"Signore Jamison?" I asked, trying to appear unconcerned but failing to hide the hopeful note in my voice.
"Ah." He nodded in a knowing manner that might have been insulting under other circumstances. But here and now, whatever the man was thinking about my presence, he was right. After all, while last year had been unexpected, this year was planned. This was indeed a rendezvous between lovers. The very idea made me blush, but it was no more than the truth. It would be hypocritical of me to pretend otherwise. Oddly enough, I, who was always so cognizant of appearances, didn’t particularly care what he thought. Apparently, it was the mark of illicit behavior to disregard concern about the appearance of impropriety. Silvestro continued on, confident in my ability to understand him. Obviously, my greeting had been far more polished than I had suspected.
"Signore Jamison?" I tried again, and again, Silvestro's explanation was beyond my comprehension.
At last I held up a hand to stop him. "I don't understand. Non capisco." I shrugged helplessly.
He stared at me for a moment, then realization dawned in his expression.
"Si, Signore Jamison, ahhh." He nodded and proceeded to gesture and pantomime in an enthusiastic manner. He waved toward the balcony doors, leading me to believe Fletcher was indeed here and in the same spot where I had first discovered him painting last year. At least, that’s how I interpreted Silvestro’s attempt at communication. I knew full well I could be completely wrong, and Fletcher might not be here at all, but I preferred to cling to hope, even if I was as apprehensive as I was excited.
Silvestro flung open the French doors, and I indicated he did not need to accompany me farther, which he did seem to understand. He swept an enthusiastic bow as I stepped passed him, then discreetly vanished into the house. The late afternoon sun welcomed me and bolstered my courage. I drew a deep breath and started toward Fletcher's end of the balcony.
I peered around a potted palm, and my heart caught at the sight of him.
Fletcher stood before an easel, deep in concentration. He was angled slightly away from me, allowing me to study him for a moment, unobserved. He slapped paint onto the canvas in what appeared to be a haphazard, yet joyous, manner. There was an air about him, in the way he moved and worked, of determination and confidence. In manner alone, it was obvious that this was not the same man I’d spent Christmas with last year. His appearance had altered as well. He was somewhat, oh, scruffier than he had been. His hair was slightly longer and disheveled, as if he continuously ran his hand through it. He looked as if he hadn't shaved in at least a day. He wore no coat or necktie, and his shirt was open at the throat, at once inappropriate and most attractive. He seemed, as well, taller in height and broader of shoulder than I remembered. Not as if he had grown, but rather expanded. As if there was greater substance to him now. There was no question that the man before me on the balcony was more hedonistic artist than government employee. Not at all proper and decidedly dangerous.
A description of Lord Byron flashed through my mind: mad, bad and dangerous to know. I shivered at the thought, and something inside me fluttered with anticipation. Dear Lord, I wanted this man. What kind of woman had I become? And why didn’t I care?
I braced myself and took a step toward him. "Good day, Fletcher."
His gaze turned to mine, and his eyes narrowed, as if he couldn’t quite believe what he was seeing. "Portia?"
I cast him a weak smile and nodded.
"Portia!" His dark eyes lit with welcome and desire and what might have been joy. At least, I interpreted it as such. He strode toward me.
"Merry Christmas," I said in an inane attempt to say something that wasn’t entirely idiotic.
He laughed and swept me into his arms. "It is now."
His lips claimed mine, and I lost myself in a maelstrom of emotion and desire and need.
He could take me right here on the balcony in front of Silvestro and Agostina and whoever else might be in the house. In front of the gods of Vesuvius itself, and I wouldn’t care. I had missed him more than I had dared to admit, even to myself.
"Oh God, Portia." He raised his head from mine and gazed deeply into my eyes. "I didn't know if you would come. I had hoped, of course, but—"
"I feared you wouldn’t come either." I swallowed hard against the emotion welling inside me. "We made no promises, after all, and—"
"Didn't we?" Again, his gaze searched mine, and I realized that perhaps we had made promises. Unspoken, but promises nonetheless. With every word, every look, every kiss.
My heart swelled, and at once I realized, or perhaps accepted, that this man truly had claimed my heart. Regardless of what might happen tomorrow, or next week, or next Christmas, he owned my soul.
I stared at him. "Margaret is unpacking my bag."
He smiled slowly. There was no doubt in my mind that he knew exactly what I was thinking. Just as I knew his thoughts. "Agostina and Silvestro are busy with the preparation of tonight’s dinner. It is Christmas Eve, you know."
I nodded. "Seven dishes of fish."
"You remember."
"I remember." I held my breath. "I remember everything."
"As do I." Again, his gaze locked with mine, and the need, the longing, in his eyes echoed my own.
I wanted to be coy, to pretend I did not want to be naked in his bed, my body entwined with his. I wanted to be correctly aloof, appropriately reserved, but it seemed pointless. It had been nearly a year since I’d had his arms around me. Since I’d known the heat of his flesh next to mine. Since I’d felt the joining of my body with his.
I blithely tossed aside a lifetime of doing what was proper, along with the last vestiges of hesitation, wrapped my arms around his neck and pulled his mouth back to mine.
"Fletcher," I murmured against his lips.
"Portia," he breathed my name and crushed his lips to mine. Any sense of decorum or restraint, mine or his, fled in the face of overwhelming, unrelenting need. Urgency, as I've never known before, held me in its grip.
We stumbled into his room, his hands never leaving my body, my lips never parted from his. It struck me how absurd I would think this blinding need—this disregard for anything but the unrelenting desire to press my naked flesh to his—was should it be described to me. I would laugh at the very idea of passion so demanding it swept away rational thought. Caught willingly by lust and yearning, nothing had ever been so right.
We tore at each other's clothes until they lay in heaps and drifts around the room, until at last our bodies pressed together, flesh against flesh, fire against fire. We fell onto the bed and explored each other in a frenzy of need and desire. I had not forgotten how the planes and valleys of his body felt beneath my touch. My dreams had not allowed me to forget. But this was real, and this was right. Our bodies entwined in desperate fervor. We writhed on the bed, twisting the bedclothes into hopeless knots, in exploration and discovery of each other once again. He tasted of man and desire and passion. And, God help me, of forever.
I moaned in his ear, and he murmured something that sounded French. French? It was momentarily disconcerting, as I didn’t recall him speaking French when last I was in his bed. While my French was substantially better than my Italian, the haze of arousal that muddled clear thinking, even while enhancing all other sensations, made his words impossible to comprehend. Yet there was something about the way he said whatever it was he said that melted my very bones. It was—he was—intoxicating.
When his body claimed mine, I wondered that I didn't perish at the joy of it. The familiar tension, the exquisite feeling of being wound like a spring, ever tighter, built deep within me. I felt his body tighten, stiffen. He thrust hard, and the tremors of his release shivered through me. He slid his hand between us and had no more than touched me when my own release tore through me with uncontrolled urgency. My back arched, and I screamed softly and marveled at the exquisiteness of it all. How could something so wonderful be considered sin?
Afterward, we lay together f
or endless moments, legs entangled, wrapped in each other's arms, our breathing slowly returning to a semblance of normality. We floated in that lovely aftermath of sensation, and Lord help me, I had missed it. I'm not sure I have ever felt so cherished.
"It has been a very long time since last Christmas," he murmured against me, "but worth waiting for."
"Um . . ." I smiled, too drained to do more.
It was with great reluctance that we eventually parted and shifted to a less entwined position. There was a bit of embarrassment as well, at least on my part. I had never before behaved so wantonly. Even last year, caught in the throes of newfound passion, of that nearly forgotten time of getting to know one another, intimately if not well, I had not been this unrestrained. But then, our lovemaking seemed different this year. It was certainly more explosive, which struck me as due to more than merely pent-up desire. It was deeper somehow, more intense, I thought, although last year I wouldn’t have imagined that possible. I wondered if it could be blamed on the forbidden nature of our union, which made no sense, as it was every bit as forbidden last year. Or perhaps it was the result of our year-long separation and the anticipation of being together once again. As much as I had tried to deny it, to myself as well as to my friends, I had wanted to return to the villa even before Julia and Veronica had forced my hand. I simply hadn’t had the courage to do so without prodding.
Yet, I had wasted no time in leaping into his bed. Perhaps wanton was becoming a habit, because, as much as I had felt a twinge of dismay as to my enthusiasm, I had no true regrets. It did seem well worth it. Once more, I reached out for him . . .
***
"Agostina will be calling us for dinner any minute now," Fletcher murmured against the back of my neck.
"I would think so." I resisted the temptation to collapse against him, into his arms. He was allegedly helping me with my dress, but as he punctuated every few words with a kiss or caress, he made little progress. Not that I cared.
He heaved a resigned sigh. "You should finish dressing."
"Perhaps, if you were to pay more attention to the fastenings on my dress, I could indeed finish." I attempted a chastising tone but failed. His questionable efforts to assist me were far too delightful to hurry along. Still . . . I released a sigh of my own. "I assume they're joining their family in the village tonight?"
"Well, it is Christmas Eve."
"Yes, it is. And I would hate to delay them." I paused. "Do you realize you spoke French to me while we were . . ."
"Engaged?" A grin sounded in his voice.
I ignored it. "I’m not very fluent in anything other than English, but I do recognize French when I hear it. You've never spoken French to me before in the midst of . . . of an engagement, and I am curious as to why you did so now."
"I was trying to impress you."
"I was extremely impressed." I cast him a wicked look over my shoulder. "But not by the French."
He chuckled. "And yet, you did seem to like it."
Heat washed up my face. I had always secretly found a continental accent to be rather exciting. "That, my dear Mr. Jamison, is not the point."
"And I thought it was entirely the point."
"I simply wondered why." I bit back a grin. "I didn't say I wish you to stop."
He paused as if surprised by the direct nature of my words. I hadn’t thought I could surprise him after last year. It was gratifying to learn I still could.
He laughed. "While I was unaware that I had lapsed into French, I will remember its effect on you."
"See that you do," I said in an overly prim manner that belied the shiver of anticipation skating up my spine. "What did you mean by lapsed?"
"Simply that I have spoken French more often than English this past year. Done." He turned me around to face him and smirked with satisfaction. "I could be a lady's maid if it comes to that."
"By all means, Fletcher." I rolled my gaze at the ceiling. "I know the qualities I always look for in a new maid are government service, preferably in India, and the tendency to kiss the back of my neck while helping me dress."
He laughed again and pulled me into his arms. "Then I should do very well." He paused. "I shall explain everything after dinner."
I drew my brows together. I wasn't sure I liked the sound of that. "Everything? I don't understand."
"You will." He leaned down and kissed the tip of my nose. "After dinner."
"Perhaps you don't recall, but I am not an especially patient sort. I would prefer to hear everything, whatever everything may be, now, if you please."
"It can wait," he said firmly. "I don't want Agostina and Silvestro to be late for their family, so I suggest you go to your rooms—"
"Where Margaret is no doubt scandalized by my absence." I grimaced. I had left her to her own devices the very moment we had arrived at the villa. She was once again unhappy that I had decided to return to Italy for Christmas and hadn't hesitated to let me know her feelings, in that subtle way she had perfected, with every mile we traveled away from England.
"Where the ever-faithful Margaret—"
"The judgmental and condemning Margaret."
"Will be wondering what has become of you and, more than likely, be waiting to help you change for dinner."
"Probably." I sighed and reached up to brush my lips across his. "I have missed you, Mr. Jamison."
"And I have missed you, Lady Smithson."
I resisted the immediate urge to wince and instead cast him a weak smile. I had nearly forgotten about that tiny little deception. I should tell him the truth, explain why I had not given him my real name, but certainly not now. After he explained everything, then perhaps I would as well. Yes, that did seem like a plan.
A scolding voice in the back of my head noted that men did not usually take well to deception. Utter nonsense, really. Women took deception no better than men. But what was done was done. There was no way to undo what did seem to me to be a relatively insignificant falsehood. Besides, he'd been no more forthcoming with the details of his life last year than had I. Why, I had no idea if his name was really Fletcher Jamison at all. If you looked at it from the proper, albeit somewhat twisted, angle, I was simply being cautious. Although even I would be hard-pressed to accept that as an excuse. And at the moment it scarcely mattered. I had a tiny little deceit to confess.
Fletcher had everything.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
I had never given any particular thought to romance beyond the arrival of a suitably extravagant bouquet of orchids designed to make a lady sigh with appreciation. But tonight there was something special, something wonderful, in the air between us. Romance was as good a word as any to describe it. And I did sigh.
Our hands met on the tabletop at dinner over and over, as if we were each reluctant to let the other go for so much as a moment. Still, the necessities of nourishment did need to be dealt with, and midway through the meal, I realized I was as famished as if I had not eaten for days. No doubt, the result of wanton, uninhibited lust. Apparently, all of one's appetites worked in tandem.
Everything seemed caressed by a touch of magic or perfection. Agostina's excellent food was tastier, if possible, this year than it had been last Christmas Eve. The wine was richer, the candles on the table burned more merrily and even the stars shinning on the bay shone brighter.
Perhaps, if we hadn't fallen into bed together the moment we'd seen each other, there might have been some awkwardness between us, but it was as if the time we’d spent apart had been no more than a day or two. Still, it was obvious from the casual nature of his appearance, as well as his demeanor, that much had happened in his life since last Christmas, and just as obvious, I feared, that nothing had happened in mine. It struck me now that I had done little more than mark time until I could return to Italy—return to him—even if I had not been willing to admit or accept it.
We spoke of everything and yet nothing of particular importance, as if we were each postponing more revealing conversation. H
e related stories about the affront to British sensibilities of living in a foreign land and the misadventures to be found in travel. I told him about my efforts to learn Italian and my aunt's continuing campaign to find suitable matches for the unmarried members of my family. She would have been annoyed to know how very amusing I made her sound. And we laughed a great deal. I was curious about the changes this past year had wrought in him, but not enough to break the spell of enchantment that had wrapped around us simply because we were once again together.
When dinner ended, Agostina and her husband bid us good evening and took their leave, accompanied by Margaret. Unbeknownst to me, Margaret too had studied Italian since our last visit. She told me pointedly, when I had at last appeared in my rooms, that she thought it was a skill that would come in handy for a lady's maid should she be seeking new employment. It was as close as she had ever come to threatening to leave my employ. Silvestro and Agostina had kindly invited her to join them, and Margaret informed me, in that lofty manner she had perfected, that she would be delighted to join a family for Christmas Eve, as she could not be with her own. Besides, it was the opportunity to try out her newly learned Italian.
Fletcher and I retired to the parlor as we had last year, once again blessedly alone, and he poured glasses of Strega.
"You didn’t mention your aunt's efforts on your behalf. I assume, as you are here, that she has been unsuccessful this past year in finding you a suitable husband." He handed me a glass. "Unless I am mistaken?"
Thomas’s face flashed through my mind, probably why I had failed to mention Aunt Helena's schemes in regards to my own marital prospects. I ignored it, as well as the guilt that came with it. "Don't be silly, Fletcher. While I may well join you for a week or two at Christmas, I would never betray a man to whom I had pledged my loyalty."
Same Time, Next Christmas Page 15
