by Juliana Gray
He thought wildly. “I haven’t a mask.”
“We’re making the masks ourselves, this afternoon. Oh, do come.” She looked up and smiled at him with her charming, catlike smile, glimmering eyes tilted upward at the corners. “It will be most dreadfully dull if you don’t. Who the devil would I flirt with?”
The thought of a masked Alexandra, dancing in the torchlit midsummer twilight outside the castle, made his heart thud in his chest. “You’re to flirt with no one else but me, of course,” he said firmly.
“Then you’ll be there?”
“I suppose I must. Though my dancing may put you off forever.”
“I’ll have dragged you into the orchard long before that.” She went up on tiptoe to kiss him. “I’m already late. Abigail will be wondering where I am. Do mind the time. You’re to be downstairs by eight o’clock, washed and shaved and presentable.”
He opened his mouth to ask for more information, like whether the Penhallows were attending as well, but she had already slipped out of his arms and hurried to the doors. “Good-bye, then! Don’t be late!”
Bloody women, he thought. He closed his eyes and concentrated on bringing his raging flesh back under control. Not an easy thing to do, either, considering he’d brought her twice to orgasm last night without so much as a palliative pat to his own organ, which had remained decorously clothed throughout to prevent any fatal indiscretions. Twice, he’d watched her in the throes of pleasure, her head tilted back, her ripe flesh contracting around his fingers, his lips. He could still taste her salty tang, could still smell the erotic musk of her arousal. With a single stroke, he could have taken her, spilled himself inside her, created a life between them, perhaps. Bound her to him for evermore.
But he hadn’t. He’d shut his eyes and thought about alternating circuits while her body cooled and the heavy thud of her pulse had returned to normal, and then he’d gathered her into his arms and watched her eyelids drift downward into sleep while he calculated the number of days until he could once more bury his eager cock inside her without much fear that some stray swimmer might find its mark. Calculated the speed at which he could track down the necessary equipment in Rome, and no longer have to deny himself during the peak of her cycle or tear himself away from her at the critical moment.
Actions he found more arduous with every passing week.
No, the stakes were too high for carelessness. He wouldn’t trap her into marriage, wouldn’t take the chance that she might not allow herself to be trapped. A woman like Alexandra must be won with great care. She must come to him willingly, pledge herself willingly. And it would be worth it, because once she was won, once she had laid her hand in his, she would never let it go. Beneath all her charming, complex, contradictory layers beat the heart of a lioness.
His lioness. Fierce and graceful and seductive . . .
Hell.
Finn’s gaze, searching for distraction, fell upon the letters on the worktable, white and glaring in the light from the window. Business correspondence, from the look of it. The reports tended to arrive in clusters toward the second half of the month: fat summaries of his affairs, responses to his queries, statements of account, contracts needing signature; all gathered together by his man of business with annotations and suggestions. The envelopes had arrived with increasing heft and frequency of late, now that his long-contemplated purchase of the Manchester Machine Works was nearing its final stage.
He’d had his eye on the company for some time. Though he’d focused his own energies on electrically powered vehicles, he thought the Manchester outfit’s steam prototype held promise, once the boiler-control issues had been sorted out. More than that, though, he lusted after the works themselves. A few years ago, a fresh capital infusion had allowed the company to build a state-of-the-art factory that was miles ahead of others—miles, indeed, beyond its own current needs—in size and capability and efficiency. Location and transport links were excellent.
And the stock was trading at a fraction of its worth. Ignorant City investors, no doubt, had been scared away by the lack of immediate success without any thought to the value of the physical plant and the whole burgeoning future of automotive transport. Finn’s business manager had been completing his due diligence, discreetly, of course, and he was almost ready to begin buying shares.
Finn sat down heavily on the chair and picked up the envelopes. One from Delmonico, rather thin, probably with last-minute instructions for the exposition. A fat packet from his solicitor, marked URGENT, which meant it contained the latest patent applications for his signature. Bankers, of course: no mistaking the indulgent thickness of that envelope. Finn opened it and learned that he was still in possession of his fortune, that the sale of British consols with which he had recently instructed them had been effected, and that his pile of immediate cash was more than sufficient to buy the Manchester Machine Works—lock, stock, and barrel—at whatever price its shareholders demanded.
On that note, he lifted the flap of the last envelope in the pile. My dear Burke, it began, in Malcolm Gordon’s plain and precise black writing, I have completed my assessment of the shareholder composition as you requested, and have listed on the enclosed sheet the fifteen largest owners of the Company. Most, as you see, purchased their shares some years ago at much higher prices than the current quote, and may well be amenable to private offers of a reasonable nature, which I suggest should be no more than ten shillings, representing a premium of greater than 200 percent on the current price per share . . .
Finn ignored the rest and turned with interest to the other sheet of paper.
Lord Albert Lindsay, 32,500 shares
Mr. William Hartley, 30,200 shares
Sir Philip Macdonald, 28,350 shares
Dowager Marchioness of Morley, 22,800 shares . . .
The letters seemed to blur together. Finn set the paper down on the table, squared it precisely with the worn wooden edge, and smoothed the creases in the middle.
He rose from the chair and paced to the carriage doors, and then back again. The heat pressed with suffocating strength against his skin; he drew off his heavy smock, folded it, and placed it on the table, next to the paper.
Then he thought better of it and went to hang it in the cabinet.
When he returned, the paper still lay immaculate on the worktable, edges squared, creases smoothed. He sat down before it, thrust his fingers through his hair, and read again.
Her name looked unnatural, written in black ink in his business manager’s somber Scots handwriting. It was not her. It was the other Lady Morley, the London lady, salon hostess and society leader. The Lady Morley one read about in the newspaper columns, a stranger.
His nephew invested the money in . . . invested it badly. I’ve scarcely fifty pounds a year on what’s left.
Lord Morley’s nephew. Maternal or paternal? What was the family name? Finn scanned the list again.
William Hartley. Of course. He’d forgotten that Hartley’s mother was an aristocrat, daughter of the sixth marquis and sister of the seventh; that she’d married a rich City banker back in the days when marrying rich Cits was still something of a scandal. Her son Hartley had put his own fortune into starting Manchester Motor Works, along with those of his partner and motor-enthusiast Lindsay and that brilliant engineer Macdonald. Alexandra’s jointure, no doubt, had provided the equity capital required to finance the gleaming new building that Finn coveted with such lust.
Finn leaned back in his chair and stared at the flat ceiling high above him, at the long, meandering cracks in the plaster between the beams. He felt curiously numb, as if the enormity of this information were too much to encompass, too much to understand. He ought to feel some gash down his middle, its ragged edges screaming with pain, but he did not. Only . . . numb. And something else, something large and crushing about his head and shoulders, some black weight.
It might be a coincidence. She might not even know the name of the company in which her fortune had bee
n invested to such spectacular failure. Perhaps she was simply interested in automobiles.
Or perhaps he was the greatest fool alive.
The women, there is no trusting them.
A breeze gusted in from the open carriage doors, carrying the fragrance of the terraced fields: corn ripening in the sun; vines sprouting out thousands of bunches of tiny Sangiovese grapes for the sultry air to enlarge and sweeten; olives still small and hard and green at the ends of their branches.
Finn rose from his chair and went back to the cabinet for his smock. A great deal of work remained before his automobile would be ready for its final trial this afternoon.
NINETEEN
Alexandra held up a mask for a last critical inspection. “I say, it’s a shame we didn’t save Wallingford’s feathers. Think how many of these we might have done.”
“Really, Alex, if you’d visit the barnyard occasionally, instead of that musty old workshop of Mr. Burke’s, you’d know we’ve no lack of feathers.” Abigail stuffed the glue brush back in its bottle with unnecessary force. “There. That’s the last one.”
“Mr. Burke’s automobile is much more interesting than any of your livestock,” Alexandra replied. She ran her fingers across the fine, sleek softness of the feathers edging her mask, imagining how they would tease her skin. How they would tickle Finn’s nose when he kissed her beneath the peach trees.
“To say nothing of Mr. Burke himself. Here, Lilibet. This one will do very well for you. Lily-white.”
“Oh, for goodness’ sake,” snapped Lilibet.
Everybody turned to stare at her: Alexandra and Abigail; Signorina Morini, from her seat at the kitchen table, stuffing the last of the olives; Francesca at the hearth, turning the beef on its spit. Lilibet’s cheeks had flushed in two large patches of color, and her blue eyes flashed in a most un-Lilibet-like manner.
“My dear cousin,” Alexandra said in awe. “Are you well?”
Lilibet thrust herself up from her chair. “I am quite well,” she said, and burst into tears and fled from the room.
Alexandra rose to follow her, but Signorina Morini laid a restraining hand on her arm. “Is well. She is wishing to be alone.”
“Alone? Where? Why? And where’s Philip, come to think of it?” Alexandra demanded, looking about. She hadn’t seen the boy in ages.
“Out with Penhallow, of course.” Abigail shrugged one shoulder.
“Of course? What do you mean by that? Do they go out together often?”
“Really, Alexandra. Where on earth have you been the last few weeks?”
Alexandra sank downward into her chair, looking at the faces around her with penetrating inquiry. Each pair of eyes slid away at the contact. “I see.” She picked up her mask. “It seems our wager has become irrelevant.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t say that,” Abigail said cheerfully. “Wallingford’s stuck to his guns admirably. No complaints at all from the village girls.”
“Well, they wouldn’t, would they?”
Signorina Morini cleared her throat. “The olives, they are finish. Signora, signorina. Is time to make ready.”
Alexandra tied her mask around her face. “There! Quite ready.” She snatched an olive from the housekeeper’s platter, earning herself a slap on her knuckles. But the result was worth it. No one stuffed olives like Signorina Morini, with bits of savory herbed sausage meat, or else cheese, or that lovely artichoke paste. Really, she would have to wrangle all the recipes out of the woman before she returned to London.
Better yet, she could bring the Italian with her and install her in the kitchen.
“No, you’re not ready,” said Abigail. “You’ve got to put on your costume, too.”
Alexandra chewed and swallowed. “Excellent, Abigail. Ha-ha. But really, I must be seeing about that bath.” She rose and called out to Francesca. “Has the water been taken up yet?”
“No, really. It’s all part of the tradition.” Abigail picked up her own mask and tied the long ribbons around the back of her head. “We’re to dress like the women from the village and help to serve the food. Everyone will be masked so nobody will know us. Such fun!”
Alexandra clapped her hands. “Marvelous! Splendid lark. Awfully jolly. That is, if I were ten years old again, which I decidedly am not.”
“I see. I expect you’re afraid Mr. Burke won’t be able to pick you out amongst the crowd.”
“I’ve no idea what you mean by that.”
“Or that perhaps he might find one of the young village maidens more to his liking . . .”
“That’s absurd!” She checked herself. “Yes. I mean, of course, absurd that I should care. He may have all the village maidens he likes, as long as he’s prepared to pay the forfeit for the wager.”
Abigail leaned back in her chair and nibbled at an olive. “Mmm. These are lovely, signorina. Really, I can’t wait to see what else you’ve devised for tonight’s festivities.”
Alexandra turned her gaze to the housekeeper, who sat smiling beatifically in her chair, arranging olives. She began, belatedly, to sense a current in the air, a current of understanding that seemed to link her sister and the Italian woman.
She planted her hands on her hips. “See here. I really hope you haven’t gone out of your way, signorina. I should be deeply sorry to find you’ve been troubling yourself over matters that don’t concern you.”
Signorina Morini smiled her wise smile and rose from her chair to take Alexandra by the arms. She pressed a kiss on each cheek. “Bella donna. Bellissima Signora Morley. Tonight, she is a beautiful night, a beautiful feast. The girls of the village, they say the night of the midsummer has a little of the magic.” She leaned closer, so that Alexandra could smell the comfortable scent of baking bread rising from her skin. “You are young, you are beautiful, you are in love. Is magic. Is . . . is il destino, destiny. You let the destiny come wherever it is wishing. The destiny, it is knowing what to do.”
The clock in the hallway chimed distantly, seven faint rings of its ancient bell.
“How perfectly ridiculous,” Alexandra said. “I shan’t wear your silly costume, Abigail. It isn’t dignified. Don’t think for a moment you can convince me.”
* * *
This is so undignified.” Alexandra straightened her apron and picked up a tray from the kitchen table.
Abigail picked up another tray and began to walk to the door. “Nonsense. You look marvelous.”
“Marvelously undignified. At least Lilibet’s neckline isn’t cut down to her navel. I feel as though I’m presenting my bosom on this platter.” She looked downward critically.
“Your necklines are exactly equal. It’s your magnificent chest that makes all the difference. Now do come along. Lilibet’s out there by herself. And don’t eat all the olives on the way.”
“I shan’t.” Alexandra sighed. “They’re the only things protecting my modesty at the moment.”
She followed her sister out the kitchen and down the hallway to the door.
Outside, in the fading light, the terrace had been filled with long trestle tables and chairs and strings of lights and torches, and at least sixty or seventy laughing people from the village milled about the old gray flagstones in the masks they’d made that afternoon. From some unseen corner, a band of musicians sent lyric music into the warm twilight, briskly rendered, violins and woodwinds and the distinct oom-pah of a grandfatherly tuba.
“Just set the platters on the nearest table,” Abigail called to her, over the din. “They’ll sit down when the first course is in.”
Alexandra didn’t have time to look for Finn in the throng, didn’t have time to do anything but run back and forth with Abigail and Lilibet and Francesca and Maria, setting out food and jugs of wine until the tables were full and the guests, by some unseen signal, piled into their chairs.
“Do we welcome them at all?” she whispered to Abigail, when everyone was seated. She’d just spotted Finn, whose ginger head spiked far above his neighbors, down at the o
pposite end of one of the tables. He wore a simple black mask and looked rather dashing. He was engaged, she saw, in animated conversation with the woman next to him, whose crimson mask was bedecked with feathers and sequins far exceeding their own efforts this afternoon.
Alexandra narrowed her eyes.
“Of course not. That would give the game away. Don’t worry. Signorina Morini and I have it all planned perfectly.”
“That’s exactly why I’m worried. May I eat now? Or is fasting part of your grand scheme as well?”
“Oh, eat, by all means. Lilibet’s saved a seat for you, over there in the corner.”
Alexandra looked and saw Lilibet’s slender white arm raised in greeting. Philip sat next to her, eyes round and dancing in the torchlight, and a plate full of food lay before the empty seat on her other side.
All very inviting, except that it was all the way across the terrace from Phineas Burke and his charming crimson-masked companion.
“I say, Cousin Alexandra,” said Philip, as soon as she sat down, “that’s a bully mask. Don’t you think I’ve got a bully mask?”
She examined him. “Without question, the bulliest mask in the history of the world. Is that an eagle feather?”
“Yes, it is. Uncle Roland found it for me. I think Uncle Roland’s top-notch, don’t you? A damned trump.”
Lilibet gasped. “Philip! Where on earth . . .”
“You’ve hit the nail quite on the head, my dear boy,” Alexandra said. “Your Uncle Roland is a damned trump. There’s no other word for it. Don’t you think so, Lilibet?”
