[Barbara Samuel] Night of Fire(Book4You) (24 page)

fingers with a smile, he pressed them to the tree bark, sending his affection to her. Whistling, he walked home, feeling buoyant and clear at last.

Analise could not have said what awakened her. She slept well, especially in the coolness of the soft English air, which was something she found very appealing about this strange country. The climate seemed very gentle, unlike the blazing heat of Italy.

It was very late, perhaps even close to morning, for a blackbird sang from some hidden spot, its cry mournful and beautiful at once. She donned her dressing gown and opened the window that overlooked the garden to see if she could spy the bird, but it was hidden in the darkness, somewhere very close.

She did not feel tired, only surprisingly hungry, and decided she would begin her day now, whatever the time, with some chocolate— another thing she had come to enjoy in this worldly place—and the soft, fluffy rolls the cook made especially for her.

She did not bother to dress so early. Not even the staff would have awakened yet. Padding down the carpeted stairs in her slippers, she felt mildly wicked and oddly virtuous at once. The dog and cat came with her, as they always did, following her from one room to another, even when she simply had forgotten a bit of thread in one and jumped up to fetch it. They never seemed to mind when she turned around and went back to where she had been, but patiently trailed her. Sometimes she thought their devotion must be much like the devotion of humans to God. Or perhaps even God to humans. It pleased her, this gentle belief, and she always felt a faint blessing when it came to her.

From the study where Basilio spent so many of his hours, a light spilled out to the hall carpet in a pale yellow square. Quietly, not wishing to disturb him, she crept up to the door and peeked in. As she had so often, she found he'd fallen asleep over his work. With a gentle smile, she moved into the room, and plucked the pen from his ink-stained fingers. He did not stir.

Even in sleep he looked troubled, and Analise wished she could discover the source of his pain, to ease it. It had grown worse since they'd been in London, and she suspected there was a woman.

If that was so, if he was in love with another woman, their marriage was an even greater sin than she thought. She had grown fond of him these past months, but she had no carnal love for him. Such things were not part of her nature, and Basilio did not insist.

He'd been working hard, she saw, for his bold, elegant hand covered pages and pages, the shortened lines of his poetry making a beautiful wavy pattern down the paper. She wished she could read it, but he wrote only in English. Perhaps at some time she could attend a reading with him, and someone might translate to Italian for her. She was reluctant to ask Basilio himself.

So beautiful, she thought distantly. Like an archangel, with those thick black curls and the red lips and thick lashes. His hands were works of art, so elegantly lean and graceful. She briefly wished that she felt some yearning to lie with him, for his sake, to ease him. Yet she could not even think of it without shuddering.

And in truth, perhaps he did not wish it. From the first, he had never touched her in that way.

Until their wedding night, Analise had considered only her own despair. He had said nothing as he tucked her into his bed, but his sorrow was deep and clear. They had been pawns, both of them. In some terrible way, it unified them.

And now Analise ached for his despair. The despair that drove him to write, sometimes all night long, of something he could not speak of. From the corner, she took a blanket and tossed it over his shoulders, pinching out the candle and shutting the door behind her.

Cassandra carried her chocolate to the salon, and sat at her desk in the clean and peaceful room.

Sunlight streamed through the windows, fingering the bright white flowers of a gardenia plant she'd slipped out of the conservatory at the family house. Her cousin Leander was the only one who would notice, and heaven only knew when he'd grace them with his presence.

She'd stolen the plant after her return from Italy, when winter had seemed endless and the sunshine of the land she'd fallen in love with, very far away. This morning, with the bright new sunlight illuminating the glossy darkness of the leaves, exaggerating the heavy scent of the blossoms, it made her ache in odd ways.

No matter how she tried to forget it, those days in Tuscany lingered. Which made her remember, with a little flutter of worry, the travel essay on Fire Night.

In the past she'd often taken a male pseudonym, sometimes at the insistence of a publisher, sometimes simply for the ease of it. But this essay had been published under her own name. It had never occurred to her to write so clearly as a female before, and now it amused her that she had not. The public was mad for travel essays just now, and the success of the book was assured.

What surprised Cassandra was that there was a great deal of comment on her work in particu-lar—some of it predictable sneers from the male guardians of the literary establishment, but more of a complimentary nature. It pleased her very much, and she had begun to consider more travel to do more work in the same venue.

It was, however, appallingly precipitous of Basilio to appear just now—particularly in his incarnation as a poet. Her brother Gabriel had clearly made the connection very quickly— though not without a good deal of help from her.

A flash of memory burned across her inner eye: Basilio last night, standing in her garden, his hair caught in that elegant queue. Moonlight caught and held in the curls, and sailed along the broad brow and swooped over his aggressive nose. And his eyes, burning, burning, alive and full of determination.

"Oh, God," she whispered. Her hands had shaken for hours afterward, even after he'd left her. She wanted to be the very picture of Reason, and had failed miserably.

Narrowing her eyes, she picked up her pen and wrote forcefully in her journal:
I will not allow him to be my downfall. I have come too far, learned too much. I have made my
way as a woman in a man's world, and I cannot allow a man to be my undoing. As it was, fortune
smiled and I did not conceive a child in those rash days, allowing me time to regain my
sensibilities. What woman would not have fallen under such a spell as those days cast? The sun
and the lush colors of the landscape, and the sensual beauty of the man himself? I am only human.

I fell to my senses.

I do not regret it. I will not. Not even now can I find it in myself to regret what he gave so freely
—

himself and his world. And more. So much
.

When I am honest, I know it was a true and generous love we discovered there, on those magical
days. Though it would be simpler to call it the magic of the country, that would be a lie. It was the
harmony we discovered: a perfect melding of hearts, minds, and bodies. It grieves me that life did
not allow such a perfect union to be joined in a marriage, for after all, that is what a marriage
should ultimately be.

It would be different if he had been married upon our meeting, or if there had been true feeling
between them. It is impossible to imagine the honorable Basilio breeching such a trust. Instead, we
are all the victims of politics
—
Basilio and I, and the child who wished only to be a nun
—
a
marriage of another sort
.

For that reason, I will not regret and I will not forget one moment of those beautiful hours. I will
gladly live every day remembering what he gave, and every day I will remember that I let him go
because it was best for him. He could not have borne the ghosts of his mother and brothers.

Honor is not, after all, the sole realm of men.

She paused, feeling stronger, wiser, braver, and then continued.

Just now, in order to maintain that honor, I must keep myself very busy. Every day, every
evening. Perhaps I shall write to Phoebe and ask her to come visit me. Or even speak with Julian
about the possibility of bringing Ophelia and Cleo to Town to be presented at Court. 'Tis not too
soon to be thinking of marriage for them. Yes. That is a fine idea.

"My lady?" Joan put her head in the room. "There's a gentleman caller most insistent in seeing you this morning. Mr. Wicklow. Shall I bring him in?"

Robert. Cassandra hesitated. The heir to a tradesman's fortune, he had attended a salon with Julian one evening not long before. Tall, good-looking and well-spoken, for his education had been seen to very nicely by his social climbing parents, he had been an excellent addition and Cassandra urged him to return whenever he liked.

He had how established himself as a fixture. Not because he had a particular aspiration to the scholarly world, but because he'd become quite enamored with Cassandra.

She had not encouraged him, though she supposed she had not particularly discouraged him, either. His attention had been a balm to her wounded spirits. He amused her. He was kind. He had good manners.

A good companion.

Just right, she realized sensibly, for a morning like this when she was tempted to brood. "Send him in, Joan. I'm nearly finished here." Carefully, she put the pages away and stood to greet him.

Pleased with herself for allowing Reason rather than Emotion to rule this morning, Cassandra agreed to a stroll in the park. Robert entertained her with tales of a soppy and comic duel that had taken place after the opera the night before, and chatted lightly of the various people they knew in common. He had an acute and wicked tongue, and Cassandra laughed at his descriptions. "How can I ever be sorry when you do not attend my salons, sir, if you bring me such amusing tales from the world?"

"Ah, but I understand I most certainly should have been there last night, since I missed that dashing poet who has so charmed the literary set," he said. His russet eyebrows, raising in amusement, were all that gave his jibe away. "I was fair devastated to hear."

Cassandra grinned, surprised it was so easy to don a mask. Robert did not particularly care for poetry, thinking it fanciful. His was a solid world. "You missed little."

"Did he read?"

"No."

"They let him get away with that?"

"I believe he had another appointment," Cassandra said vaguely. She held his arm as they walked, enjoying the first roses of spring and the fresh green of the landscape. The pathways were busy with others drawn out by the same soft weather, and Cassandra nodded pleasantly to a matron with a young child in tow. "I do love this time of year," she commented, hoping to change the subject.

But Robert did not take the hint. "I expect he needed full props to pull it off. All that emotion. I find it too much."

"Oh." Cassandra blinked against a tic in her eye. "Have you read the work, then?"

"Of course, of course. One wouldn't want to appear the cretin." He gave her his sideways grin. "Have you not?"

"Not yet."

"Overwrought, I'd say, though I expect the ladies will like it."

"Love poetry, then?" Perhaps if she learned enough this way she would never have to actually read it.

"Sonnets and the like?"

He pursed his lips in thought. "Not love poems, or not exactly, anyway. Sonnets to nature and festivals and plums."

A memory, too genuine, rushed through her. "Plums?" she echoed. It sounded passably ironic.

"I like that one, I must say. It's vivid."

Cassandra swung her reticule. "Well, I expect Fashion will find some new marvel before long. A fickle lot is the public, particularly for poets."

"Oh, yes. That Ovid fellow is simply not to be borne."

She laughed, suddenly glad she had come out with him. "I do enjoy your company, Mr. Wick-low. I always feel as if you've blown away the cobwebs in my all-too-serious brain. Thank you."

A soft pause. "I would that you enjoyed it more, Cassandra."

She looked up, hiding her alarm in a light smile. "What more could I possibly offer?" She gave the words a slightly ribald edge.