Your Scandalous Ways (13 page)

He ought to be immune to her allure but he wasn't.

At this moment, he didn't want to be.

He wanted her, that was all.

His moved his hands over her bodice. He wanted skin under his hands. He wanted to cup the soft swell of her breasts. His mind was thick but a modicum of reason remained, enough to remind him where they were. They stood in a corner of the belfry, deep in the shadow of one of the columns. Even so, it was a public place, and the sky was lightening. He drew her shawl up over her shoulders and used it as a curtain while he loosened her bodice and bared her breasts, so warm and smooth and soft. He let them spill into his hands. She squirmed against him, pushing her backside against his groin.

He lightly bit her neck, to hold her still, and dragged up her skirts and petticoats. “You're a bad girl,” he whispered. “A very bad girl.”

“Oh, yes,” she said. “I certainly am.”

 

Francesca was a very bad girl, and that, she told herself, was what she wanted to be.

She only wished…but no. It was maudlin and stupid to wish the past undone, to wish to start fresh, with a clean slate. She couldn't wish it now, for this moment was too darkly, wickedly magical.

Her eyes drifted open. Below, all of Venice spread out before her like a jewel box spilling its treasures: the firefly lights, the glitter of golden domes, the boats dancing on the glistening sea. She drank in the salty air and the scent of the man behind her. She heard the whisper of silk as he lifted her skirts. A good girl would make him stop but she wasn't a good girl and didn't want to be. She was bad, very bad, trembling with need, with impatience, while his hands slid over her thighs, over her naked bottom, and finally, between her legs.

She couldn't pretend to play cat and mouse anymore. She couldn't pretend she was playing at anything. The truth was too obvious. She couldn't hide her heat from his questing hands. She'd been ready even before he touched her. She'd danced away, but it was all pretense, masking desperation…infatuation.

She wasn't a man. Unlike him, she had a very good idea what her trouble was.

She didn't want to think about it. Not now.

She was a deity looking down on all the world, and for this moment, she had all she wanted: his touch, his kisses, the teasing nip of his teeth, so playful and so knowing…his long, clever hands touching her. And at the first intimate touch, her knees gave way. If not for the stone balustrade bracing her, she'd have sunk to the floor of the belfry.

Desire was an ache, a nagging pull in the pit of her belly. She squirmed against his hand but it wasn't enough.

Please. Now, please.

She wouldn't beg aloud but he understood. She heard the rustle of clothing as he bared himself. He pressed against her and she gasped. He was big and hot and she had an instant of panic—absurd panic, as though she were still a girl.

He pressed one hand to her back, gently pushing her down, angling her as he wanted. His fingers slid over her, where she was slick, all too ready. He touched her, parted her, then he pushed inside her. She gasped, and the sound slid into a sigh. Pleasure blossomed inside her, in a great surge of feeling, like the mad swell of the overture of
La Gazza Ladra.
It was like the aching joy the music brought her, and she thought she'd burst with happiness.

Oh, yes, oh, yes.
It seemed she'd waited all her life for this.

She felt his mouth at her neck while he moved inside her. She turned her head and he understood, and kissed her, long and deep and with a strange tenderness that made her ache. But the ache for release was stronger, and she moved with him while sensations pounded through her, wild and unfamiliar. Her heart was too big, swelling in her chest, beating too hard. She tried to find her way back, to regain control, her precious control, but she couldn't find her footing.

It was too late for control. She'd wanted him from the moment she'd met him, and all she could do now was want him to be hers. All she could do was own him for this moment and want to be his, only his. She gave herself up to the wild, mad happiness, rocking with him as his thrusts grew fiercer and faster, until at last the world exploded.

The ground seemed to shake beneath them, and it was a moment before she recognized the vibration and the deafening clang of the bells ringing above their heads. He laughed and covered her ears. She laughed, too. She couldn't help it. Then she opened her eyes and looked out and saw on the horizon the small red arc of the rising sun.

She felt his warm breath at her ear. “Tell me,
mia vipera,”
he said hoarsely, “is this romantic enough for you?”

 

It was far too romantic for James. He told himself it was too much, so ridiculous: the bells ringing as they climaxed, the sun bursting up from the horizon.

But in the golden afterglow of lovemaking, he could only laugh as he helped reassemble her garments and smooth petticoats and untwist skirts. He could only laugh, when in the midst of doing so, she told him to pull up his trousers.

He looked down and discovered he was growing aroused again. He thought about England, pulled up his undergarments and trousers, stuffed his shirt inside, and concentrated on buttoning the flap. “By gad, you are a precious jade,” he said.

“I had no idea I was a miracle worker,” she said. “That is a remarkably quick recovery for a man of your age.”

“
My
age? What about Magny?”

“What about him?” She was rearranging her breasts in her bodice.

“He's old enough to be my grandfather.”

“Surely not that old,” she said. She frowned
down at her bosom. “Are they even? This is my favorite corset, but if my bosoms are not arranged just so—”

“They're splendid,” he said. “Everything about you is splendid. But I'm not infatuated.”

She moved to him. She smiled. She reached up and patted his cheek. “If that's what you want to believe,
mio caro,
I haven't the heart to disillusion you. Especially not now. It really was quite wonderful, inexpressibly romantic, and dreadfully naughty. A perfect combination—and an experience I shall not soon forget.
Grazie tante, amore mio.
But it's long past time I said good-bye.”

She turned and moved swiftly away.

Thanks very much? Good-bye?

He was slow to react, his mind still in a post-coital haze. He stood for a moment, staring in disbelief at her retreating back. Then he started after her.

“Plague take you, Bonnard.”

“Don't call me that.” She moved quickly down the stairs.

“Francesca.”

“Don't follow me. The sun is up, and you don't want all of Venice to see you looking like a lovesick puppy.”

Lovesick puppy?

He came to a dead stop. “I am not—”

“It was great fun but it's done,” she said, never turning her head. She flung up her hand in that aggravating gesture of dismissal. “
Addio
.”

I
f one could not obtain the upper hand, the next best thing was to pretend one had it.

Francesca left with a mocking wave and a mocking smile that dissolved as soon as she started down the ramp.

She feared he'd follow her.

She feared he wouldn't.

She made herself hurry away, because she was too strongly tempted to linger, to find out whether he'd pursue her or not. If he did pursue her, she was too strongly tempted to let him catch up with her.

Games, stupid games. You'd think she was a dewy-eyed miss from the schoolroom, expecting her swain to chase after her.

Though she'd been no dewy-eyed miss when her marriage began to fall apart—or her dream of marriage, at any rate—she'd expected John Bonnard to hunt her down and wrench her from the man into whose arms she'd gone for consolation. She'd expected to make John jealous, to hurt him the way he'd hurt her.

But he wasn't jealous or hurt.

He was disgusted.

You filthy slut. You've no more morals than your father. No wonder he was so generous with the marriage settlements. He feared he'd never get you off his hands in time, before the world discovered what you were.

Her eyes burned and her face as well. Inside she went cold, cold as death, then hot with shame, her heart pounding as it had done that day, that terrible day when she saw all her husband's love curdle into hate.

Light filtered through the windows of the Campanile but she couldn't see through the haze of rage and misery. She stumbled. She flung her hand against the wall and regained her balance.

“Idiot,” she muttered. “Break your neck, why don't you? And give Elphick cause to celebrate.”

This was what happened when one gave way to feelings, she told herself. Emotion took over. One became maudlin, fretting over the past. The husband she'd loved so dearly, so deeply, had called her a slut, a whore, and worse.

Very well. She had become a whore. A magnificent one.

No sniveling now. She'd made a fine exit. She would not spoil it by hesitating or hoping. She would not spoil it with old grief and grievances.

She hurried down the ramp as quickly as skirts, petticoats, and stays permitted.

When she left the building and came out into the square, she slowed only enough to preserve her dignity. In the early morning, the small square was as busy as its larger counterpart.

She made her way past the Ducal Palace to the Molo, where her gondola waited.

Uliva, who was awake, woke up Dumini, who was not. Whenever the gondoliers had a long wait, they took turns napping, so that one was always on the alert.

“Take me to Signorina Sabbadin,” she said.

 

From the top of the belfry, James watched her cross the Piazzetta. No matter what she said, no matter how angry he was, he should have followed her, if only to see her safely home.

It was no good telling himself how small the chances were of anyone's attacking her at this time of day. The place was abustle with vendors and others who had their livings to get and could not lie abed until noon. Along with the worker ants were those straggling home after enjoying a night and early morning of dissipation.

“Unlikely” wasn't the same as “impossible.” If someone did attack her, what excuse would he offer his superiors?

Sorry, but she hurt my feelings. Then she threw me into a mindless rage. I dared not follow her because of the strong chance I'd strangle her—and throw her luscious, lifeless body through the nearest window.

“What an idiot,” he said. “What a complete, utter imbecile.”

He'd ruined everything. He was supposed to make her chase him. Instead, he'd given in to the impulse of the moment—No, it was worse than that: He'd given in to the little brain between his legs. He'd given her what he wanted and what she wanted—and that was all she wanted, obviously—and now she was done with him.

Ciao, cretino.
I'm off to drive a French count mad. And a Gilenian prince. And perhaps some Russians and Bavarians, and maybe I'll have a gondolier for dessert.

“So what does that make me?” he muttered. “The hors d'oeuvre?”

He stomped down the stairs, down the ramp, out of the Campanile, and along the same route she had taken. All the way he cursed himself, under his breath, in Italian, in English, and now and again, for a change of pace, in French, German, Russian, and Greek.

When he reached his gondola, Zeggio reported that he and Sedgewick had seen the signora. She'd ordered her boatmen to take her to her friend's.

Perfect, James thought. She and Giulietta would compare their experiences. Giggling.

“Sir?”

James looked up.

Sedgewick and Zeggio were exchanging that look again.

“Where to, signore?” Zeggio said.

James climbed into the gondola. “San Lazzaro,” he said. “The monastery. This time I'm joining up.”

 

It was an inhuman hour of the morning, but Francesca was too desperate to think of that.

She had second thoughts when she reached Giulietta's house and saw the large, familiar gondola moored there. However, before she could tell Uliva to set out for home instead, a gentleman stepped into the boat. It promptly pulled away from the water gates.

Moments later, the gondola passed hers. She made herself give a cheerful wave. The man inside turned a brilliant shade of red but doffed his hat with princely aplomb. The early morning sunlight turned Lurenze's curls to a pale, sparkling gold.

Not many minutes thereafter, Francesca was shown in to Giulietta's boudoir. She sat at a little table by the fire, stirring a spoon round and round her coffee cup. At Francesca's entrance, her faraway look vanished.

“Well, I can see you had your fun,” Francesca said as she entered. “His highness was leaving as I arrived.”

Giulietta shrugged. “I made him buy the cundum. I had to show him how to use it.” She ordered more coffee and bade Francesca sit down and have something to eat.

Francesca sat down, and promptly burst into tears.

Giulietta bounced up from her chair and moved to put her arms about her friend. “But what? What is wrong? Did you not want to be with Cordier?”

Francesca pulled out her damp handkerchief and stared at it. A lot of useless decoration. Why hadn't she taken Cordier's when he offered? She could have taken it home with her and kept it as a souvenir.

The thought made her sob afresh.

Giulietta stuffed a napkin into her hand. “What?” she said. “What is wrong? You never weep. Are you pregnant?”

“N-n-no.” Francesca wiped her eyes and nose on the square of linen.

“You cannot be weeping about the prince,” Giulietta said. “Please tell me this is not so. I thought you wished to go with the other one. You
looked
—”

“That's why you took that sudden temper fit and stormed away?” Francesca said. “What if Cordier had come after you instead?”

“But why should he? He was not the one who hurt my so-delicate feelings. It is Lurenze who calls me a child and so it is he who must chase me, and when at last I let him catch me, he says he is so very sorry. At first I am haughty and angry but by degrees I let him melt me, and then I say sweet things to him. And then…but you know how it is done.”

“Not so well as some people, it seems,” Francesca said. “Cordier was positive you wanted Lurenze to pursue you, and decided to help. Well, you and Cordier are mighty considerate of each other.”

Giulietta returned to her chair. “But you know I want Lurenze,” she said. “And I know you do not care about him. You want Cordier.”

“But he's a nobody!”

“Why is it wrong to take a nobody for a lover once in a while?” Giulietta said. “Especially this one. He is not the waiter in the café or the handsome fisherman or flower seller. He is the son of an English nobleman. His mother comes from an old and very great Italian family. Everyone knows them.”

“But in England Cordier is merely a younger son,” Francesca said. “Younger sons never have any money to speak of—not real money. He can't afford to buy me treasures that will make Elphick gnash his teeth.”

The coffee arrived then.

After the servant had gone and after she'd made Francesca eat half a breakfast pastry and drink some coffee, Giulietta said, “I understand the vendetta. In your place, I would have killed the brute of a husband. Or better, I would arrange for others to take him to a place where he is made to die slowly and in terrible pain. But your way is more inventive and more fun for you. Now, though, the fun is not there. It is stupid to hurt yourself to hurt a man far away on a cold little island. If you want Cordier, have him—and to the devil with Lord Elphick!”

Francesca gulped coffee. “I had him,” she said.

Giulietta's face lit. She grinned. “Ah, now I see. It was good?”

“It was in the belfry of the Campanile San Marco,” Francesca said.

“The belfry,” Giulietta echoed softly. “Ah!”

Normally, Francesca would describe her experience in minute detail. This time she could not think what to say. She could not find the words to describe what had happened. The magic. The surge of feeling like that made her feel as music could make her feel. But more so.

She said, “It was very romantic.”

“Ah, yes.”

“And silly. But romantic.” She told about the bells ringing and the sun coming up.

“Yes. He makes you laugh,” Giulietta said.

“He makes me cry, too. He makes me…” Francesca hesitated. But she always told Giulietta everything. “When I'm with him, I remember who I used to be,” she went on. “Everything comes back.” Over her heart, she made a churning motion with her hand. “Feelings. Too many. I don't know what to do. I cry. I'm angry. I'm sick, heartsick. I want to put my head on his chest and—and I want him to put his arms around me and hold me and say he understands…and I want to trust him.” She swallowed. “Is that not mad? I met him only five days ago.”

“But he saved your life,” said Giulietta. “That is how you met him—when he risked his life to save yours. What could be more stirring of the emotions than this? And what is the better way for a man to earn the trust of a woman? What is the better way for anyone, man or woman, to show what words by themselves cannot prove?”

“Magny doesn't trust him,” Francesca said.

“Magny is very wise,” Giulietta said. “But he is not all-knowing.”

“No, he isn't,” Francesca said. “Yet I can't help feeling he sees more clearly than I.”

The servant re-entered. One of Signora Bonnard's servants was here, he said. He was sorry to interrupt the ladies, but the matter was most important.

 

James had calmed down enough to realize he needed a bath and a change of clothes and breakfast, all of which meant returning to the Ca' Munetti. He needed sleep, too, but he could do that in the gondola on the way to San Lazzaro.

He was finishing breakfast when Sedgewick came in, frowning.

“Sir,” he said, “something's happened across the way.”

 

“Nuns?” Francesca said incredulously. “Are you sure?” She stood in the Putti Inferno, looking about her.

This time she didn't need Magny to point out the signs. This lot had tried to be careful, too, but they weren't as good at it as the ones who'd come to Mira.

Her servants had noticed odds and ends out of order. They'd put this together with the fact that all of them had fallen mysteriously ill during the night—a few hours after supping with three nuns.

“They come a little while after you go to the theater,” said Arnaldo. “They are from Cyprus, they tell us. They are lost. They have wandered for hours. They have little money. They are hungry.” He lifted his shoulders. “What can I do? Holy sisters. How
can I send them away? And so we share with them our supper.”

A short time later, all those who'd shared in the supper—which was all the servants who lived in—became ill.

“At one moment, they are taking care of us,” Arnaldo said. “This much I remember. I think, ‘Why are the nuns not sick?' But then my head is so heavy and I must lie down. I sleep. I wake only a little while ago, and they are gone. Before too long I discover that all of the servants were the same. No one was well enough to watch the house. And soon we see that someone has been searching. Who else but these nuns? We think nothing of value is missing but we are not sure. This is why I send servants to find you. Do you wish for me to send one of the men to tell the governor what has happened?”

“No!” The last thing Francesca wanted was the Austrian governor poking his nose into this. “Send to the comte de Magny.”

 

Arnaldo tried to put James off. “The signora is not receiving visitors.”

James was not in the most patient or rational frame of mind. What he saw was not a butler doing his duty but an obstacle in his path. What he wanted to do was pick up the obstacle and throw it aside.

He told himself not to be an idiot. He reminded himself that he'd learned, a long time ago, that there was a time and a place for violence. He knew perfectly well that this was not the time or place.
He was angry because he hadn't been prepared for this possibility: that someone would not only dare but succeed in invading Bonnard's well-guarded house. That was not Arnaldo's fault.

And so, in smooth, idiomatic Italian, James thanked him for his devotion to the lady—and walked past him, into the most feverishly decorated drawing room in all of Italy—and that, James knew, was saying something.

“Thank God all the
putti
are still here,” he said. “When I heard something had happened, I thought for sure the children had all flapped their little wings and flown away.”

She started toward him and for a moment he thought she would throw herself into his arms.