The chaotic Miss Crispino

by Kasey Michaels

  ALLEGRA HAD SPENT a sleepless night—or a “white night,” as she described it to Betty—and refused her breakfast tray, unable to summon an appetite. The maid, who seemed to have developed a very real attachment to her unconventional mistress, clucked and scolded for the entire length of time it took Allegra to bathe and dress in one of her new morning gowns, and then, thankfully, left her alone.

  Allegra desperately needed to be alone. She desperately needed to think. Not that she hadn’t spent the entire night thinking, but this time she knew she had to apply herself to subjects other than how wonderful it felt to be in Valerian’s arms, how thrilling his kisses were, how dear his angel wings were to her, and how she adored it when he smiled at her in that special way and called her his imp.

  That sort of thinking had served only to make her cry into her pillow, and the time for tears had passed. She had put Gideon in charge of securing passage for her on a ship—and for the ridiculous Bernardo as well—and she must be ready to leave at a moment’s notice. Somehow she must convey this news to the shoemaker, and then convince him that he had no future in Brighton.

  “Which will be about as simple as threading a needle at midnight,” she told her reflection as she peered into the mirror, noticing that she was developing the slightest smudging of bruised purple beneath her eyes. She pinched her cheeks, bringing color into them, knowing that Valerian would pick up very quickly on her wan appearance.

  Valerian. She had to be gone before he arrived. He had put up with her nonsense for more than two days, but she knew he would not be put off much longer, and she would rather die than have to listen while he explained yet again that politely brought-up young ladies do not ask gentlemen to propose to them.

  If only she hadn’t run from the room, unable to control the tears that had threatened to destroy her completely. If only she had stayed, challenging him to explain why a gentleman may kiss a young lady and then not propose to her!

  Except then, of course, Valerian might have pointed out—as he had done in Italy when he had sent her around to the servants’ entrance of the hotel—that she was not a politely brought-up young lady. Perhaps, in his eyes, she was still the barefoot, none-too-clean girl he had met in Florence, a desperate, out-of-work opera singer who had taken to stealing sausages.

  No! He loved her! He had to love her! She was Allegra Crispino, singer. She had even sung before the next King of England—and everyone had loved her! She must never forget that night. She must take it to her heart and treasure it always!

  Allegra reluctantly quit her room, to wander aimlessly through the house and out into the back garden, where she had promised to meet with Gideon as soon as he returned from booking passage on a ship to Italy.

  She took up a seat beneath a tree that was just beginning to bud and deliberately began humming snatches from the aria she had sung at the Pavilion, in the hope that it would improve her mood.

  “That sounds familiar,” Valerian said, walking up behind her so quietly that she was startled into silence. “Listen, imp. Even the birds in the trees cannot help but sing along with you.”

  “Valerian!” Allegra’s eyes widened in panic. “I didn’t expect…well, I guess I did expect…although I had hoped to be…but you are early.” She deliberately avoided meeting his eyes, looking past him toward the door to the drawing room. “Is—is Bernardo with you?”

  “Well, now, imp, thereby hangs a tale.” Valerian sat down beside her on the bench, his lips twitching in amusement. “No, Bernardo is not with me. You see, the Conte Timoteo is aboard The Valiant Lady, already bound for Naples, several thousand pounds richer than he was upon his arrival in Brighton, and very happy to be seeing the last of England.”

  Allegra knew her eyes had grown wide as saucers. “He is? But why? He seemed to be enjoying himself most mightily.”

  “Not entirely. Did you know, dearest girl, that Isobel tried to corner him yesterday in the Baron’s morning room? Oh, yes, she did, and quite a sight that must have been. Bernardo was highly insulted—saying something about not being stuck twice by a large-toothed, chicken-breasted Englishwoman who wanted only to keep him on a leash. I believe he is planning to return to Milan and his family, with plans to enlarge their shop. It seems he has some new idea for boots with colored linings. Max went with him, eager to get back to Naples, but he leaves you his love and the wish that you may visit him soon.”

  Allegra couldn’t help herself. She looked up, straight into Valerian’s eyes, and burst into delighted laughter. Totally forgetting herself, she then fell against Valerian’s shoulder, mirth mingled with relief all but overcoming her, and it wasn’t until several moments had passed that she realized he had put his arms around her and was holding her close against his chest.

  “Valerian?” she questioned, reluctantly pushing herself free of his embrace. “I am correct in thinking that well-brought-up young ladies do not laugh quite so heartily—or do not do so in a gentleman’s arms—yes? I am yet again a disgrace to you.”

  He pulled her to him once more, lifting her chin with the tip of one finger. “A nuisance, yes. A maddening, confusing, adorable bundle of hot emotions, yes. But a disgrace, Allegra? When have you ever been a disgrace?”

  Allegra could have begun listing the times she had behaved badly, counting them off on her fingers for him—beginning with her outrageous behavior in Italy and ending with her overweening arrogance in assuming that he loved her and then telling him so—but she decided against it.

  After all, Valerian was with her now, and he was looking at her in that special way, a look that had once confused but now thrilled her. She was in his arms, Bernardo was gone from the scene, and it appeared that, yet again, she had landed on her toes.

  This was not the time to tempt fate by reminding him of things best placed in dimenticatoio—that lovely, wholly imaginary place in which to put forgotten things.

  And to think she had planned to leave England without ever seeing him again, while still harboring the desperate hope that he would posthaste come chasing after her once more, begging her to love him. But then he wasn’t to know that, was he? Nobody was to know that except for her—she with her temperamental Crispino and devious Dugdale blood running hot in her veins—and she certainly wasn’t going to tell him!

  Valerian tipped Allegra’s head to one side and began nibbling very delicately at the base of her throat, sending a shiver delicately through her. Was this the reaction of a man who did not love her? Was this the reaction of a man who wanted nothing more than to be a good friend to her grandfather by keeping her out of mischief, while at the same time wishing that he could be shed of her once and for all?

  This was wonderful. This was everything she had ever hoped for, and she hadn’t had to run all the way back to Italy to know once and for all that Valerian loved her. She had only to sit in the back garden of Number 23, and love had come to her.

  She raised a hand to cup his cheek, her head thrown back as his lips traced a path from her throat to the corner of her mouth. “You were going to say something to me the other day, Valerian, something I did not think I wished to hear. Now I wonder if I made yet another mistake. Perhaps you will tell me now, while I am so very much interested in listening.”

  But now Valerian wasn’t listening. The feel of her, the scent of her, the taste of her, had driven all rational thought from his mind. Talk? Who wished to talk when there were so many more delightful things they could be doing? There was plenty of time for talk. They had a lifetime to talk.

  She was here. She was in his arms, willingly, happily, in his arms. She wasn’t the mercurial Allegra now, the one-moment hot, one-moment cold bundle of conflicting emotions that so excited him, yet so confused him.

  How could he ever have thought she had only been boasting that he loved her—much in the way she had boasted about her voice, and how she had sung for the Bishop of Bologna? She did have the most glorious, pure voice he had ever heard. She had sung for the Bishop—for the next King of En
gland as well! Allegra didn’t boast. Allegra merely told the truth—except for those times when she bent it a little to suit her own purpose. But then, bless her, what woman didn’t?

  “Valerian? You will tell me—”

  He silenced her with his mouth, his kiss shattering all thought as they melted together on the bench in the back garden of Number 23, oblivious to the world around them…the birds singing above them in the budding branches of the tree…the sound of the door to the drawing room opening…the footfalls that should have alerted them to the fact that they were no longer alone.

  “Excuse me, Fitzhugh,” Gideon announced with obvious glee. “I hate to be the one to throw a damper on what appears to be a touching moment, but—”

  Valerian pushed Allegra’s face protectively against his chest, not ready to relinquish his hold on her, and looked daggers at the younger man, who was standing directly in front of them, grinning like the cat that has cornered the mouse. “Nonsense, Kittredge. Don’t hold back—not when you do it so very well.”

  Allegra stiffened, feeling the animosity sparkling between the two men, then began to tremble as she realized that, just when she thought her world had turned rosy, all her carelessly loosed pigeons were about to come home to roost. Allegra had never underestimated Gideon—not when she had first met him in the Dugdale drawing room, and not now. He had seen her and Valerian together, and had instantly understood everything. She struggled to get free, anxious to keep Gideon from speaking, but Valerian continued to hold her close.

  Gideon knew now that he had never had a chance with Allegra. She had most definitely been leading him on, just as he had told her, so that he could debase himself in front of his uncle, who would then ring a mighty peal over his head. He was still not too clear on why she had come to him for help—perhaps she’d also at some point taken a pet against Fitzhugh that had now been resolved—but it was definitely clear to him that he had been made a cat’s paw of yet again.

  She had roused him from his bed of pain, sending him off to procure passage for her and that Italian popinjay, only to snuggle up with Fitzhugh, who, unless he missed his guess, would soon be the possessor of both the promised plum and Allegra’s eventual inheritance.

  Gone was his hope of regaining his share of the Dugdale fortune. Equally fled were his chances of paying his debts and buying part of Georgie’s racehorse. And, to put the capper on it, that insufferable Conte would remain underfoot, to blight him with his beauty.

  Gideon realized that he was beginning to breathe very quickly, his shallow breaths causing him to feel slightly light-headed. Perhaps he should seek out his mother, and have her monitor his racing pulse. But no! First he would destroy his cousin, this maddening Italian interloper in his once well-cushioned life, for now and for all time!

  He stepped forward another pace and smiled down at Allegra, who was, he noticed, looking decidedly pale. “I have the tickets and passports you asked me to procure for you, dearest cousin. You and the Conte can take ship tonight and leave on the morning tide. Here,” he concluded triumphantly, flinging a small packet into her lap. “Bon voyage!”

  Allegra watched as Gideon, walking with a definite spring in his step, returned to the house, leaving her alone with Valerian, whose arms had deserted her halfway through her cousin’s speech, leaving her to shiver in the sudden chill that had invaded the air.

  “I—I suppose you would like to hear some sort of explanation?” she suggested at last, when the silence had become unbearable.

  “Not really,” Valerian answered evenly, rising to stand in front of her. “I think I’d rather work this one out for myself. You were perhaps planning to escort Bernardo back to Milan before he could father an entire generation of beautiful, dull-witted Adonises here in Brighton? Oh, yes, I may have forgotten to tell you, imp, but it seems your once devoted swain has recovered from his heartbreak with a vengeance. Max found him this morning with not one but two of my housemaids in his—well, never mind that.

  “Passing over that idea,” he went on, his heart growing, “I would have to believe that you were planning not to escort Bernardo but to accompany him back to Italy. You would do this because you are desperately unhappy here in Brighton. Now, as you have mastered the Kittredges, and as you have grown extremely fond of Duggy—though I still cannot bring myself to understand why—and you have become a great sensation here in Brighton, I can only deduce that you had felt it necessary to run away from someone or something.”

  “Valerian, I—”

  “Hush, imp, and let me finish. Yes, you were running away. Now, whom have you been avoiding these past days? Why, I do believe it is I—am I correct? You have been avoiding me. Is this because you cannot stand the sight of me? Modesty to one side, I don’t think so. Is it possibly because you feel you have made a spectacle of yourself merely by being—bless you—yourself? Ah, now this has the ring of typical Allegra Crispino logic. Max told me a woman’s mind is a curious thing, but you, my love—and almost always for what you believe to be the best of reasons—have turned chaos into an art form.”

  “Valerian! I—”

  He looked down at her, reaching out his hands to pull her to her feet. “If we really work at it, imp, I suppose we could go round and round for several days—or even months—trying to explain to each other all that has transpired since first we met. But that would be very fatiguing, and not at all sensible, don’t you agree?”

  He was actually asking for her opinion? He had finally done with spouting absurdities, his handsome, adorable face split in an unholy grin. Allegra opened her mouth to speak. “Valerian, I—”

  But he cut her off once again. “Don’t say another word, my darling. Just listen. I don’t care why you thought you had to flee, since you aren’t going anywhere ever again without me by your side. You don’t have to say anything because you have already said it all. I love you. Everyone loves you. It’s impossible not to, imp. And yes, I want to marry you. Now you may speak. Are you going to become my wife, Allegra, or am I going to spend the rest of my life chasing after you with twice the perseverance and determination of a dozen Bernardo Timoteos?”

  She smiled at him, her heart and her love shining in her tear-bright sapphire eyes, then said cheekily, “I will give you my answer very soon, dearest Valerian, but first, I think I should like for us to adjourn to the kitchens for something to eat. Suddenly I find myself very hungry!”

  EPILOGUE

  THE CHARITY PERFORMANCE at the Theatre Royal, complete with the Prince Regent in attendance, had been a triumph, although Allegra Crispino Fitzhugh got no closer to the stage than her seat of honor beside Prinny in his private box.

  Isobel, the original architect of the scheme, who had conceived such a performance as the scene of Allegra’s ultimate disgrace, had not been present as several very talented singers gathered by Valerian performed to raise funds for the widows and orphans of soldiers who had died in the war. Isobel, along with her mother and brother, had removed to Wolverhampton the previous week on a “repairing lease” that was to last as long as Baron Dugdale desired—since it was he who, only when he was good and ready, would ultimately pay his nephew’s gaming debts so that the Kittredges could again show their faces in Brighton without the danger of Gideon being set upon by his angry creditors.

  “Best stretch of peace and quiet I’ve had since Aggie and her brats moved in,” he had told Valerian happily as he waved the newly wed couple on their way after the performance and made to join the Prince Regent for a late supper at the Pavilion.

  Allegra was still singing snatches from one of the arias that had been performed as Valerian entered their bedchamber an hour later, already dressed in his nightclothes, a burgundy banyan tied about his trim waist.

  He looked at his wife of three weeks, happy to see that she was still clothed in the pearled-petal-strewn gown that would always be a reminder of the day he had completely and totally lost his heart to her. How he would delight in divesting her of it.

&n
bsp; “Imp?” he prompted, interrupting her as she whirled about the room, holding up her skirts delicately while she sang another verse in lilting Italian.

  “Valerian!” Allegra immediately broke off her song to launch herself into his outstretched arms. “Ah, caro mio, what a night! You did not mind that Prinny pinched me, yes? It was only the once, and he was so good to allow the performance. And you did once say that you felt sorry for him.”

  Valerian frowned as he steered her toward the wide bed, for he had missed the pinch. “Not that sorry, imp. Now sit down, my darling, for I have something to tell you.”

  “A surprise? Oh, how lovely!” Allegra’s sapphire eyes shone brightly as she scrambled to the very center of the bed, her ivory taffeta skirts billowing around her. She patted the space next to her, inviting him to join her. “But you must be careful not to muss my gown. I have told Betty you would act as my maid tonight, and she would not like it if this pretty thing were to become a mass of wrinkles.”

  Valerian ignored the warning, watching, entranced, as Allegra contradicted herself by collapsing against the pillows, then lay close against her on his side, his head propped on his hand. It was difficult to keep his mind on what he wished to say when Allegra began running her fingertips up and down his bare forearm, but he did his best. “How would you like to go back to Italy, imp?” he asked, observing the pearled petals flutter invitingly with her every breath.

  “Italia?” Allegra’s smooth brow furrowed in confusion. “I thought you wished to open the London house for what you called the Season. You have changed your mind? Why?”

  Valerian’s left hand reached out to begin idly playing with one of the pearled petals on her bodice. “I had a dream last night, imp,” he said, his voice slightly husky. “In my dream we were installed in a villa on Capri, just the two of us, spending lazy days visiting Roman ruins and the grottoes and long, wonderful nights lying in a glorious, gauze-hung bedchamber, visiting the stars.”