Miss Carvalho let out a choked laugh. “That’s what my mother did,” she said. “I’m never going to make that mistake. But he says he’ll expose me, and Father doesn’t want the scandal. If I don’t marry quickly, he’s going to force me to enter a convent. He says it’s for my own good, but I don’t want that.”
Wasn’t that the usual punishment for a girl pregnant out of wedlock? Oriana found this conversation more confusing by the moment. “Who’s going to expose you?”
“The man who . . . the man my mother . . .”
Oh, now I understand. Too scandalous for a girl of Miss Carvalho’s good breeding to say aloud. “Your true father?”
Miss Carvalho nodded jerkily. “He’s been following me about, watching me. He wants . . . he wants me to . . .”
Oriana’s eyes slid past their hands to where the couple in the streetlamp’s light argued. It wasn’t two women, Oriana realized abruptly, but a woman and a priest, his wide-brimmed hat hiding his features. The woman walked a couple of steps past him and turned back, snapping off a few indistinct words with an angry shake of her finger.
Oriana instinctively grabbed Miss Carvalho’s arm and hauled her back to the shadows of the small balcony. The younger woman gasped in fright, and hid her face with one hand.
“Quiet!” Oriana hissed. What was making her heart race? She squinted down at the couple, trying to place what had set off her wary reaction. The woman’s clothing was dark and austere, her hat plain. She could be a widow or perhaps a lady’s maid or . . .
The woman glanced up toward the window where they stood, revealing a handsome face with strong dark brows.
Oriana felt the urge to hurt someone swell back through her senses. She let go of Miss Carvalho, shoved the draperies out of her way and ran inside, cutting straight across the ballroom floor.
* * *
“No, I primarily came to apologize to you,” the infante said. “I find that you’re less useful to me in this particular guise.”
Duilio chased that around in his head for a second. “Apologize for what, Your Highness?”
The infante chuckled. “I had Anjos . . .”
Cries of protest sounded from the dance floor. Duilio turned in time to see Oriana shoving her way through the dancers. She ran out of the ballroom and toward the stairwell.
Cursing, Duilio shoved his wineglass into the infante’s hand and dashed after her around the edge of the dancing.
Oh, God! We are going to be in every newspaper in the city in the morning.
But it was too late to pretend insouciance, not when he was pushing through the crowd about the ballroom’s door. Duilio reached the stairwell in time to see Oriana run across the marble floor of the foyer and shove on the front door. A footman jogged to intercept her. Duilio bolted down the stairs, shouting at the footman to stay back. He reached Oriana just as she managed to haul the heavy door open.
She barely even spared him a glance. Holding her skirts high with one hand, she ran down the steps and into the wet street toward a spot where a lamp spread its light in the darkness. She peered up the street and then down. “Damn! She was here, Duilio. She was right here.”
He didn’t need to ask. She had to mean Maria Melo. “Did she see you?”
Oriana looked at him for the first time. “Yes. I think so.”
“She must have run, then.” He surveyed the traffic. Pedestrians always moved along the Street of Flowers at night, but most preferred to wait for the tram, especially if the cobbles were wet and tricky. There were a handful of carriages coming and going, but nothing out of the ordinary. “No telling where she went. What was she doing out here this time of night?”
Oriana still held up the hem of her skirt. “She was talking to a man. A priest. He wore a cassock.”
And the back of a cassock wouldn’t tell them anything. Then again, what would a priest be doing out at this hour talking with Mrs. Melo? “A plain cassock? Black or brown?”
Oriana shook her head. “I wasn’t looking at him.”
No, of course not. Duilio pursed his lips, and then scowled as the rain started up again—a quick, heavy downpour. He grabbed Oriana’s arm and drew her toward the house.
“I can’t go back in there,” she protested. “They must all think I’m mad.”
Since she’d been talking with Miss Carvalho, the gossips would surely think that young woman had said something to overset Oriana. His running after her would probably confirm that in their eyes. It would be the scandal of the month. Well, perhaps two weeks. “I’ll send for the carriage. We can wait in the foyer.”
He led her up the stairs and inside the house again. Her hair had partially come down in her flight from the ballroom, her braid loosened from its pins. The hem of her lovely gown was marred with grit from the street. And they were both of them rather wet now. Duilio beckoned over one of the footmen and asked him to summon their driver. As the footman left, Duilio saw his mother descending the stairs in a stately fashion on their host’s arm, lending a belated touch of decorum to their sensational retreat from the Simões ball.
Duilio turned back to Oriana, who was trying to shake some of the grit off her hem. “You’re sure it was her?”
Oriana’s eyes lifted to meet his. “Absolutely.”
CHAPTER 27
Oriana strode up the walkway and into the warmth of the house. She felt worn and frustrated now. She’d managed to thoroughly upset Miss Carvalho, make a scandal of herself and Lady Ferreira by association, and alert Maria Melo to the fact that Oriana Paredes wasn’t dead. All that and she’d gained nothing in return.
Fortunately, Lady Ferreira had taken her appalling conduct in stride. In the carriage on the way down the Street of Flowers, she’d laughed over the precipitous end to their evening and dismissed Oriana’s attempted apologies. Duilio, sitting on the bench facing them, had worn a pensive look on his face but hadn’t contradicted his mother’s lack of concern.
As soon as she crossed the threshold, Lady Ferreira announced her intention to go on to bed. Oriana followed more slowly.
Duilio came abreast of her as she walked up the stairs. “Did you have success with Miss Carvalho?”
“Yes,” she said, “although I walked into a different pit of eels.”
His brows drew together as he stepped up onto the landing. “What?”
“Miss Carvalho is being blackmailed, I think, and she hoped that marriage might save her from either dishonor or the convent.” She stopped outside her bedroom door. Lady Ferreira had already disappeared into her own room. “Pinheiro was right about her father pushing her to pursue you, so it wasn’t necessarily about you.”
He actually looked crestfallen. “I’ve been put in my place, haven’t I?”
Oriana heard Cardenas locking the front door for the night. She opened her bedroom door, stepped inside, and grabbed Duilio’s arm before he could get away. “Quickly,” she said. “Before Cardenas comes up the stairs.”
Duilio didn’t fight her urging. He came in, shut the door behind him, and turned the gaslights near the door higher. “Felis is going to box my ears again if she finds out.”
“Then don’t tell her,” Oriana told him.
He glanced toward her dark dressing room. “Where’s Teresa?”
“I told her not to stay up. I’m capable of undressing myself, you know.”
“I have no doubt of that,” he said wisely.
Her heartbeat was throbbing in her ears now. She didn’t know what she was doing. Well, she did know what she was doing, but she didn’t have any experience at it. She began to pick apart her damp braid with trembling fingers. “I wanted to talk to you.”
His lips twisted into a smug smile. “I would never have guessed.”
She shoved her loose hair back over her shoulder. “About what Miss Carvalho said.”
“Ah, yes, that I’m not even
her second choice,” he said. “I’m merely convenient.”
“Don’t pretend your feelings are hurt when all you wanted was to escape her.”
“Just because I don’t want her,” he said, “doesn’t mean I like hearing she doesn’t want me.”
Oriana gave him a flat look.
He heaved an offended sigh. “Very well, what is she being blackmailed over?”
“That’s not important,” she said. “I meant the part where she thinks I’m your mistress.”
“Pulling me into your bedroom doesn’t help dispel that notion, Oriana.”
“On the contrary. I was being shortsighted, because our relationship will undoubtedly be interpreted that way by your peers.”
“I’m not concerned about their interpretations,” he said.
“I am.” She tugged off her mitts and tossed them onto the low table set before the settee. “Since you don’t have a wife, women like Miss Carvalho think they have license to pursue you. So I told her we intend to marry, and as soon as possible.”
A smile curved his lips. He drew her closer, one hand under her elbow. “Did you actually mean that, or were you only saying so to put her off?”
Oriana took a deep breath. “I want to make my claim on you clear. Here in Portugal that means marriage.”
“So you’ve decided you do want to claim me?” His fingers ran along her jaw and down across her gill slits.
Oriana shivered and her eyes drifted shut. Until Duilio, she’d had no idea what it was to want a man—not like this. It was as if he’d exposed an entirely different woman buried under the hard shell of isolation she’d always worn. She caught his musky scent under the smell of his shaving soap and wanted to lean closer to taste his skin. But she stepped back, took a careful breath, and said, “Yes. I am willing, if you want me.”
When she opened her eyes, he was regarding her with his brows drawn together. “You said that before. Is that part of a ritual?”
“Yes,” she whispered.
His expression didn’t change. “And what does the man respond? What should I say?”
So much for the romance of the moment. “I do, perhaps?”
“Ah, that makes sense.” His hands settled around hers, cupping her fingers. “Would you be willing to try one more time?”
Oriana kept her eyes on his hands. “I am willing, if you want me.”
“I do,” he said in return. And after a moment of silence, “What happens now?”
Oriana finally found the nerve to look him in the face. “What do you think happens?”
His eyes narrowed. “Is this where the elephants come in? Because there was something about elephants in that French book.”
“Duilio,” she began, exasperated.
“Did I mistranslate something?” He sounded perfectly serious, but the sly smile on his lips gave away his mirth. “I don’t own any elephants, but I don’t want that to cause problems.”
“Where would my people get elephants?”
“Someone somewhere uses elephants,” he said with his brow furrowing.
What? “Is ‘elephant’ some new slang men are using?”
“No, but it truly should be. I like it,” he said musingly. “Perhaps I can start a fashion, although I’m not certain to what I should apply the euphemism.”
Duilio chattered when he was trying to set someone at ease, so all this nonsense must be for her benefit. She pinched his palm. “Stop being silly.”
His face went serious. “Should I go?”
He was offering her a chance to put him off. Oriana grabbed his hand and drew him closer instead. He came willingly enough and kissed her, his body pressing hers into the door as it had the day before in the library. After a second, though, he pulled away . . . only far enough that his fingers could reach the buttons of his coat.
She helped tug it off his shoulders, feeling breathless. “Do you realize I’ve never seen you unclothed?”
He glanced up, his eyes laughing. “You caught me with my shirt off once.”
“You’ve seen me several times,” she pointed out. “Completely unclothed. It’s not fair.”
“It doesn’t count when you’re in the water.” He undid the capelet’s hook at her throat and carefully laid the beaded confection over the back of the leather chaise.
She sat to take off her slippers and stockings, and he settled next to her. When their shoes sat neatly aligned at the end of the chaise, he said, “Turn around and I’ll undo your buttons.”
She held her hair aside and his fingers nimbly opened the buttons down the back of her gown. His warm breath brushed her neck and his lips touched the few inches of skin he’d unveiled, which sent a shiver down her spine. His hand tightened on her waist. “You’re not wearing a corset.”
“I can’t,” she said, glancing at him over her shoulder. “My lungs are small, so I can’t breathe if I do.”
“Interesting,” he said. “I should write that down.”
“Later.” She pulled away and stood to push the gown down over her hips. He stayed on the chaise, watching her, and she paused, feeling suddenly shy. Idiotic, since he had seen her nude before, several times. He’d held her naked in his arms. But he’d never watched her undress, and somehow that seemed far more intimate than the other. Or perhaps it was because she knew this would go further. Her mouth felt dry.
“Please,” he said.
All her nervousness fled with that whispered request. If Duilio Ferreira was desperate enough to beg, she had nothing to fear.
* * *
Duilio swallowed. He’d promised her he would wait. He kept reminding himself of that. But if this was what she wanted, he wasn’t going to quibble over whether this was appropriate behavior for a gentleman. He was not going to rush this either, no matter how much he wanted her.
Oriana let her fine new gown fall to the floor, stepped out of it, and picked it up to drape it over the armchair. She turned away from him, unbuttoning her corset cover. She slid that off her shoulders and tossed it over to the chair. Then she unbuttoned her underskirt and let it fall, leaving her in her camisole and drawers.
Duilio suddenly understood. She wasn’t facing away from him out of shyness. She was permitting him to see her dorsal stripe, something she’d never intentionally done before. She’d always kept her bare back from view, hinting that there was a risqué aspect to a sereia’s dorsal stripe. When she drew her camisole over her head, it bared the upper end of the stripe, a swath of black that came to a point between her shoulder blades. In the gaslight’s flickering glow, Duilio could make out the rippled line of brilliant blue that separated the black of her stripe from the silver of her lower body. She untied the tapes of her drawers, pushed them down over her rounded hips, and let them fall.
That got him to his feet. The swath of glittering black rippled down her back, widest where it bisected each buttock, then tapering to a tip at each heel. He ran one hand along the blue edging and down to her waist. “Your stripe is beautiful,” he whispered.
It was the right thing to say. She glanced over her shoulder at him, almost blushing. “Thank you. My best feature, I’m told.”
He didn’t want to think about how many men had previously told her so. He pulled her into his arms instead. “Are you sure of this?”
She gave him a knowing smile. “Please me.”
His eyebrows lifted. Yes, that’s definitely an order. “I’ll do my very best.”
CHAPTER 28
WEDNESDAY, 29 OCTOBER 1902
Dressed in one of her new ensembles—a rose-colored blouse and darker jacket over a full burgundy skirt—Oriana sat down on the edge of the bed. She touched Duilio’s hair, but he barely moved in response. “Duilio, wake up.”
That didn’t rouse him either. He was evidently one of those people who didn’t wake well. Admittedly, he hadn’t gotten much s
leep, for which she’d been partially responsible. She didn’t feel particularly guilty about that. Oriana watched as he slept on, bemused by the fact that he was hers now. She wondered how long it would take her to become accustomed to the notion.
She had a lover. She had a mate. And a rather attractive one, too.
She levered herself down on the bed next to him to better see his face in the morning light. Even in his sleep, the corners of his mouth turned upward, as if his dreams were fine ones. His hair was too short to look overly disordered, but she was glad she’d had a chance to comb her own out before he saw it. His dark lashes lay against his skin. She wished she had such thick lashes. It must be a selkie trait. And his scent was more marked now, that warm smell of musk she found so intriguing. He would probably bathe immediately after rising and ruin it. There had been other women before her; she wondered if any had commented on it.
“You’re rumpling your skirt,” he mumbled.
Oriana shifted away to look at his face again, but he wrapped one arm about her waist and drew her closer to nuzzle her neck. “Duilio,” she protested, “you’ll have to get up sooner or later.”
He pulled away again, his eyes dancing with laughter. His lips remained pressed closed though, as if he didn’t dare let out whatever clever quip he had in his head.
She couldn’t decide what he was holding in, and he didn’t say.
Instead he reached across and ran a finger across her lower lip, and softly said, “Mine.”
That assumption of ownership made her laugh. “It doesn’t work that way. You belong to me now, not the other way around.”
He rolled halfway atop her, pinning her by throwing one bare leg over her skirts. “Is that why you wanted to have it your way? So you would have the upper hand?”
From his tone he was joking, but she hadn’t considered it in that light. “No, I honestly hadn’t thought of that. But if I marry you, will I not have to promise to obey you?”
“If?” he asked. “There is no if, Oriana.”
“When,” she amended.
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