To Surrender to a Rogue (2 page)

Her pulse was now pounding out of control, but somehow, above the din in her ears, she heard the voice of Reason.

Dangerous.

As his mouth broke away to trail a line of lapping kisses along her throat she finally got hold of her senses and shoved him back a fraction. Now was the moment for a scathing setdown, but strangely enough, as she searched her brain for something to say, her mind was a complete blank.

He, too, appeared paralyzed with shock. His dark lashes lay still against his olive skin, and aside from the harsh rasp of his breathing, he might have been carved out of stone. Sharpened by the slanting moonlight, the strong, sculpted lines of his face gave him the appearance of a Roman god.

Mars—the mighty, mythical warrior.

The only flaw was a tiny scar cutting just beneath his left eyebrow, a faint line nearly hidden by ravenwing arch.
A chink in his lordly armor?
She felt an impulsive urge to trace it with her fingertip, and then touch it with her tongue...

A swirl of breeze tugged at the tails of his cravat, and the flutter of white finally dispelled her momentary surrender of sanity.

Twisting free of his hold, Alessandra clutched at her cloak, drawing the folds in tight to cover her nightrail.

"That was unforgivable," he said softly. "I...I don't know what came over me—"

Mortified by her own actions—and reactions—she cut off his halting apology. "Or me. Save to say that the full moon is said to stir a certain madness."

How else to explain the elemental force that had drawn them together? Without waiting for a reply, Alessandra plunged into the pooling shadows, her slippered feet nearly tripping over the uneven ground in her haste to getaway.

As
if she could outrun her embarrassment.

To her relief, Black Jack Pierson made no move to follow her.

Plagued by fitful dreams, Alessandra rose early and hurried through the final packing for the journey back to Town.

Slap.
A corset landed atop a pair of half boots.
Thump.
A book hit against her set of silver brushes. Snapping her portmanteau shut, she quickly turned away from the dressing table, eyes averted from the looking glass. She had already glimpsed the two hot spots of color on her cheeks, and needed no further reminder of her moment of midnight madness.

For someone who prided herself on being intelligent, she certainly hadn't been very smart.
In the light of day, her behavior seemed even more incomprehensible. She didn't usually make such egregious mistakes in judgment Except when it came to men.

"I think we are ready, Lucrezia." As far as she was concerned, they couldn't leave Sir Henry's estate quickly enough. .

As her maid went off to fetch the footmen to carry down the trunks, Alessandra gathered her shawl and called her daughter to the staircase.

"Isabella, do not slide down—"

Too late.

The little girl was already whizzing down the curved length of polished oak. A peal of delighted laughter was followed by a loud thump.

"You are. a menace to Society, child." An all-too-familiar voice rose up from the floor below.

Alessandra hurried down the stairs to find Black Jack Pierson gingerly setting Isabella on her feet.

He looked up and for an instant she felt a frisson of heat curl in her belly. His dark eyes were the color of liquid chocolate, reminding her of how she had melted in his arms just hours ago. As their gazes met, he, too, appeared to be thinking of their midnight encounter. A wink of gold seemed to spark on the tips of his lashes, his expression hovering between embarrassment and...

Isabella's aggrieved voice broke the tentative connection. "You need not have caught me, sir," she complained, primly smoothing her skirts.

"No?" growled Jack. "If I had not, you would have flown straight into that suit of armor."

"You think so?" she asked hopefully. "Perry and I have a bet as to who can land farthest from the newel post I would have won by a mile." Her face pinched into a scowl. "That is,
if you
hadn't stopped me."

Jack looked back up at Alessandra and grimaced. "I see you have no more control over your daughter's limbs than you do her language. I was under the impression that Italy was a civilized place, not a haven of hot-tempered hellions and hoydens."

How unfair of the man to imply that she was wholly to blame for what had happened last night.
"That's rather the pot calling the kettle black," she retorted.

"I..." Looking a little uncomfortable, he slanted a glance at Isabella. "If anything about my recent behavior has struck you as less than gentlemanly, I am sorry for it"

"Oh, yes, I am sure you are, because Lord James Jacquehart Pierson is always the
perfect
gentleman."

"I try to be," he replied, his unfriendly tone implying the exact opposite.

Nettled by his scorn—and her own lingering sense of guilt—-Alessandra reacted with deliberate rudeness. "Well, be advised that your manners leave much to be desired, sir."

He had the grace to flush. "That is only because I have been provoked by two of the most hellfire females in all of Christendom." Retrieving his hat from the carpet, he jammed it on his head. "Good day to you, ladies. Allow me to take my leave before I am subjected to any further assaults—be they verbal or physical."

"Arrogant oaf," whispered Alessandra, torn between feeling outraged and embarrassed as Jack turned away and stalked across the entrance hall. The thud of his steps was quickly echoed by the slam of the front door.

"What's an oaf, Mama?" asked Isabella.

She swallowed a sigh. "Never mind,
tesoro."
She wanted to resent Jack's criticism, but honesty compelled her to admit that his criticisms had been deserved. Looking back on their encounter of the previous evening, she was not proud of herself. Or her daughter.

"Come, our carriage is waiting," she said after putting several items from the side table into her travel valise.

"What are those?" asked Isabella.

"Primers on proper manners for young ladies." Alessandra added another book. "As well as a lexicon of English words that are allowed to be said in Polite Society."

"I liked it better in Italy," said Isabella. "There weren't so many rules there, especially when Papa was alive." Her lips quivered as she stared at the leatherbound spines. "Can't we go home?"

"England is our home now," said Alessandra, taking great care to hide her anguish over her daughter's unhappiness. Oh, Lud, she missed Stefano, too—his wisdom, his wit, his warmth. He had been a solid, steadying force in her life. Since his death, she had felt a little like a child herself, naive to the ways of the world.

lightening her fingers around Isabella's hand, she added, "So we must make the best of it."

"Why?'

A simple question, but how to answer?

"Because..." She crouched down and smoothed the silky curls from Isabella's brow. "Because,
tesoro,
there is no going back. We must look to the future, not to the past"

A strange sentiment, given her expertise in ancient archaeology. But some things were best left buried.

"Let us have no long faces," she went on with forced cheerfulness. "Think of all the new and interesting things you are learning in England. You have started drawing lessons, you have toured the Tower of London, you have mastered the sport of cricket..."

Isabella's face brightened considerably at the mention of cricket. "Lord Hadley says he will give me and Perry boxing lessons when he returns from his wedding trip."

"There, you; see." Alessandra smiled. "In Italy, little girls are not taught to fight with their fists."

"I like Lord Hadley," said Isabella decisively. "He is
much
nicer than his friend."

"Most gentlemen of the
ton
are not as comfortable with children as Lord Hadley," she replied.

Isabella scrunched her face into another scowl. "Hadley never called me an imp of Satan, not even when I hit him smack in the chest with a cricket ball and knocked him on his bum."

"Perhaps that is because you never called Hadley a pox-faced son of a shriveled sow," pointed out Alessandra. She frowned in consternation. Her own language was certainly not above reproach, but she did take care of what she said when her daughter was within hearing. "Lud, wherever do you pick up such horrible language?"

"I told you—from Marco," replied Isabella with a shameless smile. "He knows an awful lot of colorful curses. Even Perry is impressed. There is one about a squint-eyed slut—"

"That's quite enough," said Alessandra sharply, making a mental note to tell her cousin to watch his tongue around the children. "Thank goodness we have a great many hours of traveling ahead of us. Because, young lady, we have a great many lessons to learn about how to behave in English Society."

"Merde"
Isabella's chin took on a mulish jut "Perry says that is French for sh.."

Alessandra quickly clamped her hand over her daughter's mouth. Much as she hated to admit it, perhaps Black Jack Pierson was right and her daughter's mouth needed a good rinsing with soap.

"I know
exactly
what it means," she snapped "One more vulgar word out of you, and you will be blowing soap bubbles all the way to London."

A tear trickled down Isabella's cheek. "I
hate
London."

"Then you will be pleased to hear we are only staying there for a short while before heading on to Bath."

On that note, they took their leave.

"Have you been by Harley Street to see Mr. Turner's latest exhibit of paintings, Lord James?" Herr Gerhard Lutz added another bit of pigment to his paint palette and added several drops of water.

Jack shook his head. "I have not yet had the chance. I returned to Town only yesterday evening."

"Consider it one of your assignments to prepare for our next lesson," said the drawing master. In addition to his classes at the Royal Academy, Lutz gave private lessons to a few select students at his studio. Jack was one of them, though at times like the present, he wasn't sure whether it was on account of his talent or his family's title. His current work in progress looked stiff and clumsy to his eye, as if he had drawn it with his left foot.

"His latest work illustrates a new school of thought, a new way of looking at nature," continued Lutz.

Jack pursed his lips. "Are you hinting that I am merely a draftsman, clinging to the style of the past century?"

The remark drew a faint smile from the normally taciturn Swiss. "Not at all. You show great promise and are willing to try new things, else I should not have consented to take you on as a pupil. However, along with developing your drawing skills, I should like to see your work become more..." Lutz seemed to be searching for the right word. "Expressive," he finally said.

"Expressive." Jack maintained a stoic face. "Perhaps it is because of my military training, but I find that does not come naturally to me. We have it drummed into our heads that soldiers must be regimented in their thinking and their actions."

"Ja.
The point is, you must stop thinking like a soldier and start acting like an artist"

"Hmmm." Jack squinted thoughtfully at the paper.

"The best art elicits some feeling, some emotion from the viewer. Loosen your lines. Don't be afraid to experiment with color." Lutz rinsed out the sable bristles of his brush and shrugged. "I can teach you things like proportion and perspective, but as to your own individual styles-well, you will have to learn that on your own."

At first blush, art and soldiering didn't appear to have much in common, thought Jack. But both certainly tested one's mettle. It took courage to conquer fear—whether physical or mental—and march forward when one didn't quite know what lay ahead.

"A good example is Alexander Cozens, whose work you must know. Sir George Beaumont has an excellent collection of the artist's later sketches, and you ought to ask him if you might view them," continued Lutz. "You will learn a valuable lesson on giving your imagination a freer hand."

A freer hand.

After studying the rough pencil sketch from his travel notebook for another few moments, Jack tacked a fresh piece of paper to his drawing board and started a new watercolor interpretation.
A wash of pink for the sky, highlighted by a more daring shade of vermilion at the horizon...

Absorbed in his work, Jack didn't hear the clock chime, indicating the end of the lesson.

"Lord James." Lutz looked up from sorting through his supply chest "Much as I hate to interrupt, I have a class to teach at Somerset House." He regarded the unfinished painting. "Better, better," he murmured. "Practice your crosshatching exercises for our next session. And be sure to visit Mr. Turner's gallery."

"I will" replied Jack. After packing up his paint box, he propped the unfinished painting on one of the studio's easels. "Lud, it still looks all wrong," he said under his breath.

"Patience, milord. The Muse is like a beautiful but temperamental woman. You must court her carefully and prove yourself through hard work and constancy. She can't be won with false flatteries or overpowering advances."

Bloody hell.
Given his recent encounters with the opposite sex, he might have to give up art for a position of sweeping horse dung from the streets of London.

Due to their depleted ranks, the Circle of Scientific Sibyls decided to end their regular weekly meeting a touch early.

"I think we should wait for our two friends to return to Town before drafting a rebuttal to Huntford's chemistry article," suggested Kate Woodbridge. "When we are at full force, the dons of Oxford can't stand up to our reasoning."

Kate had a point,
thought Alessandra. The Circle—a group of five intellectually gifted females who had banded together for regular discussions on science—had compiled a rather impressive record of scholarly achievements in the time they had been together. But even more importantly, they had formed a close bond of friendship, despite their very different backgrounds.

Alessandra quirked a faint smile. As Society did not approve of ladies who pursued intellectual endeavors, the five of them had coined a more humorous informal name for their group—the Circle of Sin. And without the moral support of her fellow ·Sinners,' her life in London over the last two years would have been even more difficult

"I agree." Lady Charlotte Fenimore scribbled a notation in the margin of her notebook. "We should definitely wait until Ciara returns from her wedding trip. And Ariel, too, of course, even though chemistry is her weakest subject"

Charlotte's sister, a spry sixty-five-year-old former spinster, had also recently been married and was currently enjoying an interlude in the country at her new husband's estate.

"That is the last item on the agenda," she finished. "Unless anyone wishes to raise a new topic."

"No, let's ring for tea," said Kate Woodbridge, quickly packing away her papers. "I'm famished.''

"You are
always
famished." Alessandra regarded her friend's wraith-like figure and rolled her eyes. "Really, how is it that you can eat platters of pastries and never gain an ounce? It is very unfair."

"Perhaps we should make it our next research topic," replied Kate with a grin.

As the tea tray arrived, Alessandra took a moment to muse on her two companions. At age sixty-seven, Charlotte was hobbled by bad knees, but her mind had not lost a step. A widow with a tartly cynical outlook on life, she and her sister Ariel could always be counted on to share their hard-won worldly wisdom with the three younger 'Sinners.'

"Oh, good. Lemon custard tarts are my favorite!" While Charlotte was the oldest of the group, Kate was, at age twenty-two, the youngest. And most rebellious—at least outwardly. The daughter of a highborn English lady and a rakish American sea captain, she had spent much of her life sailing around the world. In the course of her travels, she had acquired an expertise in botany—along with a few more questionable talents...

"I had better forgo sweets today," said Charlotte as she sipped her tea. "I fear my gowns are growing uncomfortably tight." She paused. "Do you think it possible that Indian silk is subject to spontaneous shrinkage?"

"Doubtful," said Alessandra. "But we could add the question to our list of future experiments to try when Ciara and Ariel return to Town."

Kate curled an impish grin before popping a morsel of shortbread into her mouth. "Speaking of which, how long will you be away in Bath?" she asked.

"A month, maybe two, for this first phase of the excavation," replied Alessandra absently, her mind more on the note she had received that morning from her cousin Marco than on archaeology. His news had been very disturbing...

"Is something troubling you, my dear?" asked Charlotte. "You've seemed distracted all morning."

"N-no." Alessandra shook her head. "That is, Isabella has been in a difficult mood for the last little while—she misses Peregrine." Ciara's son was her daughter's best friend. "And Italy."

"Why not consider a visit to your old home? You, too, must miss your friends and your lands," suggested Kate.

"I have too many archaeological commitments at present," she said evasively. None of the 'Sinners' knew the real reason she had left Italy. Some secrets were too dark to share, even with her closest friends. "Perhaps sometime in the future."

"Life is too short to keep putting off the things that matter," persisted Kate with her usual bluntness. "Besides, you've been working too hard—I can't help but notice that you have lost several pounds over the last few weeks." She broke off another bit of shortbread. "And there are dark circles under your eyes."

"Helping Ciara to defend herself against the Sheffield family while we were away in Scotland must have been a very daunting task," murmured Charlotte. "Imagine how frightening it would be to face the accusation of murder."

As Kate choked on her crumbs, Alessandra felt the blood drain from her face.

"Actually, I'd rather not," quipped Kate, once she had recovered her voice. "In any case, we may all rest easy now that Ciara no longer faces any such threat" However, her expression remained strangely pinched and she pushed her plate away without finishing the pastry. "Getting back to the question of your work commitments, I think you should definitely consider begging off from the project in Bath. Take Isabella to Lake Como for the summer instead."

"It would be unprofessional to withdraw from the dig at the last moment," replied Alessandra. "We can't let it be said that female scholars are too fickle to entrust with real responsibilities."

Kate made a face, but Charlotte nodded in agreement

Relieved that the argument had been nipped in the bud, Alessandra quickly changed the subject. "By the by, whose turn is it to take the Little Red Book?"

Along with their individual efforts of scholarly research, the 'Sinners' were working on a special joint project Its official title was "The Immutable Laws of Male Logic;—A Scientific Study Based on Empirical Observations." It was Charlotte who had given it the more informal name of "Men—An Essential Compendium to Managing the Brutes." They each took turns adding a chapter to the humorous
magnum opus.

But of late, the book had been sadly neglected.

"I'll take it," said Kate. "I could use an amusing diversion to keep me busy while the Circle is stretched thin." She tapped a finger to the crimson leather cover. "Speaking of men, Alessandra, I could not help but notice that Hadley's dark-haired friend was watching you for much of the wedding breakfast. I think he is interested in you."

"Oh, yes—interested in how many ways he could devise to slice out my tongue," replied Alessandra tartly. "You are usually quite observant but this time you have overlooked the obvious. Lord James Jacquehart Pierson does not like me. And the feeling is mutual."

"Why?" pressed Kate.

"I know why." Charlotte slanted a look at Alessandra. "You and Lord James exchanged words when you thought he was harassing Ciara." She coughed. "Very bad words, if I remember correctly."

Alessandra bit her lip. True, she had called him a number of very offensive names in Tuscan slang. Unfortunately, Black Jack Pierson spoke fluent Italian.

"However, first impressions can be misleading," continued Charlotte. "He turned out to be quite the hero in helping rescue the children."

Tap. Tap. Tap.
Kate continued to drum on the Little Red Book. "In my experience, if a man truly dislikes a woman, he will ignore her. And vice versa. Anger sometimes indicates some other emotion."

"What an interesting observation. I suggest you add it to the book." Suddenly aghast at her waspish tone, Alessandra expelled a harried sigh. "I'm so sorry, Kate— my nerves are a little on edge today."

"I did not mean to tease you," replied her friend. "I simply meant that Black Jack Pierson might be more interesting than you think." She paused. "With those broad shoulders and brooding dark eyes, he looks like he's stepped straight from the pages of Lord Byron's romantic poems."

Alessandra reached for her reticule. "Romance is the
last
thing I need in my life."

Jack narrowed his gaze, focusing on the color of scudding squall clouds just visible above the treetops. They were not a plain lead gray, he decided, but a far more subtle shade that mixed a range of smoky blues .with a touch of violet Maybe even a hint of plum—

"Need spectacles, Lord James?" Lord Garrett Howe, an occasional companion in midnight rambles through the gaming hells of St Giles, fell in step beside him. "Your shots seemed accurate enough at Manton's last week. I lost ten bloody guineas to you."

"Thought I saw a hawk," muttered Jack, unwilling to explain himself.

"You ought to be ogling the plumage on
terra firma."
His friend nudged him in the ribs. "That's a very lovely bird up ahead, eh? Apparently she doesn't fly around much in Society."

Jack spotted a flutter of indigo silk.

"But Gervin and I saw her in Bond Street yesterday and he tells me that she's a widow," continued Howe.
"Ergo,
she's fair game." A wink punctuated his lascivious leer. "She may not spread her wings in public, but perhaps I can convince her to spread her legs in private."

They walked on for a few more strides as Howe let out a slow hiss of breath. "Ye gods, just look at the way the skirt slides across that shapely arse. The sight is hypnotic." Another sigh. Or more precisely, a wolfish pant "In fact I think I'm fast forgetting that I am a gentleman."

So am I,
thought Jack, as the lady in question slowed her steps on the path and turned in profile to untangle the fringe of her shawl.

For an instant he was tempted to grab his friend's throat and punch out his teeth. But reason prevailed and Jack shoved his hands in his coat pockets. "Then let me remind you of something that Gervin must have forgotten to mention. That is not some ladybird-for-hire up ahead. Rather it is the Marchesa della Giamatti, who is not only a paragon of propriety, but is also the closest friend of Hadley's new bride."