Your Scandalous Ways

by Loretta Chase

  “Legal matters always take a ridiculous amount of time,” she said. “Rules and regulations. Papers to sign.”

  “So true it is,” said Lurenze. “Sometimes, the signing of the papers makes me like a wild man. So many rules. Then all the protocols, to talk to this one, that one. To listen while this one complains and another one wishes to make me do this or that. But when I rule Gilenia, only worse it becomes. I must study madame, who is so patient and gracious.”

  “You bring out the best in me,” she said.

  He flushed with pleasure.

  How easy it was to please him!

  She reached across the little table and laid her hand over his. “You are so good,” she said. “I don’t know how you came to be that way, but please don’t change.”

  “Good?” he said with a laugh. “But I did not come to Venice to be good.”

  “You came to be naughty,” she said. “I quite understand. But one might be naughty and still”—she stroked his hand—“keep goodness in one’s heart.”

  Arnaldo came in. “Signor Cordier,” he said.

  Close behind, like a great, ominous shadow, loomed Lord Westwood’s troublesome son. He strode in, carrying the parcel she’d sent.

  A dangerous glitter came into his blue eyes as his gaze went from her to Lurenze’s flushed and happy face, then to her hand, resting on the prince’s.

  She’s a professional, James reminded himself while he said the polite thing and she said the polite thing and the ecstatic Lurenze was all princely cordiality.

  You’re a professional, Jemmy, he told himself. Act like one.

  And so the question naturally arose, What would be the most professional way to kill Lurenze?

  Slowly Bonnard withdrew her hand from the prince’s. “We’ve only started breakfast, Mr. Cordier. Won’t you join us?”

  It must be noon at least, probably past it. James had not bothered to consult a clock before he left his house, but the sun told him it was midday. He told himself not to imagine what they’d been doing since he left them…not to imagine how they’d spent the night…not to picture the pair of them, tangled among the bedclothes, lazing in bed as the morning sun poured through the windows.

  It was hard not to imagine, given the fluffy lot of nothing she was wearing.

  Arnaldo brought a chair to the small, intimate table…set for two. He set another place.

  James sat.

  Bonnard gave Lurenze a sultry smile. The prince smiled back at her, thoroughly pleased with himself.

  And why shouldn’t he be? Last night, James had done all the hard work of getting her heated up. All his highness had to do was finish the job.

  James became aware of his fingers tightly clutching the parcel in his hand. He laid it on the table.

  Lurenze stared at it. “You bring a gift for madame, I see.”

  “Not exactly,” James said.

  “What’s wrong, Mr. Cordier?” she said. “Is it not what you asked for: the perfect gift for your betrothed?”

  “You are betrothed?” Lurenze said. “I congratulate you!”

  “I am not betrothed,” James said.

  “Not yet,” said Bonnard. “But he wishes to be prepared.”

  Lurenze nodded. “For me, all is prepared. Soon I shall be betrothed. The girl is not yet decided. One of my cousins, perhaps. Or else a girl of a great family of Italy or Russia or Hungary or one of those places. Half the world they want the alliance with my country, but the Russians plague me most. I wish they would leave me in peace but it cannot be. Alas, the man of my position cannot marry where is his heart.”

  He gazed soulfully at Bonnard.

  She gazed soulfully back at him.

  Excuse me while I vomit, James thought. He rose.

  “Well, then, good-bye,” he said.

  The Cleopatra eyes widened.

  Ah, she wasn’t prepared for that. She thought she could torment him for as long as she liked.

  Sorry, cara. I’ve been tortured by experts.

  “But you haven’t touched your breakfast,” she said.

  “But what of the man who is captured?” said Lurenze. “Did you not come to report of this, to put madame’s mind at the ease, I hope?”

  Damnation. James had forgotten about Piero. He’d forgotten everything he was supposed to remember.

  It all went out of his head at the sight of Lurenze’s classically handsome, beaming countenance…those guileless grey eyes, which had scarcely seen the world, let alone beheld any of its treacheries and horrors…his pure happiness at having the woman he wanted…his pleasure, untouched by doubt or painful experiences, by betrayals…

  And she, stroking his hand, encouraging his delusions…

  No excuses, Jemmy. You’re letting your cock do your thinking for you.

  “I didn’t want to spoil your breakfast with unpleasant subjects,” he said.

  “On the contrary,” she said. “My appetite is bound to improve, if any progress has been made in this matter.”

  She gestured for him to sit down.

  James remained standing. He would not stay a minute longer than necessary. He needed to get away and repair his brain.

  “The man in custody is the one who rowed the boat,” he said. “He confessed. They were after your jewelry. But the other one, apparently, thought it would be fun to rape you as well. His accomplice claims he was not trying to strangle you, only to keep you quiet.”

  Her hand went to her throat, involuntarily, he could tell. It was as instinctive a reaction as the color washing out of her face.

  James’s reaction was instinctive, too. He caught her as she began to slump. He lifted her from the chair and carried her to the sofa.

  Lurenze, startled, took a moment to react. But before he could shout for servants, James said, “Excellency, pray dip a napkin in water.”

  The prince quickly did as he was told and hurried to the sofa, where James sat, his hip against hers. He took the wet cloth and dabbed her forehead, her temples, her cheeks.

  Her eyes fluttered open. She stared at him. In the noontime light, he could make out the flecks of gold in her green eyes.

  “Good grief,” she said. “Did I faint?”

  “Perhaps, madame, this was too much excitement for you, so soon after rising from the bed,” Lurenze said. “I am so stupid. Why do I not think wisely, to tell Mr. Cordier to wait until you have something to eat? All you have is one small piece of pastry, and only two bites from this do you take.”

  “Perhaps you’re right,” she said. “But how embarrassing! I’ve never fainted before.”

  “Mi dispiace,” James said. “I do apologize.”

  Imbecille, he rebuked himself. Idiota.

  He had no conscience, true. The trouble was, he’d let his emotions rule his brain, on about a dozen counts.

  He’d been callous, deliberately so.

  He’d been there. He’d seen what she’d endured, how shocked and frightened she was. Now, in the bright light of day, he could see the faint marks on her neck.

  The trouble was, he could see Lurenze, too, almost visibly floating on his cloud of post-coital bliss.

  “But this is good news, yes?” Lurenze said. “One man is found. He is in the prison. The other one, too, they will find soon, unless he is dead and the sea has carried him away. You must be comforted, madame. No one will allow you to come to harm. I keep the guard in the night, and here is Mr. Cordier to take my place.”

  James blinked and looked up at him. “Take your place?”

  “But here are you, and what is it more important for you to do?” said his highness. “Me, I would not leave madame alone, but my life is not mine to live as I wish. I must give the audience to these Russians who plague me. I do not mind to keep them to wait some hours, but I must appear to them before the time of dinner, when I have the engagement, also impossible to avoid. The Bavarians make a great dinner in my honor, where I must show myself. I must have clothes fresh and my face to be shaved.” He rubb
ed his jaw. “Madame is so patient. She makes no grievance. But the pricks of the beard are not agreeable to the ladies, I know.”

  A short while later—after he’d reminded James several times to make sure madame ate properly—his highness departed.

  By this time, madame had fully recovered. She left the sofa and walked with Lurenze as far as the door to the portego, where she gave him a kiss on the cheek. He reddened with pleasure. Then he took her hand and kissed it, not like a boy but like a royal and a man of the world.

  Then, finally, he was gone.

  She did not return to the breakfast table but sauntered past James to the window.

  The noonday light made the seed pearls shimmer. The light also rendered her garments—such as they were—nearly transparent.

  Though the dressing gown glimmered in the light, and the ruffles danced with the slightest movement, he could clearly discern the shape of her breasts. His hands cupped involuntarily, recalling the way they fit his hands, their smoothness, their firmness. He had no trouble remembering the warm scent of her skin. If he’d been a dog, his nose would have quivered. As it was his brain was closing the thinking door and preparing to hang the “Closed” sign on it.

  He tried to look away but his gaze helplessly slid lower. He could discern the outline of her hips, her long legs.

  “What are the chances of their finding the other one?” she said.

  “The other one?”

  James dragged his attention upward, to her profile. She was looking out of the window.

  “The other criminal,” she said.

  “Bonnard, put some clothes on,” he said.

  “No,” she said.

  “You’re doing this on purpose,” he said.

  “Yes,” she said.

  “To punish me,” he said.

  “Yes.”

  “You knew I’d come.”

  “Yes.”

  “That’s why you sent the peridots.”

  “Yes.”

  “And you bedded him for spite.”

  She turned her head then, and looked at him. “Oh, no,” she said. “I never bed anyone for spite. I’m a businesswoman.”

  “He doesn’t know that! He’s over head and ears in love with you!”

  “Ah, yes. First love. There’s nothing quite like it. What does Byron say? ‘But sweeter still than this, than these, than all,/Is first and passionate love—it stands alone,/Like Adam’s recollection of his fall;/The tree of knowledge has been pluck’d—all’s known—’”

  “‘And life yields nothing further to recall,’” he continued, “‘Worthy of this ambrosial sin, so shown,/No doubt in fable, as the unforgiven/Fire which Prometheus filch’d for us from heaven.’”

  While he quoted the lines from Don Juan, her expression changed, and the color came and went in her cheeks.

  “Is that how it was with you the first time you loved?” he said. “Sweet? And because you had a rude awakening are you compelled to pass the favor—and the poison—on to the next innocent?”

  “How tender your heart’s become on his account,” she said. “Your brain must be tender, too, if you take me for an idiot. You don’t give a damn about him. You’re only vexed because you tried to play games with me and lost. I know games you never dreamed of, Cordier. And I always play to win. I tossed the bait and you chased it, the way a dog chases a stick.”

  In an angry swirl of ruffles, she swung away from the window and strode to the table. She picked up the jewelry box and threw it at him. Reflexively he caught it.

  “But now I’m bored with this game,” she said. “Go home, little dog, and take your toys with you.”

  He looked down at the box in his hand. He looked up at her haughty face.

  Francesca held her breath.

  She’d gone too far. He’d throw her through the window. He was strong enough to do it.

  And she wasn’t sure she could blame him.

  She braced herself for she knew not what: if not strangulation or a trip through the window into the canal, then another flaying from that cold, cutting tongue of his.

  He couldn’t know how deeply he’d cut with his remarks about her first love. Or perhaps he did know.

  Very slowly, he set down the jewelry box on the table.

  She thought of edging toward the bell, to summon help.

  He started toward her.

  She froze.

  “You,” he said. “You.” Then he stopped, and put his hand to his head. His shoulders began to shake.

  He let out a great crack of laughter, sudden and sharp as a pistol shot.

  She jumped.

  He laughed, turning away from her.

  She only stood where she was, staring.

  “Diavolo,” he said. He shook his head. “I’m going now.” He walked to the portego door, still shaking his head. “Addio,” he said.

  And out he went, taking the jewelry box with him, and leaving her still staring after him.

  She stood for a moment, clenching and unclenching her hands. Then, “You conceited, arrogant beast,” she said. She marched to the door and through it into the portego.

  She’d had enough. This was the last time he’d turn his back on her, the last time he’d walk out on her.

  She knew ways to stop men in their tracks, and he—

  She stopped in her tracks.

  Two men stood not twenty paces away. At the sound of her angry footfall, both turned and looked at her.

  One was Cordier.

  The other was a few inches shorter, and about three decades older.

  “Madame,” came a voice to her right. Belatedly she noticed Arnaldo. She must have walked straight past him as he was coming to announce the new visitor. He cleared his throat. “The comte de Magny,” he announced.

  “Ma foi, Francesca,” said the count. “Have you taken leave of your senses, child, to run about these drafty corridors naked? Go put some clothes on.”

  “Monsieur,” she began.

  “Run along, run along.” He waved his hand. “I will entertain your friend.”

  Chapter 7

  Yet he was jealous, though he did not show it,

  For jealousy dislikes the world to know it.

  Lord Byron

  Don Juan, Canto the First

  Monsieur de Magny was not the feeble old man James had envisioned. The count stood only a trifle under six feet tall, and the gold-knobbed cane he carried was merely a fashion accessory. Deep lines marked his patrician countenance, mainly at his eyes and mouth and above the bridge of his long nose. His wavy brown hair was streaked with silver. His brown eyes held a gleam—of humor, cunning, or cruelty, James couldn’t be sure.

  He could be sure that monsieur spent a good deal of time and money on his appearance. He was elegantly turned out, his linen starched within an inch of its life. A gay profusion of chains, fobs, seals, and medals adorned his waistcoat.

  “You are not obliged to entertain my caller, monsieur,” Bonnard said. “Mr. Cordier was leaving.”

  “Cordier?” said Magny. “I know this name.”

  Who didn’t? James wondered. His family, on both sides, was old and extensive. His father and mother were well known in Europe’s courtly circles. Lord and Lady Westwood had always spent a great deal of time abroad. Even in wartime, they’d refused to remain safely at home.

  “The name is French but you are not,” Magny said.

  “Not our branch,” James said. “Not for some centuries. My father is the thirtieth Earl of Westwood.”

  The count nodded. “A family of Normandy.”

  “A very large family,” Bonnard said. “Mr. Cordier is one of several children of the second marriage.”

  Merely one of those extraneous younger sons, hardly worth knowing, her tone said.

  The count gave her a look James couldn’t read.

  “And he’s leaving,” she said.

  “Not quite yet,” James said. He patted his coat as though looking for something. “I seem to have left
my pocket notebook in your bedroom.”

  Cold green murder glittered in her exotic eyes. “That’s impossible,” she said. “You were never—”

  “There’s no need to summon a servant,” he said. “I can find it myself.”

  “You don’t know the way,” she said.

  “Don’t be silly,” he said. “I wasn’t that drunk last night, mia cara. I’m sure I can find my way…back.” He moved to her. “But since you’re going to get dressed anyway…” He offered his arm. He smiled down at her.

  She smiled up at him. He remembered the serpent on her back, a cobra. Had she owned fangs, she’d have bared them. She took his arm, though.

  “Cordier,” she said in an undertone, “I’m going to make you very, very sorry for this.”

  “Oh, good,” he said, not troubling to lower his voice. “That sounds like fun.”

  Her bedroom, James discovered, comprised a set of apartments on the other side of the portego at the courtyard end of the house. The parlor in which she’d first tried to seduce him opened into a sitting room or boudoir. This in turn gave way to another set of rooms. Her bed stood within an alcove. Curtained, arched doorways on either side led to other, smaller rooms, one clearly a dressing room.

  Like the parlor, these rooms were modestly decorated by Venetian standards. The color scheme was lighter: soft pinks and greens, gold, and white. There was not a putto in sight. Instead, several choice landscape paintings adorned the walls and small circular scenes of mythical beings, framed in swirling gilt, appeared on the ceilings.

  He saw no portraits of anybody, including her, but numerous other signs of her. A stack of books stood on the stand by the bed. Her toiletries were tumbled about a delicately carved writing desk in the boudoir. There, too, the pearls—those magnificent pearls!—lay as well, spilled carelessly among combs and jars and bottles.

  As was the case with the beds in his palazzo, hers was not curtained. Nothing concealed the rumpled bedclothes from view. This wasn’t the only evidence of what had passed last night. Her clothes were strewn about the room. A sea green silk slipper lay on its side near the bed. Another lay upside down under the desk chair.