She tugged on his shoulder with her free hand.
At once he looked down, his eyes and voice gentle and concerned. “What is it? How do you feel?”
“So-fie,” she managed to articulate in a husk. “Sem… Sem…”
“Sempronio? You want to know what happened to Mr. and Mrs. Montelli.”
She nodded. “An-ge-la.”
“And your maid?” She nodded again.
“Somerville. Do you know what happened to those backstage?”
“I’ll find out,” Somerville said. “Stay here with Madame Foscari, Max. She doesn’t look in any condition to move.”
“We’ll wait across the street. We’re too close to the fire here.”
Max led her to the front steps of a building and helped her to sit. She nestled close to him on their stone perch, her arms rigid bands about his chest. Her frozen mind knew only one thing: as long as she held on to Max she was safe. She concentrated on that fact, shying away from her anxiety about the others. Without them she was truly alone in the world.
“Your friends are well.” Somerville had returned. “I saw Nancy and she says everyone escaped.”
Something loosened in her chest and she burst into dry, overwrought sobs, unable to stop while Max and Somerville talked and the latter disappeared again.
“We’ve managed to find you a carriage,” Max said. “Only a hackney but they are hard to come by in this maelstrom. The others will make their own way back to your hotel.”
She clung to him as he led her into the throng milling in the thoroughfare. For some reason the crowd drew back, parted to make way for them. She heard scattered applause, her name called out in praise.
That was odd. She’d sung well, of course, but she hadn’t finished the aria and it seemed likely they’d have forgotten, what with the excitement of the fire. She turned around to face the crowd and gave a slightly wobbly curtsey and a cheer went up. How polite people were.
It was Max they should applaud. He was the hero. He’d saved her life.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
“The Tavistock Theatre was last evening devastated by fire.”
The Times
The sitting room at the Pulteney seemed another world, refined and still. Max had kept his arm about Tessa all the way to the hotel and up the stairs to her suite of rooms. When he disengaged she made an incoherent protest.
“Hush,” he said, and with infinite tenderness, as though she were a precious and fragile egg, settled her on the sofa. Was he leaving her alone? He must not abandon her when she could still feel the heat and smoke coming for her, the certainty of death. But when she tried to ask him to stay, nothing emerged from her throat. Dazed, she watched him leave the room and heard him speak to a servant in the antechamber. He wasn’t gone long. “Drink this.” He held something to her lips.
Water, with a hint of brandy. She seized the glass, gulped the cool liquid, and asked for more. The drink soothed her ravaged throat and her fear. As though the water traveled through her veins, her body awoke from its paralysis.
She was alive. More alive than she had ever felt in her life. Max’s expression turned from anxiety to his rare smile, teeth gleaming in his sooty face. She wanted to laugh with joy.
She leaped up and flung her arms around his neck as vitality suffused every inch of her flesh, every sinew. She was omnipotent, immortal, because she’d faced down death and survived.
Acting on heedless instinct, she pulled his head down for a hungry, open-mouthed, ravishing kiss. As they kissed, wild and greedy, the cool water in her veins turned into fire, a wonderful reviving blaze.
The heat intensified and concentrated itself in a single place where she ached, empty, ravenous to be filled. She welcomed the ache, the hunger, and clung tighter, rubbing herself against Max and the evidence of his own desire, stiff beneath the fall of his trousers. Releasing her hold on his neck, she plucked with impatient hands at the buttons and sensed him smiling through their kiss.
“Shall we take this a little slower?” he murmured.
“No!” Her voice didn’t produce much sound so she lent it all the force of her passion. “Now! I want you now!”
“Shouldn’t we at least undress?”
“No!” She didn’t want to wait even a second. Neither did she dare wait. At the back of her mind she knew she couldn’t risk the loss of this delicious hunger, the return of fear. She must have him now, without thought or a moment’s delay. She groped at his buttons with trembling, clumsy fingers, tore off the last one, reached in and found him, hot and hard through—astonishing she still wore them—her gloves.
He winced and removed her hand with his own. “This should come off, at least, I beg you,” he said, tugging at the bracelet on her wrist. His voice was full of laughter beneath unmistakable urgency.
False diamonds glinted against the elbow-length gloves, once pristine white satin streaked with black. Tessa clawed at the jewelry without effect but somehow Max undid the catches and she pulled the bracelets off and flung them to the ground, then ripped off her gloves as he worked on the fastenings of her gown.
“Hurry,” she rasped. His hands on her neck stoked her hunger. Unable to wait even another second, she spun around and shoved him so he sprawled clumsily on the sofa behind them. She landed on top, straddling his hips.
Now.
She pulled up her velvet skirts, pushed aside her fine linen drawers, seized his member and impaled herself. He slid easily into a passage slick and ready and aching to be filled and stretched.
What relief, what bliss, to have Max inside her at last.
A thrust of his hips toppled them from the edge of the seat onto the floor. Now he was on top, taking her hard. She kicked her legs free of her skirts and wrapped her legs about his hips, exercising muscles she’d forgotten she owned to draw him in deeper, to clench him to her so she’d never let him go, to assuage the agony of longing that was building inside her. Their joining was fierce and elemental as she celebrated her escape and her passion for the man she’d never forgotten. And at last she found blessed liberation, melting into a pool of joy she hadn’t experienced in years. Perhaps ever. With a few powerful thrusts he followed her into release with an incoherent shout and collapsed, his face buried in her neck.
They lay side by side on the floor. Every nerve in her body buzzed happily and her senses seemed to function at a heightened pitch. She was intensely aware of his breathing as it subsided from panting gusts to a more regular respiration. She explored the texture of the skin over his hipbone, the contours of a muscled thigh, and heard the diminishing beat of his heart where her head rested on his still-clothed chest. His neckcloth had disappeared, whether during their fevered coupling or the escape from the fire she had no idea. A vee of skin and a tuft of dark hair showed where his shirt buttons had come loose and she shifted up to press her lips there, closing her eyes to savor Max’s scent.
“Ew!” Her voice had returned sufficiently to speak at a low husk. “Max, you smell awful, like smoke.” She raised her head. “And you’re black and filthy all over.”
He tipped his head up. “You think you’re in any better state? Is this a new perfume? Eau de Théâtre Brûlant?”
She replaced her head on his chest and snuggled closer. His arms tightened around her and she lay quiet, enjoying his closeness and a sense of peace.
“How do you feel?” he asked after a while, stroking her head.
“Very well.” Her laugh sounded ribald to herself.
“I meant,” he continued, “how do you feel after the fire? Any injuries you hadn’t noticed before? Were you hurt?”
She shook her head. “Thanks to you, no. You saved my life, Max. How can I thank you?”
“It was my very great pleasure.”
“Mine too.” They both laughed softly.
“You’d probably like to bathe,” he said. “Will the hotel provide water at this hour?”
She rose to her knees and took his hand. “Come with me. The bes
t thing about the Pulteney is that it has the best baths in London.”
Tessa loved the bathroom adjacent to her bedchamber. In all her travels on the continent she’d never come across a facility with a constant and immediate supply of hot water. Perhaps it was why she’d stayed on at the Pulteney long after the state of her purse dictated a removal to cheaper quarters.
“I’ve heard of these but I’ve never used one,” Max said when she showed him the big marble tub, partly sunken into the floor. “How does it work?”
“I have no idea. You turn it on, so, and water comes out.”
But he seemed to have lost interest in the wonders of modern plumbing. Once more he went to work on the back of her gown. In no time the mangled velvet had fallen to the ground, and his fingers attended to her stays with equal expertise. The unusual design, which raised her breasts while leaving her midriff free to breathe, gave him no pause. Of course, he’d had plenty of experience undressing opera singers.
She cast aside the thought. She was the only opera singer present and she was going to enjoy the moment. Kicking off her stockings, she began to climb into the bath.
“Wait.” He turned her around to face him. “This needs to come off too.”
Her shift hit the ground and she stood naked before him. Oh God! She knew men found her body alluring, but that was clothed in garments designed to entice. Would he find her breasts too large, her hips too broad? Her curves were nothing like the sylphlike slenderness Parisian fashions demanded. Domenico had constantly complained about it.
A hitch of breath encouraged her to look up. From the hot glint in Max’s eyes he wasn’t disappointed. He smiled slowly and picked her up.
With hardly a splash she found herself immersed to the chest in warm water while he stared down at her with an appreciation that took her breath away.
“Join me,” she said, holding out her hand but looking away lest shyness overcome her bold impulse.
One invitation was enough. Within minutes he was as naked as she and climbed into the tub behind her, his chest hard against her back, thighs cradling her own, legs entwined, all muscle and heat with the faint tickle of rough hair. The addition of his bulk sent the water up to her neck. Cocooned by warmth and strength, she sighed blissfully. Had she ever felt better than at this moment?
He plucked the few remaining pins from her hair and smoothed the long waves over her shoulders, disentangling Angela’s skillful braids with his fingers. With a movement that send a cascade of water over the edge of the brimming tub, he reached for a cake of pink soap, splashed water over her head, and began to wash her hair.
“Hold this,” he whispered, handing her the bar.
She inhaled deeply, the scent of roses mingling with steam. Drawing the humid air into her lungs soothed her smoke-scarred throat and assuaged the concern for her voice that always floated at the back of her mind. Sinking further into Max’s comforting embrace, she lost herself in the relaxing massage of her scalp.
One male kneecap peeked through the water. Taking the soap she washed the little island of bone and skin with infinite care, then continued down his leg, as far as her arm extended, and back again, kneading his skin and feeling his muscles ripple beneath her hand. Then the other leg, his hips, as much of his torso as she could reach. A small smile curved her lips as she felt his erection grow and press against the small of her back. Her fica, just inches away, began to throb in response.
She felt like purring—perhaps she did—as slow torrents of water, poured from a small jug kept beside the bath, rained over her head, washing away the soap. It never felt this good when Angela did it.
His hand found hers in the now foamy depths and removed the soap. “Just relax.”
His touch rendered her boneless. Unhurried fingers worked her neck and collarbone, the warm lather silk against her skin. Every nerve quivered as he attended to her arms, her shoulders and her midsection, laving every inch with engrossed care. When he cupped her breasts she quivered with pleasure. For a moment he held them up so the tops appeared like hillocks above the water. With an approving murmur he closed those large, capable hands around them, squeezing her already stiffened nipples between his fingers.
A bolt of lightning flashed through her stomach and intensified the ache between her legs. She seized his hand and placed it over the entrance to her core. His fingers needed no further prompting to penetrate through the curls and her nether lips and give a jolt of pleasure. Oh, yes! She felt a surge of power in the certainty that the ecstasy of release could be hers once more.
*
He was damn well going to take his time. Their frenzied coupling on the floor of the sitting room had been as exhilarating a sexual encounter as Max had ever experienced, but he wanted to savor every moment of this second chance, to enjoy Tessa at his leisure, to imprint the knowledge of her body on his soul and to ensure he did the same to her. He almost burst with joy at holding her, soft, wet and fragrant, in his arms.
His lips found the nape of her neck, tasting the clean, sweet skin. With a careful flick of his forefinger he brushed the nub of her desire, but only once. He plotted a long siege, to arouse her to the highest pitch before he lifted her from the floor of the tub and brought her down on him. His cock strained eagerly at the very thought, but it—he—could wait.
A knock at the door interrupted his plans.
“Signora!”
“Angela,” Tessa whispered and lurched to her feet and out of the bath.
“Aspette, Angela,” she said. She donned a silk robe that had been hanging on a hook and slid out the door, closing it behind her.
Double damn. As he left the bath, Max looked around the room and found neither a hiding place nor another dressing gown. He stared with disfavor at his filthy, rumpled clothing scattered on the floor and compromised by wrapping a towel about his middle. At least it concealed the throbbing evidence of their recent occupation.
Would Tessa even care if her maid knew of his presence? He had no idea if she was in the habit of entertaining lovers in her residence. He felt remarkably foolish as he listened, without comprehension, to a soft-spoken, lengthy exchange in Italian.
“I sent her to bed,” Tessa said when she returned to the room. “They are all safe and well but they couldn’t find a hackney and had to walk.”
Though the edge of his hunger had subsided, Max was not unwilling to carry on where they’d left off. He glanced at the bathtub. It was a most unappealing sight, the water a dark gray with morsels of ash and soap scum floating on the surface.
He looked back at Tessa and noticed strain and fatigue in her face. Somehow their moment had passed, shattered by the restoration of reality in the form of the maid.
“You should go to bed too,” he said gruffly. “You must be exhausted. I’ll dress and leave.”
She approached and took his hand. “Please don’t go, Max. You are right, I am tired but I don’t want to be alone. Stay with me. Sleep with me.”
Devoid of cosmetics and framed by straggling wet locks, her face showed an innocence and vulnerability he hadn’t seen in Teresa Foscari. She was suddenly the old Tessa, the girl of their youth. Of course it was an illusion. The fact that she had no qualms about sharing a bed with him while her staff occupied the other rooms in the suite had answered his previous question. Tessa wouldn’t be embarrassed by his presence in the morning and it certainly suited his inclination to remain.
He raised her hands to his lips. “It would be my very great pleasure.”
He followed her to the commodious bed and sat on the edge while she got under the covers. Without much talking, he used a towel to rub her hair. “I’m getting good at this,” he said at one point. She chuckled, caressed his cheek tenderly, and yawned.
Once her head was dry enough to prevent a chill, he helped her remove her robe, tucked the covers up to her chin and joined her between crisp linen sheets. Gathered in his arms, she quickly fell asleep. For a minute or two he relished the rose-scented curls in his
nose, her warm skin pressed along the length of his body. My Tessa, mine at last were his last thoughts before he joined her in slumber.
*
Max awoke confused. He was not in his own bed. From the faint outline of a heavily curtained window and the distant sound of birdsong he guessed it was after dawn. A dry throat brought it back to him: the horror of the burning Tavistock and Tessa on the stage with the fire coming ever closer. He closed his eyes to squeeze out the memory of that falling beam but it seemed to burn his eyelids. Thank God he’d reached her in time.
And afterward…
A sense of wellbeing flooded through him when a sweet-smelling bundle stirred beside him in the bed. In the dim light he saw the outline of Tessa’s head on the pillow beside him and heard her rhythmic breathing. He couldn’t contain a grin, for his life had taken a most unexpected turn.
For a start he was now the principal owner of the only opera house in London. He and Simon would make a fortune and his mother could go choke on her eligible young ladies. And La Divina, Europe’s greatest soprano, was in London without a stage. She had nowhere to go but the Regent and her genius would help fill its coffers.
And best of all and most importantly, La Divina, Teresa Foscari, Tessa Birkett, was his at last. And this time he would never let her go. To hell with her past and her countless lovers. Her future would contain only one lover. Him. And he’d make damn sure she’d never want another.
He couldn’t wait for her to wake up so he could tell her. And show her too. But he wanted to tell her how he felt and hear from her that she felt the same way about him. Surely she did. They hadn’t exchanged many words but he couldn’t have imagined her response to him, a tenderness that went beyond simple passion. He tried to recall whether she’d said anything last night, any words to give assurance to his assumption. But she’d spoken little, a few inviting words in a husky whisper.
He froze. Her voice!
Smoke couldn’t be good for a singer’s vocal cords. Supposing the fire had damaged her voice beyond repair and ended her career? It would be a tragedy. But it made no difference to his own feelings and desires. He’d take care of her for the rest of her life.
Secrets of a Soprano Page 18
