To Surrender to a Rogue (7 page)

Knightley asked a question about Jack's travels, drawing him into a polite exchange on the ruins around Rome. However, after several minutes the conversation was cut short as someone from across the room summoned the mosaics expert to answer a question on the Baths of Caracalla.

"I look forward to continuing our talk, Lord James," he said in taking his leave. "I am sure that you will find the coming weeks a very interesting experience. There is nothing quite like unearthing the secrets of the past with your own hands."

"I am looking forward to it," said Jack.

As Knightley moved away, Dwight-Davis darted a look at the mantel clock. "Oh, dear! The Italians will be arriving at any moment, so please excuse me while I check on a few last details. I am sure that the two of you wish to have a few moments alone to discuss your friends, as well as the upcoming excavation." He patted Jack's shoulder. "But be a sporting fellow and don't keep her to yourself all evening, sir. Given your previous friendship, you already have an unfair advantage over every other gentleman in the room."

Ha!

"What are
you
doing here?" she demanded in a low voice, as soon as their host had disappeared through the doorway.

"I'm hoping to see more erotic art," he replied, a little nettled that once again she had assumed that he had no right to be part of a scholarly group. "The ancient Roman gods and goddesses seem to enjoy frolicking in the nude."

A faint flush ridged her cheekbones. "Your schoolboy humor is wearing thin, sir. I don't find it amusing. If you have followed me to Bath—"

"Followed you?" He arched his brows. "I assure you, I had no idea you would be here. Lord Fanning invited me to take his place on the excavation, and I accepted."

"But...but what sort of expertise do you have to offer?" she asked haltingly.

Jack set his glass down on a decorative plinth and moved a step closer to her. "You question my qualifications?"

Alessandra went still as a statue, save for a faint flutter of her lashes. There was a long moment of silence before she responded. "An archaeological excavation is serious, scientific business, sir. I have been on several excavations in the past where a wealthy nobleman purchased a spot on the committee, only to grow impatient or bored." She drew in a deep breath. "Dilettantes only muck things up. They expect archaeology to be all about unearthing one glittering treasure after another, when in reality it is a painstaking process of uncovering mostly mundane items."

"Thank you for the lecture, Lady Giamatti," said Jack softly. "Much as it may surprise you, I'm not entirely ignorant of the discipline and dedication required to do a good job in the field. I may lack your experience in actual digging, but Lord Fanning and Mr. Dwight-Davis are satisfied that my knowledge is sufficient to the task. If you doubt that, our host has several of my essays on architecture. You are welcome to read them and judge for yourself."

A spark of emotion flared in her eyes. But like the rest of her reactions it was impossible to decipher.
If only there was a Rosetta Stone for the female mind,
he thought wryly.

"You are quite right, sir. A scientist should only draw conclusions from empirical observation," she said stiffly.

It was not the most gracious of apologies. However, Jack took some measure of satisfaction in the concession.

"So I shall refrain from further judgment until I have a chance to observe you in action."

Determined not to let her have the last word, Jack assumed a deliberately smug smile. "I've never yet had a lady complain that my performance was unsatisfactory."

Damn the man.

Alessandra felt her face flame as she turned away and made a show of signaling the footman for a glass of champagne.
Was there a paint pigment called Hellfire Red?
Mix two parts embarrassment and one part anger with a generous sprinkling of confusion, and that should result in the exact shade...

Lud, she had made a complete fool of herself. Yet again.

Where, oh where was her wine?
The knowledge that she had behaved unprofessionally was a bitter pill to swallow. With everyone else she comported herself with cool composure. Yet against all reason, Lord Black Jack Pierson continued to spark a passionate reaction.

Diavolo.
She
must
keep control of her emotions. After all, she knew how dangerous passions could be—

"Lady Giamatti."

Looking up, she found three men—four, including the footman—vying to press a glass into her hand.

Alessandra reached for the closest one and took a quick sip. "Is it just me?" she murmured, fanning her cheeks with a languid wave. "Or is it oppressively warm in here?"

"Stifling" agreed Mr. Eustace.

Sir Sydney was already at the bank of windows, tugging at the latches. "Allow me to open the casement for you, madam. If you come stand by me, you will feel a delightful breeze."

Elbowing the footman aside, Lord Hillhouse quickly offered his arm.

"Thank you, gentlemen." Alessandra allowed herself to be escorted to a spot by the mullioned glass. She usually discouraged such gallantries, wanting to be admired for her intellect rather than her cleavage. But at the moment, her self-esteem was a little fragile, so to have a trio of men tripping over their feet to please her was not unwelcome.

Black Jack Pierson might think her a conceited shrew; however, the other gentlemen of their scholarly group did not seem to judge her so harshly.

Scholars.
Slanting a look at the alcove, Alessandra saw that Jack was still there, perusing a book he had taken up from the display table. His formidable physical appearance and wartime military experience seemed at odds with the notion that he possessed any expertise in the arts. But then, he had certainly appeared surprisingly knowledgeable in the paint shop.

Could it be that beneath the brawn and bravado, the man had a brain?

The idea was... intriguing.

As if sensing her scrutiny, Jack looked up.

Their eyes met.

Unwilling to appear intimidated, Alessandra angled her chin a notch higher and held her gaze steady. She would present a picture of regal refinement and...

His only reaction was to resume his reading.

"More wine, Lady Giamatti?" asked one of her swains.

She shook her head. A dull ache was already forming at her temples, and despite the swirl of evening air, she felt uncomfortably warm. The surrounding merriment—the peals of masculine laughter, the blazing lights, the clinking crystal—stirred a sudden longing to escape to the solitude of her own townhouse.

Run. Hide.
Alessandra closed her eyes for an instant Would such urges ever cease to control her life?

To her relief, Dwight-Davis reappeared at the doorway, leading a procession of eight gentlemen wearing matching azure velvet swallowtail coats and fawn-colored knee breeches.

"I
nostri amici sono arrivati
—our Italian colleagues have arrived!" he announced with a sweeping flourish of his purple cloak.

A round of applause greeted their entrance.

Haverstick stepped to the center of the room, obviously intent on establishing his importance in the hierarchy of the project Clearing his throat he commenced his introduction.

Alessandra gauged the time as she waited for the president to finish his speech. A quarter hour of small talk, she figured, and then she could gracefully withdraw and return home.

At the host's signal, the Chianti was uncorked and a welcoming toast was raised.

"Lady Giamatti!" As the wine began to flow, Dwight-Davis gave an exuberant wave. "Do come and let me have the honor of introducing you to your fellow countrymen"

Drawing a deep breath, she crossed the carpet

"The head of the delegation is Conte Orrichetti," began Dwight-Davis. But before he could continue, a courtly, silver-haired gentleman brushed aside all formalities and stepped forward to press a quick kiss to both her cheeks.

"My dear Alessandra! What a lovely surprise to see you," said Orrichetti. "Alas, I hate to say it, but the English climate seems to agree with you, for you are looking more beautiful than ever."

"Saluti,
Pietro." She, too, had not expected to see an old acquaintance. Dwight-Davis had shown her a list of the delegation coming from the Antiquities Society of Rome, and she had not recognized any of the names.

"Ah, you know each other?" asked Dwight-Davis.

"Yes, the conte and my late husband were very good friends," replied Alessandra.

"Si,
we all spent many a pleasant hour at your palazzo overlooking the lake." Orrichetti heaved a sigh. "Can we not coax you to come back to Como, Alessandra?"

"Perhaps at some time in the future," she said softly. "The memories are still... too painful."

"Of course. Forgive me for bringing up the past." Orrichetti patted her hand. "Let us enjoy the present"

"Indeed, indeed," said Dwight-Davis quickly. "I take it as a good omen that Luck has brought yet another familiar face for you to work with on this excavation."

Luck was notoriously fickle,
thought Alessandra, while maintaining a dutiful smile.

"Like Lord Fanning, the original head of the Roman delegation was compelled by family obligations to forgo an extended trip abroad," explained Dwight-Davis. "We are all fortunate that Conte Orrichetti was able to step in at the last moment and take over."

The conte inclined a bow to his host before offering Alessandra his arm. "Come, my dear, and let me introduce you to the others. I don't believe you are acquainted with Signor Luigi Mariello, who teaches Classical Poetry at the University of Rome..."

They proceeded down the line, repeating the ritual exchange of kisses and compliments. Though she tried to keep her attention focused, the faces of the strangers began to blur together. She was tired, and the encounter with Lord James Jacquehart Pierson had left her out of sorts.

The Bath contingent had begun to mix in with the foreigners, and as the babel of English and Italian— punctuated with classical Latin—grew louder, so did the pounding inside her head. Her gaze darted to the clock as Orrichetti looked around for the eighth and last scholar from Rome.

"I should warn you, I have one more surprise," murmured the conte.

"Indeed?" She was listening with only half an ear.

"Si.
The last name on Mr. Dwight-Davis's list may have been unfamiliar, but I daresay you will recognize the face. I am not the only one of Stefano's old friends to make the journey to England."

A prickling sensation started up her spine, like daggerpoints dancing over her flesh.

"Cho, Alessa."

That honeyed voice.
Alessandra suddenly felt a wave of nausea rise up from the pit of her stomach as she turned around.
That angelic face.

Frederico Bellazoni smiled. "I always knew that Fate would bring us together again."

Lady Giamatti looked as if she had just seen a ghost Even from halfway across the room, Jack could see that all the color had suddenly drained from her face.

Give her brandy, you fools,
he thought, watching the Italians gesture to the footmen for a bottle of red wine.

Without thinking, he took a step toward her, then caught himself. Lady Giamatti would certainly not welcome his interfering yet again in her private affairs.

Not that she looked pleased at having
anyone
try to offer her assistance. Already she was shaking off Orrichetti's steadying hold on her arm.

Jack knew that common sense called for him to make a strategic retreat. But against all reason he found himself edging closer, close enough to overhear the conversation.

"I insist that you sit down, Alessandra." Orrichetti gestured for a chair. "Have you a vinaigrette in your reticule?"

"Oh, please, Pietro, I assure you that I have no need for smelling salts. I was feeling a little light-headed for a moment, but I am perfectly fine now."

Alessandra did indeed look a little better, though to Jack's eye there was still an odd tautness to the corners of her mouth.

"I am afraid that the fault is partly mine." Another blue-coated Italian was hovering by her side, his golden curls a gleaming contrast to Orrichetti's silver hair.

"I should not have shocked you by appearing here with no advance warning." He gave a rueful smile. "But I wanted to surprise you."

"Don't blame yourself, sir," replied Alessandra softly. "The room is overly warm, and I was traveling for most of the day, so it's simply a case of fatigue."

The blond Italian pressed a hand to his heart. "Dare I hope that means you are not unhappy to see me?"

The fringe of her dark lashes shadowed her expression for just an instant "Old friends are always a welcome sight"

"You are a lucky fellow, Signor Bellazoni, to count the marchesa as an intimate acquaintance." Dwight-Davis beamed as he raised his glass in a toast "To friends old and new!"

In echo of the sentiment corks popped and jovial laughter rose from the rest of the room.

Jack knew he ought to go mingle with the scholars who were gathering around the punch table. And yet he hesitated for a moment his gaze lingering on Alessandra. If he didn't know better, he would say that she looked...flustered.
The cool, composed marchesa nervous as a schoolgirl?
Most likely it was just a quirk of the flickering candlelight.

"Here, Alessa, perhaps a glass of Bath's famous restorative water will help revive your strength." Bellazoni offered the glass with a graceful flourish.

Watching him, Jack was reminded of another Italian "B"—Botticelli. With his slender height gilded ringlets, and full-lipped smile, Bellazoni looked as if he had stepped right out of a painting done by the Renaissance master.

"Grazie,
Frederico," murmured Alessandra.

So, the two were intimate enough to be on a first-name basis?

So, what of it?

Jack quickly swallowed the last of his wine and turned away, feeling a little angry with himself for having stooped to being a
voyeur.
Lady Giamatti's personal life was really none of his concern. She was simply another colleague, and from now on he would take care that their exchanges would be purely professional.

No more sparks would flare between them, he vowed.

If she chose to reignite an old love affair, that was nobody's business but her own.

Alessandra took a sip of the water and then set it aside. "Thank you," she repeated. "But what I really need is a good night's rest"

An added sigh—admittedly exaggerated—drew an immediate apology from Dwight-Davis. "Do forgive me, Lady Giamatti! Knowing that you only arrived this afternoon, I should never have pressed you to attend this reception."

"On the contrary. In order for the excavation to go smoothly, it is important for all members of our team to become familiar with each other," she replied. "It is just that traveling with a young child can be more fatiguing than moving a mountain of stone. So I hope you will excuse me if I take an early leave. I assure you that I will be fully recovered by morning."

"I will accompany you to your carriage " announced Orrichetti.

She was in no mood for company, but a look at his face told her protest would only prolong the scene. Accepting his arm, she allowed him to escort her from the room.

"Prego,
Alessandra," murmured the conte, once they were alone on the stairs. "Allow me to explain Frederico's presence here."

"Please do," she said, trying not to sound too shrill. "Since when has he become an expert in ancient history? I seem to recall that his chosen field was rhetoric—fiery rhetoric."

"Si,
si,
I know that his political speeches were sometimes a little radical. But remember, Stefano considered him one of his most gifted proteges."

Oh yes, her late husband had admired Frederico's eloquence.
So had she. Idealism inspired a passionate response.

Orrichetti lowered his voice even more. "Were you aware that right after you left Italy, the Austrian authorities in Milan issued a warrant for his arrest?"

"Yes," she whispered.

The conte slanted her a sidelong look. "Frederico claims it was not he who sabotaged the Governor-General's carriage, and I believe him."

Alessandra felt her throat go very dry. She, too, had found Frederico's silver-tongued speeches seductive...

"In any case, he was forced to flee to Rome," continued Orrichetti. "Where I helped him get a position teaching at the university under an assumed name."

"That still does not explain why he is here in England as part of your delegation," she said slowly.