SIXTEEN

The basket had appeared inside her door, as if by magic, while Alexandra was bathing after dinner, and it weighed down her arm as she stole her way down the narrow back hallway. It was covered with a blue-checked cloth and filled with all the bounty of Signorina Morini’s larder. Including the almond cake, which Alexandra knew to be ravishing.

Moonlight spilled through the ancient windows, illuminating the worn stone staircase at the end of the hall. In the pale glow, it might have been centuries ago, and she some ruthless Medici princess, off to meet her lover on the stroke of midnight. Such a convenient little staircase. How many other women had traveled this same route, for this same purpose? Had slipped up these stairs in stocking feet, hearts pounding, veins pulsing with decadent anticipation?

Perhaps even the young lady Abigail had been talking about yesterday. The one who’d been cursed.

Not that she believed in curses.

In a moment, in an instant, she would be in Finn’s arms. His kiss would cover her lips. She would see him at last, know him at last, every contour of his body.

Dinner had been torture. She’d walked into the dining room to find Finn, and only Finn, standing there with a glass of grappa in one hand and a letter in the other.

They’d stared at each other in horror.

Hello there, she’d said, and Good evening, Lady Morley, he’d replied, with a slight bow, and then the kitchen maids had arrived with platters of roast lamb and Wallingford had stormed in with lurid tales of the cheese wars (Abigail had apparently employed infamous methods to secure a sweeping victory for the women of the household staff against the men of the stable) and they were able to sink into their seats without being noticed.

She’d done her best to keep up appearances (I daresay, Your Grace, if you should take a turn with Miss Harewood’s goats, you might find them equally as agreeable as the geese) but Finn had sat there in absent silence, not a word escaping his mouth except to trouble Lord Roland for the pepper, which only made her want him more. Made her envy the wineglass as his lips parted to drink from it. Made her want to leap across the table and into his lap, from where she would feed him bits of airy panettone with her own hand and lick the crumbs from his skin.

When the final dish had been cleared, he’d risen at once from the table and bid them all a good evening with such arctic formality he’d nearly frozen the potent dessert coffee in its cups. Only the split-second lingering of his eyes on her own had stopped her from impaling him on a sugar spoon.

The memory made her hand clench around the handle of the basket.

A few steps from the top, she paused, listening. Signorina Morini had promised her an empty hallway, but she was hardly about to stake her all on the ability of an Italian housekeeper to keep the Duke of Wallingford from crashing around the corner just as she raised her hand to knock on Phineas Burke’s bedroom door.

Silence met her, so profound she could hear the pulse of blood in her own ears. From some distant corner came a muffled scraping; the maids, probably, putting the kitchen to bed. Alexandra drew in a fortifying breath and climbed the final steps.

She nearly faltered as she raised her hand to tap the old impassive wood of his bedroom door. The act reminded her of last night’s disappointment. What if he’d changed his mind, decided she wasn’t worth the risk? What if he were back down in his workshop, fiddling with his beloved machine?

The door moved beneath her fingers, and a large, blunt-tipped hand emerged to draw her inside the room.

“This is madness,” Finn said. “You shouldn’t have come.” His hand remained in hers, warm and firm. She’d forgotten his height; he seemed to tower above her, the leaf green color of his eyes softened by the candlelight and his ginger hair sticking in odd directions, as if he’d been thrusting his fingers through it. He was in his shirtsleeves, the cuffs rolled halfway up his forearms, the white cotton emphasizing the sturdy breadth of his shoulders.

She let the basket slip from her fingers and placed her hands on his chest. All around them flickered the golden light of Signorina Morini’s best candles, thick white beeswax tapers, a dozen of them at least. “Were you hoping I wouldn’t?” she asked. Her voice prickled in her chest.

With one hand he touched her hair then cupped the side of her face. “No. I was praying you would, God help me. You’ve no idea how much.”

“Really? You seemed so indifferent at dinner.”

“Alexandra.” His voice was low, intimate, reproachful. “You must know better than that, by now. You must know what it means when I’m quiet.”

She gazed up at him and met the penetrating intensity of his eyes, this time without flinching. “Yes, of course I do. You’re no more indifferent than I am.” His chest glowed with heat beneath her fingers. She wanted to sink herself into it, to surround herself with him.

He didn’t reply, only lifted his other hand to capture her face and brought his mouth down to hers. An eager kiss, an impatient kiss. The rhythm of his lips went straight through her body in long licks of flame, melting her core, melting her wits, until all she had left was sensation: the taste of sweet wine in his mouth, the hard shock of his body against hers, the scent of his soap and the faint lingering traces of leather and oil. She heard a dark, satisfied growl and realized it came from her own throat.

Her hands reached higher to grip his shoulders, his neck, anything to secure herself to him, and all at once she was swinging upward in his arms, his mouth still plundering hers, and he was carrying her across the room to lay her on the bed.

She had no chance to regain her wits, no chance even to take in her surroundings. He followed her, planting his knees on either side of her calves and his hands on either side of her head, like a beast of prey, and kissed her again, on and on, as if he meant to spend the rest of his life like this, his lips and his tongue mingling with hers.

She ran her fingers up his neck and around the firm line of his jaw and up to his cheeks. His skin felt smooth, sleek, newly shaved. “You’re so beautiful,” she whispered, “so marvelous. Let me see you, Finn. I want to see you. I want to know you.”

He smiled a little and drew back, allowing her to prop her head up against the pillows. His long arms still bracketed her, and though his features, backlit by the candles, were shadowed and inscrutable, she felt she had never seen him so clearly. “Yes, beautiful,” she said softly, and moved one hand to his collar to unbutton his shirt.

His eyes rolled. “Blinded by passion, I see,” he said, and kissed the tip of her nose.

She didn’t answer. She was concentrating on the buttons, on the skin of his chest appearing before her, inch by inch. She’d never really seen a living man’s chest; Lord Morley had always worn his decorous nightshirt, and her only glimpses of true masculine architecture had been through pictures and statues. Of course, these were idealized models, works of art. She didn’t really expect Phineas Burke’s chest to look as if it belonged to a Greek god. She didn’t need it to. She was already mad for him.

But still. A lady could hope.

His skin was pale beneath the shirt, beneath the spreading V, and nearly hairless. Her fingers brushed against the light scattering of red gold along his breastbone, pulled impatiently at the fine white cotton of his shirt, and freed it from his trousers. She worked quickly now, with both her hands, nearly ripping the last button free, and with a sigh of relief she drew the shirt over his shoulders.

He was perfectly made, in lean, precise proportion, his muscles flat and hard and spare and his skin pale gold in the candlelight. Her hands traveled in wonder across the width of his chest, around the curve of his shoulders, up the angled cords of his neck. He dipped his head to press a kiss against her palm, his eyes never leaving hers, and she felt weightless, boneless, floating atop the soft cushion of the mattress in some dizzy haze of bemusement. Was she really here? Was she, Alexandra Morley, really lying on this bed, running her bold hands across Phineas Burke’s bare skin?

What on earth had she done to deserve him?

He bent his head and kissed her again, gently this time, and she felt his hand moving across her chest, cupping her breast through the material of her dress. She’d worn a loose gown, free of all the tight lacing and decoration of her formal evening attire, and his lips hardened as he realized how little lay between his hand and her flesh. “You’re a seductress, aren’t you, darling,” he murmured, and his hand slipped around her back to her buttons, fumbling impatiently against the bedclothes.

Giddy laughter bubbled up inside her. “Stop. You’ll never get them like that.” She struggled upward against the pillows and turned around. Her hair had come loose from its pins, and she lifted the heavy mass from her shoulders as his fingers grasped at the fastenings of her dress.

“Why on earth couldn’t you have worn a dressing gown?” he muttered. His hands were heavy and impatient, almost tearing the buttons from their holes. All signs of scientific detachment had fled him.

“Because if I’d been caught in the hallway in my dressing gown, I’d have had a devil of a time trying to explain it.” The bodice loosened and brushed against her sensitized skin, sending shivers down her body.

“You’re shaking again,” he said, more softly, and his hands slowed. She closed her eyes and felt his breath stir her hair, his fingers graze her spine.

“I can’t help it,” she whispered, and it was true. Desire and fear and anticipation coiled together in her belly, indistinguishable from one another. She’d never been so nervous, not even on her wedding night. That had been formal and sanctioned and proper, no more strange than the experience of standing before the altar, and Lord Morley had been nothing like the man in bed with her now. She’d been clothed, and he’d been clothed, and it had all been quite safe. A ritual.

This was something else. This was unknown and thrilling and illicit; this man was young and brilliant and handsome. He wanted to give her pleasure, would give her pleasure, by some mysterious means she hardly knew how to imagine. She would be naked, bare, exposed; so would he. They would lie together as man and wife, except that they weren’t; he would clasp her afterward in his arms and hold her while she slept. All these things would happen in the next few hours. By daybreak she would know them all.

He seemed to sense her mood. He worked carefully now, his fingers trailing down her spine as he went, and when at last the final button parted and the bodice sagged away from her, he drew his large hands around her waist and upward to cup her breasts, reverently, as if holding a nest of baby birds. “Ah, God, darling,” he said in her ear, his voice catching. “You’re beautiful, so full and round and perfect.” His thumbs brushed against her hardened nipples, and a shudder went through her. She reached her arms upward, behind her, to enclose his head, to spear her fingers through his thick hair.

“I want you, Alexandra,” he murmured. “I want to know every inch of you, to sink myself inside you.”

She turned then, and pressed her naked chest against his, thrilling in the sensation of his skin on hers. “I want you, too. I want . . .” I want to be part of you. I want your body inside mine. Your strength, your life, everything. I want you. She stroked her hands down his body. “Now. Now. I don’t want to wait any longer.” He brushed her fingers away as they tangled in the fastening of his trousers, removing them himself, in rough, impatient jerks, taking off his drawers at the same time, until he returned to her fully naked, his shaft jutting proudly from his body, his long, heavy limbs pressing her backward into the bed. She felt his hand at her hip, struggling with her dress, and she arched her back and closed her eyes as he removed the last of her clothing, laying her body bare before him.

He went still.

“What is it? What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.” His voice was hoarse. He lowered his head to her breast and drew his tongue over the nipple. Pleasure coursed through her, down to the tips of her fingers and toes, pooling hot and liquid between her legs. “You’re beautiful,” he said. “This, and this”—his mouth went to her other nipple and sucked, hard, so her entire body lifted from the bed and her gasp filled the room—“and the curve of your waist . . .” His lips trailed down her belly, and his hand, so large it seemed to cover her, settled along her hip, his thumb brushing at her curls, parting her flesh with such exquisite gentleness she couldn’t breathe. His breath fanned hot across her skin.

She was shaking, burning. She clutched his head between her hands and drew him up to her mouth. “Now. Please. Please, Finn. I need you. I can’t . . . I can’t bear it . . .”

His cock pressed against her, heavy and urgent. She reached down with unthinking freedom to clasp him in her hand, to discover this last frontier of his body: forbidden and masculine and mysterious, and yet so essentially Finn. He let out a low groan when her fingers found him, when she circled his broad length, relishing the contrast between silken skin and cast-iron flesh beneath. He seemed enormous, but then what did she have to compare him to? She’d never touched her husband’s organ like this. She couldn’t say for certain she’d even seen it properly.

Finn’s eyelids dropped. His body stilled above her, except for a faint tremor across his shoulders. In the candlelight, his skin seemed lit from within, glowing with controlled power as she learned his shape and texture. He waited in patience for her, offering himself up to her. She brushed the tip of him against her inner lips, testing the sensation, the luxurious feel of his strength against her slickness.

For an instant he dipped his head, as if gathering himself, and then he looked up again, found her gaze with fierce eyes, and thrust forward.

She nearly shrieked, so great was the shock of pleasure, of force perfectly rendered, of fullness after famine. He rocked against her for a moment, finding equilibrium, working himself deeper, looking into her eyes with such intensity she thought she might break apart.

“Sweet Christ,” he groaned. “You’re tight as a winch.”

“A . . . a what?” She couldn’t think beyond the irresistible push of his body taking hers. “Is that all right?”

“God, yes.” He kissed her and moved his hips against her. “God, yes, darling. If I can bear it without disgracing myself.”

He was so large; he filled her so completely. The deepness thrilled her. She felt her body stretch and clutch at his length, felt an indescribable pressure against some madly throbbing core; she wanted more of it, more of that feeling, more and more and forever more of him.

She wrapped her legs around him, urged him on with her hands and her lips, and he understood, he responded, he thrust again and again, watched her keenly, adjusted his angle, thrust again, hitting her on the mark with a precision that tossed her head back in shock. She’d never dreamed of pleasure like this. She’d never dreamed, in all the nights she’d lain with her husband, that a man’s possession could feel like this. She felt Finn’s penetration all the way to her belly, felt him reach far inside her, felt their sinews strain together for more depth, more union, more sensation. Her body wound upward, coiling higher and higher, impossibly high, teetering toward an unknown brink she couldn’t quite reach.

“Let go, my love,” he said hoarsely in her ear, “marvelous, marvelous girl, you’re nearly there, just let yourself go,” and at last she soared off the edge, she shimmered; flawless waves of energy rippling through her body, her cry mingling with his. Dimly she felt him pull out of her, shuddering, supporting himself with one arm while his seed pulsed harmlessly onto her belly.

She reached up, still shimmering, and drew him against her, savoring for long, still moments the softness of his hair against her cheek, the heavy weight of his body, the wetness of his essence on her skin.

* * *

He came to himself by slow degrees, hardly recognizing his own befuddled brain. Alexandra’s arms were wrapped around him, one hand stroking through his hair, her breasts crushed beneath his chest. “I’m sorry,” he muttered, lifting himself away. “I meant to have a handkerchief ready . . .”

“Hush. It’s all right. It’s marvelous; you’re marvelous.”

He propped himself on his elbow, reached for his shirt, and wiped the smooth white skin of her belly. He wanted to say something, but the sight of her beauty, the idyllic contours of her body, stole his breath.

“It doesn’t matter anyway,” she said, in a low voice. “I mean you needn’t have bothered. I’m barren.”

He returned his gaze to her face. She was watching him solemnly, her catlike eyes turned to gold in the candlelight. “What makes you say that?”

She shrugged. “I was married for five years, with never a sign.”

“Darling, you were married to an older man. Whose previous two marriages were also childless, if I recall correctly. I daresay you’re as fertile as the next woman.” He leaned over to kiss her magnificent right breast, as lush and perfect as he’d dreamed, and forgave it unreservedly for the torment of the past several weeks.

“What, Lord Morley? How is that possible? Men . . . I mean, it seems . . . well, as I understand it . . .”

“Oh, it’s likely enough. All sorts of things can go wrong. Have you never seen a sample of ejaculate under a microscope?” He moved on to the left breast, which was looking lonely and neglected.

It took her a second or two to reply. “Shockingly enough, I haven’t.”

“It’s extraordinary. Some subjects teeming, others quite deserted.” He drew back and laid his hand around her breast, admiring the way it overflowed his long fingers. “You certainly look quite capable of conceiving. When were your last menses?”

“What?” Her eyes flew open.

“Your monthly courses.”

She stammered. “I don’t . . . how did you . . . a week, I suppose . . . oh, for God’s sake, Finn . . .” Her skin remained flushed from arousal, but a fine pink still managed to intensify the blush in her cheeks.

He moved his hand to her belly. “Then I suppose we’re safe enough. Once we’re in Rome I’ll track down proper prophylactics. Withdrawal by itself isn’t foolproof, after all; there is some secretion before climax, which . . .”

She rolled over and planted her face in his pillow. “Oh, God. Scientists.”

He didn’t reply, being rather enjoyably distracted by the sight of her firm, round buttocks curving into the air. An ardent walker, no doubt. Perhaps tennis as well. Who knew that her skirts disguised such a decadent derriere? It was a crime, really.

“Finn?” Her voice emerged from the pillow.

“Yes, darling?”

“You’re sounding very matter-of-fact.”

“I’m generally a matter-of-fact sort of fellow, my dear, as I daresay you’ve noticed before.” His gaze still lingered lovingly on the arc of her arse.

She turned her head. “What are you doing?”

“Admiring you.”

She scrambled upward. “Look here, Mr. Phineas Burke. We’ve just . . . well, we’ve done the most intimate things together, lovely things, passionate things, and I’d really . . . I’d rather appreciate it if . . . well, if you’d say something about it. Take me in your arms and tell me how wonderful it all was. How all the other women . . .”

“Not so many.”

“Well, how you’ve never felt anything like it. Even if you have to make it all up.”

She looked adorable, all pink and tousled and utterly his. “Oh, is that what’s the matter?” he said. He reached out, enclosed her with his arms, and brought her down into the pillows with him. “It was wonderful, darling. I’ve never felt anything like it.”

“Thanks frightfully much.”

He chuckled. “Glorious. Shattering.” He trailed his hand along her arm. “In fact, I’d very much like to have another go, when you’re feeling up to it. Are you cold?”

“A little.”

“I expect the air feels chill, now that your body’s cooling off.” He felt for the edge of the sheet and blankets and worked them out from beneath their entangled bodies. “There,” he said, spreading them over her. “Better?”

“Much.” She tucked her head beneath his chin.

He lay there a moment, working his fingers through her hair, trying to summon the right words. “I realize I’m not particularly glib with women,” he began.

She snorted.

“Yes, all right. Thank you. Look, what I mean to say is this: I’m no libertine. I don’t take women to my bed on a mere whim, and what happened just now . . . the beauty of it, darling, the beauty of you . . . was very special indeed. Unique in my experience.” He took a deep breath. “And you should know . . . It’s important you know this, you must know this . . . My intentions, as I intimated before, in the workshop, are . . . are entirely honorable. Are entirely permanent.”

She said nothing, but he could feel the tension hum like a current through her body.

He picked up her hand and brought it to his lips. “Was that sufficient?”

“Yes.” She spoke hoarsely. “I . . . you’re a darling, Finn. I adore you; I’ve told you so. But let’s not . . .” Her voice broke, cracking through the middle. She pulled her hand away from his mouth and placed her arm across his midsection. “Let’s not think so far ahead, shall we? We’ve months and months left here. Anything might happen.”

“You think my sentiments will change?”

“Anything might happen.”

He moved quickly, slipping free from her arms and turning over, so he hovered above her, his mouth inches from hers. “Listen to me, Alexandra. Listen closely. I’m not your bloody Wallingford. I’m a constant man. I’m not after swiving women in libraries and that sort of rubbish.” He captured her mouth in a tender kiss. “I’ve found you, darling. Found you alone, only you, and I don’t intend to let you go.”

“You don’t know me,” she whispered. “If you knew me, you wouldn’t say that. You don’t know what I’m capable of. I’m not the right woman for you, Finn.”

“Yes, you are. You’re clever and brave, full of wit and life and strength.”

“And vanity and selfishness.”

“No more than the rest of us mortals. Really, Alexandra, what do you think? That I should find myself a weaker woman? One who parrots my words and hides in my shadow and flatters my vanity? Do you think so little of me?” He spoke fiercely, intensely, willing his words to penetrate her.

“That’s not what I meant. I’m a creature of society, Finn,” she said, looking up at him with bitter eyes. “Conventional to the core. You need someone adventurous, willing to sacrifice for you.”

He heard himself laugh. “Look at yourself, darling. Listen to yourself. What other creature of society would take up a remote and inconvenient castle in Italy for a year’s academic study? How much more unconventional a woman could I find? One more willing to make sacrifices?”

She struggled upward and took his face in her hands. “That’s not why I came to Italy. Not at all.”

“But you said . . .”

“Do you want the truth? I’ll tell you.”

At the word truth, a thin layer of frost seemed to crystallize in his chest, stilling his blood. “Tell me what?”

She took in a long breath. “I’m destitute, Finn. Do you hear me? I’ve scarcely a penny to my name.”

He stared at her a moment, at the hard set of her features and the ferocity in her eyes, belying the softness of her voice. Her fingers held his cheeks with painful firmness. “Are you—are you serious?”

“It’s true! I gave up my house in London because I had to, because the lease was far beyond my means. I haggled with that fellow Rosseti . . .”

“But that’s impossible!” He covered her hands with his and gripped them tightly. “Surely . . . haven’t you a jointure of some kind? My God, that villain Morley, did he really leave you . . .”

“It wasn’t his fault.” Her hands fell away and twisted in her lap, and her eyes followed them. “His nephew invested the money in . . . invested it badly. I can’t get it out. I’ve scarcely fifty pounds a year on what’s left.”

“Fifty pounds!” The frost in his chest had melted, and now his blood whirred back into motion to feed his reeling brain. There was something important about this information, something that tantalized him with possibility.

“So you see, I’m not adventurous at all. I’m only rusticating, hoping things will improve, so I can return to London and my old life. The life I love, Finn. The life I’m used to, the life I’m good at.” She paused and ended flatly: “The life I want.”

His jaws worked, trying to take it all in, trying to find the vital hole in her logic. “But Lady Somerton . . .”

“That was only part of the reason.”

“Surely not. I’ve heard tales about that husband of hers . . .”

Her eyes shot back to his. “For a recluse, you’re awfully current on London gossip.”

“Darling, darling.” He took her unresisting hands in his and kissed each one. “I’m sorry for your troubles, dreadfully sorry. I daresay it’s been a jolly awful sort of year for you. But don’t you see? There’s an obvious solution, a quite satisfactory solution.”

Her head was shaking, slow and steady, like a pendulum, anticipating him.

He leaned forward and spoke in her ear. “Marry me, darling. God knows I’ve money enough. Buy a house in town; buy ten of them. Do exactly as you like. You’d be perfectly free from any worry of that kind.”

“Stop, stop.” She was trembling. A teardrop fell from her face into their entwined fingers. “Don’t be ridiculous. I can’t marry you. I won’t marry my way out of this. Not this time, not with you.”

His blood fired. “Why not me?” he demanded, squeezing her hands. “For God’s sake, Alexandra! What does that mean? Some other man, perhaps, but not me?”

“No! Not you!” She looked up at last. Her eyes were red and heavy; tears leaked from the corners. She dashed them away with her hand. “I won’t let this be about money! Everything else, but not this. This one thing, Finn. I want to keep it precious and sacred and unspoiled . . .”

He gathered up her shaking body against his. “Hush, darling. Hush.”

“Not marriage. Not a bargain, a contract.”

“Never that.”

“I shouldn’t have told you. I never meant to tell you.”

“Hush, darling. I’m glad you told me. I want everything open between us. No secrets.”

She gave a hysterical little laugh.

“Alexandra. Sweetheart. I’ll be damned if I let you marry any man for money.” He set her away, tucked her hair behind her ear, and spoke firmly. “Including me.”

Her eyes traveled across his face and stopped at his mouth. “Very sensible,” she whispered. “Very wise.”

He looked at her tenderly. He saw the way her skin glowed pink from the pleasure he’d given her, the way her eyes cast down, unable to meet his. The way her hair tumbled madly about her shoulders and curled atop her breasts; the way the high curve of her cheekbone gleamed in the candlelight.

He pressed his lips against her forehead.

“You’re going to marry me for love,” he whispered.