To Surrender to a Rogue (13 page)

"To my eye, you are quite as talented as Mr. Turner."

An odd glint seemed to spark in his gaze, and then he gave a self-deprecating laugh. "That's very kind of you, Lady Giamatti. However, I assure you that I have a great deal to learn before I can ever dream of matching his skills."

She stared at his long, tapered fingers, marveling at his natural grace and how delicately he held the slender paintbrush.
How many men would be so modest?
Clearly he possessed a great talent, and yet he felt no need to boast of his skills.

"I also like the work of David Cox, who is a master at depicting sun, wind, and rain." he went on.

As Alessandra looked up, he smiled. There was a faint smudge of blue on his bronzed cheek, giving his face a boyishly lopsided look. For an instant she was tempted to trace its shape and savor the feel of his skin beneath her fingertips.

Instead she touched the edge of his sketchbook. "The paper is quite different from writing paper."

"Yes, indeed," he answered. "And the various choices affect the look of a finished painting. Laid paper has a rough texture with deep furrows, while wove paper, which uses a fine wire-mesh screen in the mold, has a more uniform surface."

"How did you become so interested in art?" she asked.

Jack pursed his lips. "It's hard to say. As a boy, I used to spend hours in the family library, poring over the portfolios of color prints." He brushed the hair back from his brow. "And then there was the ancestral portrait gallery. I liked looking at the faces, and the textures of the oil paints and canvas."

His broad shoulders lifted in a shrug "Family tradition did not exactly encourage artistic sensibility. My brothers teased me unmercifully, but didn't manage to beat a passion for painting out of me."

Alessandra studied the sketch a moment longer. "I hope they appreciate your talents now, sir."

A look of surprise tinged his features. "My eldest brother, George, has offered encouragement—much to my shock, I might add. Indeed, I owe my chance to participate in this excavation to his influence." He made a wry face. "So you were right in a sense. I am a rich dilettante whose spot was gained through intercession rather than any proven merit of my own."

She was suddenly ashamed of her accusations. He deserved better. "I apologize for my earlier rudeness. It was unprofessional to judge your qualifications before examining your work." She smoothed at her skirts, feeling awkward, unsure. "I looked over your essays last night, along with your sketches from Italy. And, well, we.. .we are fortunate to have an artist of your caliber as part of the expedition."

"Thank you." Jack dipped his brush in his mixing palette and added a light wash of blue to the sky. "I appreciate that, Lady Giamatti. But I am aware that I must prove myself here in the field."

"Fieldwork is demanding," she agreed. "However, Mr. Dwight-Davis also gave me several of your essays on the principles of archaeology, and it's clear from your writings that you understand the importance of recording the details of the past"

"It's essential to pass such fragile knowledge on to future generations," he replied.

"And yet, too many so-called experts are interested only in plundering its treasures." Alessandra sighed. "It is shameful that people feel free to loot ancient art and artifacts for their own personal pleasure, no matter that doing so destroys valuable information for scholars. To me, it ought to be a crime, for the knowledge is lost forever"

Jack nodded. "I couldn't agree more. There is nothing worse than someone who pretends to take the high moral ground and then turns out to be a snake in the grass. It's contemptible."

As a silence settled over them, she told herself it was time to move on. But somehow her feet seemed rooted to the damp earth.

"Tell me," he added, after a lengthy pause. "How did you come to be interested in archaeology? It is an unusual pursuit for a lady."

She felt her mouth quirk. "Mine was a rather unconventional upbringing. My mother believed that females ought to have many of the same freedoms as men in making decisions about their lives. And my father heartily agreed. He was an intellectual, who encouraged my early interest in art and Italian history." Seeing as Jack had shared his family history with her, Alessandra felt it was only fair to do the same. "And so did my husband."

"Was your husband an artist?" asked Jack.

"No, like my father, he was an intellectual, a noted political essayist" A sigh slipped from her lips. "Stefano was quite brilliant and much admired throughout the Continent for his incisive mind."

"He sounds... very special."

"Yes, he was," said Alessandra softly.

Looking down, Jack busied himself with mixing up a dusky shade of green. His long hair fell over his face, curtaining his expression. "I take it you had a happy marriage?"

"Yes." She stared out at the distant hills. "Very."

"That is good." He kept on working, his brush moving expertly over the paper, sketching in delicate shading that gave the foliage depth. "So few people do. Society doesn't encourage love matches."

"No," she replied. "I was very lucky to meet a man who shared my interests, and treated me as an equal, rather than a possession. You have only to look at Ciara and her first husband to see how miserable a manage can be." She wasn't quite sure what made her add, "Do you think she has a chance to be happy with Lord Hadley?"

Jack took his time in replying. "Yes, in fact I do. Lucas was just waiting for the right person to bring the better part of his nature to the fore."

"He does seem a very decent man at heart," mused Alessandra.

"He's more than decent," said Jack. "He's kind and funny and staunchly loyal. She will have no cause to question his constancy."

Talk about loyalty.
By all accounts, Black Jack Pierson had stood by his friend, despite having doubts about Lucas's involvement with a lady accused of murder.

Out of the blue, she found herself wondering whether Jack had any marriage plans on the horizon. He didn't have a title, but the younger son of a duke would still be considered quite a catch on the Marriage Mart. She could, of course, ask, but afraid that the conversation was becoming far too personal, Alessandra quickly changed the subject back to archaeology.

A query on his impressions of the Grotto of Neptune at Tivoli elicited a lengthy reply, and from there they exchanged opinions on a number of classical buildings.

"You are very knowledgeable on nuances of ancient architecture," she remarked after he finished a lengthy stylistic description of Doric column design.

"What you mean is, I tend to prose on
ad infinitum."
Jack smiled. "I suppose that comes from having a passion for the subject I have probably bored you to perdition."

"Not at all. It's been extremely... enlightening. Bronze-work and mosaics are my specialties, but I always enjoy learning something new."

"As do I." The wet wash of color glistened on the paper as a shaft of sunlight broke through the clouds. "You have chosen a good time to take a break from your work. With the wind blowing in from the east, the skies should stay clear for the rest of the afternoon."

"I am not simply out for a breath of fresh air," replied Alessandra. "It's always important to survey the area around a discovery, to see if there are any other potential sites."

He looked thoughtfully at the distant hills. "Isn't that rather like searching for a needle in a haystack? The odds against spotting any artifacts must be astronomical."

"Not really," she said. "What I mean is, what I'm looking for are certain signs that might indicate that the land has been disturbed by some force other than nature. A mound that is out of place, a rock formation that's been chiseled by tools."

"Fascinating," he mused. Through the fringe of his dark lashes, she saw his gaze sharpen with interest

"You have an artist's eye, sir. With a little training on what to look for, I am sure you would be very good at it."

"Walking works up a thirst." He suddenly set aside his palette. "Would you care to share some refreshments? It's just simple fare—bread, cheese, and wine."

Alessandra hesitated.

"But if you would rather not fraternize with the enemy..."

She hugged her knees to her chest. "Perhaps we could negotiate a truce."

"Don't tell me that you are suggesting we become friends?" he murmured.

Friends.
The word struck a chord of longing inside her. "Let's just say that as colleagues we ought not see each other as being on opposite sides."

"Ah." Jack kept his tone light "So we can meet somewhere in the middle?"

"Yes, I suppose so."

Just as long as she didn't find herself caught between a rock and a stone.

The marchesa was not quite willing to let down her guard, thought Jack as he retrieved the wine from the stream and began unpacking his rucksack.
A prudent strategy.
His military experience had taught him that one should never be too quick to trust the offer of an olive branch.

Especially when there was a history of hostility between two forces.

He set to slicing the bread and the wedge of cheddar. It had been pleasant talking of art and archaeology rather than crossing verbal swords. And her interest in water-colors seemed unfeigned, as did her professional praise.

And yet...

Jack found himself feeling a little wary. Perhaps war had sharpened his cynicism, for he couldn't help wondering whether there was an ulterior motive to the change in her attitude. However, he couldn't think of what it could be. There was nothing she needed from him. If anything, it was
he
who should be seeking to curry
her
favor. After all, she outranked him.

Venturing a sidelong look, he saw she had picked up his sketchbook and was looking through the pages.

"I am sorry." On catching his eye, Alessandra quickly put it down. "I should have asked first"

"You are welcome to examine its contents, Lady Giamatti. I have nothing to hide."

She flinched, and two hot spots of color appeared on her cheeks, as if she had suddenly been singed by the sun. It seemed an odd reaction to a mild jest, but there was much about the marchesa that baffled him.

"I—I was merely making a closer study of your technique, in order to have a better understanding of what you just told me," she explained. "My daughter is becoming more and more enthusiastic about painting. And though I have no idea if she has any true aptitude for the subject, I would like to encourage her interest"

"Be assured that Miss Isabella possesses a real talent," said Jack.

"You think so?"

He nodded.

Unfortunately, I know very little about the subject," mused Alessandra. "So it is difficult to offer any guidance."

"You should ask Herr Lutz to show his portfolio and explain some of the basic principles to you. He is not only a superb draftsman but also an excellent teacher."

"I fear I would be imposing on his goodwill," she said. "You are not the only one who has told me that his time is in great demand."

"Lutz likes talking about art with people who appreciate his knowledge." Jack did not add that the Swiss drawing master would find a face-to-face meeting attractive for other reasons. "He is here in Bath for several weeks."

"Yes, I know" she replied. "He has kindly consented to continue with Isabella's lessons during his stay."

"Consider that another sign that your daughter has a real aptitude for art. Lutz would not make the extra effort unless he felt she was a special student"

"He must consider you a very gifted pupil, too."

Jack gave an inner wince, suddenly aware that his words might have been interpreted as braggadocio. Using the food as a distraction, he arranged the slices of bread and cheese on an oilskin square and set it between them.

"Help yourself." He chose a piece of cheddar, and took a long drink of wine. Carefully uncorking the second bottle, he offered it to her. "Sorry, no cups."

Alessandra hesitated, then tentatively accepted it

"Come, we are both on holiday for the afternoon," he said lightly after taking another drink of his own wine. The cool, fruity taste was wonderfully tart on his tongue. "We are allowed to indulge a little."

Alessandra lifted the bottle to her lips and took a small swallow. "Why, that's quite lovely."

Not nearly as lovely as she was.
Watching the breeze tug at her hair and the soft light play across her upturned face, Jack felt his breath catch in his throat Forcing his eyes away, he took another long swallow. "The Royal Academy's exhibitions may be too formal for a child," he said quickly, returning to the topic of art "However, the shows by the Society of Painters in Water-Colours might be of interest to Miss Isabella..."

As they sat sipping the chilled wine, he went on to describe some of tide other galleries. Alessandra seemed to be enjoying herself. The tension had eased from her features and she had shed her shawl and undone the top two buttons of her high-collared walking dress. The gesture revealed nothing but a scant half inch of throat, but the mere suggestion of what lay beneath the sprigged muslin was stirring improper thoughts.
Highly
improper thoughts.

Perhaps another drink of the ice-cold Moselle would help drown his rising desire.

Thank you for the suggestions, sir," she said when he finished his commentary. She broke off a small piece of bread, but he noticed that she didn't take a bite.

"Sorry it's a bit primitive, but I was not expecting company." Jack made a wry face. "I apologize if it offends your sensibilities."

Alessandra seemed to interpret his words as a challenge. She quickly took a tiny bite and another drink. "Unlike the perfectly polished young ladies who populate London, I am quite capable of tolerating rough conditions."

"I don't doubt it Nothing seems to intimidate you, Lady Giamatti."

"I—I suppose you find that offensive."

Damn.
That daggered look.

"I didn't say that—," he began.

She cut him off. "You didn't have to. Our temporary truce aside, it's clear that you disapprove of me." A pause. "And my daughter."

"You are different," said Jack slowly.

"And heaven knows, English Society frowns on anyone who does not conform to convention," replied Alessandra a little bitterly.

Her mood had changed in the blink of an eye and he wasn't sure why.

"Rules are rules," he replied. "Granted they may chafe at times, but without them we would have chaos." .

"What a very regimented notion of the world, Lord James." She gestured at his sketchbook. "Don't you find such thinking at odds with the spirit of creativity?"

"Art has rules. One must learn them and master them before breaking them."

There was a moment of silence, save for the crackle of crust turning to crumbs between her fingers. 'Perhaps that is true for those who have the inquisitiveness to question conventional wisdom," she conceded. "For most people, however, a strict adherence to conformity tends to strangle the life out of them."

Jack couldn't help countering with another quip, no matter that he knew it would spark a heated response. "You and your daughter might consider putting a tighter rein on your tongues."

As expected, her eyes flared. "True. We both have an occasional lapse in judgment But I would rather that Isabella misbehave at times than to have her lose her individuality." She drew in a sharp breath. "The young ladies of the
ton
all seem to lack personality," she continued. "No wonder you men grow bored and seek mistresses. I imagine they, at least, are interesting in bed."

Jack choked on a swallow of wine.

"How you prefer vapid conversation to intelligent discourse is beyond me."

"I don't," he protested.

"Really? Just look at all the belles of your fancy London balls—they have been leached of all color! They are naught but pale, pastel shapes, impossible to tell apart''

He frowned.

"As an artist, you must see that."

The comment took him aback, as it echoed his own earlier musings. He couldn't help but picture Lady Mary Stiles in her demure white gowns.

Colorless.
An apt description.

"You make an interesting observation," admitted Jack. "I had not looked at it in quite that light." He lifted the wine bottle and cocked a small salute before draining the last drops. "I wish you good luck in adhering to your ideals. As your daughter grows older, it will become more and more difficult to be different"

Alessandra looked away, but not before he caught a glint of moisture on her lashes.

The sight was more shocking than any of her words. He had come to think of the marchesa as a pillar of strength. Impervious to emotion. Yet at this moment, she looked vulnerable as a child.

"I—I...,"he began.

"You have made your point, sir." Fisting her skirts, Alessandra started to rise. "It won't be easy, but I'll find a way to shield her from scorn. Somehow, I'll manage to give her the freedom to explore ideas and..." Her voice broke as she choked back a sob.

Jack felt a sudden surge of conflicting emotions.
Guilt. Anger. Sympathy. Desire.
And something he couldn't quite name. Coupled with the wine, it was a volatile combination.

He caught her sleeve and drew her down into his arms.

"Come, I didn't mean to upset you. Let us have no tears." The rasp of her breathing was like a tongue of fire on his cheek, and the beat of her heart drummed against his chest "You are right—where there is a will there is a way."

"You are a war hero, so courage comes naturally to you," she stammered. "But for me..."

Lifting her chin, Jack traced a thumb along her quivering lip. "Trust me, fear is a formidable opponent, even when one is a seasoned soldier. On the eve of battle, the only ones who don't question their heart are fools or madmen."

"You are kind to offer such encouragement," whispered Alessandra. "Even if it is not true."

"I'm not being kind, Lady Giamatti." He leaned in closer. Close enough so that the subtle scent of spice and neroli perfumed his nostrils. "Far from it."

Hell.
He was about to break every rule of honorable behavior.

Hell.
He didn't care.

Not with the Mouth only inches from his. Those sinuous, sensual lips, exotic in shape, enticing in color. Lud, he would like to paint a picture of them, and then tear the paper into tiny pieces and let them dissolve on his tongue.

Instead, Jack framed her face, savoring for a heartbeat the porcelain smoothness of her skin beneath his calloused palms.

And then he kissed her.

Heat flared in his belly, spiraling upward and downward and everywhere in between. He had experienced pleasure with quite a few women, but nothing like this sensation. It possessed him. Turned his mind to mush.

He found the ties of her bonnet and pulled the knot free, itching to curl his fingers in the silky texture of her hair.

Entwined. Ensnared.
With a wordless groan, Jack scattered a handful of hairpins across the stones. The dark curls cascaded over her slim shoulders, tangling with the fastenings of her dress. He loosened them as well, and slid his hands beneath the soft muslin.

She made a sound against his mouth but did not pull away as he touched the swell of her breasts. He felt them yield to his pressure, the tips hardening against his teasing thumbs as he dipped below the top of her corset. Her eyes widened, and flooded with a gently shimmering light. The rise and fall of her chest quickened and he was acutely aware of her body, soft and pliant against his.

"Sweet Jesus," he whispered, trailing kisses along the line of her jaw. Her skin tasted fresh and indescribably sweet, like the petals of a wildflower after an early morning rain. "Our excavation must have freed some deep, dark ancient enchantment from the earth. How else to explain this magic?" His tongue dipped into the hollow of her throat "This madness."

Madness.

Alessandra felt as if her mind was possessed by some overpowering force. Some impossible need that never should have seen the light of day.

Run! Hide!
whispered the ragged voice of Reason. But somehow, she made no move to disentangle herself from Jack's arms. Instead, against her better judgment, she looped her arms around his neck and drew closer, savoring the smooth, stabbed planes of his chest, the chiseled contours of his ribs.

Oh, Lord, he felt so good, so solid. Twined together, perhaps she could cling to the illusion that she might draw on a touch of his strength.

If ever she needed a hew.

Looking up into his dark eyes, she found his expression inscrutable. Impenetrable. She didn't dare dwell on what he must be thinking of her. Dropping her gaze to his mouth, she was overcome with longing. Her lips parted in a silent plea.

And then he was kissing her again. He tasted of wine and the warmth of the sun. She surrendered to the sweetness, molding herself to his muscle, tracing the ridge of his shoulder blades, caressing the curling strands of his hair.

Jack deepened the embrace, thrusting his tongue deep inside her. She moaned against his mouth, and his response was immediate as he shifted her bottom across his lap. She could feel the heat of his arousal through her skirts, and the thud of his heart against her searching hands.

Her own pulse was skittering out of control.

Madness.

Her head was spinning wildly, weakened with wine and the wanton, wonderful feel of his rampant masculinity. Stubbled whiskers, calloused palms, jutting manhood—hard, rough, demanding. Desperation fanned the flames of desire. All at once, the future was too terrifying to contemplate. Perhaps if she clung hard enough to Jack—a man whose honor was woven into every sinew of his being—she could draw on his courage and strength to hold her fears at bay.