by Cara Elliott
Tit for tat, sir, she thought.
After another long moment of silent standoff, he cleared his throat. “Would you rather I had let her follow me to the cliffs? It was pelting rain, the winds were blowing at gale force, and one misstep on the splintered rocks would have meant a sheer drop into the surging surf.” His black brows angled to a taunting tilt. “But perhaps she is a Nereid,” he continued, referring to the sea nymphs from ancient Roman mythology. “Or maybe her father was Neptune, God of the Oceans.”
Alessandra sucked in her breath at the thinly veiled barb. Men. Most of them seemed to prefer females who were smiling, simpering—and stupid. So it was hardly a surprise that Lord James Jacquehart Pierson should choose to mock her. A noted scholar of classical archaeology, she was used to such a reaction when the opposite sex learned of her intellectual accomplishments.
And yet it still stung.
“Heaven knows,” exclaimed Jack, “it would have required divine intervention to save her from certain death had she slipped.”
That he was right only added an edge to Alessandra’s indignation. “She said you handled her in a very ungentlemanly manner.”
Her daughter looked up, lips quivering and a glint of tears in her eyes. “Si.”
Alessandra recognized that look of assumed innocence all too well. She was aware that Isabella deserved a good scold for what had happened. But for the moment, she was too relieved at finding the little girl unharmed to do more than brush a soft kiss to her curls. A lecture would come later. Right now, all her fears were still fierce—and the fury of her pent-up emotions was directed at Black Jack Pierson.
“His hands were like ice against my bare skin, Mama,” added her daughter in a small voice.
Jack sputtered in disbelief. “Is she… are you… accusing me of impropriety? You are mad—both of you!”
“Va’ all’inferno,” piped up Isabella.
“I can’t believe my ears,” he muttered. “I’m being cursed at by a six-year-old.”
“I am eight,” said Isabella, lifting her little nose into the air.
Alessandra winced as her daughter added several more phrases in Tuscan cant. “Isabella!” Forgetting her anger with Jack for the moment, she looked down in chagrin. “Those are very bad words. Wherever did you learn them?”
“Marco says them,” murmured her daughter.
She felt a flush steal to her cheeks, well aware that Black Jack Pierson’s frown had curled into a smirk. “That does not mean a young lady should repeat them.”
“Foul language seems to run in the family,” observed Jack.
It took every ounce of self-control for Alessandra to keep a rein on her tongue. She knew she was behaving badly. After all, the man had kept her impetuous daughter from plunging headlong into danger, however unorthodox his methods. But something about his manner set her teeth on edge. He always appeared so steely, so stiff—as if a bayonet were stuck up his…
I am a lady, she reminded herself. And a lady ought not be thinking about certain unmentionable parts of a man’s anatomy.
Even if those parts were extremely impressive. Jack’s cloak had fluttered up in a gust of wind, revealing well-muscled thighs and a solid, sculpted—
Forcing her gaze away from his lordly arse, she replied, “Italians are known for their volatile temperament, especially when upset.”
“Oh, please accept my abject apologies for causing you mental distress,” replied Jack with scathing politeness. He bowed. “Along with my humble regrets for keeping your daughter from smashing her skull into a thousand little pieces.”
“I did say thank you, sir.”
“It must have been in a language incomprehensible to mortal man.”
Uno, due, tre… Alessandra made herself count to ten in Italian before gathering what was left of her dignity and lifting Isabella into her arms. “If you will excuse me, my daughter is shivering. I must take her inside and get her out of these wet clothes.”
“Oh yes, by all means take the little cherub up to her room, give her a nice, warm bath.” The flash of teeth was clearly not meant to be a smile. “And then wash her mouth out with soap.”
The splash of brandy burned a trail of liquid fire down his throat. Perching a hip on the stone railing, Jack took another quick swallow from the bottle, hoping to wash the stale taste from his mouth.
Va’ all’inferno, he repeated to himself. Go to hell.
Those were precisely his sentiments, he decided. The ungrateful lady and her imp of Satan could fall into the deepest hole in Hades for all he cared. This was not the first time he had offered his sword—metaphorically speaking, of course—to the marchesa. Only to have it thrust back in his arse.
So much for noblesse oblige.
To tell the truth, he wasn’t feeling terribly noble at the moment. Against all reason, the thought of swords, coupled with the rapier-tongued Alessandra della Giamatti, was stirring an unwilling, unwanted physical reaction.
That fine-boned face, exquisite in every ethereal detail… emerald eyes, fringed with smoky lashes that set off their inner fire… sculpted cheekbones that looked carved out of creamy white marble… a perfect nose, supremely regal in its delicate shape.
Oh, there was no denying that the spitfire was a stunning beauty—if one could ignore The Mouth.
On second thought, that proved impossible. Jack closed his eyes for an instant, recalling the firm, full lips, the rich, rosy color, the silky, sensuous curl of its corners…
No, he must not let his mind stray to forbidden territory.
The marchesa’s lovely body would tempt a saint. But her fiery temper would singe Satan himself.
Swearing under his breath, Jack took another gulp of brandy. Indeed, she was the most infuriating, exasperating woman he had ever encountered. There was no rational reason to explain why she seemed hell-bent on deliberately misinterpreting his every action. Save to say she simply disliked him.
“So don’t get your hopes up,” he growled, staring balefully at the growing bulge in his breeches.
What a pity that a penis did not possess a brain. Then it might comprehend how utterly absurd it was to imagine that the aloof marchesa would ever consent to a physical liaison, no matter that widows were allowed certain freedoms if they were discreet.
An intimate joining of flesh? Hah! They couldn’t be further apart in temperament. It was as if they came from two different planets.
Venus and Mars.
An apt allusion, given her expertise in classical archaeology.
Looking up at the heavens, he let his gaze linger on the constellations. Like the ancient Greek and Roman goddesses immortalized in the stars, Alessandra della Giamatti was a force to be reckoned with. That she had a mind made for scholarship and a body made for sin was intriguing. Her aura of cool self-assurance was alluring…
However, every meeting between them seemed to spark nothing but thunder and lightning. It was ironic—had they dug into the subject of classical antiquities, they might have discovered that they shared some common ground.
Jack pursed his lips. Along with a taste for fine brandy and beautiful women, he also had a passion for the architecture and art of ancient Rome—though he kept it a private one, save from his closest friends. But given their most recent clash, it seemed impossible to imagine that he and this woman would ever reveal their most intimate secrets to each other.
Sliding across the cold stone, Jack leaned back against one of the decorative pediments and stared out into the night. A mizzle of moonlight cast a faint glow over the gardens and lawns, its glimmer reflected by silvery tendrils of mist rising up from the nearby sea. Above the chirping crickets, he could just make out the sound of the surf and its rhythmic rise and fall against the cliffs.
Lud, what a day.
As one of his gambling cronies was wont to say, no good deed goes unpunished. The only reason he had come to be at daggers drawn with Alessandra della Giamatti was on account of trying to help his best friend, Luca
s Bingham, the Earl of Hadley—who was engaged to Lady Ciara Sheffield, the marchesa’s closest confidante.
Well, not precisely engaged, amended Jack. But that was a whole other story…
He expelled a wry sigh. Hell, the next time he was tempted to play the knight in shining armor, perhaps he should think twice, rather than risk his neck trying to do something noble. Scrambling over the rocks to help rescue Lady Sheffield’s young son and the marchesa’s daughter from danger had been no easy feat.
Thank God the adventure had resulted in no real harm, although there had been a few harrowing moments when his friend Lucas had been compelled to take a dive into the surging sea.
The more startling plunge had been his friend’s announcement that he was, once and for all, renouncing the life of a rakehell bachelor and marrying Lady Sheffield for real.
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the blaze of lights in the main wing of the manor house. Laughter drifted out through the diamond-paned windows, punctuated by the faint pop of champagne corks. The impending state of matrimony had set off a great deal of merriment this evening—in no small part because Lucas’s elderly uncle had also become betrothed during the day.
Striking a flint, Jack lit a cheroot and drew in a mouthful of smoke. First Haddan, then Woodbridge, now Hadley… Was he really the only single man left from the pack of rowdy scamps who had banded together at Eton? He blew out a perfect ring and watched it dissolve in the breeze.
Shaking off his black mood, Jack took another swig of brandy, telling himself he ought to be celebrating his freedom. He was damned lucky not to be leg-shackled to a wife.
“Won’t you come join us?”
Jack looked around as his friend Lucas took a seat beside him on the railing. “Thank you, but no,” he replied after exhaling another mouthful of smoke. “I fear I would only put a damper on the festivities.”
Lucas held up a bottle of champagne. “If you insist on drowning your sorrows alone, at least submerge yourself in a superb vintage of wine.” He took a drink himself before passing it over.
With a wordless grunt, Jack downed a long swallow.
Tilting back his head, Lucas smiled up at the night sky. “Did you know that Dom Perignon, the monk who discovered the secret to champagne’s sparkle, compared it to drinking the heavenly stars?”
“No,” he replied, not bothering to glance up. “Only a man besotted by romance would know such drivel.”
“My, my, aren’t we in a prickly mood,” remarked his friend. “Any specific reason?”
Jack remained silent for a moment as the effervescence of the wine danced like tiny daggers against his tongue. Then, instead of answering, he asked abruptly, “Is Lady Giamatti celebrating with you?”
“No, like you, she cried off,” replied Lucas slowly. “She claimed to be exhausted from all the excitement.”
“Hmmph.”
“She plans to leave for London at first light,” added his friend.
“As do I. So if you don’t mind, I think I’ll retire for the night.” Jack rose and ground the butt of his cheroot beneath his boot. “And take the bottle with me for company—seeing as there are no willing wenches to warm my bed.”
“Ciara sends her thanks for all your help this afternoon,” said Lucas, ignoring the comment. He allowed a brief pause. “She also said to ask you not to judge Lady Giamatti too harshly. They are the best of friends, and yet she has a feeling that there is something troubling the marchesa of late. Something the lady dares not discuss with even her closest confidantes.”
“Assure your future bride that she need not worry over my opinion—I have none to speak of,” snapped Jack. “The marchesa and her mysteries are no concern of mine.”
“Ah,” murmured Lucas. “And here I thought that I had detected a glimmer of interest in your eye.”
“You must have been looking through the prism of your own lovestruck gaze,” muttered Jack. “Not all of us have been struck blind to reason by Cupid’s damn arrow.” As he turned for the terrace doors, he hesitated. “But the needling aside, I wish you happiness, Lucas.”
A swirl of wind ruffled through the ivy leaves, nearly drowning out his friend’s reply.
“The same to you, Jack.”
He marched across the slate tiles, but as his hand touched the latch, he abruptly veered away, choosing instead to descend the side steps and take the long way around to the guest quarters. Perhaps a vigorous walk would shake off his dark mood.
Damn. He wasn’t usually so snarly with a friend.
Lifting the bottle to his lips, Jack quaffed the rest of its contents in one long gulp. There—that ought to loosen his mood, he thought grimly, tugging at the knot of his cravat. The crunch of gravel underfoot echoed the clink of glass against the stones. Hopefully, Sir Henry would forgive him for the lapse of manners in littering his lovely grounds. He rounded the privet hedge and stumbled past the garden statues…
One of the sculpted shapes appeared to move.
Jack stopped short. Surely the wine could not have gone to his head quite so quickly.
“You need not give me that basilisk stare, sir,” said the stone.
Of all the cursed luck. It was not a figment of his foxed imagination but Alessandra della Giamatti in the flesh.
“Lucas said you had retired for the night,” he blurted out, then immediately regretted making any response.
“I decided to come outside for a breath of fresh air before seeking my bed.” Her hair was unpinned and fell in soft, shimmering ebony waves over her shoulders as she stepped out from the shadows of a laughing faun. “Or is there some arcane Anglo-Saxon rule that prohibits a lady from enjoying a solitary stroll after dark?”
Her words recalled an earlier clash. “Will you never cease snapping at me for having tried to do the honorable thing, marchesa?” demanded Jack. “I have already admitted that my interference in the arcade was a mistake. How many times must I offer an apology?”
A week ago in London he had stepped in to defend her from the advances of an aggressive male. Unfortunately, the fellow in question turned out to be her cousin.
“Not that I feel I was entirely in the wrong,” he couldn’t help adding. “An English gentleman does not allow another male to continue haranguing a lady, especially after she has asked him to leave her alone. Code of honor, you see.”
Her jaw tightened. “It was a private discussion, sir.”
“Then you should not have conducted it in public,” replied Jack.
Alessandra drew in a sharp breath. “That is the trouble with you Englishmen—you have such a rigid notion of honor.”
“You would prefer that we act as cads?” His temper, which was dangerously frayed to begin with, suddenly snapped. “Very well.”
Two quick strides covered the distance between them.
Her lips parted in shock, but before she could make a sound, his mouth crushed down upon hers.
For an instant Alessandra was too shocked to react. And then…
And then, though every brain cell was shouting at her to thrust him away, she found herself loath to listen. The taste of his mouth was intoxicating—the sweetness of the wine, the salt of the nearby sea, the smoky spice of masculine desire. Drinking it all in, she lay utterly limp in his arms, her senses overwhelmed with the different sensations.
In contrast to the searing heat of his kiss, his skin was cool and damp from the night mists. The stubbling of whiskers on his jaw prickled against her flesh, while his hair was surprisingly silky beneath her fingertips—
Oh, Lud, were her hands really twining through the tangle of his sin-black hair?
Alessandra choked back a moan. She had nearly forgotten how good it was to feel chiseled muscle and whipcord sinew hard against her body. The sloping stretch of Jack’s shoulders—so strong, so solid—seemed to go on forever, enveloping her in a musky warmth.
A tower of strength.
No, no, no. What weak-willed delusion had taken hold of her? She could not
be so stupid as to trust in the illusion of steadfast support. A man to lean on? She had been needy enough after her husband’s death to reach for comfort. Only a fool made the same mistake twice.
She inhaled to protest, only to find that the earthy scent of him made her a little dizzy. Sandalwood and tobacco mixed with a dark spice that she could not quite define. Her knees buckled.
Diavolo—every bone in her body was suddenly soft as spaghetti.
Tightening his hold, Jack braced her against one of the decorative columns that flanked the pathway.
The initial explosion of male anger had burned down to a gentler heat. His touch left a trail of warmth along her night-chilled flesh.
Alessandra was woozily aware of his hands cupping the curves of her derriere. He pressed closer, and she felt her nipples turn to points of fire as his chest slid slowly over the peaked flesh. She found the opening of his coat, her fingertips sliding over the soft linen.
He was so big, and so… utterly masculine, from the darkly dangerous name—Black Jack—to the broad chest, tapered waist, and muscular legs that seemed to go on forever.
Desire. Like a serpent, it slowly uncoiled and slithered up from its place of hiding. With a liquid sigh, she opened herself to Jack’s embrace, twining her tongue with his. With a rumbled groan, he thrust in deeper, filling her with his hot, hungry need.
Her pulse was now pounding out of control, but somehow, above the din in her ears, she heard the voice of reason.
Dangerous.
As his mouth broke away to trail a line of lapping kisses along her throat, she finally got hold of her senses and shoved him back a fraction. Now was the moment for a scathing set-down, but strangely enough, as she searched her brain for something to say, her mind was a complete blank.
He, too, appeared paralyzed with shock. His dark lashes lay still against his olive skin, and aside from the harsh rasp of his breathing, he might have been carved out of stone. Sharpened by the slanting moonlight, the strong, chiseled lines of his face gave him the appearance of a Roman god.
Mars—the mighty, mythical warrior.
The only flaw was a tiny scar cutting just beneath his left eyebrow, a faint line nearly hidden by the raven-wing arch. A chink in his lordly armor? She felt an impulsive urge to trace it with her fingertip, and then touch it with her tongue…
