Countess So Shameless (Scandal in London) Page 17

  His mother would be livid, but he refused to return to Italy without Mélisande, if indeed he could even convince her to have him.

  Though he was anxious to leave the royal presence, Alessandro spent the remainder of the morning playing chess and discussing political matters. Upon at last being dismissed, he barely restrained himself from running to the stables to saddle his own horse. Instead, he waited, as was proper, for his mount to be brought around.

  Alessandro practically flew down Rotten Row, riding as fast as possible without actually galloping. It was the fashionable hour, and he was having to circumvent an increasingly annoying amount of traffic clogging the thoroughfare.

  He nodded politely at several acquaintances, though he trotted past, avoiding conversations. By the time he managed to reach Mélisande’s house, it was just teatime.

  “Your business with His Majesty?” she asked, waiting until the servants had left and the door was closed.

  “Completed, and most satisfactorily,” he told her. In his rush he’d become disheveled and windblown, his cravat loose and his hair on end. He ran a hand through it to try and tame the unruly curls, succeeding only in making it worse.

  She reached out to smooth it down, and he stilled at her touch. Unbidden, an image formed in his mind’s eye: Mélisande touching the hair of a child, his child, while wearing the same tender smile she wore now. Even as that happy fantasy flicked through his thoughts, his blood ignited with the need to make love to her, to again claim her and reaffirm that she was his and his alone.

  Mélisande was close enough to see the darker motes within his cinnamon eyes. His hand rose to cover hers, holding her palm to his cheek for a moment before turning to kiss it. Heat shimmered through her.

  “I’ve thought of nothing but you the entire day,” he confessed, pulling her into his arms.

  She melted into him as he held her close and nuzzled her neck to taste her skin at the sensitive place just below her ear. Pressing her mouth hungrily against his, she clung to him as his tongue swirled and teased. A moist heat began to build at the juncture of her thighs as he slid a hand beneath the edge of her neckline to ease a still-swollen breast out of her bodice.

  Already knowing the pleasure his touch would bring, her flesh anticipated it, craved it.

  When she reached down to feel the hard length of him through his breeches, Alessandro groaned. Encouraged, Mélisande began to unbutton his flap. As soon as he was free, she grasped him firmly, chuckling wickedly at his grunt of pleasure as she ran her hand up and down his smooth cock.

  He again claimed her lips, freeing his hands to quickly gather up the skirts of her gown. Backing up until he bumped against the edge of the settee, he then sat, pulling her down to straddle him. Reaching between them, he stroked and played until the flesh was dewed. Then, at his silent urging, she lifted so that he could guide himself to her slick entrance.

  Eagerly, she sank down, uttering a low moan into his mouth at the pleasant ache and sudden tightness as his thick, hot shaft filled her.

  Shifting his hands to her waist, Alessandro slowly raised her up.

  When she slid back down, the sweetness of it was incomparable. Bracing her hands on his shoulders, Mélisande rode him slowly, feeling the bowstring grow taut within her. Tighter and tighter it wound, until it snapped in an explosion of bliss.

  He swallowed her outcry as she peaked. A few more thrusts of her hips, and she felt his release shudder through him. Falling back against the cushions, he pulled her down with him to rest against his shoulder.

  It was only a moment before the reality of the situation flooded Mélisande’s awareness.

  The servant might return to see if they needed more tea.

  Charlotte sometimes forgot to knock.

  That door could open at any moment.

  “Alessandro, we cannot be seen!” she hissed, jerking upright.

  Separating hurriedly, they worked to right their appearances and ensure there was no visible evidence of their lovemaking.

  Mélisande’s hands shook as she straightened her skirts. It was impossible for her to look at this man and not desire him. Her lack of self-discipline was frightening. Even now, knowing the risk, she wanted to be back in his arms. It dawned on her as she marked his steady hands and relaxed manner that this little interlude was nothing more to him than a mere reenactment of something he’d done countless times. What’s more, he had nothing to lose.

  Whereas I...

  If they were caught, she knew he would simply return to Italy. But she would be publicly disgraced. Should she ever decide she wanted to marry, it would be almost impossible to do so after such a scandal, even with her fortune. Certainly, no respectable gentleman would ever consider it.

  She could not simply defy convention and take a series of lovers, either. Men, though they claimed otherwise, were just as bad as her fellow sex when it came to gossip, boasting of their conquests among their peers. She’d overheard plenty of ribald jests and references made to the betting book at White’s.

  Women with a reputation were a curiosity, too. People loved to speculate about them and ferret out the juicy details of their lives. There were plenty of those, if one knew where to look. Everyone knew her mother was French, and her affaire with Louis was no secret in Versailles.

  Isabelle Compton’s life prior to her marriage was not a topic Mélisande wished discussed.

  She should end this now and tell him that tonight would be their last night together. But even as she thought the words, she knew she could not speak them.

  I need an excuse, something to help me distance myself. Anything, any—

  A light knock sounded at the door, and they both started.

  A pair of curious grey-blue eyes peeked through the opening. “I thought I heard voices in the hall earlier,” said Charlotte with a sunny smile. “David mentioned yesterday that he might come for tea this afternoon.” The excitement faded from her eyes as she realized he was not in the room.

  Mélisande noted she was rather artfully en deshabillé. Earlier that morning, she’d been dressed impeccably; now, however, several errant curls strayed about her face, her lips were very red—likely from the stain of some berry, and the bosom of her bodice had been laced far too tightly, pushing her breasts up high for display.

  Clearly, it was time for a chat.

  Taking a seat, Charlotte helped herself to tea and began talking about the nuptial plans.

  After a few moments, Mélisande ceased to pay attention, her thoughts instead slipping back in time. Blushing, she glanced at Alessandro, only to discover him staring back at her. One corner of his mouth lifted a fraction, and she knew he must be thinking the same thing.

  “Melly?”

  Her attention shifted back to Charlotte. Embarrassed to be caught without a response to whatever it was she’d been asked, she stammered an apology. “I’m afraid I must have been woolgathering. What was it you wanted to know?”

  Charlotte’s blue eyes sparkled with merriment. “I asked your opinion regarding the use of autumn leaves and berries for decorations. Winifred suggested it when I told her about your wedding plans.”

  “Ah. Well,” replied Mélisande, her chest constricting at the thought of this ceremony that would never happen. “I suppose it would be easy enough to gather leaves and such, and I’m sure it would look quite charming. It’ll be a simple affair, in any case.”

  Alessandro rose abruptly, tugging at his cuffs and straightening his jacket. “Dear ladies, I’m afraid I’ve lingered far too long in your delightful company.”

  Charlotte’s nattering on about wedding preparations must have put him on edge, thought Mélisande.

  “The hour grows late,” he added, softening his voice and looking directly at her, “and there are matters to which I must attend.”

  With a slight nod, she promised him she would be there.

  LOVE IS A HORRIBLY COMPLICATED THING

  MÉLISANDE POURED HERSELF a glass of wine and brought it b
ack to the bed. “We must be more careful,” she told Alessandro as she eased under the coverlet. “In private is one thing, but outside these walls is another.”

  “I understand,” said Alessandro. “I am sorry to have caused you distress. I promise you it will not happen again.”

  Part of her wished she hadn’t said anything. The traitorous part. He looked so disappointed in himself, so contrite, so sincere. As if he truly regretted his actions that afternoon.

  “I am as much to blame as you,” she added, softening. “I ought to have had better sense than to let myself be carried away by the moment. I cannot afford to take such risks.”

  “You take a risk now, in coming here to meet with me. A far greater risk than that of being caught with your fiancé.”

  She chose not to point out the obvious: that he wasn’t really her fiancé. “Indeed,” she said wryly. “But this way, I have a much better chance of keeping the true nature of our relationship a secret. Plausible deniability is everything. Unless someone can provide incontrovertible proof that you are meeting me, I can claim otherwise. And I assure you that I have covered my tracks extremely well with regards to this place.”

  “A man would have to be a fool to underestimate your abilities,” he said, shaking his head and smiling. “Of all the people I have known, you are the only one besides the empress of Russia who has been called ‘formidable’ by her friends.”

  “Oh? Who, if I may ask, referred to me in such unflattering terms?”

  “Ludley.” He laughed.

  “Well, he would certainly know. After all, he’s lost more wagers to me than he likes to admit. I’ve tried telling him it’s no use betting against me, but he never listens.”

  “I’ve heard about your wagers,” he said, laughing. “The one where you offered to personally reenact Lady Godiva’s ride through the streets of London on your horse if he lost was particularly interesting.”

  Mélisande flushed. “That was several years ago, and I said it in a fit of pique. Fortunately, my horse was indeed the better of the two.”

  “Would you have made good on your bet if he hadn’t been?”

  “We’ll never know, will we?” she said, giving him a saucy grin. His laughter made her want to kiss him, so she did.

  “For a woman who values discretion, you certainly have a way of attracting notice.”

  Mélisande swirled the liquid in her glass, watching the way the golden liquid caught the firelight. “Mmm. I cannot seem to keep out of trouble. Had I been born a man, I would no doubt rival even you in the realm of sheer recklessness.”

  “As you were not, thanks be to the Almighty, I don’t suppose we’ll ever know, will we?” he teased.

  Curiosity took hold of her. “How exactly did you come to be so well-known? Everyone from the youngest debutant to the oldest matron seems to have at least some passing knowledge of your exploits.”

  “Not by design, I assure you,” he said. “It was certainly not my intention to acquire such notoriety.”

  “Some men deliberately seek the kind of reputation you seem to have obtained purely by accident,” she told him, thinking again of the infamous book at White’s.

  “Ah, but their chief pleasure is derived from hearing other men’s opinions of their conquests. I earned my infamy honestly, and care not what others think. My reputation is merely a result of indulging my obsession. A beautiful woman presents an irresistible mystery.”

  She snorted. “Most of the men I’ve met seem interested only in exploring the depth of my purse. As for beauty, even the most unfortunate-looking female can catch a husband, provided her dowry is large enough. I’ve heard men say one woman is as good as another in the dark.”

  “They are fools,” said Alessandro, pushing aside her robe and dropping a kiss on her bare shoulder. “Women are as varied and unique as one flower is from another. Is not a rose vastly different from a daisy? And there are differences even between two of the same kind of flower.”

  “Some men don’t know the difference between a rose and a dandelion,” she scoffed. “I’m afraid your view is not a common one. Females are considered ornaments or playthings, meant only to bear children and see to a man’s comfort, or to provide him with wealth. It never fails to amaze me how any man with a wife who manages his entire household can think she lacks intelligence.”

  Alessandro smiled. “My mother taught me at a very young age never to overlook a woman’s mind, no matter how frivolous she might appear on the surface. She is an incredible woman, and my father would never have achieved the success he did if not for her, though he never acknowledged it. But not all men behave so.” He laughed, his good humor returning. “Some of us are less pigheaded than others.”

  “Certainly,” she replied with aplomb. “I know several very worthy gentlemen; however, even the best sometimes err. Whenever one makes a pigheaded comment in my presence, I simply remind him of his place.” She grinned and took another sip of wine.

  He ran a fingertip down her arm. “I have always admired intelligent, daring women.”

  “So you’ve said. But tell me, how many have you loved?”

  “I remember every single one,” he said, “but I have never kept count. To do so would cheapen the memory, whether good or ill.”

  “But none could hold you.” It was not a question.

  “There was one,” he said. “But because of my past, she did not believe me capable of love.”

  Mélisande’s heart twinged first with sympathy—and then with guilt. She’d passed precisely the same judgment on him. Was it so unreasonable to think him capable of loving honestly? “Who was she?”

  He looked away. “Do not ask me to speak of her, I beg you.”

  “Forgive me, I just thought that...” Feeling awkward, she looked up to find him staring at her expectantly. “I just thought that for a man like you, the world must be an endless buffet of pleasures. I never considered that it might become tiresome.”

  “Running from bed to bed is great sport when a man is young and his breeches are bursting into flames,” he said with a faint smile. “But the older I get, the less it seems to appeal. The body can easily be sated, but the soul, it longs for something more. My brother, Pietro, once told me that it doesn’t take a great lover to bed a different woman every night; it takes a great lover to bed the same woman night after night and leave her wanting more. At the time, I did not really believe him. But now, I begin to see the truth of his words.”

  Mélisande blinked in surprise. “Then you regret your past?”

  “Not at all,” he told her. “I’ve quite enjoyed my adventures. To say I regret my life would be to say it has been a waste, which it has not. But that does not mean I wish to be the man I was at the age of twenty for the remainder of it. That would be foolishness. No. I fully intend to one day marry, have children, and settle into the life of an ordinary, boring, plump country lord. Perhaps I shall even learn to like fishing.” He smirked.

  This man will never be ordinary or boring, thought Mélisande. Plump seemed a rather unlikely prospect as well. “Do you look to that day?”

  “More and more, truthfully. Though you may find it hard to believe, I lead a very solitary life. I surround myself with people in order to stave off loneliness, but a man can find himself in the midst of a crowd and still be very isolated.”

  “I know what you mean,” she agreed. “No matter how many friends I make, no matter how busy I am, it is the same for me. I constantly find myself alone in a roomful of people, and I grow weary of it in my heart.”

  “I would never have expected a woman so lovely and charming to be lonely.”

  A soft laugh escaped her. “I’m an unmarried, rich, titled woman, Alessandro. Since my parents’ deaths, I have endured constant attention from men interested only in what they can gain from an alliance. They don’t care about me. You would not believe the depths to which some have stooped in order to convince me of their ‘undying love.’ It sickens me. I trust few people, an
d of those rare few, there are but two in whom I confide.”

  “And what of a man who has no need of your wealth or title?”

  “If that was the only prerequisite, I would have married David for convenience and simply had affaires, as he once suggested. But I want more. Perhaps I’m a foolish female after all, but I want love.”

  Her own words surprised her, but the more she thought about it, the more right it seemed. “I want happiness and contentment. I want passion! And it doesn’t matter if the man is as poor as a church mouse. If he can bring me those things, I will gladly share all I have.” She shook her head angrily. “I’ve been disappointed so many times by men I thought to be good and true, only to discover lying blackguards who cared nothing for me. Even if an honest man claimed to love me, I wouldn’t believe it!”

  Realizing she had just confessed her deepest thoughts and desires, Mélisande grew silent. Feeling horribly vulnerable, she regarded Alessandro cautiously to see his reaction, but he merely continued to stare into the hearth and rub her arm absently.

  “You know,” he responded haltingly, “in the beginning I was, like every other man, the pursuer. Then, as my reputation as a lover grew and eventually began to precede me, women pursued me rather than I them. It made me arrogant and vain.” He turned to her, his smile sheepish. “What man would not become a peacock under such conditions?”

  She laughed. “You were a bit conceited when I first met you.”

  A wicked gleam stole into his eyes. “Perhaps, but at least some small portion of my pride was well deserved, madam. Would you not agree?”

  She felt her cheeks heat.

  “I enjoyed myself immensely for a while,” he continued. “But it soon became clear that most of my pursuers were less motivated by desire for me and more interested in what my reputation could do for them. I cannot tell you how many times I have been used to provoke the jealousy of another man. Thankfully, I have always managed to escape with my life. Proficiency with both blade and pistol is an unfortunate necessity when one lives as I have lived.”