Then Dani froze as her grandfather’s raspy voice floated out across the lawn.
“Alphonse? Dear Lord, my king, is it you?” Grandfather cried.
Dani saw an ineffable expression flit over the prince’s fine features. She glanced warily at him then turned and gasped to see Grandfather running unsteadily toward them. The lit candle he’d brought fell out of his hand onto the dry grass, which started to burn. Maria shouted and quickly put out the fire while Dani turned and tried to catch Grandfather. Prince Rafael dismounted with quick, neat grace, just in time to intercept the old man as he burst past her.
“Easy, there, old fellow,” the prince said softly.
Dani stared at the pair, wanting the earth to swallow her as Grandfather grasped Prince Rafael by the shoulders with tears in his eyes. “Alphonse! You! You look precisely the same, the same, my dear friend! You never changed! How did you stay so young? Oh, but that is the royal blood for you,” he said in heartfelt warmth, his bony fingers digging into the prince’s powerful arms. “Come and have a drink and we’ll talk of the old days at school when we were boys…oh, such days!”
“Grandfather, you are mistaken,” Dani chided, agonizing privately for her grandfather’s dignity. She laid her hand on his thin arm. “This is Prince Rafael, King Alphonse’s grandson. Come back inside now. You’ll catch a chill—”
“It’s all right,” Prince Rafael murmured to her, meeting the ancient knight’s frantic, joyful, searching stare with a calm, steadying gaze. “King Alphonse was my grandfather, sir, but are you not Colonel Lord Bartolomeo Chiaramonte, his great friend?”
As quickly as the recognition of his mistake had sent a crestfallen stoop into the old man’s shoulders, his bleary eyes brightened with a renewed spark of hope at the prince’s question, as if he thought, Yes, I am not forgotten. I matter still!
He was nodding, the end of his nightcap dancing. “I attended Santa Fosca with that great man and, oh, we were merry then,” he said in a choked voice.
Moving with tender gravity, Prince Rafael put his arm around Grandfather’s frail shoulders and gently turned him around to face the villa. “Perhaps you will tell me of my grandfather as I walk you back to the house, Your Grace. I never knew him….”
Dani stared, an inexplicable lump rising in her throat as Grandfather went obediently with him.
It was the last thing in the world she had expected, but she knew then as surely as she stood there that Rafael di Fiore was indeed a prince.
As he listened attentively to her grandfather’s enthusiastic ramblings, he sent her the slimmest glance over the old man’s head, with an arrogant, scoundrelly half-smile that seemed to say, I thought you didn’t know who I am.
She narrowed her eyes, then followed at a safe distance.
He stayed for nearly an hour.
The whole time, Dani could not bring herself to go into the threadbare salon where he sat with Grandfather, golden, magnificent, larger than life, like a visiting archangel.
As she had failed to recognize his true identity out on the dark road, likewise, when he had stepped into the lit foyer, she saw she had woefully underestimated just how good-looking Prince Rafael di Fiore was.
With an annoying chivalry which must have been injected into him in the womb, he had waited for her to come safely inside, even holding the door for her before he would follow Grandfather down the hall to the sitting room. She didn’t need any male’s protection—but she had thanked him anyway, blushing, to her mortification.
She had brushed by him with a wary glance up at his face. That was when she had seen that, just like the papers said, he truly did have sweeping, gold-tipped lashes veiling his deep-set eyes. His eyes were subtle and cool, dark green dappled with fractured chips of gold, like sunlight flung into a shadowy pine forest.
Light from the modest chandelier had haloed his thick, golden mane, and when she looked up, his chiseled face was so far beyond handsome that she had to catch her breath. With a classical perfection beyond wishes, beyond dreams, his face was incandescent with the fierce, burning beauty of an archangel fallen to earth—a prince of angels, not a mortal man at all.
With his chin slightly lowered, his expression had been intense but coolly serene, with smoky, sensuous interest in the depths of his gaze as he watched her pass.
She had felt bewilderingly delicate, feminine, and small next to him; had been jolted by the sudden consciousness of her own naïveté beside the high sheen of his hard, worldly polish. He smelled of brandy and dust from the road mingled with the faint, pleasing note of some clean, dashing, no doubt expensive cologne. And she had felt the heat radiating from his hard, athletic body.
He had said not a word, but had locked the door behind her, then had gone after Grandfather, marching down the hall with a swift, lordly stride that seemed to claim for his own every inch of the ground beneath his feet. He moved with the self-assurance of a master swordsman.
To her annoyance, her heart had not stopped pounding since.
His dynamic presence seemed to fill the house, luring her like a siren’s call and making her impossibly nervous. She couldn’t even clear her mind to begin thinking up a plan of how she was going to rescue her friends from jail. She only knew it would require a trip into the great, noisy city—a daunting proposition. Instead, she put her strategy-making off for later and went to spy on Grandfather and Prince Rafael.
Listening outside the salon door, she heard him let out a robust laugh at the old man’s stories of schoolboy antics. Apparently King Alphonse had been as thorough a rogue in his youth as his notorious grandson. He was incredibly patient with Grandfather’s meandering tales, she thought, cocking her head as she eavesdropped. She never would have believed so famous a rake could have a kind heart. She felt almost guilty for robbing him.
When Maria came bustling past her to bring the men wine, Dani dove behind the corner of the wall so she would not be seen when the housekeeper opened the salon door. Fortunately, the woman had also managed to bundle Grandfather into his dressing gown so he looked slightly less ridiculous.
“My lady, you are being rude. It is the crown prince,” Maria hissed, frowning at her.
“I don’t care if he’s Saint Peter, I’m not going near him!” she whispered, frantically beckoning the old servant in alone. Maria cast a long-suffering glance heavenward, pushed the door open with her meaty hip, and went in.
Dani sank against the wall, her pulse racing, her wounded arm throbbing. She told herself the reason she stayed away was for fear that he might begin to suspect the truth, but even as she clung to this excuse, she knew it was a lie. The fact was, he was gorgeous and fascinating and she was poor and unsophisticated and desperately shy. She knew he only sat with her grandfather out of compassion, but her pride could not bear it if he turned his pity next on her.
Eventually, however, she could not stand her curiosity any longer. Sidling into the room yet hanging back like a cautious but hungry alley cat, she ventured into the salon, her feelings in a tumult of guilt, worry, excitement, and animosity.
“And here is my granddaughter, Your Highness,” the duke said with a wreath of smiles. “Daniela.”
Prince Rafael rose and smoothly bowed to her. “My lady.”
Feeling instantly put on the spot, she managed to curtsy. “Your Highness. Please, do sit.”
As he nodded politely, swept back the tails of his coat, and sat, crossing his legs in a pose of cool, masculine elegance, she had to shake herself out of a stare. Silently, she went over to the slipper chair and lowered herself into it, her heart beating rapidly.
Grandfather looked from her to Prince Rafael with a twinkle in his rheumy eyes. “What do you think of her, Rafe?”
“Grandfather!” Dani gasped.
The prince blinked. His startled look vanished. “Well, I don’t know anything about her, I’m afraid.”
“Then I shall tell you a few things about my Daniela, since she is too shy to tell you herself.”
“Grandfathe
r!” Surely she was going to fall out of the chair and expire on the spot of mortification.
The prince’s eyes danced in the candlelight as he regarded her in mischievous amusement.
If only he were a little less beautiful, perhaps she might be a little less agonized.
“Do go on,” he said.
“Daniela has been looking after me since she was nine years old, after the nuns tossed her out of the fourth school we had sent her to.”
“It was only the third, Grandfather. I’m sure His Highness is not interested in this!”
“No, please. I’m all ears,” he said, plainly amused at her discomfort.
“Daniela received an education more befitting a lad, you see. That is why she isn’t tedious to be around, like so many of her sex. When other little ladies were learning how to do needlepoint, she was learning how to mix gunpowder. I taught her myself,” he added proudly.
“After Grandfather retired from the artillery, he took up making the fireworks displays for some of the local festivals,” she hastily explained to the prince before he began to suspect anything involving gunpowder.
“Why, my Daniela could ride her pony standing astride its back when she was barely ten!” Grandfather went on.
“Astonishing,” the prince exclaimed lightly.
Dani dropped her head, her cheeks flaming.
“I’m not embarrassing you, am I, my dear?” Grandfather asked, lifting his bushy white eyebrows. “Dear me, perhaps I’ve said enough.”
“I should think so,” she said, shooting Grandfather a scolding look.
He gave her a wide smile of childlike innocence.
Then she realized the prince was staring at her with an odd, musing expression, his hand idly obscuring his mouth, his elbow resting on the chair arm. Her heart skipped a beat at the smoky sensuality in his eyes. She looked away, blushing anew.
“Well,” the god said suddenly, “I really should be on my way. My father is expecting me.”
Dani let out a slow exhale of relief as His Highness rose and leaned down to shake hands in farewell with His Grace.
She stood and walked on wobbly legs over to the door, where she waited to see their honored guest out like a proper hostess.
God knew she wished the man would leave.
Rafe was contemplating seduction.
He was not quite sure what to make of old Chiaramonte’s granddaughter, but it would have been of great help if someone could tell him why Lady Daniela seemed determined to treat him as though she were too good for him. It would also have been helpful if someone could tell him why he found her aloof disinterest so potent a lure.
From the moment the defiant minx had tossed her chin at him, sassing him as though he were beneath contempt, she had caught his attention. One did not make a mistress out of a duke’s virginal granddaughter, ah, but rules were made to be broken.
Tomorrow was his birthday and she was a present he had decided to give to himself—and why the devil not? She was obviously in difficult financial straits. Perhaps with a few soft words and the right persuasion, he could entice her into an arrangement that would please them both.
The only challenge was that the girl would barely even meet his gaze, let alone speak to him. He had the feeling his reputation had preceded him, and oddly enough, her silent judgment of him stung. Odd indeed, when he could laugh off the prime minister’s tirades against his wanting character without a care.
He followed her down the hall at a leisurely stroll, weighing words to lead this wholesome country girl off the virtuous path and into his den of iniquity.
He did not expect an easy conquest—a fact which delighted him. Lady Daniela, he had swiftly concluded after her display of nerve outside, was one of the thankfully rare breed of intelligent and unsinkably poised females who had the power to make a man feel like a bumbling ass with a mere, slightly baffled look. She was unconventional, willful, and fresh, and a redhead, to boot, and in his experience, redheads were pure trouble.
Unfortunately, he craved trouble.
Clearly, to his amusement, she was not impressed with him. Yet looking around him, he could not fail to note the condition of their villa, their sorry lack of servants, the old man’s frail health, the lovely girl’s poor clothes when her skin, tender as flowers, ought to be swathed in silk, as befitted the heiress to so noble a name. Plans of getting her into bed aside, he ached to do something for these people.
There was the possibility of marrying her off to one of his titled, well-heeled friends, but that could come later, after he had had his fill of her. At the moment, he couldn’t bear the thought of her in anyone else’s arms but his.
Lady Daniela was stiff and silent as they walked to the villa’s front door. Her small, work-reddened hands were folded demurely over her middle. It was a crime, the condition of those poor little hands, he thought. He would give her a battalion of servants so she need never lift a finger again.
Gunpowder, eh? he thought in amusement. She was like a little keg of it herself.
He was highly curious about her equestrian gymnastics and could not help wondering, with his dirty mind, if her agile skills could be carried over into other arenas where he, in turn, could boast a certain expertise. He tried to gauge what she might be thinking, but her lowered cinnamon lashes veiled her eyes.
He didn’t really know why he wanted her. A whim, perhaps. A passing fancy, the simple, selfish impulse of a seasoned rake. Chloe was ten times more beautiful, talented, sophisticated—a courtesan at the height of her powers. But then, he had Chloe wrapped around his finger, and where was the fun in that?
She must be very young, he mused, eyeing the prey furtively askance. She had the look of a developing child, with a round head perched atop a willowy body. She was a pleasing height, the top of her head a couple of inches below his shoulder.
The more he looked at her, the more intrigued he became. She had wide, prominent cheekbones angling down to a small, delicate mouth like a rosebud, and a firm, saucy little chin that he longed to pinch, just to see if he could make that young, serious face break into a smile. Her nose was small and pert, and he wished she would at least glance at him so he might learn the color of her eyes.
Because she had chosen the farthest seat away from him in their dim salon, he had only been able to make out the blazing expression of those large, intelligent eyes, full of fiery will and inborn command…full, too, of an innocent poignancy that made his chest tighten oddly.
Ah, she would give him a run for his money. It would be heaven to feel such a wild, untouched creature soften and yield beneath him. Tame her. She was a tough one, all right, he thought as they stepped outside into the starry black night. Somehow he knew she was the one holding this desperate household together. An awfully young girl for such a job, he thought, saddened and yet admiring her all the more for it.
“Thank you for your kindness to my grandfather,” Daniela Chiaramonte said quietly.
He turned and looked at her—a young girl out here in the middle of nowhere with no one to protect her and a criminal on the loose. God knew if the family even had enough to eat, for she was too damned thin.
Suddenly his mind was made up. He would seduce her and be damned. At least as his mistress she would be protected and well fed.
“It is my birthday tomorrow,” he said abruptly, tapping his riding crop lightly against his knee.
She gave him a startled look. “Oh! Many happy returns, Your Highness.”
“No, no,” he said impatiently, “you see—that is—my friends are giving a ball at my palazzo for the occasion. I wish you to come.”
She looked up quickly. “Me?”’
But Rafe neglected to answer, staring at her eyes as they caught the light from the lantern that the old housekeeper had left on the hook by the door.
Aquamarine.
Of course. He found himself gazing into wide, wary, very innocent eyes the most extraordinary shade of pristine aqua-blue, like the secret coves where
he used to swim as a youth, where he used to fall asleep on the flat rock with the sun on his skin and the waterfall music lulling his ears, escaping now and then the crushing pressure of his destiny and the hopeless quest of ever pleasing his sire.
Staring into those crystalline eyes, their expression honey-sweet, his mood suddenly soared for the first time in thinking of his birthday.
It meant he would see her again.
“Yes, you must come,” he said with a determined smile. “Don’t worry over the practicalities. I shall send a carriage for you. You will be my guest of honor.”
“What?”
He searched for a delicate way to explain how he wanted to help her, then decided she was too green to take a hint. Best to lead her along slowly and make his wishes clear bit by bit. He favored her with one of his most winning smiles. “I would very much like to get to know you better, Lady Daniela,” he said. “Do you dance?”
“No.”
“No,” he echoed. Well, she hadn’t swooned at the request for a dance. Damn.
Pursing his mouth in thought, he stared at her consideringly. He longed to touch her, perhaps a light caress along her cheek, but thought better of it. “Do you like music?”
“Some.”
“What of pleasure gardens? Do you like those?”
She was furrowing her brow and staring at him in baffled suspicion, shaking her head slightly. “I haven’t seen any.”
He leaned toward her and lowered his voice to a wicked whisper. “What about sweets?” He slid a small flat tin out of his pocket and opened it, setting two peppermints on his palm. “I have a sweet tooth myself.” He lifted his hand and waited for her to take one of the mints. “It is my only vice.”
“Is that so?” she asked skeptically, as she looked up from the candies to his face, hesitating to indulge.
He laughed. “Come, have one. They’re not poison.” He watched her take one of the striped peppermints and place it warily in her mouth. “You, Lady Daniela,” he said, “are coming to my birthday party and together we shall indulge shamelessly in chocolate truffles, champagne ices, and delicious little quivering pink cakes called Breasts of Venus, which my chef makes”—He kissed his fingertips—“alla perfezione.”
Gaelen Foley Page 4
