The Saint

by Madeline Hunter

  “I haven’t decided yet.”

  “What is to decide? You know that my behavior has been outrageous, and I don’t even feel remorse. I refuse to be redeemed. The conclusion that you must be drawing is unattractive, but I don’t even mind.”

  “What conclusion is that?”

  The scoundrel was going to make her spell it out. She wobbled to her feet, trusting she would feel more brave if she felt less small.

  “That I like men far too much for a decent woman. That I am too . . . experienced to remain part of English respectable society.”

  He cocked an eyebrow. “Experienced?”

  “Dangerous, it is said in Baltimore.”

  “Dangerous now.”

  “Yes. Dangerous. In fact, there are those who say . . . I have even heard that some people think that I am . . . wicked.”

  “Are you saying that there have been other men?”

  It had become difficult to act casual and flippant. He was making her uncomfortable, but in a foolish, flustered way. Something of the expression at the ruins seemed to have deepened his gaze. Ridiculous, of course. He was probably just suitably appalled with her confession.

  “Other men? You mean besides Dante and yourself?”

  “I mean besides myself. My brother has told me how little actually occurred today.”

  That detail seemed to please him far too much. A flood of irritation emboldened her. She raised her chin at him. “Of course there have been other men. You don’t think that the English air has suddenly made me lose my head, do you? Of all the atmospheres in the world, the stuffy one here would be the last to cause a woman to do so. There have been lots of other men.”

  He didn’t like that. Good.

  He hovered more, bending his face to hers. “Lots?”

  “Many. Dozens.”

  “Dozens?”

  “Hundreds.”

  They stood there toe to toe and nose to nose, glaring at each other.

  A smile twitched. “Hundreds? You are a superb actress and would have been magnificent on the stage, but hundreds?”

  “Yes, hundreds.”

  He laughed. “You should have stopped at lots. Or at least dozens. But hundreds . . .”

  “You do not believe me?”

  “Not at all.”

  He looked so handsome with the smile softening his mouth and humor sparkling his eyes. Incredibly handsome. And reassured. Triumphant, if the truth be told. It vexed her to no end, and she suppressed the odd swell of emotion foolishly glowing in response to that smile.

  She had gone to all this trouble, had risked being assaulted by a notorious rake, had created a scandal that for all her posturing would be hell to face, and he was refusing to see her disreputable character even when she threw it in his face. It infuriated her, even while her heart stupidly beamed with gratitude.

  “You do not believe me because your male pride does not want to accept that you were merely one of hundreds, that is all.”

  “I am confident that I was not one of hundreds, or even dozens. I strongly suspect that I was not even one of lots, and quite possibly not so much as one of two. You will drop this ridiculous act at once.”

  Something dangerous burst inside her. Something rebellious and furious and even a little wicked.

  She reached up with both hands and grabbed his head. She pulled him down and planted a very firm kiss on his lips.

  She held him until his stunned shock began to pass, then released him and stepped away before he had completely recovered.

  “Hundreds, Uncle Vergil. I am infamous for ruining saints.”

  She turned to exit upstage.

  A firm hand closed on her arm.

  With a gasping swirl she found herself turned and pulled into arms, which encircled her waist and shoulders. The Vergil of the ruins looked down at her. Dangerously.

  “You make me wish that were true,” he said, lifting her until her toes scraped the floor, lowering his head.

  She should push him away, but her arms would not obey her command. Her suddenly foggy mind scrambled for words to put him in his place, but her heart beat so loudly that she couldn’t hear herself think. His warm lips touched hers and she didn’t have a mind at all anymore.

  He ravished her mouth with demanding lips and nipping teeth and exploring tongue. Disgraceful sensations cascaded through her and, heaven help her, she reveled in them, savoring his encompassing strength, losing herself in a warmth that obscured considerations of anything else.

  He buried his face in the crook of her neck and kissed and bit a pulse there. It sent shocks to her breasts, her thighs, and all the way to her toes. He took her mouth again with a burning insistence. She welcomed him this time, parting her lips, inviting the arousing invasion.

  His embrace moved into astonishing caresses, pressing to her hips and back and buttocks through her garments. The recently awakened, shameless Bianca thrilled at each possessive touch. His hand slid toward her breasts and her reckless passion lilted a plea for him to hurry and release the desire aching through her consciousness, building a breathless craving.

  He stopped abruptly, like a slap had made him sane.

  His lips parted from hers. His head rose. He did not release her, but held her in a silent embrace, caressing her back with slow, soothing strokes.

  The frenzy leaked away, leaving the Bianca Kenwood whom she knew too well in the arms of a man whom she should hate. But even this Bianca did not want to separate. She rested on his chest and floated in the friendly tenderness of that touch, because it kept the worst of her confusing emotions at bay.

  Finally, she tilted her head. He gazed out the window with a sightless expression.

  He looked down, touched her face, and set her away from him.

  “I seem to have forgotten myself again.”

  He wanted them to retreat once more to their roles of dictatorial guardian and rebellious ward. Of course. What else would he want? Just as well. If he kissed her like this every day and held her with such gentleness afterward, she might decide that nothing else mattered in her life.

  She saw no criticism in his face, but considering what she had just told him, she could imagine what he might be thinking. Even if he really had not believed her, she had undoubtedly just changed his mind.

  Say something.

  Of course he would not. But, oh, how her heart wished that he would speak whatever he thought right now, good or bad. She wanted with an inexplicable yearning to know this man, whoever he really was, sinning paragon or sordid fraud. She longed just once to enjoy the special intimacy of sharing his confidences along with his passion, even if the result was hearing condemnation for the woman she pretended to be.

  The acknowledgment that he would never open to her in that way, that he responded to her with lust but nothing more, left that newly discovered corner of her heart anguished with regret.

  “You really must permit me to go,” she said softly. “You should be concerned with my influence on Charlotte, but perhaps you should worry for yourself as well, if I provoke you like this. It is abundantly clear that I must leave this family now.”

  He only glanced at her, that thoughtful expression still deepening his gaze.

  “I will not marry your brother. If you do not let me leave, the scandal will encompass your whole family. You will be the talk of society for harboring such a female, and Charlotte will be tainted by my friendship. In your sister’s interest, if not in mine and yours, allowing me to leave is the only decent choice for you.”

  Still he said nothing. Perhaps because there was nothing to say.

  Somehow she turned away from him. Half-blind with tears, she found her way to the door.

  He experienced no self-recrimination this time. No guilt or shock. No regret.

  He was glad her brash kiss had destroyed the dam filled to bursting. Glad she had provoked him to release his tenuous hold on control. That was all her kiss had really been, an excuse that he had ruthlessly grabbed. He would not de
mean her by pretending it had been a deliberate invitation on her part.

  How quickly the mind surrendered to what the passions wanted to do. His blood had roared and the next thing he knew she was in his arms.

  She was not wicked or experienced, but she was definitely dangerous. To him at least.

  She was right. She really had to leave. Within a day, everyone in this house would know about her and Dante. Within a month, the entire world would be whispering. She had not missed the implications of the lessons Pen had been giving her about the code of discretion in English society. She had deliberately arranged things to use the threat of scandal against him.

  But that was only part of the reason why she should leave, and she knew that too. What a picture he must present to her. The saint lecturing her on behavior one moment and then ravishing her the next. A laughable figure at best, a depraved one at worst.

  He lifted the little lead ball and sent it down its path on the toy. When it reached the bottom he did it again. The chinks and clanks beat out the pattern of his thoughts.

  He should send her away and let her have what she wanted, but he could not do that. As long as possible, he needed to keep control of her, and not only because the relentless simmer had become an enlivening, welcome excitement.

  He walked to his desk and fished a letter from amidst the documents stacked there. He flicked it open and reread the information sent to him by Adam Kenwood’s solicitor.

  What a tangle.

  He needed to keep her here because she might be in danger. He needed to keep her here on the chance that he still might bind her to this family.

  He needed to keep her here because her absence would create a void in his life, but she had cornered him so he would have to let her go.

  He smiled with regret and admiration. In overplaying her hand, she had managed to force his own.

  The door opened and Penelope’s dark head appeared.

  “Vergil, may we speak with you?”

  “Of course, Pen.”

  The other part of the “we” turned out to be Maria Catalani and Fleur. Fleur went to the window seat and the others settled themselves into chairs.

  Penelope let forth a deep sigh. “This is a very unfortunate business. You cannot say that I did not warn you.”

  “That is true, Pen. I cannot say that.”

  “I expect that Dante offered to marry her when you had them both in here.”

  “I did not hold a pistol to his head, if that is what concerns you. He has great affection for Miss Kenwood, and had intended to propose, in any case.”

  “Did he? That is interesting, but that is not what concerns me. Or us, rather.” She gestured toward Catalani and Fleur. “Bianca is too naive to protect herself from someone like Dante. We really should have warned her. What is worse, I do not think that she has the same tendre for him that he does for her and it would be very unfortunate if Bianca is forced to marry him.”

  “Not unfortunate. Tragic.” Catalani intoned. “I do not think that marriage to your brother was in her plans, Laclere.”

  “Plans sometimes change.”

  “That is a man’s arrogant dismissal of a young woman’s preferences. And this marriage—a man takes advantage of a girl’s innocence, and the response of everyone is to marry them. Barbaric. It is worse in my country, but still it is barbaric.”

  “So you see, we do not think marriage is the solution,” Pen said.

  “Well, ladies, I suppose that I could defend her honor by killing Dante if you would find that more to your taste.”

  Catalani actually began to nod, but Pen looked aghast. “You misunderstand us. We have talked it over, and the point of their marrying is to blunt the scandal. We have come here to tell you that there can be no scandal.”

  “I would say there can be a very big scandal.”

  “Not at all. Maria and Fleur and I have realized—”

  “That we did not see anything.” Catalani finished triumphantly.

  He settled into his chair and looked at them. “You did not see anything?”

  “That is correct, Laclere. Nothing. So much for this talk of marriage. Abbastanza.”

  “As I remember it, you saw quite a bit.”

  “Oh, no,” Pen said. “Maria was explaining a new sleeve becoming fashionable in Milan and we were engrossed. Until the three of you came up that hill, we were not even aware that Bianca and Dante were there.”

  “You think to contain this among yourselves?”

  “Yes, not that there is anything to contain. But if there were, we would never speak of it after leaving this room, even to one another. The fact that we saw nothing, that is.”

  He should resist this solution and hope that Bianca would change her mind, but the relief with which he heard Pen’s scheme told him that he would have embraced this offer of silence even if Bianca had submitted to the marriage at once.

  In that instant he knew that he did not want Dante to have her. Nor any other man. Except himself.

  Which was impossible.

  He turned to Fleur.

  She noticed his attention. “I am the last woman in the world to force a girl into marriage, Laclere.”

  He considered this reprieve. She would not have to leave. She would be safe. He might yet rearrange those plans.

  He would still see her.

  “I have yet to hear of women keeping silent about such things, or men either. However, if you think you can do so, perhaps disaster can be averted.”

  “I can be a citadel of discretion when it is warranted,” Catalani said with a meaningful arch in her eyebrows.

  “Well, now that is settled, we must go dress for dinner,” Pen said, rising. “It is very generous of you to be so understanding about this, Vergil. I promise you, no one will ever know that you bent the rules just once.”

  “Very good, Pen. We certainly wouldn’t want anyone to know that.”

  He found Dante alone in the library.

  “It appears that you have been spared. The ladies insist that they saw absolutely nothing. Assuming Miss Kenwood does not start rumors about herself, which despite her boldness is unlikely, there need be no marriage.”

  Dante threw up his arms in exasperation. “Are you forgetting that we do not want me to be spared?”

  “I made it very clear that I did not want the girl trapped against her will.”

  “I did not trap her, damn it, she trapped me.”

  “It would be best if you left tomorrow with the others. Some time apart and she may welcome your attention again.”

  “You have more tenacity than I. The girl just refused me, in case you didn’t hear it as clearly as I did.”

  “I heard a young woman refusing to be coerced by circumstances.”

  “I do not care for the way she dismissed me. It was insulting, especially since the alternative was rather bleak. She all but implied that marrying me was a fate worse than death, and while I may not be some great prize . . . If it weren’t for her inheritance, I would tell you to go to hell.”

  “Pen will be taking her and Charlotte up to London soon. I expect they will remain there at least a fortnight. I will accompany them and stay a few days, but it would be best if you took over when I left. Whether Miss Kenwood welcomes your interest or not, I do not like the idea of her alone in the city with just Pen watching out for her. She is too independent-minded, and may attempt to go about on her own.”

  “I daresay there will be men enough to watch over her once Pen starts taking her around.”

  “Exactly, Dante. If she does not marry you, I would prefer that she marry no one for some while yet. In particular, I do not want Nigel alone with her at any time. I want you there to see that she has no opportunity to get into any more trouble. With any luck, however, she will allow you to pick up the pursuit of your case.”

  He didn’t really believe that, but if Dante continued to court her, it would mean someone was nearby who could be trusted. After what had just happened again in the stu
dy, it had become imperative for that someone to be other than himself whenever possible.

  All the same, Dante’s lack of enthusiasm heartened him, and relieved him of one potential opportunity for guilt. If Dante had fallen in love with her . . .

  “It may be best if you made any new overtures very subtle,” he added.

  “I know how to handle women, Verg.”

  “Of course. My apologies.”

  “I will be subtle. Damned subtle. I don’t fancy having the girl make me look like a fool again.”

  Vergil turned to go find Fleur. With any luck, Dante would be so subtle that Bianca wouldn’t even notice him keeping watch.

  Fleur was sitting on the bench in the garden where they met sometimes for conversation away from the hopeful eyes of her mother. She appeared, as always, utterly beautiful, like a figure molded in porcelain or painted by a great master. She turned at his footfall and her mouth pursed into a wry smile.

  “I hope that we did not disrupt your plans too much.”

  He sat beside her. “Not really. Catalani’s idea?”

  “Pen’s, although the solution had crossed my mind. On my own, however, I would have never proposed it. I did not know if you welcomed the development or not.”

  “The match would have been convenient, but the circumstances did not appeal to me.”

  They sat in the contented silence of friendship. He studied the serene, delicate profile that he had always admired with a peculiar objectivity. He had never felt any passion for this exquisite woman, even before he learned that she was incapable of feeling passion for him.

  “My mother is letting her impatience show, isn’t she? She has said things this visit.”

  “She has been more pointed sooner than I anticipated. I do not think there is cause for concern yet, but—”

  She held up a hand to stop him, then let it fall helplessly to her lap. “Which means others are saying things to her. I know that it has been almost a year, but I had hoped to get another season out of it.”

  “As had I. That may not be possible.”

  “No. Oh, how I resent this, Laclere. Last season was the first one I enjoyed. No suitors bothering me with their silly petitions. No endless speculation about this match or that. No pressure from father, and best of all, a good friend with whom to enjoy the balls. A woman should be allowed to have such peace all the time if she chooses.”