The Demon Count's Daughter

by Anne Stuart

  "My dear Lucy," he said softly, dangerously, "you are playing with fire. You cannot come to a man's apartment and tell him that you've been waiting for him all your life and then expect noth­ing to happen. Especially when you're absurdly lovely."

  I met his gaze serenely. "What is going to hap­pen?"

  He stood up abruptly, yanking me to my feet with a jerk that left my arm throbbing more than ever. "Just this," he said in an undertone, and brought his mouth down on mine.

  I had never been kissed like that before, either in love or in anger, and it was quite a devastating experience. He forced my mouth open with his, and his tongue plundered me ruthlessly, a cruel invader with no love, tenderness, or affection. In­stinctively I resisted the harshness of his embrace, but it only served to increase his determination. My mouth was bruised, I could taste blood from my lip mixed with the whiskey on his breath, and still he kissed me, his hands like iron bars around me, so that I couldn't break free. And then sud­denly I didn't want to escape. Twining my arms around his neck I wove my fingers through his long, fair curls and answered his mouth as com­pletely as my inexperience and infatuation al­lowed. And the violence left him, his lips softened on mine, moving to my eyes, my cheeks, my fore­head in short, sweet, unhurried little kisses. A small sigh of pleasure escaped me as he brought his mouth to mine once more, and then suddenly I was thrust away, alone and lost, with the shelter of his arms brutally withdrawn.

  Turning his back on me, he strode across to the chaise longue, retrieved my blood-stained shawl, and tossed it to me with an abrupt gesture. "Wrap this around you," he ordered coldly, "and I'll see you home."

  It was just slightly more than I could take. "Coward," I said clearly and distinctly, and ran from the room, not bothering to shut the door be­hind me. A moment later I was lost in the crowded alleys, as all of Venice headed toward their after­noon promenade along St. Mark's Square, and, to my despair, there was no tall shadow behind me.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  There was no way I could hide my damaged con­dition from my ever-faithful Maggie. With ques­tions, shrieks of outrage, solicitous care, and stern scoldings she divested me of my blue flowered dress, which she swore she could salvage, brewed some strong, whiskeyless tea, and tucked me up in bed with a nice custard as a restorative and a box of rich, creamy chocolates.

  "Where did the candy come from?" I demanded as I settled back among the feather pillows, my eyes devouring the luscious chocolates that my tea and whiskey-filled stomach rejected.

  "They were delivered a short while before you got home," Maggie replied, distracted. "I couldn't find a note."

  "Probably lost during delivery," I said easily. "Maggie, dear, could I . . . ?" I held up my empty bowl appealingly, and a moment later I was alone.

  The note wasn't too difficult to find, if you knew where to look. At this point I was getting used to Tonetti's flowery style, though the lilac scent ruined two perfectly good chocolates.

  "Beloved Angel," it read, and mournfully I re­membered who else had called me angel that day. "Words cannot describe my feelings of despair at missing you this afternoon! Only say that your poor, wretched servant may hope to see you to­morrow. Otherwise, all will be lost! Your slave, Enrico Tonetti."

  I crumpled the note in my hand, wishing des­perately that I had someone to turn to other than that scented fop, someone to confide in. There was little doubt in my mind who I wanted that some­one to be, and unbidden, the feel of his mouth on mine returned with shattering force. Wearily I crawled deeper under the covers, huddling against the damp, the loneliness, and the danger of the Venice night.

  It took all my powers of persuasion and native guile to escape Maggie's almost fanatical surveil­lance the next afternoon. All morning she had clung to me like a limpet, devising the most absurdly obvious reasons for me not to leave the moldering palazzo. For the time being I was only too happy to stay within the ancient walls of the family home. Despite the centuries of violence that had abounded in and around the old palace, there was a curious aura of peace and serenity which

  I found most appealing. I knew full well that I hadn't much time for peace and serenity left to me in Venice. Obviously Tonetti's plans had been made. It was up to me to prepare myself, both physically and mentally, for the ordeal ahead. And the first thing I had to do was put Evan Fitzpatrick firmly out of my mind.

  But that was easier said than done. Dutifully I sat in a small, hard chair in the west salon and stitched with careful little stitches on Maggie's newest creation, a muslin frock of butter yellow that would undoubtedly make me look like an overgrown daffodil. I could think of worse things to look like. And instead of Tonetti, all morning long my mind kept going back to Evan Fitzpat­rick and the feel of his mouth on mine, his hard, clever hands caressing my love-starved body with a sureness that came from long and diligent practice.

  It wasn't the first time I had ever been kissed. Various proper young gentlemen had pressed im­portunate, dry lips against mine during indiscreet evening walks. One had even gone so far as to tumble me into a sheltering clump of bushes. The poor young viscount had returned to the party with a blackened eye and severely impaired dig­nity, and I, my virtue still intact. But nothing had prepared me for the sudden upsurge of passion, the simple, immediate desire that had swept over me yesterday when Evan had touched me. And I remembered vaguely my thought then, that, of course, this is how it should be.

  "Whatever it is you're thinking of," Maggie broke in caustically, "you'd better get down on your knees and pray for forgiveness. I've never seen so wanton a look on anyone's face in my life."

  Quickly I pulled myself back together. "Then you've never looked in a mirror," I shot back, pleased with my sally. "I have no reason to pray for forgiveness, Maggie. I was just daydreaming."

  "That was more than daydreaming, Miss Luci­ana. There's some practical knowledge in your eyes that wasn't there before, or I miss my guess. I don't know what your parents will say." She sighed gustily.

  Carefully I knotted the thread. "They will say, Maggie, that it's about time." I put the froth of yellow material to one side. "And now I think I'll take a nap. I haven't been getting enough sleep since we've been in Venice." I yawned convinc­ingly.

  Suspicion flared in her mild hazel eyes. "You've never needed more than a few hours' sleep before, MisS Luciana. Why are you so tired all of the time?"

  "I think all this heat enervates me," I replied guilelessly. "Why don't you take a nap yourself, Maggie? It's too hot to do anything else."

  She looked torn, and the moment she spoke I realized her dilemma. Lust and duty had always been stern taskmasters, and she was leaning heavily in the former, having devoted her morning to her hapless charge. "There's a very nice young man who's offered to take me for a ride in his boat," she said with what in another person I might have called shyness. "If you really don't need me I might let him know that I'd be avail­able this afternoon. . . ."

  "I'm sure he already knows that you're avail­able, Maggie," I murmured, eyeing her low-cut dress that pulled across her straining bodice. In anyone else I might have thought the dress needed alteration, but with Maggie I knew it had been designed with that effect carefully in mind. "You go on ahead. I think I might explore some of the upper rooms, maybe nap up there. There might be more of a breeze up near the top floor." I waved a hand listlessly in front of my face, stirring the warm, humid air only slightly.

  Poor Maggie still hesitated. "Well, if you're sure. I'd be glad to stay, Miss Luciana, if you thought it would be necessary. Pietro could come another day."

  "Maggie, I shall be sound asleep in five minutes, and no doubt will sleep till dinnertime." I yawned again, hoping to hide the tense excitement that stirred beneath my uncorseted breast. "Don't waste another moment on me, for heaven's sake."

  "Well, if you're sure . . ." she agreed doubtfully. "I only hope I can trust you to do as you say, and not leave the house."

  I looked shocked and hurt. "Maggie, would I
lie to you?" I protested. Maggie only shook her head.

  It took me five minutes to change into the newly mended blue flowered dress with its shorter, modified sleeves, repin my long, thick hair, and find a fresh pair of gloves before I was out the door. I had no idea what time Tonetti planned to find me, but I knew I should make myself avail­able for as long a time as possible. Maggie would come looking for me by five, but it was only half- past two, and I could take my time.

  By their own accord my feet started toward the Merceria and the Rialto Bridge. I wandered among the shops, most of them closed in the broiling early afternoon sun, and bought a few things: some bright yellow ribbons to match my dress, an ell of lace, which would look exquisite with my mother's light coloring, a string of millefiori beads that were far too expensive.

  In Italy all roads lead to Rome. In Venice all streets and canals seem to lead inexorably to St. Mark's Square. It wasn't long before I found my­self strolling along the pavement stones on the huge square, peering into shop windows, ignoring the milling Austrian soldiers in their gaudy uni­forms and loud cheeriness.

  St. Mark's Square seemed like an odd choice for a meeting, overflowing as it was with boister­ous Austrians, curious Englishmen, superior Frenchmen, all of whom eyed me with embar­rassing approval.

  One ruddy-faced young soldier had just left his seat at one of the cafes and headed toward me when I saw Tonetti off to one side, resplendent in a pale lavender suit, beckoning me. When the Austrian looked again, I had disappeared under the New Procuratie, strolling along with seeming abandon as I chatted with my Venetian lover.

  "Signorina del Zaglia," he breathed, his spaniel's eyes moist with passion and a darting look of fear. "I have been half-crazy with worry." He seized my gloved hand and began slobbering over it, dampening the thin kid. I forced myself to bestow a flirtatious smile upon his oiled and thinning hair.

  "For heaven's sake, control yourself," I hissed, snatching back my hand with a fond glance. "Don't overdo the whole thing."

  He pressed one well-manicured hand to his breast. "Forgive me, Madonna," he said soulfully. "But the loveliness of your radiant graciousness makes me forget myself. Ah, if this were only a dream; the two of us could go off together, away from all this . . ."

  "On whose money?" I questioned cruelly. "All English ladies are not heiresses, you know."

  "But . . . but you are a del Zaglia!" he protested, momentarily disconcerted. "Of course you have money."

  "Only if my parents approve," I informed him. "Besides, I don't think your wife and nine chil­dren would care for it."

  "Soon to be ten," he corrected glumly. "My wife informed me of the happy news last evening." He sighed soulfully. "Surely there must be easier ways to make a living."

  If there were, I had no doubt Signore Tonetti would find them. "This will only take one night, Tonetti," I said bracingly. "A few short hours, and you will be a rich man. And you aren't running any risks—you don't have to retrieve the paper."

  "True enough," he agreed, brightening like the heartless creature he was. "It is you they will catch, and I'll be long gone." His smile of satisfac­tion grated, and I put a loverlike hand on his lavender forearm and pinched him, hard.

  "It would be best," I said icily, a sweet smile on my face, "if neither of us is caught. I'm count­ing on you to see to that. When are we going to do this?"

  He pulled himself together. "He leaves tomor­row afternoon. Tomorrow night I will come and fetch you, sometime around nine. You'll get rid of the little bambina, yes?"

  "Yes, I'll get rid of Maggie."

  "We will stop first at a shop I know of, where you will change your clothes. Something a bit more suited to an Austrian whore. We'll continue on to the barracks, I'll escort you to the general's rooms, and from then on you're on your own. A few moments' search, a simple escape, and all will be well."

  "And what if someone questions my presence?" I demanded, unmoved by this rosy picture.

  "Signorina del Zaglia, with the dress and face paint I will provide, and the physical attributes nature so generously endowed you with, you will have no trouble at all lulling the suspicions of an entire platoon of Tedeschi. All you have to do is bat your eyes like this"—he demonstrated, and I had to stifle a burst of laughter—"and show some of your lovely . . . er . . . chest, and the Tedeschi will forget their questions. Trust me, Madonna."

  I allowed him an overlong salute to my glove, and smiled benevolently. "Tomorrow night at nine, my pigeon," he announced thrillingly. "But now I must fly."

  And fly he did, leaving me watching his minc­ing figure depart with mixed emotions. Contempt, amusement, and a very real fear warred within me for control. God help me if I failed tomorrow night! Tonetti certainly wouldn't.

  As I turned I came face to face with that bastion of England, Florian's Cafe. I hardly even felt surprise as I recognized one dark gold head alone at a distant table, one pair of silver-blue eyes watching me with mingled curiosity and irri­tation before he buried himself once more in his paper.

  I hesitated for only a moment. Tomorrow I could very well die—today I intended to seize every last moment of life that I could. With a graceful self-assurance I was far from feeling, I seated myself opposite Evan Fitzpatrick.

  He lowered the newspaper slowly, those eyes meeting mine with an unreadable expression in their smoky depths. Before he could open his mouth to order me away, however, an eager waiter appeared at the table with the customary, "Behold me!"

  Evan hesitated, but only for a moment. "Two coffees," he said tersely, and then flashed the smile that he seemed to reserve for everyone but me. The waiter responded, as he couldn't help but do, and ran off to do his bidding. And then the silver- blue eyes swung back to me, and of course the smile vanished.

  "Your admirer desert you?" he questioned coldly. "He should have seen you home. I would have thought you learned your lesson yesterday. Venice is a dangerous place for an unescorted lady. I hadn't thought to see you again."

  The thought didn't seem to faze him in the least. "Whereas I rather thought I would see you," I replied in a low voice. "So I had no need of an­other escort." I smiled brilliantly across the table. "Don't glower at me like that—it doesn't become you. You might as well accept your fate."

  A look of reluctant amusement warmed the chilly depths of his eyes. "Now I'm sure you're about to tell me what that fate is, aren't you, my dove?"

  I smiled serenely. "Indeed. Though you know it as well as I do."

  The coffee arrived and Evan stirred it absently, his eyes never leaving my face. For a moment he seemed lost in thought, and I leaned back and sipped the strong, bitter brew, happy just to be sitting in the sunshine in that glorious square, across from the man I knew I would love.

  Finally he seemed to come to a decision, and his face was infinitely soft and beguiling as he spoke. So beguiling, in fact, that he only stiffened my resolve.

  "My dear Lucy, you are being absurd. You've only just met me, we've never even been formally introduced, and yet you have cast maidenly de­corum to the winds in a misguided fascination for me. I can't believe England is so lacking in young men that you would be desperate enough to have fancied a passion for an aging adventurer like me. A young lady with your very considerable physical charms could hardly have been lacking in admirers. Unless England has changed a great deal in the last two years."

  "Two years?" I echoed, fastening on this last piece of information. "But what about your son? Haven't you seen him in that long?"

  His face darkened, and I knew that once more I had overstepped the bounds of propriety. "My son is in the very capable hands of my brother Simon and his wife. They both adore him, and no doubt Jamie is far better off without me around."

  The bitter expression was back around his mouth, and I wanted to kiss it away.

  "Do you think he feels that way?" I asked in a low voice, wondering whether he would throw his coffee cup at me. I wouldn't have blamed him.

  "No, Miss del Zaglia,
he doesn't feel that way. But he will, sooner or later. He'll have no choice."

  "And are you better off without him around?"

  A bitter laugh escaped him. "No, I'm not. But I have enough sense to realize what is best for Jamie. I only wish you had the sense to keep your lovely little nose out of other people's business."

  I met his gaze calmly, unabashed. "I am tact­less," I admitted, "and indiscreet. You will have to work on curing me of it."

  Another long silence. "Lucy," he said gently, "you know nothing about me."

  I took another sip from my coffee, hoping it would take long, blissful hours to finish the tiny cup. "I know a great deal just from looking at you," I replied evenly.

  "Such as?" he mocked. "You can tell that I'm scarred, bitter, and nasty to young girls. You are only lucky that I haven't given way to my baser instincts and become even nastier, and in more devastating ways."

  I ignored him. "I can tell a great many things about you. You're obviously idealistic, or you wouldn't be so very cynical all the time. People are only cynical when their ideals have been be­trayed." I leaned back in my chair, prepared to enjoy this, putting my fingertips together in a meditative fashion. "I would say, and this is sheer conjecture, mind you, that you would be the type to love the country rather than the city, fishing rather than hunting, old, smelly spaniels rather than beagles or bloodhounds."

  I had caught his attention for sure this time. "You are surprisingly accurate," he said softly. "Continue."

  "Well"—I thought for a moment, warming to my subject—"you would prefer Venice to Paris, Scotland to England, old ballads and sea chanteys to classical arias. You must have a lovely bass voice," I added absently.

  "Not too bad," he admitted. "Go on."

  "You prefer riding to driving even the most elegant curricle. You don't want to be tied to any­one or anything. You love the sea and the moun­tains, you read a lot. You're capable of killing, if necessary. And I think you're still capable of loving."