. "I would have thought you would be very interested."

"Not in this. I realized at once that its provenance was shaky. Anything removed from Pompeii is stolen property. There can be no documentation of its discovery there because that would reveal it as stolen." He shrugged. "There are those who do not care about such niceties, and others very quick to believe whatever tales are spun, of course. Thus do bad dealers make their fortunes."

"Do you remember how this cameo was available'' Was someone selling it?"

He tapped his fingers on the desk and thought hard. "It was so long ago
...
I do not want to impugn..."

"You will impugn no one. Nor will I. I will make no accusations unless I am certain of all the facts. There will be no gossip, no slander or libel. I merely want to know in which direction I should perhaps go."

"I do not remember the particulars at all. However, there were several dealers who fluttered around Artemis Blair. Two were often present those last years. One, Horace Needly, has a solid reputation but, of course, one never knows when it comes to trade. The other I had less faith in, mostly because he avoided conversations with scholars like myself. That made one wonder if his own expertise could stand scrutiny." "What was his name?"

"Thornton. Nigel Thornton. Personable fellow. Successful too, as I recall, but his rarities were of a middling sort."

"I thank you for both names. I will see what I can learn when I return to England. You have been a great help and I am grateful." She rose to go. He smiled warmly, clearly pleased to have been of service.

"Mr. Greenwood, forgive me, but—wasn't there at least one oilier dealer in her circle then? Mr. Whitmarsh. You said the other day that he flogs antiquities in Rome and—"

"That was good-humored jabbing among friends. Miss Blair. Since he came to Italy he has been known to pass along an item or two that fell into his lap and that he no longer wanted for himself. Nothing more. I have done it too. It is hardly dealing." He spoke indulgently while he escorted her to the door. "Nor did he engage in such trade while in England, not even in a minor way. It would not do, would it? He is a gentleman, after all."

"Hurry I cannot wait any longer. Faster." A deep groan followed Miss Blair's exhortations. "Oh, yes. Finally,
yes
."

Elliot stood outside on the balcony with his back rested against the building's wall. He laughed to himself at the moans coming through the door beside his. Phaedra being relieved and released of stays and satin sounded much like a woman being relieved and released in other ways.

He could hear her dismissing the servant, then muttering. "What hell. Never again. Women are mad to dress thus."

Vague sounds of her moving in the chamber seeped out. He walked a few paces down the balcony and resumed his pose right outside her door.

"Did you survive, Miss Blair? Or were you permanently deformed?"

She stuck her head out, looking for him. She startled when she saw him so close. "You find this amusing, don't you?"

"Not at all." His laugh made a liar of him.

She frowned furiously. "Stay there. I want to talk to you about something." Her head ducked inside.

A few minutes later she emerged, swathed in black. Her hair had not been taken down yet so she was not completely back to the Phaedra of old.

"How much longer do you intend to keep me here?" she asked.

Her words alluded to everything that had occurred since the day he entered that garden in Naples. They contained all of her resentments.

"A few days. Longer if you like. You must admit it is tasteful here."

"I did not sail from England in order to rest."

"We can leave in three days, if you want. However, I thought that you appreciated the company of those who knew your mother."

She moved to the balustrade and looked out on the black sea. He watched her back and saw the naked body despite the drapery hiding it.

"I confess that I am enjoying this visit more than I expected, except for
la signora's
impositions today. This detour, while inconvenient, has proven fortuitous. I should have considered that it would be useful to—that meeting people from my mother's circle was not only possible but more probable if I accompanied you."

Why she might find it
useful
would be intriguing if the night were not so quiet and cool, and the moonlight did not make her so lovely.

"Has Mr. Greenwood lived here long?" she asked.

"He bought the properly perhaps six, seven years ago. He only took permanent residence four years ago. The last time I visited the building was quite rustic still."

"I expect that he knows all the experts on antiquity, from Milan to Sicily."

"Most likely It is not so large a group and they naturally seek each oilier out"

"So he was a university don who bought this villa, made improvements, and moved his life here. He must come from a wealthy family."

His hunger was impatient with her small talk but he would indulge her for a while. He pushed away from the wall and joined her at the balustrade.

"He lived frugally when at Cambridge. A relative bequeathed some money, however. This villa probably cost less than a small house in London. Property does not have the same value here." He admired the intricate workings of her hairstyle. It would take a long time to release this part of the night's finery. Too long. He would leave it be.

Aside from one glance she did not read to his proximity "He spoke as if he visits the excavations often and knows the archaeologists there."

"I expect so. Why are you so curious about him?" Matthias was old enough to be her father, and Whitmarsh almost so, but their admiration of her beauty tonight had provoked a few jealous suspicions that probably were not warranted. They pricked now again, irrational but sharp, spiking his desire with the thorns of possessiveness.

"In my father's memoirs there are some pages that created questions for me about my mother's last years. I asked Matthias about them, and am wondering how much weight to give his answers."

Is that what she dwelled on when she grew serious and her vision turned inward? She had ventured out here despite last night's warning, but not to tease and challenge. She sought information that would be
useful.

Christian had suggested those memoirs might contain revelations the daughter would not like to read. Her admission of that was probably significant, but right now he did not care. He wanted her and here she was with him in the glorious night, a woman who believed in free love and who was not fettered by stupid social rules.

The moonlight made her white skin almost translucent. The black robe rose to her neck, but he saw the top swells of her breasts in his head. "Sometimes it is wise to allow the questions to go unanswered."

She faced him, oblivious to how close she was to being ravished. "I do not think you believe that. Or, rather, I do not think you can follow your own advice. I saw your face when we spoke of the references to your father in the memoirs. You do not want them published, but you want to know if they are true."

Her stance and words threw down another gauntlet. He would not pick it up tonight, but deal with the others already on the ground between them. There would be time enough for this one later.

"I already know that they are not true. But you speak of such serious matters, Miss Blair. You will have to forgive me if I defer the argument you seek for another time. One when the moonlight and night and your beauty do not turn my thoughts to other things."

Her face fell in surprise. She did not move while she gazed at him hard. Whatever she saw caused sparks of alarm in her eyes.

She pivoted toward her door. "Then I will leave you with those thoughts, whatever they may be."

He caught her arm. "Not this time, Phaedra."

He turned her into his embrace. He cupped her face with his hand and kissed the mouth that had been taunting him for days.

What was he—how dare he just—

His kiss obliterated her shocked reaction to the way he swept her back to him. A different shock took over, at the way her heart leapt when he took control of her.

The kiss alone did that. Firm and hard and determined, his kiss contained his warnings from last night.
I
want you begging. The danger excites you.

II did excite her. The way his hold dominated her sent treacherous thrills down her body. Parts of her began begging at once, wanting more, hoping he would not stop.

Her mind raced. Thoughts formed and disappeared in rapid succession.

He had not even asked. Did he think—?

Kisses down her neck blotted out the words. A dizzy, sensual fog obscured the rest.

This was a mistake. But, oh—

The warmth of his mouth entered her blood until she tingled wherever it flowed. Her breasts grew heavy and firm and could feel him through the fabric of her dress. The contact excited her more and she instinctively pressed harder for more stimulation.

He kissed her mouth again. Not so hard this time. Luring and leading instead, but just as demanding, just as confident that she would grant whatever he wanted.

The way he
took
thrilled her even though she should rebel. She saw the danger but she could not stop because it
was
exciting. Her body hurdled toward abandon and her mind escaped her grasp.

A caress. Not seeking, not searching, not requesting at all. Firm and sure, his hands moved down her back and hips and bottom, claiming her body as if she wore nothing, making her ache with anticipation of more.

His tongue entered, swept. Erotic shivers trembled in her vulva. His hands moved over her more boldly. She did not care that she capitulated to an enemy and gave ground she might never regain. Titillations itched and buzzed and throbbed, making sensible thought impossible.

I want you begging.
Oh, yes, very possibly. Already her breasts were so sensitive that she thought she would go mad.

As if he heard her silent pleas, his caress smoothed up her hip and stomach and stroked beneath her breasts. Anticipation had her reeling, kissing him back, urging with her mouth and tongue and embrace.

His palm slowly swept up over her breast. An intense thrill of pleasure shook through her. His other hand pressed her back firmly, steadying her wobbly stance, moving down slowly as he released the hooks of her dress.

She should not—this should not—

A devastating kiss split apart the objection forming in her head. Deliberate strokes on her nipple scattered the pieces into the night air.

He stepped back a pace, separating their entwined bodies. The moon's glow washed them both and the golden light from her chamber limned his edges. He did not give her time to compose herself, to collect the broken threads of her rationality. He reached for the edge of her dress and began sliding the black gauze down her body.

No man had undressed her before. Never. She did not permit it. Now the gesture entranced her. Immobilized her. The slow descent of the fabric seemed the most erotic caress of the night. She could only stare at his face in the cool light, sensing more than seeing the leashed desire that charged the air with male power.