The sincerity of Miles’s compliment overrode Bianca’s objection to being described as one of Ian’s collectibles, and she laughingly thanked him. This easy camaraderie was not at all part of Ian’s plan. The atmosphere was social, convivial, lighthearted, anything but the explosive tension he had been counting on. He felt completely outside the merry group. As if sensing his isolation, Bianca turned toward him, a welcoming invitation in her eyes. It was tempting, he could let go just a little, relax a little… Damn, he thought, pulling himself out of his seductive reverie, she was doing it again, bending him to her will, as if he were some untutored young lover.
Instead of relaxing, the muscles in Ian’s jaw tightened. “Your meeting with my brother and my cousins is over as of right now,” he announced to her sternly, watching the mirth die out of her face. He gestured all the men to the door with his arms. “Out, all of you, out. My betrothed and I have many matters to discuss and we prefer to do so in private.” From the corner of his eye he saw Bianca open her mouth to say something and then close it. Good. She needed to remember who was in charge.
Several of the Arboretti hazarded a backward glance to smile or wink at Bianca sympathetically as they left the room. Francesco lingered on the threshold about to speak until Roberto persuaded him to come away. Finally alone, Ian felt Bianca’s eyes on him, watching him expectantly. He felt strangely confused, unable to remember what he meant to be doing in this lush room with this lovely woman sitting tousled in bed. Moving closer to her, he wondered if the skin of her shoulders was as soft as the skin on her cheek. Or maybe softer. Were her nipples, barely visible through the thin damask nightdress she was wearing, more pink or more peach colored? What would her mouth feel like under his? Or her body?
With a shock he realized that he was growing aroused, here in the bedroom of this infuriating, manipulative, perilous woman. Ironically, he reflected, he could save quite a fortune by exercising his right to seduce his betrothed instead of visiting one of the expensive courtesans he frequented. But he had decided years ago never again to mingle emotions and sex, and this rule seemed especially important now, with the dangerous beauty before him. It would be better not even to approach her, he decided, simultaneously making a mental note to reserve the services of a favorite courtesan on a daily basis for the duration of Bianca’s residence in his house. Maybe twice daily, he thought as her ankle strayed from beneath the covers.
Bianca’s heart was racing. Ian had moved close enough to touch her, close enough for her to touch him. At last she was going to experience what she had been wondering about for so long. She wanted to reach out and take his hand, to lead it over all the places on her body she had fantasized about being touched. But his harsh reproof the night before stuck in her mind, and she hesitated, not wanting to send him rushing away. She felt herself growing warm in an unfamiliar but not unpleasant way under his gaze. Looking up at him, she willed him to touch her, willed him to bend over and cover her mouth with his lips. Her tongue moved slowly over her teeth, enticing him toward her.
Ian turned abruptly and walked to the door, pausing to issue commands over his shoulder. “I shall wait for you in the antechamber while you dress. We need to dispose of Isabella’s corpse soon, so I should like to go over it with you this afternoon. Your clothing was delivered from your aunt’s house this morning. You will find it in the armoire. Please be quick.”
“Certainly, my lord. Of course, decomposition is a problem. I shall be out momentarily.” Bianca strove to keep the hurt and confusion out of her voice. For a brief moment she had felt something, felt that perhaps he did not really hate her. But she had been wrong. He found her revolting, could not even bring himself to touch her. Their embrace the previous night had been a fantastical occurrence; he felt nothing but contempt for her. Besides, she assured herself, there were other men—gondoliers, butlers, servants, even the other Arboretti. A house this size must be filled with them. No, surely it did not require a count to teach her the lessons she had been longing to learn. When even this thought did not soothe her pain, she reminded herself that she was really there to find out who had murdered Isabella. Proving her innocence, she told herself, was more important than losing it, even to the Conte d’Aosto. Or at least it should be. Repeating this like an Ave Maria, she dressed quickly and went out to meet him.
Chapter Five
Bianca and Ian ascended the steps to the laboratories the same way they had descended them the previous day, in silence. Ian allowed Bianca to precede him into the cold room, following behind her with a handful of unlit tapers. The smell of decomposing flesh hit him as he entered, but he saw that Bianca did not even seem to notice it. He wondered if all murderers were so coldblooded. Working together, they got the tapers lit and distributed in the wall sconces.
“I had Giorgio bring up more ice in the middle of the night.” Ian gestured to the large blocks surrounding the corpse. “I thought it might slow the decomposition.”
“Umm, yes, very good, my lord.” Bianca was looking through her pile of drawings, trying to order her thoughts before she began her narration. After a few minutes of shuffling papers around, she raised her eyes to see Ian staring down wistfully at the dissected woman on the table.
The thought struck her like a boulder. Santa Apollonia’s teeth, what an idiot she had been! Of course, he had been in love with Isabella and was deeply grieved. No wonder he hated her, the presumed murderer of his beloved. She remembered the locket she had found on the body, with hair exactly Ian’s shade of blond carefully preserved inside. They had been lovers, Bianca thought to herself, suddenly jealous of the dead woman on the table. Damnation. What he needed now, she realized, was not a cold recounting of Isabella’s anatomy but compassion.
She cleared her throat. “Would you like to talk about her, my lord?” Bianca had often spent hours consoling the relatives of ailing patients, helping them to express their grief. She knew from personal experience how hard it could be to lose someone you loved. When Ian did not respond, she began again. “How long had you, um, known her?”
Ian regarded her, surprised and a little confused. “ ‘Known her’?” he repeated to himself, and then, “ ‘How long’…?”
“No need to answer if it is too painful,” Bianca cut in, embarrassed. She should never have asked; it was much too personal, and certainly no business of hers at all.
“‘Painful’?” Ian looked blank again. Finally comprehension seemed to dawn on him and he spoke in clipped tones. “You appear to be under some misapprehension, Signorina Salva. I did not know Isabella Bellocchio. I set eyes on her for the first time four days ago when we recovered the body. She was not exactly in my social circle.” Isabella was not the type of courtesan he sought out. Crispin had often spoken of her sweet innocence and childlike charm, but those were not qualities that appealed to Ian. He thought of explaining this to Bianca but decided it was none of her business. Let her think what she wanted.
Now Bianca was confused. Why was he lying to her? “But the locket…” she blurted out before she could stop herself. “She has your hair in her locket. Surely you were lovers.”
“You would do well to refrain from assumptions about my love life, signorina, which can be no concern of yours.” Ian was surprised by the asperity with which he spoke those last words. “And I know of no locket. My hair color, however, is that of at least half the patriciate of Venice. It is not so terribly distant from your own, for that matter.” Ian scrutinized her. “How am I to know that the locket was not a gift from you? That you were not once friends but later became rivals for the attention of one of her clients, and jealous, you killed her?”
Bianca sneered at him and his absurd logic. “We did not have the same taste in lovers.” It was not strictly untrue, she assured herself.
Aha! So she was not as innocent as she pretended to be. Ian felt triumphant—he had seen through her naïveté all along. “Isabella might h
ave decided to broaden her palate. Is that why you went to Isabella’s apartments, to get revenge on her for stealing your prize?” Ian watched her carefully, sure that he was getting close to something.
“Isabella was not killed on the spur of the moment in some fit of passionate revenge.” Bianca sounded exasperated. “Whoever murdered her must have been planning it for months.”
“How could you possibly know that unless you yourself had planned it?” Ian had her cornered. He saw her will giving way.
Bianca looked at him with surprise. “How would you explain the dagger and the note sent to you? Those surely are not details that one would think up at the last minute. But they are proofs of my innocence: although now that I know you better, it seems like a fine idea, what reason would I possibly have had to frame you for murder? And if I did, why would I linger at the crime scene until you arrived?”
It was a persuasive point, but Ian immediately saw a flaw. He shook his head. “Just like a woman to argue that looking manifestly guilty was proof of her innocence. I believe I was asking the questions and you were answering them. Do you have any other equally compelling proofs of your innocence?” Ian decided to make it easier for her. “I don’t suppose you would care to explain, for example, what you were doing in Isabella’s apartment, if not murdering her?”
Bianca glared at him for a moment. He was so peevish and stubborn, refusing to see reason. Her first inclination was to show him that she could be just as stubborn by refusing to open her mouth, but she thought better of it. Perhaps she could tell him enough to prove she wasn’t a murderer without having to reveal everything.
“I was teaching Isabella to write. I went there every Monday at the same time to give her exercises. We had a standing appointment.” She looked him in the eye, daring him to challenge her.
“Sounds very innocent. Why wouldn’t you admit that before?”
“There was no reason to. I told you I had nothing to do with Isabella’s death.”
Ian was suspicious, she could sense it. She began moving around the room, cleaning up and preparing for the disposal of the body.
“Why did you do it?” Ian challenged suddenly.
Bianca spoke through clenched teeth. “I have just said, I didn’t do it…”
“No, not the murder, that is not what I meant. Why did you agree to teach Isabella to write? What convinced you to potentially disgrace your family by cavorting with a courtesan? Surely there are other more adequate writing tutors in Venice that she could have hired than some chit who thinks she’s going to be a famous doctor.” Ian added the fruits of his research into her background that morning. “You have an immense fortune from your father, you certainly don’t need money … What possible motive could you have?”
“As you yourself pointed out, women don’t need motives, only means.” Bianca spit his words back at him. She could scarcely speak she was so enraged. He was hateful, she decided, completely odious. How could she ever have thought he was attractive? “Unlike the worthy, honorable, and exalted men of your social circle, women who desire education have a hard time finding it. At any rate, those of us deluded enough to think ourselves learned—although never nearly as gifted as you and your friends—are often approached by others less fortunate for help and instruction. Many women, like Isabella, are too vain to admit to a man that they are illiterate. Imagine, my lord, not being able to read history, natural science, a letter from a friend, even a love poem. Imagine not being able to keep your own accounts, not knowing how to do simple addition and subtraction. Without those skills, a woman is always at someone else’s mercy. I suspect that you men prefer them that way. Wouldn’t you agree, my lord?”
“It’s an interesting theory, signorina, but like all your others it is missing one crucial element—proof. How did this arrangement with Isabella come about, for example? Did she pass you in Piazza San Marco and, overhearing you lecturing whatever poor fellow you happened to have gotten the ear of, ask you for writing lessons? Do you advertise your stenographic method? Or was it—”
Bianca interrupted his sarcastic litany. “Actually, it was after we became lovers. I wanted to receive letters from her when I was away and was disturbed by her inability to write.”
Ian raised one eyebrow. “That, signorina, is the first sensible thing you’ve said all day.”
“And also the first lie.” Bianca sighed and looked at him, almost with pity. “My lord, while I am grateful that you think I have enough sexual appeal to woo a beauty like Isabella, I must insist that you put the notion of our having been lovers from your mind. I met her while working on my book. For my research it was necessary to see and speak to all types of women. I let it be known that I was available to give medicine and advice to any woman regardless of her ability to pay me for it. Isabella was one of my patients.” It was all true, if not the whole truth. Why, then, did she continue to feel nervous as she waited to see if Ian had accepted it?
Ian could picture Bianca traveling all over the city visiting women, her gondola filled with medical potions and whatnot. No wonder her aunt and uncle had been so willing to move her to his house, despite the rather unconventional and improbable betrothal. He imagined they had urchins and messengers pounding on their doors at all hours of the day and night begging for the she-doctor. He shuddered, wondering when they would start the assault on his palazzo.
Bianca could stand his silent scrutiny no longer. “You see, my lord, I told you I was innocent. Now perhaps you will tell me what your researches have yielded.”
“No.” Ian shook his head, not apologetically. He had no doubt that she had told him the truth about her introduction to Isabella and even possibly their relationship, but there was still something she was holding back, of that he was sure. Her explanation was much too banal to have elicited so many denials at their first encounter. She was protecting someone, herself or someone she cared about deeply. And he needed to know who.
For a moment he toyed with telling her the steps he had taken to trap the murderer, circulating a call for information about Isabella’s disappearance and trying to uncover the origin of that hideous dagger with his crest on it. Perhaps knowing how close he was would scare the truth out of her. But she was crafty, Bianca Salva, and could twist anything in her favor. Scaring this fierce little creature was probably an impossibility. “No, that would not do at all. What kind of fool do you think me, signorina,” he asked finally, “that I would disclose my methods and findings to my only viable suspect? I may not be of your mental caliber,” his lips twitched in that dangerous way, “but nor am I a brainless toddler fresh from his mother’s teat.”
Bianca was astonished. Her mouth opened and then closed twice before she was able to speak. “That is absurd. I told you what I was doing there. I’ve told you everything. I am innocent.”
“Prove it.” Ian assessed her through narrowed eyes. “If you did not do it, tell me who did.”
“Santa Barbara’s knuckles, you are the most pigheaded being alive. You still persist in branding me a liar and a criminal?” She drew close to him, pointing her finger into his chest to punctuate her words. “Do you think I am enjoying this sham betrothal?” She poked with her finger. “Suffering one humiliation after another,” poke, “my reputation gone, my integrity constantly in question?” Poke, poke. Ian grasped her finger to avoid being turned into a pincushion and drew her close to him.
His proximity made Bianca feel woozy. She hated him now, she reminded herself, he was hateful. Hateful, she thought as she looked into his face. And not even handsome. Or maybe he was too handsome, yes, certainly that was his problem. Too handsome, in that exactly-just-the-right-amount-handsome way.
“I will give you one week, signorina. Seven days from today to prove your innocence.” He consulted his beautiful pocket watch. “That gives you until midday next Thursday. One hundred and sixty-eight hours. You do know how to tell
time, don’t you?”
Hateful, she remembered. Hateful indeed. She pulled away from him and moved toward the door of the room. When she reached it, she turned to face him again.
“Very well, my lord—since you are clearly not up to it, I will find the murderer for you. But rest assured that you will pay and pay dearly, every day of our married life together.” She tried to make her voice sound mean and menacing, to give her words a threatening undertone. “And through every long hour and every long week of every long year, you will have only yourself to blame.” The door slammed shut behind her.
Ian stared into the space left empty by Bianca’s departure. Yet again he did not doubt she spoke the truth, though he could not rid himself of the nagging feeling that she was hiding something. Ian rehearsed Bianca’s arguments to himself. She certainly did seem to have an explanation for her presence at Isabella’s. And even if he could devise a motive for her having killed the courtesan, she could scarcely have any reason to try to pin it on him, a stranger to her. He knew he had many enemies, but he took solace in the fact that he could at least identify all of them by name.
He realized he had not contemplated the possibility of her innocence, or her refusal to bow out of the betrothal. Not that it made much difference. He would have had to marry at some point and Bianca was as good a candidate as anyone. Her family was almost as old as his, even if her father had been a bit batty, and she appeared healthy enough for breeding. As long as they did not have to spend too much time together, it would work out fine, a typical patrician marriage.
There had been a time when he had looked forward to marriage, to having a family. He had pictured a relationship unlike his parents’ cold partnership, a relationship of mutual trust and understanding, shared interests, even love. It wasn’t that he now thought such relationships were impossible for everyone—Francesco and Roberto certainly lived that way—but they were impossible for him. He was unworthy of love, Mora had shown him that. Nor could he blame her. He alone had made himself hateful in her eyes. She had been right, he would disappoint anyone he got close to. Marriage to a woman who promised to hate him from the outset was what he deserved. Years of fighting, a house filled with anger, illegitimate heirs, those had been Mora’s prophecy for him. She would be pleased to know how accurately it was going to be fulfilled.
The Stargazer: The Arboretti Family Saga - Book One Page 4
