A Gentleman Never Tells (21 page)

“Signora, perhaps you like walking? You walk to the lake, signora. I send Signore Penhallow to follow you, yes?”

“Oh, would you, Morini?” She kissed the housekeeper on the cheek. “That would be darling of you. It sounds just . . . delightful.”

*  *  *

R
oland strode out into the courtyard, filled with determination, his mind humming with plans and contingencies. If they left straightaway, they might be in Siena by daybreak. From there, Rome or perhaps Naples, where they could lose themselves in the bustling streets of the metropolis. Or perhaps the other direction? Venice, or even across the sea to Greece. An island, Crete or Rhodes or Corfu. Large enough to have a decent doctor for Lilibet, of course. Oh, damn. The baby. What if something went wrong? Could he trust the local hospitals?

“Signore?” A hand touched his arm.

He spun around. One of the housemaids. Not Francesca, the other one. Maria? Her hair was bound in a red scarf, and a plain feathered mask covered the top half of her face. “Yes? What is it?” he asked, a little more brusquely than he intended.

She took a half step backward. “You are looking for Signora Somerton?” she asked, in a tentative voice.

“Yes. Yes! Have you seen her?”

“Signorina Morini . . . she say . . . the signora is go to the lake. She wait for you.”

“To the lake?” He shook his head and cast a quick glance into the darkness, where the terraces dropped down one by one to the lakeshore. “Why the devil?”

“She wait at the lake, Morini say to me. She say, give you drink.” She held out a small tray with a glass. “Is a tradition.”

“Oh, damn it all.” Roland snatched the glass without thinking and tossed down the contents. A pleasant burn filled his throat and belly, scented with lemons and some sort of unfamiliar herb, some note of flavor he couldn’t quite identify. “I say,” he murmured, holding up the glass to the torchlight. “That’s jolly nice.”

Maria shrugged. “Is tradition. You go to the lake, Morini say. Is . . . ah . . . is
must . . .”

“Important?”

She nodded her head with vigor. “Very important!”

“Well, then.” He smiled and set the glass on the tray. A tide of good humor seemed to engulf his body. The urgent need to find Lilibet remained, but the worry and anxiety had fled. Everything would be quite all right. Everything would sort itself out. “I’d best be on my way, hadn’t I?”

The moon shone high and bright above him, lighting the meadows and the rows of grapevines, bursting out with bunches of tiny new grapes; the great mass of the peach orchard, thick with leaves and growing fruit; the rows of corn, already reaching his knee. All of it was familiar to him, from his daily walks and rides with Philip, his solitary rambles, his swimming and fishing and reflection. He whistled as he walked, savoring the delicious sense of well-being, of anticipation that tingled his nerves.

Perhaps he might even tease a kiss out of Lilibet, before they left.

It would be lovely, this journey of theirs. Like a honeymoon. She couldn’t cling to propriety any longer, not with Somerton breathing down their necks. They’d take Philip, of course, and explain things to him somehow. Once his little family was safely hidden, in some idyllic Mediterranean haven far from the tyranny of London society, he’d go out and find Somerton and end this mysterious game, by force if necessary. He’d do whatever was required to en-sure that Lilibet and Philip no longer had anything to fear, anything to dread, from the Earl of Somerton.

He’d marry her, of course, the instant the divorce came through, but the ceremony would be a mere legal convenience. She was already his, in every moral sense, with an inalienable claim to all the love and loyalty and protection he could give her.

Yes, everything would sort itself out.

He reached the olive trees that rimmed this stretch of lakeshore, small leaves glinting silver green in the moonlight. Between the branches, he could just glimpse the tranquil waters of the lake, reflecting the light. A dark shape blocked the ripples: the boulders, he thought. “Lilibet!” he called.

“Here!” she sang out, from somewhere ahead. He caught a flash of movement.

“Where are you?”

“On the rocks! It’s lovely, all warm. I’m going for a swim.”

A swim?

He emerged from the trees and his breath stopped in his chest.

Lilibet stood atop the boulder, just as she had in April, when he’d brought Philip back to her. Only this time she was naked, or nearly so, just stepping free from her chemise. The moonlight bathed her body in silver, gilded the tips of her heavy round breasts, outlined the slight perfect swell of her belly and the curve of her hip. She stretched out one slender leg to the edge of the boulder and looked over her shoulder at him. “There you are! Isn’t it glorious?”

“Glorious,” he whispered, frozen to the pebbles beneath him.

She smiled and turned back to the lake and leapt off the boulder.

*  *  *

T
he water rushed cool and silken against her skin. She touched her feet to the bottom and surged up again, until her face broke the surface. She treaded water for a moment or two, enjoying the sensation, and turned back to the boulder.

Roland was scrambling up to the top. “Come in!” she called. “It’s delightful! Much warmer than last month.”

“You’ve been swimming?”

“Of course. Every day, while you’re giving Philip his lessons.” She kicked her legs, feeling her own strength, and floated onto her back. The stars glittered above her, millions of them, distant and friendly. Though the air was warm, she could feel her nipples pucker as they rose above the level of the water.

“Good God,” came a mutter from the shore. She turned her head. Roland was shucking off his jacket, his waistcoat, his shirt; his muscled chest gleamed in the light from the moon. So beautiful, so perfectly proportioned, every detail sculpted by some loving creator. His hands moved to his trousers; she watched dreamily as he peeled them off, as he let his drawers drop to the ground and kicked them off. His feet were already bare. She had a lightning glimpse of his legs, of the jut of his aroused masculine flesh, before he dove off the boulder in a clean arc, scarcely disturbing the water at all.

She closed her eyes and smiled, waiting for him to appear next to her. Seconds passed by, ticking off some invisible clock.

She opened her eyes just before a warm hand emerged from the water to cover her breast.
Oh!
she exclaimed, and then
ah!
as the hand drew her backward into the solid wall of his chest.

“Water sprite,” he murmured next to her ear. “I’d no idea you could swim.”

She turned and put her arms about his neck, tangling her legs with his as they treaded the water. The tips of her breasts just touched his skin. “There’s a great deal you don’t know about me, Roland Penhallow.”

“I’d like to find out.” He kissed her, his mouth warm and soft and lemony as it mingled with hers. His hands stole around her waist under the water, melting her skin, melting her entire body.

She whispered into his lips. “Roland. I think . . . I think . . .”

“What do you think?” He kissed along her jaw, her ear.

“I think . . . I don’t want to wait any longer. It might be ages, it might be never, and I want . . . I want you so much . . .”

“We can’t,” he said, his lips hot and alive against the hollow beneath her ear. “Not now. Not tonight. I’ve come to fetch you. We’ve got to leave here, straightaway.”

“What?” The information didn’t disturb her, for some reason. “Why’s that?”

“Your bloody husband,” he said, kicking his legs, drawing her with him inexorably toward the shore, “is in bloody Florence at the moment.”

“Oh.” She leaned into him, letting him carry them along. He was so warm, so strong beneath her. She kissed his throat. “That’s an awful nuisance. Can’t we simply stay and fend him off, if he comes here?”

“Darling love, I’d like nothing more, if it were just me. But I can’t take a chance that he’ll harm you, in your condition. Or Philip, God forbid.” He feathered kisses along her cheek, her temple. Her body lay atop him as they stroked through the water, her breasts pressing against his chest, her hips tucked into his. Even in the cool embrace of the water, he wanted her. She could feel his arousal, hard and urgent between her legs.

“You’re terribly gallant.”

“Rather a coward, really,” he said softly. “I ought to stay here and fend him off. Finish him, once and for all. But he’s Philip’s father, and things would get off rather on the wrong foot if I killed the old earl outright. Not that he doesn’t deserve it.”

The air seemed to still in her ears. “What things?” she whispered.

“Being Philip’s stepfather. Raising him with you, if God grants me such a privilege.”

His words stole across her heart. She pulled at his neck, drawing them upright. Her toes just dragged the bottom of the lakeshore. “Make love to me, Roland. We don’t need to leave right away. What’s an hour or two?”

“Shh.” He pushed her wet hair away from her face. She could just see his eyes in the moonlight, gazing at her with tender joy. “I’d like nothing more, darling. As you can plainly see. Have thought of little else, these past months. But you were quite right about waiting. At least until you’re safe, at least until I’ve got you somewhere he can’t find us.”

“No.” The lemony charge of Morini’s drink surged through her body, giving her confidence and purpose, the pure certainty that this man had been designed for her alone, and she for him. She put her hands to his wide cheekbones and held him between her palms. “Make me yours, Roland. Before anything else. Before we go back to the castle, before we step out of this lake.”

He laughed softly. “Well, strictly speaking, my dearest love, we’ve done that already.” His hand slipped around her waist to rest on the curve of her belly.

“You know what I mean, Roland. That was . . . that was passion, lust. That was for the old days. For what we used to share, young and fragile. This”—she kissed him, parted his lips, and kissed him more deeply—“this is for the future. Our future. For what we share now, a thousand times stronger and deeper.”

“Ah, Lilibet,” he murmured. His hands moved upward to cover her breasts, to brush his thumbs against her hardened nipples.

“Please, Roland. Now. What’s an hour or two?”

“Everything, possibly.” But he kissed her again, stroked his tongue against hers. He rolled her nipples lightly between his thumb and forefingers. Sensation snaked through her body, sharp and electric.

“That’s nonsense. He’s in Florence. Ages away, even if he knew where to find us.” She raised her buoyant legs and wrapped them around his hips.

“I suppose,” he said, between kisses, “we could leave at dawn. But no later, Lilibet.”

“Yes,” she said. “Yes. Oh, now, Roland. Please.”

He chuckled against her skin. “Eager Lilibet. Darling girl. No, not now.”

“What’s that?”

“Mmm. You see, I promised myself, that if I were so fortunate as to have you in my bed again, so to speak . . .”

“Beds are for dull married couples.”

“Quite right. Stables and lakes much more to the purpose.” His fingers went on massaging her nipples with exquisite slowness, just the right pressure, and her head fell back in delirium. “But as I said, I promised myself I’d do the thing properly. No mindless coupling, no swift conclusion. I’d give you the bedding—again, so to speak—you deserved.”

“And what is that?” She could hardly speak; she could hardly think. Her torso floated in the water, anchored by her legs about his waist and his fingers on her breasts; the stars winked happily at her from the silvery black sky. She felt as if she were in another world.

Heat flooded her right breast as his mouth replaced his fingers. “Pleasure, darling,” he said, into her skin. “All the pleasure I can possibly lavish on this lovely body of yours. I mean to show you just how a man makes love to the woman he adores. I mean to leave you in no doubt at all to whom you belong.”

“I don’t have any doubt about that. Not any longer.”

His mouth tightened about her nipple, suckling fiercely. She gasped at the sensation it evoked, the way his heat seemed to spread through her body. His hands moved to her back, resting on her shoulder blades, holding her up for the tug of his lips. “Ah, God, they’re so beautiful,” he said, his words slurring together at the ends. He kissed his way to her other breast. “So sweet, so soft and endless. In my dreams, I’m doing this. Feasting on you for hours.”

Her hands traveled up his face to his hair, tangling in the wet strands, and then swept down again to explore the line of his broad shoulders, the ridge of his clavicle, the hard, flat planes of his chest. She couldn’t quite believe she was doing this, that Roland’s body lay before her, that she could touch him at will, feel his skin beneath her fingers; could see the light scattering of downy hair glinting in the moonlight. His bones felt sturdy and solid beneath her legs; the thick hardness of his member settled snugly into the crease of her buttocks, unbearably tantalizing. She wanted him inside her, part of her; she wanted it with an immediacy that made her shudder.

She pulled herself upward and found his lips with hers. “Roland, I’m ready,” she whispered. “You’re ready. Please. I can’t bear it.”

He shook his head, his smile growing beneath her lips. “Yes, you can, darling. You’re going to have to bear a great deal more. I haven’t shown you nearly enough.” His hands slid down her waist and cupped her hips, his spread fingers encompassing the tops of her thighs. He drew her apart from him, loosening her legs from their death grip around his waist. Not once did his mouth move away from hers. He kissed her gently, relentlessly, his silken tongue ranging about in loving strokes.

Sensation rushed at her everywhere: from his kiss, from the rub of his chest against her sensitized breasts, from the firm roundness of his buttocks against her hooked heels; from his fingers, spiraling along the inside of her leg, closer and closer to the juncture between her thighs. One hand slid to the small of her back, supporting her, while the other roamed deeper, sending currents of water eddying about her loins. She held her breath: waiting, wanting.