Wanton Angel (Blackthorne Trilogy)

by Henke, Shirl

  Derrick crossed the room and flipped a coin into his grimy fingers. Swift as a thief, he took off. Drum closed the door, then handed Jamison the missive. Breaking the seal, he read, scowling. “You'd best hurry with the unpacking. I've just been summoned to an audience with the queen.”

  * * * *

  Caroline Bonaparte Murat had never been a beauty like her sister Pauline, but rather favored their brother, with plump pouty features and a heavy mien. Like Napoleon, she also took her role as head of state very seriously. Her husband, the dashing and handsome Joaquim, tried to be a good ruler but was far better at leading cavalry charges. With the exile of Napoleon to the not-too-distant isle of Elba, both Queen Caroline and King Joaquim of Naples walked a tightrope between British naval power and Austrian land forces.

  Thus the gaiety of their court appeared a bit strained during the autumn days of 1814. But the decadent Spanish Bourbons, who had held the kingdom before the French interlopers arrived, had known how to live like royalty, and the soaring towers and vast stone walls of their palaces were tangible proof of it. Inside, the number of rooms and lavishness of appointments boggled the mind of northern visitors.

  Not wishing to be outdone by their predecessors, the Murats threw masques, balls and carnivals for the Italian nobility, currying popularity, if not loyalty. But now, with the fate of Europe on the negotiating tables of Vienna, the Murats intrigued to gain advantage from all quarters.

  The English had traditionally found Italy a favorite haven from dank north Atlantic winters, and when the war ended, a flood of wealthy and bored British expatriots once again took up residence in Naples. Ostensibly, Derrick was the wastrel younger brother of an earl, frittering away his income under the warm Italian sun, a perfect cover from which to observe the comings and goings between Naples and Elba.

  Everyone in the grand alliance that had defeated the little Corsican was certain he would try to escape and turn Europe into a battleground once again. Derrick could feel the tension in the air as he was presented to her majesty, Queen Caroline. Since her English was worse than his Italian, they exchanged the formalities in French, a language in which he had become fluent over the past few years.

  Across the crowded room, standing beside the flickering tapers of an ornate gold candelabra, Beth observed the tall Englishman from a distance. The light was poor, the room smoky, but she would never forget that arrogant profile or the wayward lock of inky hair that tumbled over his brow.

  What is he doing here?

  “You look as if you've seen a ghost, child. Whatever is wrong?” Vittoria asked, her dark eyes searching Beth's face. Then she followed the path of the younger woman's gaze to the tall foreigner. “My, my, he is a beautiful devil, isn't he?” she said more to herself than to Beth.

  “Devil being the operative word,” Beth murmured beneath her breath. For all that,she could not keep her eyes from him. He was tall, a head above any of the Neapolitan courtiers surrounding him, taller even than the smattering of Frenchmen and other foreigners in the vast room.

  A light gleamed in Vittoria's eyes as she watched Beth's reaction. “You have met before, I take it? Is he American, then? They are a strapping, reckless breed, I hear.”

  “He is English.”

  The words were spat out like a malediction. More and more curious. The contessa would have licked her lips in anticipation, but she knew how stubborn and proud Beth Blackthorne was. If there was the faintest hint that she was matchmaking, the girl would refuse to say another word on the subject. “Of course, your countries are at war.” She sighed theatrically. “And with good reason, too. The Royal Navy simply assumes it can sail anywhere on earth and set up a blockade.”

  “I doubt very much Derrick Jenkins has anything to do with the Royal Navy. He's simply a foppish boor I was unfortunate enough to run into in Washington several years ago.” Beth winced at her all-too-literal choice of words.

  “I imagine he's on his grand tour, just as so many other young Englishmen are, now that the war is finally over,” the contessa said dismissively, not believing it for a moment. Vittoria's keen instincts had been honed surviving two disastrous marriage alliances, then making her way through the imbroglio of Italian politics to emerge an independent woman of some influence in court circles, as well as an arbiter in the world of art and letters. There was something about the way the Englishman worked the crowd, smiling charmingly at introductions, listening more than he spoke. Her senses hummed with curiosity.

  “You must excuse me, Vittoria. I find I suddenly have developed a headache. Perhaps a bit of fresh air will clear it.”

  “But my dear, the duke and his vulture-faced wife have just arrived. You must be introduced to them if you are to get the commission. Albeit, the work will be more like painting wildlife than portraiture,” Vittoria added with a chuckle. Whatever the reason, her young friend was disturbed by the Englishman, for surely that was the reason behind this sudden flight. The contessa knew Elizabeth Blackthorne never suffered from headache in her life.

  “I shall be in the gardens. Perhaps later?” she pleaded, rubbing her temples.

  “Sit in the gazebo near the fountain of Pan. That way I shall be able to find you once I've run the ducal couple to ground.” Beth nodded, then fled. Vittoria smiled to herself. It was not the Duke d'Aquino whom she planned to run to ground.

  * * * *

  Derrick listened intently as two of King Joaquim's royal guards discussed strategies for invading Sicily, a long-cherished goal of Murat. Amazing what one could learn simply by eavesdropping right out in public. Perhaps this assignment would not be as fruitless as he had first believed it to be.

  He scanned the room, looking for a cabinet minister who had been pointed out to him prior to his presentation to the queen. Within a quarter hour, he made the acquaintance of the minister, who was as tight-lipped and disdainful as a High Churchman at a Methodist prayer meeting. Noting a number of people drifting out onto the portico and into the gardens beyond, especially those who were imbibing liberally, he followed, still sipping from his first glass of champagne.

  The gardens by torchlight were impressive indeed in the feudal, decadent manner of Spanish Bourbon excess. The lush vegetation lent a heady fragrance to the night air. Flickering lights seemed to cast each person's face in sinister shadows. If ever there was a night for intrigue—or a place—this is it. Recalling how he had on occasion unintentionally overheard conversations through the dense shrubbery in Vauxhall, he decided to stroll down a deserted pathway close to where he'd seen the reticent cabinet minister with a French officer.

  He took a swallow of champagne, then quickly spat it onto the ground. Warm and flat, and a poor vintage at that. He heard the faint buzz of voices farther down toward the garden wall. Perhaps his quarry? No, what he heard were sounds of a breathless struggle between a man and a woman.

  “If you don't release me this instant, I shall scream the palace down around your ears, you drunken, stable-mouthed scum!” hissed a female voice in fluent Italian.

  “Considering your reputation, it would reflect far worse on you than on me if you did, but I don't believe you will.” The man, who spoke Italian with a heavy French accent, sounded arrogant and more than a bit drunk. Then the sound of fabric ripping was followed by a loud grunt.

  Tossing his glass into the grass, Derrick sprinted down the path toward the struggle. He found a man dressed in the showy uniform of a royal guards officer struggling to maintain his grip on a woman whose sheer silk gown had been torn from one milky bare shoulder. Since the guardsman was armed and he was not, Derrick called out no warning, simply came up behind the man, wrapped his arm around the fellow's neck and yanked back hard.

  “I believe the lady is unappreciative of your attentions,” he said in French, applying pressure with his forearm to the soldier's throat until the man gave up his attempts to draw his saber and began to wheeze, choking for air. Derrick gave him a hard shove, knocking him onto his hands and knees, where he remain
ed, coughing violently until he suddenly rolled over and passed out cold.

  “You are most noble, Mr. Jenkins, but I could've managed the drunken lout quite handily,” a husky contralto voice said in English.

  Derrick's head swiveled from the guardsman to his victim. The disheveled female revealed a small jeweled stiletto in her hand. “For someone whose clothing has been half ripped from her body, you appear remarkably calm, madam,” he replied as warning bells sounded. Where the devil did she know him from? And the name, Jenkins—why, he had not used it since...Washington—over three years earlier, when he was a green beginner.

  But it was exceedingly difficult to concentrate on the dangerous puzzle while every nerve in his body sizzled as he observed the pink tip of one lush breast spilling from her torn bodice. Then his tormented gaze swooped lower, watching her bare a creamy thigh and a seemingly endless expanse of leg as she slipped the deadly little weapon back in its sheath on her garter. When she straightened up once more, he got his first good look at her face. “You!” He had been unable to discern the color of her hair in the moonlight or he would have recognized that magnificent body at first sight.

  One delicate eyebrow arched. “Then you recognize me after all these years?” she said, forcing her voice to remain cool, her fingers not to tremble as she refastened the torn bodice of her gown with a brooch.

  “Scarce that long. I saw you on the beach early this morning. What the devil are you doing at the palace?” He sounded utterly baffled, oddly wary.

  Beth deflated a bit. Of course he would not remember their first meetings. Perhaps it would be best if he never did. She'd been a skinny, provincial miss then. Judging by the way his eyes devoured her now, he obviously found her mature form attractive, to say the least. “This morning? Ah, yes, this morning when I had that slight, er, altercation with the wretched fishmonger Begani.”

  He threw back his head and laughed. “Slight altercation? You flogged him with a fish!”

  “He had it coming, selling rotten mackerel to women whose families can afford no other meat.”

  “Mayhap, but what were you doing dressed as a lazza-roni? You're obviously educated, with sufficient connections to be received at court.”

  “How typically English,” she replied angrily. “If I’m one of the ‘better sort’—even if that sort is American—then I could never dress comfortably, walk about unchaperoned or consort with poor people!”

  Still trying in vain to place her, he replied, “Even in America ladies do none of those things.”

  He had her there. A vision of Quintin Blackthorne's stern countenance flashed in her mind's eye. Quashing thoughts of her father, she tossed the shambles of her once elegant hairdo back over her shoulder and tried to step past him. Arrogant English lout!

  Derrick reached out and took her arm proprietarily. “Please, I didn't intend to be rude—just typically English,” he said with a devilish grin that normally sent female hearts fluttering. She made no attempt to pull away as he continued, “I know we've met in America, but for the life of me I do not recall it—and I never forget a beautiful woman. Am I losing my mind?”

  His disarming charm and the warmth of his touch worked their magic on Beth. He thinks’I’m beautiful! her heart sang. He disapproves of everything I am and do, her common sense reminded her. Still, she could not think straight standing so close to him, with those fathomless blue eyes sweeping hungrily over her body. “Your mind is quite intact, Mr. Jenkins. I was a girl when first we met—or perhaps I should say collided—behind Mistress Smollett's stables.”

  “My god, the Blackthorne girl! Elizabeth. You've...you've grown!” How the deuce do I explain being called by another name in Washington? And how the deuce do I get her to trust me enough to entice her into my bed?

  Chapter Three

  Collecting himself, he bowed politely, saying, “Not Jenkins, I fear. Derrick Jamison, at your service.”

  “Jamison?” A frown marred her forehead.

  This was no longer an easily flummoxed school miss. “Yes, Jamison, the younger son. My brother Leighton is now the earl. I was sent to America to escape disgrace over a dueling mishap.”

  “You killed a man in a duel?” Her father had fought a duel over her mother long ago. As a girl Beth had thought it romantic, but now it only seemed dangerous and foolish.

  He shrugged. “I didn't intend it, but he turned to fire before the count was complete. I had no choice.” The event was no fabrication, only the rest of the tale. “The family of the man I killed was so powerful that I was forced to flee the country and assume another name until the matter died down.” In truth, his father had easily bribed the greedy young baron's relatives. “So,” he added with another boyish grin, “I stand before you an utter scapegrace, the family black sheep, whiling away my life in exile.”

  “You might consider my country an exile, but from what I've seen of Englishmen in Italy, you should quite enjoy life here. Heaven knows enough of your countrymen do.” He had the oddest effect on her. Suddenly she realized that she felt at ease and charmed. Be honest. You feel much more than just charmed. She shoved the niggling thought aside and returned his flirtatious smile.

  “Too true, but I only just arrived this very day. I've no one to show me the city.” He waited a beat, hoping she'd volunteer.

  “And since I'm an expatriot who knows every nook and cranny, who better to teach you about Naples?” She inclined her head, returning his bold stare.

  “And perhaps there is something I might teach you in return?” He took her hand, raising it to his mouth.

  Vittoria had tutored her well in playing saucy games. A woman had to use every weapon at her command in order to succeed in a world controlled by men, the contessa had explained. Much to her own amazement, Beth had discovered that she excelled at such games. She allowed him to brush her fingers with his lips, then withdrew her hand before he could move in farther. “Unless you're really J. M. W. Turner in disguise, I doubt there's anything you have to teach that I wish to learn,''she replied with a sparkling laugh, then turned and began retracing her footsteps up the pathway.

  He followed her as he knew she expected him to do. A brazen wench, but beguiling. He'd desired her when he'd thought she was merely an Italian peasant, but knowing that she was educated and had connections at the court made the prospect of a liaison with her doubly appealing. “I let you escape when you were an innocent miss, but not this time,cara. “You still have not said if you will show me Naples.”

  “La, sir, you are persistent,even for an Englishman.”

  “And you are bold, even for an American. We should suit.”

  “Might I remind you that our nations are at war?”

  “But Italy is neutral ground and we are both expatriots. What are politics to us?”

  She appeared to consider, slowing her steps as they neared the flickering torchlight at the outskirts of the palace. “Your point is well taken, Mr. Jamison.”

  “Please, call me Derrick.”

  She stopped, suddenly realizing that her gown was torn and the elaborate coiffure Donita had labored over was hanging askew. “Very well, Derrick,” she replied while checking the opal brooch holding her torn gown together. The clasp had not caught securely. She started to readjust it, but he reached out, placing his warm hands over hers. “If you'll allow me, please?” he said.

  Suddenly her heart was pounding furiously once again. Beth prided herself on her control with men. But this Englishman was different from any other. As his fingers deftly worked the clasp, gathering the ends of the fabric on the sharp pin, she reached up and attempted to secure the combs that had held her coiffure in place.

  “Your hair is marvelous,” he whispered, inhaling the tantalizing musky fragrance of the heavy mass. “Lush, and the color...rich as fine old claret. That's what I first noticed when I saw you on the shore this morning.” He finished the repair of her gown, but instead of stepping away, he raised his hand and took a loose tendril in his fingers,
tugging on it ever so gently, drawing her lips nearer to his.

  “Not my Amazonian height or loud voice?” She stood her ground.

  “All the above made a most enticing picture, Miss Black-thorne,” he murmured, lowering his mouth ever so slowly to hers.

  “Please, call me Beth.”

  “It would be utterly shocking for a gentleman to kiss a lady if he did not use her given name...wouldn't it, Beth?”

  Her eyelids fluttered downward. “Shocking...utterly ...shocking.” She could say no more before his lips brushed against hers, lazily at first, then with deepening intensity.

  Since moving to Italy, Beth had allowed a good number of men to kiss her, more out of curiosity than real attraction. She had actually become quite proficient at technique but had never much cared for it...until now. She melted against him as he tightened his arms around her.

  Derrick could feel the soft fullness of those lush breasts pressing against his chest. He opened his mouth over hers, waiting to see if she would allow his next liberty. When her lips parted, he plunged inside, tasting of her, his tongue probing, dueling with hers.

  Beth spun out of control, feeling a thousand sensations all at once, things she had never experienced before. Her breasts tingled, rubbing against the hardness of his chest. His tongue was mating with hers, dancing in and out of her mouth, leaving her breathless. A deep ache pooled low in her belly, throbbing with the furious beat of her blood. This is madness!

  His hand cupped the lush milky breast he had so admired when it was unveiled, rubbing the hard tip between thumb and index finger until she moaned, arching her hips against his. Requiring no further encouragement, he slid his other hand over the deep indentation at the small of her back, then spread his fingers around one firm buttock, kneading it and pressing his hips in sync with hers, rocking them slowly to die rhythm he set with his plunging tongue.