Читать книгу Lilian And The Irresistible Duke - Virginia Heath - Страница 12

Lilian had to give herself a stiff talking to before plucking up the courage to go down to dinner, and that was after the stiff talking to she gave Alexandra. Typically, her cousin brushed it aside as an oversight, claiming she hadn’t remembered introducing the Duca to Lilian at Lady Fentree’s party. Without confessing to her they had shared a heated kiss in a carriage all alone, and that kiss now rendered her situation very awkward, to say the least, it was difficult for Lilian to convey exactly how miffed she was about being kept in the dark about the situation.

She was even more miffed at his behaviour earlier, because his shallow, unsubtle flirting had soured a memory which she had stupidly treasured since. In that carriage, she had felt special, interesting and appealing in a way she hadn’t in years. Or so she had thought after three large glasses of wine and some of the worst weeks of her life. His clumsy attempt at seduction on the landing this evening had made her realise he hadn’t thought her particularly special or interesting at all. Merely convenient, needy and pathetically malleable and that galled. Because she had been all of those things that fateful night in that carriage.

But as a guest in his house, she would have to remain polite even if she was annoyed at him for making her feel cheap and convenient. Besides, she would not allow the despicable actions of one overly charming Lothario to spoil her great Italian adventure. Better to face it head on, learn from it and consign it to the past like the foolish mistake it was. At some point this evening, she would talk to him and politely explain it had not been his charm which had led to her kissing him back, but the alcohol and that she had realised it had been a huge mistake from the outset. One she had absolutely no intention of repeating. Then, the air cleared, she would keep herself occupied with Rome and all the delights it offered and avoid her now-distasteful host wherever possible.

Lilian took a deep breath, then sailed into the drawing room, or salotto as Alexandra had called it when they had arrived, with what she hoped resembled more confidence than she was feeling. Carlotta rushed towards her smiling, so she was able to ignore the arrogant Duke leaning against the fireplace directly across from the door. Or at least her eyes could. Her body apparently had a mind of its own. Her skin felt decidedly odd, her nerves a bit bouncy and her stupid pulse a tad too fast.

‘Lilian…you look beautiful. Those colours really suit you.’ She had argued against a dress as bold and as fashionable as this one, assuming the vibrant printed coral stripes on the cream brocade, complete with the sweeping ruffled neckline and short sleeves, was too young for her. It had been Lottie who had convinced her to get it, pointing out that older women than she had worn gowns far bolder at Millie and Cassius’s society wedding celebration—and looked lovely in them. Lilian had relented, but never actually intended wearing it, but for some reason tonight she had needed to feel bold and lovely, so had donned it on a whim. It was too late to regret it now, despite the rakish Duca’s obvious expression of appreciation as he sauntered towards her and her recklessly bouncing nerve endings.

‘Indeed she does.’ He bowed politely and kissed her hand. She withdrew it quickly in case he had a mind to linger again, but felt her pulse quicken anyway. The accent, combined with his undeniably rugged, handsome features, sublime spicy smell and impressive height called to the passionate female within her despite all her common sense. ‘Welcome to my home, Mrs Fairclough. My sister tells me you have had no time at all today to explore the palazzo. I should be delighted to take you on a little tour of the ground floor now.’

Seeing her hesitation, Carlotta got the wrong end of the stick. ‘You might as well. Dinner is not for another thirty minutes at least and I am still awaiting Alexandra. Be sure to show her the fresco in the gran salone, Pietro. Lilian is a huge lover of art. Something you both have in common, no?’ Or perhaps she had completely the right end of the stick and was matchmaking as Pietro had suspected. Yet either way, she had been pushed into a corner. Refusing would be impolite and would cast an atmosphere over the entire holiday.

He offered his arm and she took it, pasting what she hoped was a polite and indifferent smile on her face. At least this unwelcome time alone with him would give her the opportunity to clarify his misapprehensions about their kiss and her presence in his house. She might well be at a metaphorical crossroads, but not one of the paths ahead of her included a man!

He led her out of the cosy family room and along a long hallway filled with gilt panelling and a marble floor. As soon as they turned a corner he stopped dead and sighed.

‘I cannot move another step until I have apologised for my disgraceful behaviour earlier. I have no defence of it, other than you caught me off guard after a taxing day and I wrongly assumed that you were complicit in my sister’s incessant matchmaking. I realise that is no excuse for my ungentlemanly behaviour and I apologise unreservedly for insulting you. It was not my finest hour and I was certainly not behaving as myself. I beg of you to forgive me.’

Entirely disarmed, because he had completely taken the outraged wind out of her sails, all Lilian could do was accept his pretty apology in the manner it was given. ‘You are forgiven. Because I also suspect Alexandra had a hand in it. She likes to meddle, too, and seems to have made me a bit of a project, as you can see.’ She gestured to the bold gown and then regretted it when his eyes swept her body again at the invitation. There was something about the way he did it which played havoc with her insides. ‘I really had no clue there was any connection between you and the Contessa until tonight.’

‘I realised that the moment you rightly slammed your door in my face at my gross impertinence.’ His voice was like melted chocolate and his accent made normally curt English words like ‘impertinence’ sound positively sinful. Or at least the goose pimples on the back of her neck found it sinful. And the least said about his intense dark eyes the better. The way they looked at her, boldly locked with hers… Gracious, he was lovely! And she had plainly taken leave of her senses to be thinking such nonsense after just one pretty apology and a foolhardy kiss in a carriage.

‘It would appear we are equally reluctant to be toyed with, both the innocent victims of two scheming women. I am only relieved we discovered their machinations in time before it created any irreversible awkwardness between us. I would hate to be the reason you did not enjoy your visit to Rome.’

‘Forewarned is forearmed, as we say in my country. I am glad we cleared the air.’ However, there was no point in shying away from the difficult bit of the conversation. The bit which would thoroughly clear the air. ‘I feel I also owe you an apology for what occurred at Christmas.’ She hoped ignoring the blush which threatened to bloom might make it subside, but the ugly heat crept up her neck regardless. ‘December was a particularly trying time for me and, fortified with more wine than I am used to, I might have given you the wrong impression. What I mean is…er…the…er…kiss…was a mistake.’

‘And there I was, thinking it was my charm, the moonlight and the magic of the moment.’ He was smiling at her, his dark eyes dancing, as he clutched at his heart as if she had wounded him. ‘Have you no sympathy for my delicate male pride?’ Then his eyes seemed to darken further and his deep voice became positively naughty as it dropped an octave. ‘But mistake or no, it was a spectacular kiss, was it not? At least credit me with that, signora.’

She couldn’t help smiling in response. The combination of his mischievous dark eyes, seductive voice and his knowing expression conspired to bring out the worst in her. ‘It was pleasant enough, I suppose.’ Good grief! Was she flirting? After twenty-five years she’d assumed she had forgotten how.

‘Only pleasant? Oh, signora, that will not do and it is not wise to confide it. Such a lacklustre compliment might only spur me to do better, as a matter of honour. For both the noble house of Venturi and my wounded male pride… Unless that is what you want?’ He was most definitely flirting again, but more the way he had at Christmas. Witty, playful, thoroughly charming and disarming. Exactly as she so fondly remembered him. ‘In which case, I shall be forced to accept the gauntlet you have thrown down. We Venturis never shy away from a challenge.’

Inside her chest, her sighing heart was doing somersaults. ‘All right, then…it was quite lovely.’

‘Better—but still not spectacular…’

‘If I tell you it was spectacular, but still very much a mistake I have no intention of repeating, will you take me to see the fresco, Your Grace…is it correct to say Your Grace? My knowledge of your language is limited.’ To around ten words, give or take a cappuccino.

‘As, by your own admission, we have shared a spectacular if reckless and unwise kiss, and as you are my guest, you should call me Pietro. And, yes, I shall take you to see my fresco.’ He offered his arm again and she took it, trying not to feel the obvious muscle in his bicep or the gentle heat coming through his sleeve and warming her suddenly inquisitive palm. ‘Might I be so bold as to call you Lilian, now that we are doomed to be nothing beyond merely platonic friends?’

‘You may.’ Aside from the peculiar and girlish palpitations, bouncing nerves and wholly inappropriate goose pimples, this had all gone so much better than she had expected. ‘Thank you for arranging to have the correct trunk brought to my bedchamber.’

‘You needed your soap and it was the least I could do after my shameful behaviour when we collided. Are your accommodations to your satisfaction?’

‘They have exceeded them, your Gra—I mean, Pietro.’ How lovely that name felt on her tongue. ‘You have a wonderful house.’

‘It pleases me to hear that. When I inherited the palazzo, it was showing its age. I have made it my mission to bring it back to its former glory. I only recently had the east wing—the wing where your rooms are situated—renovated. Thankfully now, after twenty years of work, it is finally back to its former glory.’

‘Your noble ancestors would be proud of the job you have done.’ They reached a pair of ornate double doors and he paused before them, clearly in no hurry to move.

‘The fresco is my pride and joy, Lilian. My favourite part of this old house. However, before you see it, you must first allow me to bore you with some history to give it some context. My great-great-great-great-grandfather, Amedeo Venturi, inspired by the great Palazzo Barberini, right here in Rome, commissioned several artists to paint the ceiling of his new house. Except, he was too poor or too miserly to pay one of the established masters of the time and instead paid legions of struggling apprentices to do it instead. However, and I must confess we have no actual proof of this beyond the family legend, the finished ceiling apparently bears the brushwork of both the young Raphael and Michelangelo.’

‘Good gracious!’

‘Although which piece of the fresco is theirs, nobody can hazard a guess. Not even I, who considers himself a great expert on art, can say with any certainty. But it is a good story, no?’

‘A very good story.’

‘And I am prolonging the agony to shamelessly build your anticipation. It is a habit of mine. I like a little theatre.’

‘That is perfectly all right—I adore a bit of history.’

He grinned and threw the doors open with a flourish and her breath caught in her throat.

The vaulted ceiling was a patchwork of gilt panels surrounding one huge central fresco. She recognised the theme immediately from the enormous white wings of the unabashedly naked lovers of the tale—Cupid and Psyche. The largest painting showed their first meeting in a forest of blossom, framing the scene as if the viewer were peeking in. The heroine startled, her golden hair woven with flowers as she wanders into the clearing to find a lovestruck Cupid staring at her, a small bleeding scratch on his chiselled abdomen from where he had accidentally pierced himself with his own dart. The smaller pictures ringed it, telling the rest of the tale, of their marriage, their separations, Psyche’s series of impossible trials set by the gods to win back her immortal husband and then, finally, Cupid’s rescue of his sleeping lover by transforming her into an immortal, too, so they could live properly together as man and wife in his world above the clouds for all eternity.

‘Look at her wedding finger…’ His breath whispered over her shoulder as he pointed. ‘Look at the design of the ring he has placed on her finger.’ It took her a while to focus on the thin, painted gold band, but as she stared at it she could see it was actually two hands intertwined. ‘If you love a bit of history, then you will adore the symbolism. Although the story is an Ancient Greek myth, that ring is Roman. It was the custom to give a betrothal ring…a fede ring…two hands clasped in love and agreement. A promise.’

‘I would never have noticed it unless you had pointed it out.’

He shrugged. ‘I have an eye for detail and a mind which likes to store them.’

‘The devil is always in the detail.’

He smiled. ‘I love all those quaint English phrases.’

‘I love your fresco. It is stunning.’

‘It is. Old Amedeo might have been a skinflint, but he was a romantic soul at heart. This was his childhood sweetheart’s favourite story and, because he loved her to distraction but she would have none of him, he had this ceiling painted in her honour…as a token and permanent declaration of his love.’

Lilian spun a slow circle, taking it all in, more than a little overwhelmed by its sheer perfection. ‘Did it work?’

‘They married, had twelve children and lived to be very old together. So, yes. I believe it worked perfectly.’

‘Another good story.’ She found herself beaming at him. ‘In fact, a better one.’ One which spoke entirely to her romantic soul.