To Surrender to a Rogue (14 page)

She had been wrong before about a man, yet somehow she knew in every fiber of her being that Jack would not hurt her.

And without his arms holding her tight, her sanity might shatter into a thousand tiny shards.

Closing her mind to all but the present moment, Alessandra twisted in his arms and lay back in the sun-warmed grass, drawing him down on top of her. She said nothing—how could she even begin to articulate her need? Her hands would have to be eloquent enough to express it.

A tentative touch to the flap of his trousers drew a rasped groan from Jack. As her fingers worked the first button free, they seemed to unravel the last thread of his self-control.

Hitching his hips, he fisted her skirts and dragged them up over her thighs. He pressed his broad palms to the bare flesh above her stockings and spread her legs. His mouth possessed hers again, his tongue dipping, delving, matching the probing of his touch through her feminine folds.

She moaned as shivering heat shot through her body. The sensations were exquisitely erotic. Earth, wind, fire—and pure primal passion.

The elements ignited in a sudden burst of flame as Jack thrust himself inside her. She arched up, sheathing him to the hilt His body tightened, a low growl thrumming in his throat as he stroked into her again, his movements coming hard and fast Alessandra responded with matching urgency. There was nothing gentle or languid about their coupling.
No whispered endearments, no soulful sighs.
This was raw emotion, stripped of all pretense.

Squeezing her eyes shut to the bright sunbeams dancing over their bodies, Alessandra was aware only of Jack and his beautiful, strong maleness filling the emptiness inside her. The heady musk of his arousal filled her nostrils, and she felt his skin turning slick with sweat

A wet heat was cresting in her flesh as well.
Higher, higher.
And then with a last, desperate surge, she clutched at his shoulders and let a wave of swirling, shimmering oblivion wash over her.

An instant later, he pulled back, his hoarse shout echoing her own cry as his seed spilled on the grass. Then his big, warm body was once again sprawled against hers. Legs and clothing still tangled together, they both lay very still.

Dio Madre.

As her heartbeat slowly returned to normal, so did her sanity. Slipping free of Jack's arms, Alessandra sucked in a lungful of air, trying not to choke on her dismay.
What had she done?
For a moment, she felt overwhelmed with embarrassment

No, she would not sink even deeper into the morass of guilt.
She had needed to touch and be touched by an honorable man, else she would have gone out of her mind. If Jack thought her a wanton jade...

"Oh, Lud, the wine," she mumbled, her fingers brushing one of the empty bottles as she rolled free of his arm.

"The wine." Jack, too, sounded a little dazed. "I didn't...that is, you must not think that I intended—"

"No, of course not" Alessandra awkwardly smoothed her tangled skirts down over her legs and pulled her bodice back into place.

She heard the hurried rustle of wool and linen as he fixed his own clothing. "Lady Giamatti—Alessandra. Allow me to say—"

"Please don't feel you have to say anything" she whispered. "I don't blame you. I blame..." A ragged sigh slipped from her lips. "Oh, what does it matter who or what is to blame!" Evading his outstretched hand, she began groping for her hairpins.

"As a gentleman, I ought to have acted more honorably," began Jack in a halting voice.

"Good heavens, I flung myself at you, teary-eyed and trembling," she interrupted, forcing herself to meet his gaze. "Your honor is not in question. As for my own.. "She drew a deep breath. "I—I can't explain what came over us. As you said, it was a moment of madness. Let us leave it at that"

"Leave it at that?" Shadows hung on his dark lashes, hiding any hint of emotion.

"Yes. After all, we both have had sex before, so there's no need for guilt or abject apologies." Alessandra hesitated. Neither of us did anything shameful. No virtue was stolen, no innocence was lost."

"Indeed, there is nothing shameful about passion," he said in a husky murmur.

Alessandra flinched.

"It is what makes us feel alive," he went on.

"Passion can also be frightening," she whispered.

"Are you afraid?" asked Jack. He fixed her with a searching stare. "Of what?"

Darkness. Specters. Her own frightening weakness.
Aloud she said, "Sometimes loneliness is overpowering."

"Perhaps I can offer some company, to help keep your fears at bay," he said carefully. "A widow is allowed a certain degree of freedom in English Society."

"Are you suggesting a.. .liaison?" asked Alessandra.

Jack was very still, save for a tiny throb of pulse at the base of his throat After a heartbeat of silence, he replied, "You cannot deny that there seems to be some elemental force that draws us together."

"No, I cannot" She bit at her lip. "But..."

"It goes without saying that any meeting would be at your discretion," said Jack. "You may trust that I would take great care that no hint of impropriety shadows your name."

Alessandra sucked in a long breath. Oh, how she was tempted to say yes. Tempted by his honor, his strength... his sinfully beautiful body.

Jack remained silent, solemn. If he had pressed her, she would have refused. But he didn't He was leaving the decision to her.

"Yes, I will see you again," she whispered. "But I cannot promise when."

"Neither of us need make any promises," he replied. "It is understood that an assignation does not imply any deeper commitments."

"As long as we are in agreement on that..." Alessandra rose, a little unsteadily, and gathered up the last hairpins from the grass. Aware that she must look like a tart fresh from a tumble in the hay, she hastily arranged her hair in a simple twist and prayed that the fastenings would hold. After finding her bonnet and shawl, she hesitated for a moment, searching for something else to say. But further words seemed absurd, so she simply turned and walked away.

Jack made no move to stop her.

She waited until the path threaded through a copse of trees before allowing her steps to quicken and a heaving of angry little sobs to ricochet off the rocks.

Had she simply repeated her mistake of the past?

A clench of self-loathing tightened around her chest. She was so weak, and Black Jack Pierson was so strong. His aura of quiet confidence was...seductive. Oh, how she admired his sense of self. He was a man comfortable with who he was. There wasn't a false bone in his body.

Or was she just indulging in girlish fantasy?
Seeing only what she wished to see?

Alessandra made a face as she stumbled up the crest of a hill. There was a time when she had been as self-confident as Jack. She still could recall the elation of publishing her first scientific essay. Her proud husband had arranged a gala dinner at their palazzo to celebrate the occasion, and as they had stood overlooking the lake, she had felt as if she could walk on water.

Now, she feared that she had lost her nerve.

No. She couldn't afford to think that.

Tears prickled against her lids. Maybe she was just an unprincipled jade, seeking to grab at whatever a man could give her.

The thought sent a desperate shiver skating down her spine.
No, no, no.
Forcing her chin up, Alessandra reminded herself that she had learned much since that fateful interlude with Frederico. She was not the same weak-willed woman as before. Adversity had taught her to be strong.

Strong enough to outwit Frederico.

Strong enough to protect Isabella.

Strong enough to keep Black Jack Pierson from getting too close to her deep, dark secret

His hands simply refused to obey his brain. Jack stared down at the paper and muttered an oath under his breath. He was supposed to be sketching the scenic Pulteney Bridge in Bath. However, the perverse little paintbrush kept drawing a cascade of dark hair framing a feminine
face. Haunting green eyes, a lush, lovely mouth—

"Very interesting, Lord James." Peering at the image, Lutz coughed and raised a brow. "I did encourage you to use your imagination—I see you are taking my advice to heart."

Jack quickly turned the page. "Sorry. My thoughts seem to be elsewhere this afternoon."

"Well, I cannot blame them for straying from stone and water to such a lovely lady." The Swiss drawing master cocked his head. "Your mistress, perhaps?"

"No," he replied quickly, hoping that his teacher had not recognized Alessandra's features. "Just an acquaintance."

"If I were you, I would seek a closer friendship," quipped Lutz before turning his attention to the arched stone bridge spanning the River Avon. "Look how the light is creating an interesting play of texture and shadow. It won't last for long."

"Right" Jack rinsed out his brush. I'll get to work."

The graceful curves and classical pediment slowly took shape on the paper, but his fingers were moving mechanically. His mind's eye was still seeing Alessandra lying on a bed of gold and green meadow grasses, her hair falling in glorious disarray around her slim shoulders.

His body tightened in response. It was now two days later and the interlude still sparked a flare of conflicting emotions. He wasn't sure what to think. What to feel.

Was he a cad for taking shameless advantage of her?
The sun, the wine, and some elusive emotion he couldn't yet define had lowered her defenses. And like a ruthless savage, he had charged straight ahead, saber swinging, and demanded a full surrender. Jack gave an inward grimace. He wasn't proud of himself—for any number of reasons.

Still, he couldn't quite bring himself to regret his actions. Recalling the sun-warmed fee! of her naked flesh beneath his body sent a lick of heat spiraling through his belly. He was not vain enough to think that Alessandra had suddenly fallen head over heels in love with him. And yet, she had been willing—even a little desperate—to surrender herself to him. He couldn't quite make sense of it, but for now, he wasn't about to argue with the elemental forces of nature.

Passion had no rhyme or reason.

That she had agreed to see him again offered a chance to delve deeper into her mystery. There was a dark side to the marchesa, hidden somewhere beneath the layers...

"Clouds,'' called Lutz.

Jack looked up to see that the bridge was now lost in shadows.

"We might as well call an end to the session," said his teacher after consulting his pocketwatch. "The light is gone for the day. We shall have to wait for another time to finish up."

"The emerald gown, milady?" asked her maid.

Alessandra wished she could don her nightrail instead. Curling up in bed with a good book would be vastly preferable to yet another party. The entertainments for the visiting Italian contingent were becoming exhausting. Tonight they were all scheduled to attend the dances at the Assembly Room. It was bad enough to see Frederico's smirking countenance during the day. To be forced to dance and make merry with the dastard was a true torment

And then, of course, there was Jack to consider. He was sure to be there tonight, but as she had cried off from the last two evening entertainments, she knew that she must summon her courage and make an appearance.

"I think I shall wear the burgundy," she finally replied. Perhaps it would reflect a bit of color to her cheeks. Or perhaps she had better resort to a touch of rouge. No matter how she felt inside, it would not do to appear as a living corpse.

Alessandra glanced at the looking glass, and then quickly averted her eyes. Her face was unnaturally pale, and her skin seemed to have tightened over the bones, sharpening every angle and shadow.

She looked like hell.

Which was only fitting, seeing as she had been living in a dark, demonic underworld of fear ever since Frederico had made his threat

For an instant she was tempted to slip the jeweled penknife from her escritoire into her reticule. As he pulled her close in a twirling dance, the blade would slide in oh-so-easily between his ribs.

What did one more body matter?
She could only be hanged once.

"Lift your chin, milady," murmured her maid. "And raise your arms, please."

Closing her eyes to such bleak thoughts, Alessandra squared her shoulders. No matter what, she must not give in to despair.

The silk sighed as it slid over Alessandra's bare skin. "I shall have to see about ordering a new corset," added Lucrezia with a slight frown. "I'm afraid that this one can't be laced any tighter. You are turning into nothing but skin and bones."

"Come, you are clever—improvise," she murmured, speaking as much to herself as to her maid.

She felt the strings pull and then the stays tightened against her ribs.

"Ecco"
said Lucrezia through a mouthful of pins. "That should hold for now."

"Now, if only you can work some magic with my hair," said Alessandra. "It's been defying all attempts to tame it with a brush."

Her maid gave a small sniff. "Leave it to me, milady. I promise that you will be the belle of the ball."

The compliments from her group echoed the same sentiment as Alessandra entered the Assembly Room an hour later. Offering his arm, Conte Orrichetti escorted her past the octagonal card room and fetched her a glass of ratafia punch.

"The
Inglieze
are always said to be stiff and staid, but they do appear to enjoy dancing," he remarked.

"Yes," she replied, sipping her drink. The dance floor was crowded with couples capering through a lively country jig. Candles flickered wildly and the sound of laughter mingled with the swirling scents of perfume, pomades, and earthy exertion. "And Bath is more informal than London, so there is less constraint on exuberance."

He eyed the skipping steps and flashed an apologetic smile. "I am not sure my old bones can keep pace with you young people. Otherwise I should ask for your hand in the next set"

"I would much rather watch for now," Alessandra assured him. She fluttered her fan, finding the atmosphere oppressive. The overheated room with its cloying air and wilting roses...the brittle cacophony of violins and clinking crystal... the swirling, silken crush of bodies...

Somewhere among them was Black Jack Pierson. Her insides clenched at the thought of facing him. For the last few days it had been easy enough to avoid him at the site. But she couldn't continue to be so cowardly.
Courage,
she chided herself. She knew that he would honor his word to behave with perfect politeness in public.

And yet, the knowledge of their intimate arrangement stirred a pebbling of gooseflesh along her bare arms. A part of her wished to avoid any contact, and a part of her yearned to feel—

A light touch grazed her wrist "Are you well, my dear?"

She looked up into Orrichetti's kindly dove-gray eyes.

"Forgive me for saying so, but you have appeared tense these last few days," he went on softly.

"Have I?" Alessandra swallowed her misgivings with a throaty laugh. "I suppose I am always a bit on edge when a new project begins," she said evasively. "And to be honest, Isabella has been~a bit difficult of late."

"Bambini"
he murmured. "It is only natural for you to be concerned. Family is very important."

"Yes," she replied. "Very."

The lines on his face etched a little deeper. "I hope you know that as one of Stefano's closest friends, I am always here to listen, should you feel the need to talk."

"Grazie,
Pietro. That is very good of you." Using the painted paper as a shield, she stirred a breath of air against her cheeks. "It's nothing, really. I am sure things will sort themselves out soon."

"If you are sure..." Lips pursing in thought, he tapped a long, elegant finger to his chin.

For an instant, Alessandra was tempted to confide in him. But the impulse quickly died as a glimmer of light from the chandeliers caught Orrichetti's patrician profile.
Hair silvery as moonlit snow, skin pale and lined as old parchment, hands soft and scholarly
... She looked away quickly, ashamed of her weakness. What could he do? Challenge Frederico to a duel?

God perish the thought.

No, it would only worry her old friend if she told him about the full depths of Frederico's depravity. It might even put him in danger.

"Quite sure, Ketro." Tightening her grip on the ivory sticks, Alessandra snapped her fan shut "Please, no more talk of troubles. This evening is a time for gaiety and laughter. You are here to enjoy the experience of English entertainment, so let us find our colleagues and make merry." The words, bitter as bile, left a bad taste in her mouth, but in looking around at the flushed faces and broad smiles, she saw that the other members of their expedition seemed to be enjoying themselves immensely.

"Ah, I see that Mr. Haverstick is signaling us to join his circle," observed Orrichetti.

Heaving an inward sigh, Alessandra let herself be led to a spot near the punch table.

"Behold, we have a goddess in our midst," exclaimed Dwight-Davis, who sounded as though he had already drunk several glasses of champagne.
"Femina praeferri portuit tibi nulla
—no woman is lovelier than you, Lady Giamatti. Our own incomparable Minerva!" He tugged at the sleeve of the gentleman standing next to him. "Don't you agree, Lord James?"

Jack slowly turned from talking with Signor Mariello, the classical poetry professor. "Roman mythology sometimes gets a little confusing," he said slowly. "Minerva was the goddess of wisdom, but under certain circumstances, she was also considered the goddess of war."

Blood, pain, death...
Willing away such frightful thoughts, Alessandra forced herself to smile. "I shall try to be smart enough to avoid causing any conflict among our learned band of scholars, sir."

Dwight-Davis laughed heartily as he bowed over her hand. "Indeed, indeed The only thing we shall be battling over is the right to claim a dance with you this evening. May I ask for the honor of the next set?"

"Si?
seconded Mariello. "And may I have the next one?"

She nodded her assent, noting that Jack remained silent. Slanting a sidelong look through her lowered lashes, she saw that he was surveying the crowd with a show of calm detachment.

Was he having second thoughts about any involvement with her?
Alessandra hardly dared to imagine what he must think of her after their last encounter. A strumpet, willing to lie with any man who grabbed her for a quick tumble?

She dropped her gaze, wishing that she could sink into some deep, dark hole, far from his piercing scrutiny. How could she blame him if he thought ill of her? He had seen the worst of her character—

No.
Not the very worst That, she prayed, would remain buried in the lies of her current life.

"Ah, I see the musicians are taking a break," said Dwight-Davis as he dabbed at his brow with a handkerchief. "Come, Mariello, let us fortify ourselves for the coming dances by refilling our glasses. May we fetch you another serving, Lady Giamatti?"

The idea of being left alone with Jack caused her throat to constrict. "No, but—"

Her words, however, were lost in the shuffle. The two scholars moved off through the crowd.

Diavolo.
Now what?

Jack answered her unspoken question by continuing his silent study of the Assembly Room.

Following his lead, Alessandra angled her eyes to the opposite wall, relieved that she did not have to face his dark, dangerous eyes right now. A trickle of sweat dampened the lacing of her corset as she held herself very still. It was silly, she knew, but there were times when she was very much afraid that his gaze had the power to undress her. To strip away the layers of silk and sarcenet, to unravel the intricate weaving of lace and lies.

Despite the warmth, she slid her shawl up over her bare arms.

"La, Lord James!" Aglow with laughter, two ladies suddenly broke away from a cluster of giggling females standing nearby and waved a greeting. "How delightful to find you here in Bath!"

"Miss Anne. Lady Margaret" Jack inclined a polite bow.

Alessandra sensed that he didn't wish to introduce them to her, but good manners dictated that he do so.

She wrenched her attention away from the curl of his mouth, its expression as inscrutable as ever, as he finished the formalities and began to exchange pleasantries with his friends.

"Lady Mary will be
so
sorry she did not accept my invitation to visit me here for the week before joining her aunt in the Lake District." Miss Anne, a plump brunette with a pretty, heart-shaped face, tapped her fan to Jack's sleeve with a knowing wink.

"Devastated," agreed Lady Margaret, a petite blonde with the porcelain complexion of a china doll. "How was her journey? She's an awful correspondent with
us,
but I am sure
you
have had a letter."