The Vision of a Viscountess (The Widowers of the Aristocracy Book 2)

by Linda Rae Sande

None of them seemed appropriate now.

  “Was he good to you? Romano, I mean,” Darius asked just as they reached the path that led to San Nicola. At Chiara’s gentle urging, they turned onto it.

  “He was,” she replied. “You knew him, didn’t you?”

  Darius nodded. “I did. I knew he... he was in love with you.”

  Chiara nearly stopped at hearing his words. “How did you know such a thing?”

  He managed a chuckle. “I would have had to be blind not to notice,” he claimed. “When we were at those receptions and dinners your father hosted, I saw how he looked at you. He looked at you the same way I did. I have to admit, I was jealous of him back then—I knew he was rich, and I knew your father liked him. But when I saw that he hadn’t made his intentions known to your father, I figured I could have you. At least for a time.”

  Bristling at the last comment, Chiara stepped farther from him. “For a time?” she repeated, obviously incensed.

  “I regretted having married long before I left London for Rome,” he said, his jaw clenched at the memory of his arranged marriage to a spoiled daughter of a duke. “I didn’t want to have anything to do with my wife, especially after she made it clear she didn’t want to have anything to do with me,” he added. “So going to Rome without her seemed the perfect solution.”

  “Not for me,” Chiara whispered.

  “I am sorry about that, but at the same time, I don’t regret it,” Darius replied. “I went to Rome because I wanted to immerse myself in the work. I wanted to dig up treasures and learn about the ancient Romans. I wanted to make discoveries,” he said in a quiet voice, realizing just then his goals hadn’t changed a bit in the intervening years.

  “Did you? Make discoveries?” she asked in a quiet voice.

  “I did. I discovered you.” At the way her face displayed one changing emotion after another, he added, “Of all the places I went, and of all the treasures I found, you meant the most, Chiara. You were the most valuable.”

  She stared at him for several seconds before replying. “And yet you left me on the steps of the Forum.”

  Darius nodded. “The hardest thing I’ve ever had to do,” he said. “Even though I had already arranged for Antony to find you—I knew he would come for you because I knew he was already in love with you—it was probably the worst thing I’ve ever had to do. Watching him take you down those steps and into his coach. Driving off to spend the rest of his life with you.

  “That is what happened, isn’t it?”

  Chiara gasped. “You saw that?” she asked, one hand going to her chest.

  “Of course! I wasn’t going to just leave you there without making sure you had an escort home,” he replied, a bit indignant.

  “As soon as we arrived back at my father’s casa, he asked father’s permission to marry me,” she said, remembering the day as if it were only yesterday. “He proposed that night.”

  “Lucian said as much in his note to me,” Darius admitted. “He wrote it on the last letter I sent, and saw to its return in the post. But that didn’t make it any easier.”

  Having arrived at San Nicola, Chiara gave him a glance before she said, “I come here every day to light a candle for Antony,” she said.

  “And you will continue to do so for the rest of your life,” Darius said, half-hoping she would deny the words.

  “Perhaps not every day,” she countered. She turned and entered the church, moving to the display of candles in the nave. Kneeling, Chiara picked up a tapered wood lighting stick and lit the end from an existing flame. She then lit another candle. Setting the votive in place, she said her usual prayer.

  The sensation of being watched had her turning her head to see the Gypsy nun regarding her from the other side of the nave, a knowing grin lighting the woman’s face. Chiara slowly got to her feet and was about to join the Gypsy when she saw Darius approach the old woman. She stopped and watched as Darius regarded the nun for a moment. He finally gave her a nod. “Grazie,” he said with a sigh.

  Chiara moved to stand next to him. “Do you know this man?” she asked of the Gypsy.

  The old woman gave her a slight grin. “Only that he was a lonely soul,” she said in Italian. “But he is no longer.”

  Giving the woman a curtsy, Chiara placed a hand on Darius’ arm, and the two took their leave of the church.

  They made their way back toward the villa in companionable silence, although Darius stopped at the cornerstone of the brothel ruins. He glanced around, noting how a rare cloud obscured the sun and cast a giant, cooling shadow over the area. “Now you have to marry me,” he said with a hint of amusement. At Chiara’s look of surprise, he added. “I shouldn’t want a Gypsy to curse you.”

  Chiara arched an elegant eyebrow. “Hasn’t she already?”

  The smile that appeared in response reminded her of the Darius she had known twenty years ago, and she allowed a grin to match.

  Chapter 37

  Clearing Up a Misconception

  Later that night

  Jasper awoke with a start, his heart beating a tattoo so loud he was sure Marianne could hear it. Reaching out, he was stunned to find her gone, the bed linens cold where he was sure she had lain when he had collapsed only moments ago.

  Or had it been hours ago?

  He sat up and stared into the darkness, allowing his eyes to adjust before he moved to get off the bed. Before he could put voice to a query, he heard a sniffle and directed his gaze toward the hotel room’s only window.

  Marianne sat in the velvet lounging chair staring at the blackness beyond the window. He had moved the chair there earlier that night, thinking Marianne might enjoy the vantage should she deign to wear her eyeglasses and gaze out on the spectacle of a Sicilian city rich in history and beautiful buildings.

  A huge fountain sat in the center of the piazza below, the coins at the bottom glittering when the sun was directly overhead. The building directly across from the hotel featured architecture from the twelfth century and rich marble floors and mosaic tiles within. To the left, a fourteenth-century cathedral loomed, its gothic windows reflecting the morning light and its mass preventing the rays of the afternoon sun from baking the piazza and its visitors.

  Marianne was barely silhouetted in what little light came from the piazza below, her white nightrail appearing almost ghostly. The revelers had long since dispersed into the night, and the quiet in the room was almost deafening.

  “What’s wrong?” Jasper whispered when he attempted to take her into his arms. She stiffened at his touch, her body rigid despite his effort to provide comfort.

  “You must think me no better than a... than a whore,” she whispered.

  Jasper furrowed his brows, wondering at the odd comment. He reached up with a thumb and brushed away a trail of tears from one of her cheeks. “I assure you, I have never thought of you in that way,” he murmured, wondering what had her so upset. Then he replayed the words in his mind. No better than a whore. “Why ever would you say such a thing?”

  Marianne attempted to catch her breath, sobs interrupting her response. “What you did to me.”

  Blinking, Jasper had to take a moment to remember just what he had done to her that was any different from what he usually did with her. To her.

  The memory of his earlier method of foreplay came to mind, and he tightened his hold on her. “Are you referring to how I pleasured you? Before we made love?” he asked in a whisper. He thought to ask it in a teasing voice, but realized she was in no mood to be teased.

  “I should not have... reacted as I did,” she whispered, tears once again streaming down her cheeks.

  “Why ever not? Your reaction was... completely expected. Rather appreciated. It was perfect, really,” he replied, remembering how her body writhed beneath his hold, how she whimpered, and mewled, and finally screamed his name during that moment he had suckled her swollen womanhood with his lips and laved it with his tongue before slipping it into her honeyed haven.

&nb
sp; He had never tasted her before. He had wanted to, of course. He had thought to try it their first night together, but realized it would be best to ease her into the pleasures of the marriage bed. She had been a virgin. She had no experience with sexual congress. Other than the few kisses they had shared, she had no experience with foreplay.

  Every night since their departure from London—except for the night when they arrived in Girgenti too late and were exhausted from their travels—they had enjoyed a round of simple foreplay before engaging in rather tame intercourse. Despite the fact that he knew Marianne was at least somewhat familiar with other positions—it was obvious she had seen illustrations in a book, or her aunt had described them—he had thought to simply wait until the time or place was right to try something different. He had no intention of attempting the more scandalous acts—with her or anyone else. He had decided long ago never to subject his wife to sexual positions not suitable for a lady of quality.

  Unless it was her idea.

  He wasn’t even thinking of the brothel mosaics when he engaged in one of the Roman arts. He had never employed it on Sophie, of course—she would never have allowed it—and he hadn’t tried it on anyone since Miss Ann at The Elegant Courtesan. Marianne was a far more accommodating lover. Far more eager in the marriage bed. Perhaps her aunt had helped in that regard, or perhaps she had merely learned enough from an illustrated book.

  Jasper felt Marianne’s body finally give in to his hold, and he kissed the top of her head. “Now, tell me what’s really wrong,” he encouraged.

  Marianne lifted her head and stared at her husband. “I never wish to be part of an... of an orgy,” she whispered hoarsely.

  Jasper blinked. And blinked again. “I should hope not!” he countered, his voice no longer quiet. What the hell? “Which begs the question. Why would you feel compelled to say such a thing?” he asked as he held her away from his body so he could see her face.

  “Isn’t that... isn’t that what you were doing?” she asked, her manner rather timid.

  At first confused by her implication, Jasper finally allowed a sigh. “I was performing cunnilingus,” he said quietly. “A way of providing pleasure. Men have been doing it for women for centuries,” he added before asking, “Pray tell, why would you think I expected you to engage in an orgy?”

  It was Marianne’s turn to blink. “The mosaics. The ones that Chiara and I uncovered,” she finally said.

  Jasper inhaled, wondering what those mosaics had to do with what he had done to her. They were now covered with a canvas sail to protect them from the weather as well as from prying eyes. At some point, he knew they would be unveiled for anyone to see, but he didn’t want that to happen until he had them completely documented. If there was any chance to remove them to some sort of protection—a museum or a private collector with the means to display them properly—he would make the arrangements before leaving for Rome.

  “What about them has you so upset?”

  “There were two I could not sort at first, but Chiara said they were depictions of... of orgies. You saw them. The men had their heads... down there—” She pointed to the apex of her thighs. “And one of the women had her head down there. On a man,” she struggled to get out. “While a different man was behind her and...” She stopped, apparently robbed of breath by a sob.

  Jasper could practically feel the heat from her blush. He cleared his throat before deciding how to explain what she had seen. “Orgies are where multiple men engage in sexual intercourse—and other... sexual practices—with multiple women,” he said quietly. “You have not been a participant in an orgy, I assure you,” he added carefully. He suddenly frowned. “How do you even know the word?”

  Angling her head to one side, Marianne sighed. “Chiara said the word when we uncovered the mosaics. She said it was the reason Rome fell.”

  Resisting the urge to chuckle at hearing the companion’s assessment, Jasper sighed. “Orgies were not the reason Rome fell, although they may have been a contributing factor,” he replied, deciding he really didn’t want to get into a discussion of ancient Rome’s politics just then. “They were more of a... an indicator of how their civilization was becoming less civil.” He paused and indicated the bed. “Let’s continue this conversation lying down, shall we?” he asked gently.

  Marianne gave him an uncertain glance before she allowed him to lead her to the bed. She regarded it a moment, almost as if she were frightened of it, before finally settling herself onto the mattress.

  Jasper thought to go around to the other side before joining her, but instead he simply followed her down, one arm moving beneath her shoulders to pull her almost atop him. Although she resisted his hold at first, she soon sighed and dropped her head onto his chest.

  “I thought you liked what I did to you earlier,” he said softly, his manhood coming to attention when it realized its favorite place to be was only inches away.

  “I must have looked just like one of those women in the mosaics,” Marianne whispered.

  “How do you mean?”

  There was a long moment of silence where Jasper thought his wife might have fallen asleep, but she finally spoke. “I was making sounds, and begging, and my body was—”

  “You were doing what I would hoped you would do,” Jasper whispered. “What I wanted you do to. Moan, mewl, beg, plead, scream. Otherwise, how would I know if I was pleasuring you properly? Doing it right for you?”

  Marianne considered his words. “Right for me?” she repeated, her body once again stiffening in his hold. “Was it different for Sophie?”

  Jasper gave a jerk beneath her, stunned by her question.

  How could he explain Sophie’s dislike of the marriage bed?

  Despite his attempts to pleasure his first wife—and he knew he had on many occasions—Sophie seemed to think his ministrations were more to benefit him than her. That sexual congress was a duty to be endured rather than enjoyed. That finding pleasure with him would negate the feelings she had for the man she had truly wanted to marry. “It was different,” he finally replied. “Very different. She was... embarrassed by what we did in the marriage bed. She claimed she didn’t like making love, but I know I gave her pleasure.” He was silent a moment. “She just wanted the one providing the pleasure to be a different man.”

  Marianne lifted her head and regarded her husband for a very long time. “Then she was a fool,” she whispered.

  Jasper frowned. “Was she now?”

  The subsequent quiet in the room unnerved Jasper until Marianne finally replied. “I did feel pleasure at what you were doing to me. More than I have ever felt before, in fact,” she whispered. “But I also felt as if I was no longer the one moving my body. That someone else took it over and made me say naughty things, and move in ways that made me seem... wanton. Lustful.”

  “Ah,” Jasper said on a sigh. “Then I coaxed the tigress from her hiding place,” he teased gently.

  Marianne inhaled sharply. “The tigress?” she repeated.

  “Or lioness, or whatever erotic creature you become when you are aroused,” he countered. Pausing a moment, he drew a finger down her arm and placed a kiss on her forehead. “It’s all right to let her out when you’re with me.”

  Marianne considered his words a moment. “Is it?” she murmured. “You wouldn’t think me... lustful?”

  He kissed her again, this time on the lips. “I want you to be lustful. But just with me. Not with anyone else,” he added quickly.

  Before he quite knew what was happening, Marianne had her legs straddling him, her bottom resting on his thighs, her arms lifted above her head to pull the nightrail from her body. When the fabric cleared her head and was tossed aside, and the waves of honey-blonde hair settled past her shoulders, Jasper finally took a strangled breath. His cock pressed against her mons as she regarded him from above. “She was a fool,” Marianne affirmed with a nod before she lifted her hips and guided his turgid manhood into her body.

  Stunned by
what she was attempting to do, Jasper stared up at her for a moment before allowing a huge grin. “Let me guess. You saw this depicted in one of the mosaics you uncovered,” he accused.

  Marianne placed her hands on either side of his shoulders as she shook her head, secretly pleased with how the ends of her hair barely touched his chest and had his body trembling with frissons. “I saw it in a book. I think it was called, ‘riding St. George’,” she whispered as one eyebrow arched up.

  Jasper blinked as another frisson passed through his body. “You’re welcome to ride me whenever you would like, my... my dragoness,” he managed before his hands gripped her hips and helped her on her way. “Just don’t breathe any fire on me,” he added before she clenched on him and sent him into ecstasy.

  Chapter 38

  The Gift of Sight

  The following morning

  Despite having spent part of the night wide awake, Marianne opened her eyes to a room lit with oranges and golds from the early morning sunrise. Jasper was watching her, his head supported by a bent elbow.

  “I do adore watching you sleep,” he whispered.

  Marianne gave a start, her eyes blinking several times before they focused on him. “How long have you been awake?”

  Jasper shook his head, not about to admit he had just then opened his eyes. He had passed out in the middle of the night—after she’d had her way with him. Riding St. George, indeed. “Not long.” He leaned over and kissed her on the temple. “Are you anxious?” he asked in a whisper.

  Blinking again, Marianne turned her attention to him. “About what?”

  He gave her a quelling glance. “About seeing the oculist. I’m taking you to Dr. Ricciardini’s office today,” he said. “James and David gave me directions. As it happens, it’s not far at all. We actually passed it on the way here to the hotel.”

  “If you insist,” she finally replied. Truth be told, she didn’t hold much hope that the oculist would be able to help her. She expected she would end up with spectacles much like she currently wore, but maybe in a more attractive frame. That thought alone had her suddenly brightening, though. “When do we leave?”