To Surrender to a Rogue (4 page)

"Ah, so you don't think my feeble brain can grasp abstract concepts?"

She looked up from her papers, startled to find he was now close—close enough for her to smell the spice of wine on his breath. Close enough for her to see the dangerous glitter in his eyes.

Close enough for her to feel the touch of his fingertip against her cheek. "Maybe you were right to say men have misguided notions of honor," he added.

She recoiled, drawing a wicked whisper of laughter.

"Afraid I might kiss you again?"

Before she could answer, Sir Reginald Coxe, head of the Artifacts Committee, hurried into the gallery. "Lady Giamatti! Forgive me for keeping you waiting."

Grateful for the interruption, Alessandra quickly finished arranging the documents in her case and held them out "I found the copy of
Hadrian's Quarterly Review
that you needed, along with some other older essays that may be useful for your research."

"I can't thank you enough," exclaimed Sir Reginald. "But you need not have troubled yourself to bring them by in person. I would have been happy to have my servant return for it"

"It was no trouble," replied Alessandra. "I was passing by here on my way to Lady Bevan's musical soiree."

Sir Reginald peeked at the papers and heaved a sigh of relief. "Your appearance is a gift from the ancient gods."

Out of the comer of her eye, Alessandra saw Jack pinch his lips in silent disagreement

"Without your help, I should never be able to finish my article by the publisher's deadline," went on Sir Reginald.

"I am always happy to help a fellow scholar." Smoothing at the folds of her cloak, she turned, unable to keep from directing an oblique barb back at Jack. "Please don't let me keep you from your meeting. I am sure that such a group of learned gentlemen must be discussing a number of erudite subjects."

"Indeed we are!" answered Sir Reginald, blithely unaware of her subtle sarcasm. 'Why, Lord James and I—"

"And I ought to be on my way," interrupted Alessandra, studiously avoiding looking at Jack. "It would be unconscionably rude of me to arrive late at Lady Bevan's soiree."

Unconscionably rude.
The words, though spoken with silky softness, hit like a slap in the face. Jack gave an inward wince as he watched her walk away. In truth, he probably deserved a boot to the ballocks. 'Unspeakably crude' was a more apt description of his behavior.

Bloody hell
He wasn't usually so oafishly obnoxious with the opposite sex. Some perverse pagan spell seemed to take hold of him whenever Alessandra della Giamatti was near. Glancing back at the painting of Minerva, he thought wryly,
It's all
your
fault.

As Alessandra had pointed out, there was no rational explanation for the friction between them. Or for his ill-mannered attempt to ignite her ire.

"A remarkable lady," murmured Sir Reginald admiringly. He puffed out his cheeks and ran a hand through his wispy silver hair. "If I were a fine young fellow like you, I might be tempted to pursue more than a scholarly friendship."

"Lady Giamatti does not encourage any intimacies," said Jack gruffly.

"Yes, she does seem to pride herself on being professional," mused Sir Reginald. "Yet given your mutual interest in ancient art..." He gave a small cough. "It appeared that the two of you were sharing your impressions of our newly acquired paintings."

"In a manner of speaking." Jack quaffed the rest of his wine in one swallow. "That's the beauty of art—it's such a subjective topic that it's open to all manner of interpretation."

Though Sir Reginald looked slightly puzzled, he nodded sagely. "Er, very true, Lord James. Very true." Shifting his hold on the portfolio, he sighed. "Well. I, too, had better be taking my leave. Despite Lady Giamatti's divine intervention, I shall need an act of Almighty Jupiter if I am to finish my article for the
Royal Archaeological Review
on time."

"May the gods smile on your efforts," murmured Jack.

"And on yours, Lord James," replied Sir Reginald as he started for the cloakroom.

Jack cast another baleful glance at Minerva.
Was it his imagination, or did the minx have the nerve to wink at him?

"Women," he growled under his breath. Highborn ladies were proving to be nothing but trouble. Perhaps it was time to pay a visit to the nymphs of Cupid's Cave.

Things were simple within the silken grottos.
Need. Want. Desire.
All was easily arranged to everyone's satisfaction.

If only life outside the red velvet walls would go so smoothly.

Alessandra let out a sigh as she looked up from her shopping list
Pigments, pastels, papers...
It had appeared simple enough at home when the newly hired Swiss drawing master had written down the basic supplies that Isabella needed to proceed with her art lessons. But here in S
&
J Fuller's emporium in Rathbone Place, the shelves held a daunting array of choices.

Choices, choices.

She hesitated for a moment her thoughts straying from her list to her encounter with Marco the previous week.
Was she wrong to run off to Bath?
Her cousin had intimated that she was simply trying to avoid making certain difficult decisions. She swallowed hard. Maybe he was right It was easy to hide from her troubles by immersing herself in work.

But enough of such distractions.
This was neither the time nor the place to address such complex conundrums.

Looking around, she saw that the clerk was still engaged with a customer in the alcove crammed with turpentines and linseed oils. By the sound of the discussion, he was likely to be occupied for some time.

"How hard can it be?' she murmured, edging around the thick rolls of raw canvas. Though her practical knowledge of art was rudimentary at best, she decided to go ahead and make the choices on her own. The clerk could correct any egregious errors when she went to pay for the items.

Burnt sienna, alizarin crimson, cerulean blue... Ales
sandra hesitated over the large selection of watercolor paints. Each hue—neatly formed cakes of dried pigment-offered a puzzling variety of what looked to be identical cubes. After a quick look at the prices, she arched a brow. Clearly there was quite a difference. Some were very cheap, while others were hideously expensive.

Bending down for a better look, she shifted a step to catch the light—

As her backside collided against a well-muscled pair of thighs, she heard a muffled grunt and clatter of mixing tins falling to the floor.

"Oh, I am .so sorry—" Her apology ended abruptly as she spun around.

Lord James Jacquehart Pierson arched a brow. Shaded by the cluttered shelves, his expression appeared nearly as dark as the paint pigment labeled "Mars Black'

How apt,
thought Alessandra, repressing a wry grimace—seeing as they seemed to be in a constant state of war with each other.

"What's going to hit me next?" He glanced around warily, as if expecting a salvo of cannonfire to explode from behind the containers of oxgall. "Is your daughter lying in ambush by the buckets of gesso?"

"Isabella is at home," she replied softly. "So you are safe from further attack, sir." Ducking her head, she began to pick up the fallen items. "And despite what you think, I did not deliberately knock into you. The aisle is narrow, and the shadows make it difficult to see."

"I suppose you are once again going to accuse me of lurking in a dark corner in order to spy on you," he said gruffly.

Alessandra felt her mouth quiver. Given their recent encounter at Sir Henry's country estate, Jack had every reason to think of her as a Harpy. Still, his sarcasm hurt As for his shockingly rude comments of last night...

Biting her lip, she didn't answer but continued to gather up the last of the spilled items.

"That would be unfair," he continued in a low voice. "But I do deserve a ringing setdown for my behavior last night Please accept my apologies."

"Yes, of course," she said quickly.
Where, oh where, was her dratted list?
Setting aside her basket, she began a search of the nooks and crannies beneath the shelves. All she wanted was to retrieve the paper and beat a hasty retreat She would come back later, when her cheeks were not colored a bright cadmium red.

"What's this?"

Alessandra suddenly realized that Jack was on his knees beside her, helping to gather up the tins.

"My list" she said curtly, trying to snatch it from his hand.

He drew back and studied it for a moment "I didn't know you were a painter, Lady Giamatti."

I'm not" she admitted. "The supplies are for my daughter, who is beginning lessons with a drawing master this week."

A faint smile played on his lips as he handed over the paper. "I hope the fellow is deaf."

She knew the comment was meant half in jest, but given her unsettled mood, it struck a vulnerable nerve. .

"For pity's sake, sir, she is only a child," she said tightly.
"A child!
All children make mistakes and misbehave. That does not mean Isabella is—how did you put it-—a spawn of Satan." Sweeping up the last tin, she set it back in place with a force that rattled the metal. "Just ask your friend Lord Hadley. He gets along perfectly well with her."

Jack sat back on his haunches, his spine straight as a ramrod, his jaw steeling to a razored edge. The swirl of dust and shadow made his eyes unreadable. ''Unfortunately, I do not have Hadley's gift of making himself agreeable to everyone, including children. He is lighthearted, while..." He paused to tuck a curling strand of raven hair behind his ear. "While, as you have taken pains to point out, I am dark as the Devil."

It was true—in the low light his olive skin and long black locks made him look like a specter from the Underworld.

"Hadley's charm has nothing to do with physical appearance," she replied. "His hair is as black as yours, sir. The difference is, he has a sense of humor. He smiles. He can laugh at himself." She paused. "You, on the other hand, march around with a fire-breathing scowl that would fry Satan's
testicolos
to a crisp."

She heard him draw in a sharp breath. And then let it out in an odd little rush of air. Surely she was mistaken—it couldn't have been a chuckle.

"Actually, as a cognoscente of Italian cuisine, I would choose to saute' them in olive oil," he said softly. "With a bit of minced garlic and oregano."

Alessandra bit the insides of her cheeks to keep from smiling. So, she was wrong about his wit Black Jack Pierson was not such a martinet after all.

As he reached for a tin that had escaped her notice, his touch grazed her glove, leaving a trail of tingling heat

Dio Madre,
he had beautiful hands, with long, lithe fingers that were elegantly expressive. Yet there was nothing effeminate about their grace.
Hard and soft
She remembered all too well the feel of their powerful grip imprinted on her flesh.

Drawing back with an involuntary shiver, Alessandra rubbed at her knuckles.
Why did this man spark such a visceral reaction in her?
She wasn't sure whether she wanted to slap him...or beg him to slide his perfectly shaped palms over the swell of her breasts.

Perhaps it was the subtle aura of strength that seemed to radiate from every pore. Jack was, she knew, a war hero who had won a chestful of medals for bravery in battle. Yet he appeared to care naught for flash and glitter. Quite the opposite. He seemed supremely self-confident in his own abilities supremely comfortable in his own skin.

She forced her gaze away from his jawline, where the stark white of his starched collar and cravat accentuated the shadows wreathing his face.

"Forgive me for keeping you waiting so long, madam." The clerk came hurrying around the corner but stopped short on seeing her and Jack squatting inelegantly on the floor. "Er... may I be of some assistance?"

"Yes, thank you." Alessandra rose hastily and shook out her skirts, hoping she had not left her last shred of dignity in the dust "I have a list of items I need to purchase."

Jack stood and brushed off his trousers. "An encounter with you is always a memorable experience," he said with exaggerated politeness. Spying her shopping basket in the shadows, he picked it up. "Good day, Lady—," he began, then fell silent as his gaze flicked to the cube of watercolor pigment that she had selected. "Is there a reason you chose this particular paint?" he asked.

"I... that is..." To her chagrin, Alessandra felt her face turning crimson again. "I assumed that the more expensive one was the best."

"That depends," he replied. "For a beginner, the pigment made by Newton is a better choice."

"Why is that?"

"Because the color is bolder and more opaque, which tends to suit the style of someone learning the basics of painting. The more expensive pigments use rarer ingredients, and usually provide a far more subtle range of hues. There is no need to waste your money."

Jack took a closer look at the basket's contents. "And these sticks of charcoal are much too soft for a child." He replaced them with a different box. "The harder ones will be much easier to handle. As for sketchbooks, I recommend the ones made by Whatman. Their paper is the smoothest and most durable."

"T-thank you," she murmured.

"Don't mention it." Dropping his voice a notch, Jack added, "The shock of a
grazie
from you might knock me flat on my
culo
again."

Diavolo.
He did seem to bring out the worst in her.

Jack handed the basket to the clerk. "Lady Giamatti is purchasing supplies for her daughter, Jenkins. Make sure you help her select items that are appropriate for a child of eight." With that, he snapped a mock salute and left the shop.

"Er, yes, sir," said the clerk as the door fell shut

It was only now that Alessandra thought to wonder what Jack was doing here in the first place. He was obviously acquainted with the clerk and the merchandise. "Is that gentleman a regular customer?" she asked.

"Yes, madam." Without looking up, the clerk started down the aisle, adding several brushes to her basket, followed by a box of colored pencils.

"Why?"

"Why?" The young man appeared a trifle confused. "Why, to purchase paints and brushes, madam. And paper, of course."

"Is he an artist?" Somehow Alessandra couldn't quite picture Lord James Jacquehart Pierson living in a garret studio painting pictures of dead pheasants or bowls of fruit

"I dunno. I never asked him."

It seemed that there was a mystery surrounding the gentleman. But seeing she was not likely to get any more information, Alessandra let the subject drop.

Everyone had secrets,
she told herself with an inward sigh.

With the young man's help, the list was quickly filled and the supplies assembled on the counter. The last selection that she made was a large inlaid mahogany case, specially designed to hold the assortment of paints and brushes. After paying for her purchases, Alessandra tucked the parcel under her arm and returned to her carriage. Still, as she settled back against the squabs, she couldn't put the strange encounter out of her mind. Perhaps her fellow 'Sinners' were right and there was more to Lord James Jacquehart Pierson than first met the eye...

No, no, no.
She must
not
let herself think that the Prince of Darkness might have any redeeming qualities.

Si grand new diavolo.
He was too devilishly dangerous to allow into her life. Whatever the inexplicable force was that seemed to draw them together, she must fight it with all her might.

Black Jack couldn't be a friend. So he must remain an enemy.

Deciding he was not in the mood for female company after all. Jack rapped on the trap of his carriage and called out a change in destination. The high-priced nymphs at Cupid's Cave—Jeannette in particular—would, of course, have any number of delightful ways to elevate his spirits. However, the afternoon encounter with Lady Alessandra della Giamatti had left him feeling... unsettled.

He had, in truth, been in a brooding frame of mind for some time. Even his friend Lucas—who until recently had not been known for refraining from excess—had remarked that he was drinking and whoring too much.
Was it any wonder?
With little to stimulate his imagination, he found himself bored to flinders.