The Comte d’Argento was sitting in the dining room next to the drawing room, in what she had learned was his private quarters. He bestowed a sunny smile on her and picked up a teapot.
This was her first day as a duchess, or rather, knowingly as a duchess. It had started in a most bizarre fashion, but she smiled and tried to make the most of things.
“I mean to make this one of the most fashionable clubs in London,” her host told her.
“I would have thought you wanted it more discreet, my lord.”
He put down his knife and fork. “My name is Amidei. Amidei Massimo. The title is one I invented for convenience and later persuaded a king to bestow on me. I would very much appreciate you calling me Amidei when we are in private.”
She pondered the request. She should not—he was not related to her—but he had not imposed on her when he could so easily have done so. She needed friends.
She smiled broadly. “Strictly in private, of course. And as you know, I’m Portia.”
He handed her a full dish of tea. “So you are.”
They continued in perfect amity and after their meal repaired to the drawing room to allow the servants to clear up after breakfast.
The doorbell clanged insistently. Startled, she looked up.
Amidei sprang to his feet and strode to the door, wrenching it open. “Who is it?” he bellowed down the stairs.
They probably heard him down the two flights too. No mental communication? Since he received no yelled answer, it seemed he’d recovered his poise, but when he swept back into the room Amidei was all cold control, his face a picture of aristocratic hauteur.
“It appears your husband has arrived. Do you wish to see him?”
She had little time to answer, but yes, she did. To her chagrin, she always wanted to see him. She jerked a nod before the door opened precipitately, bouncing off the wall.
Amidei winced. “This house has been decorated and refurbished at great expense. We open next week. I would appreciate it, sir, if you did not demolish it around my ears.”
Edmund stood in the doorway, glowering at her. He turned his attention to Amidei. “I could.”
“No, you couldn’t. You think I didn’t bind enchantments into every corner of the place along with the paint?” Amidei folded his arms.
Edmund strode into the room, the skirts of his dark blue, gold-embroidered coat swinging against his white breeches-clad thighs. Closely behind followed his man, Lightfoot, his face pale, wringing his hands.
She had never seen Edmund so magnificent.
He glared at her. “When I was dressing this morning, I told this reprobate about my strange visitor.” Angrily he gestured to Lightfoot. “Close the door. This isn’t for prying ears.” He paused and raised a brow in d’Argento’s direction. “I take it all the staff here consists of immortals?”
Amidei inclined his head. “They’re either immortals or they know about us. You may speak, communicate with them, anything you wish.” He took his seat and gestured to the sofa Portia sat on. “Please sit down.” He glanced at Lightfoot. “Not you.”
Lightfoot bowed, while Edmund swept back his skirts and sat on a chair. Not on the sofa where Portia resided.
He leaned forward, resting his forearms on his knees.
Amidei watched the little play in silence. “Normally whatever a man discusses with his valet should remain in the bedchamber,” he said. “Your conversation with your manservant interests me strangely.” He waved a hand graciously, a king to his subject. “Pray enlighten me.”
His steady pace enabled Portia to get her breath back. Every time Edmund entered a room he did that to her, whether he cared for her or not. She wanted him back so much her stomach twisted and her throat tightened so she could hardly breathe.
Edmund shot her an enigmatic glance. “Lightfoot said he was sorry the woman had returned to my life. In his opinion the god of love should remain unencumbered by specific women.”
“I knew he didn’t like me,” Portia muttered.
Edmund gave her another perusal, more considering this time. “When I pressed him, he confessed I’d married a woman in Dover.” His jaw clenched. “God in heaven, I can’t believe this! How could I forget something as important as this?”
“You know how,” Amidei said. He was the calmest man in the room.
Edmund gritted his teeth and uttered a curse rarely spoken in polite company. “My damned mother.”
“No,” Amidei said. “Stretton. You threatened the woman he loves and he wasn’t particularly careful how strongly he struck you.”
“I fought back.” Edmund frowned.
“He’s older than you. More powerful. He struck out without caring if he killed you or not. Had you not been another Olympian, you wouldn’t be here. He drove you insane.”
“I recall that part.” Edmund touched his forehead, as if that would help him. He looked so confused she wanted to go to him, but she could not. He might push her away. She couldn’t bear it if that happened. “I don’t remember the rest.”
He looked up, pain shadowing his eyes, a deep frown furrowing the space between his brows. “I have a month of blankness. Lightfoot confessed that he filled my memory with trivialities to explain the time passing. It is something I do not intend to forgive lightly.”
Turning his head, he glared at Lightfoot. “I thought I was unconscious for longer when Stretton struck me down, but that doesn’t work, either.” He leaned back and this time stared at her. “You’re a lovely woman, my dear, but I don’t remember any of it.”
It wasn’t his fault. It wasn’t his fault! Elation turned her mind to unthinking joy. He hadn’t wilfully rejected her—he simply did not remember her.
“Then you don’t love me anymore,” she said, her heart sinking.
With a rueful twist to his mouth, Edmund shook his head. “I don’t know you. I only have d’Argento’s word that we are married. And that of this reprobate, who finally admitted it when I threatened to ride to Dover post-haste and discover the cleric and the parish register concerned.” He jerked a thumb over his shoulder at his manservant, who had the grace to wince. “What the devil do we do now?”
Amidei got to his feet and poured them all drinks, serving them himself. Red wine.
Edmund gazed at his before he took a sip as if he could find answers there. “So Stretton took my memories, did he? Then I owe him something for that. Something deeply unpleasant. Perhaps I will aim an arrow in his direction.”
“No!” Amidei’s voice was sharp, unlike his usual mellifluous tones. “I forbid it. In case you were in any doubt, I’m older than you, too. You have but recently become aware of what you can do, even who you are. I have known for much, much longer and I hone my skills on a regular basis.” He glanced at his perfectly manicured nails and Portia recollected that he was the patron of surgeons and physicians.
“We may not be married after all,” Portia said miserably.
The three men stared at her, their eyes wide. “Was it not a legal ceremony?” Amidei asked softly. “We can redress that error.”
Portia shook her head. “I met a woman in Dover who said Edmund was betrothed to her ward, Susanna.”
Edmund stilled and gripped the arm of his chair until his knuckles turned white. “What was her name?”
“The Duchesse de Clermont-Ferrand.”
“Virginie,” Edmund murmured. “Venus.”
Chapter Twelve
She had caught up with him. His nemesis was on her way. He owed her a great deal, but she’d always told him that she would collect her debt one day.
He quelled his panic, born more of his anger than anything else. “I spent nearly a year with her. Virginie, Duchesse de Clermont-Ferrand. Once I became aware that my mother was a manipulative witch and a powerful immortal, I went in search of someone who could help. I found Virginie, th
e duchesse. She told me what I needed to know in order to defeat my mother. She also sheltered me, making it appear I was travelling around Europe, when in fact I was at her chateau in France.” He ran his hand over his smooth hair, risking disturbing it. “She’s one of the new breed of Olympians, but she learned early. Her parents told her who she was. Venus, vain, arrogant and proud. But I owe her a debt.”
D’Argento sighed. “I remember her attributes. I take it she is also very beautiful?”
He nodded. “Golden hair, blue eyes—”
Amidei heaved another sigh. “I remember that too.”
“If I may, sir,” Lightfoot put in.
Edmund cast him a fulminating glare. “Which reminds me of something I wanted to ask you. Why didn’t you tell me about this? About my wife?”
The word was a good one. He turned the problem over in his mind. If he was married, Venus could hardly compel him to marry anyone else, could she? He liked Susanna, but he didn’t have any compelling reason to marry her. And now he was married to someone else, he had good reason to excuse himself. If only he could prevent Virginie seeking revenge. She did not take transgressions lightly and she would most certainly consider this as one.
Lightfoot wrung his hands together. “Well, sir, being as you took me on, you should have known that we satyrs aren’t exactly known for our straightforward thinking. I just thought since you’d had your fun, no sense bringing it up again once you forgot it.”
D’Argento fixed Lightfoot with a fascinated stare. “Where did you find this scoundrel?”
“In France, before I met Virginie. He held up my carriage.”
“A highwayman?”
“A singularly ineffective one.” Edmund smiled tightly. “When he came around, I took him on. It struck me that an immortal valet could be very useful. He’s been nothing but trouble since.”
“Oh sir, your grace!” Lightfoot was wailing now, his thin face creased as if he might cry. “I meant no harm.”
Bewilderment laced his anger. How could the man say that? “Lightfoot, according to these people, I am married. Keeping that small fact from me was harmful, don’t you think? You wronged this lady and myself.” He swung his attention back to her. “When did we marry?”
He liked the way she met his gaze. She was afraid, but she forced herself to face her fear. A good sign of strength in a person, that demonstration of courage. She was pretty too, with a sweetly pointed chin and sea-green eyes, verging on the grey in this cold morning light. At present they glistened with unshed tears. By the red rims around those orbs it was clear she’d shed a few in the recent past, and he’d wager the fault was his.
“A month since.”
He heard the words in astonishment. “So how much of my life is missing? How much did Lightfoot fill with airs and clouds?”
He remembered things, but they were obviously wrong. A stay in a country house for a few weeks before he came to London to confront his mother and save his sister. An illness borne of long travelling and tiredness. All that was wrong. When he considered those memories and tried to deepen the remembrances, they evaporated like steam from a kettle. Gone into the air with no trace, like a bad dream. Nothing took its place.
“I had to do something,” Lightfoot protested. “When you lost your memory, it wasn’t my fault, but you were distressed, so I filled the space.”
“With things that never happened!” In deference to the woman, Edmund kept his voice down, but he wanted nothing more than to bellow at the satyr. “Never, ever, interfere with my memory again.” Fury rocketed through him. If he moved, he’d kill the bastard satyr. He’d probably regret it when he came to dress for dinner, because nobody could set a neckcloth and get his hair as smooth as this man could. Damn the man.
“Interfering in such a way is a violation punishable in the most extreme manner,” d’Argento remarked, which was what Edmund had just threatened, but in a more socially acceptable form. The act would be anything but socially acceptable.
“I’ll take him,” d’Argento said, “if you want to part with him. I’ll find it amusing keeping him in line. I’m sure I can find an acceptable valet for you. An immortal should you wish it.”
Edmund sighed, accepting the inevitable. “Very well.”
Lightfoot opened his mouth, then shut it again. Whether he sensed Edmund’s mood or he knew he’d got away lightly with his crime, Edmund didn’t know. Or care, for that matter. “I prefer an immortal as a body servant. If you find one, send him to me.”
He didn’t care so much about his appearance after all, but he did set a great deal on his privacy. One problem dealt with, then. Now the other, far more pressing. “Susanna is a charming woman. She would make a good duchess.” He was only stating fact. He didn’t mean that the woman would make him a good duchess.
Portia winced and Edmund immediately regretted his words. “Why did you not know I was a duke?”
“You wished to discover my father’s identity, you told me later, and you were concerned he might be an enemy. He’s Oceanus.”
Edmund frowned and shook his head. “There’s something else.”
Lightfoot cleared his throat. “Sir, if I may venture, you did require a house as far away from your mother’s dwelling as possible.”
“Ah yes.” He remembered now. He’d decided on that course in France, to set up an establishment that his mother didn’t know about. Now, though—“I have no need of that now my mother is dead, but I cannot deny a private residence could come in useful. I planned to go north and see what the Scottish castle is like, how it’s fared. Stretton and his wife told me most of it. I intended to take up residence there.”
“It doesn’t hurt to have a tidy property in the south of the country,” d’Argento said mildly.
“You said you liked it,” she put in. “You put your treasures, the ones you bought abroad, in it. It’s on a cliff, set far enough back for safety but the road that approaches it has to pass my father’s house, so it is private.”
“How large is it?”
Disbelief in her gaze, she answered, “Moderate. Eight bedrooms.”
“Adequate.” Much smaller than the castle in Scotland, but he liked that. Houses full of people, guests, family and servants, could become unwieldy.
“It’s a jewel,” she said, unexpectedly. “You made it beautiful for me. A bower. Or so you said.”
Had he really said something so maudlin? And for a woman he regarded as pretty rather than dazzling? Love was, indeed, blind. However, she did have an attraction he couldn’t deny or ignore, something that annoyed him because dammit, he didn’t know this woman. He’d spent time with Susanna, getting to know her and making as rational a decision as he could about spending the rest of his life with her.
Indecision confused him. He wasn’t used to it.
He contented himself with, “I shall have to see it.”
“That would be a good idea.” She moved slightly, a kind of wiggle that sent heat roaring to his groin. More irritation. “You said that your love would never die, unless—”
“I died. I know that much. Turning me insane and rendering me unconscious comes close.” He gave a wry grin. “I woke with a lot of confusion and a splitting headache. And false memories.” He didn’t need to glare at Lightfoot to know the satyr had stiffened at his remark, but he didn’t intend to revisit that unpleasant part of the conversation. “Also, no overwhelming love for anyone. No memory of doing so.”
As far as he remembered he was about to make a rational arranged marriage with a pleasant woman who happened to be a minor immortal. Now he found himself married to another.
“The marriage took place legally?” He had asked, but not had a satisfactory answer.
“Perfectly.” He liked the way she primmed her lips, almost as if she was asking for a kiss. “The banns were read and the service performed as it should be.” Sh
e sat upright, hands folded in her lap, not fidgeting. Her slender figure attracted him, the swell of her breasts above her fichu made him want to touch her. Surely her skin could not be as soft as it looked?
“The precontract with Susanna could invalidate the marriage,” he said regretfully. His mind was finally working again and he ran through the possibilities rapidly. Morally, he should stay married to this woman, since he’d taken her good name. He recalled Susanna with no regret. She was beautiful, intelligent, everything he should want, but he did not.
“I must be honest,” he said. “Susanna is of good family, has a fabulous fortune and, most important to me, knows how to conduct herself whatever company she finds herself in. Can you say the same?”
“All but the last,” she said stiffly.
And Susanna was the more beautiful, if he used cool, impartial judgement. She would appear to advantage at his side. “Do you understand that we may not be legally married?”
“Yes.” She folded her hands in her lap, the tendons straining. He wanted to tell her not to do it, that she’d create nail marks in her palms. The act of a normal, caring person, that was all. “I didn’t marry you knowing you were a duke or even Eros. I knew you were an immortal like me, but that was all. This isn’t what I wanted.”
Was she about to give him an easy way out? Did he even want it? He reached for his glass and took a generous sip of excellent burgundy. “What did you want?”
“Someone to love me and care for me, to share my life. An equal, not a superior.” She waved her hand around vaguely in a motion he found endearing. He must be running mad. “Here I am sitting in a room with two gods, and I’m a nervous wreck. How do you think I feel?” She didn’t wait for an answer. “Small. I hate feeling that way. I don’t want it. You think I don’t know I’m the meanest, smallest person in this room?”
Arrows of Desire: Even Gods Fall in Love, Book 3 Page 18
