The Wrong Way to Catch a Rake, page 14
While Dominic and Donatello talked in a mix of Venetian and Italian so swift and idiomatic it hurt her head to try and untangle it, Pietro leaned forward and, with a shy enthusiasm that was as charming as his father’s bolder version, began telling her in near perfect English all about his plans to study galvanism in Bologna, giving her a full lecture about electricity. When he waxed enthusiastic about the implications of Hans Christian Oersted’s experiments, his father and Dominic also stopped to listen, Donatello alternately rolling his eyes and hanging on his son’s every word with evident pride.
Dominic watched with that intent yet veiled look in his deep blue eyes, a smile curving his beautiful mouth, his hand resting lightly on his thigh and his fingertips on hers. That sign of possession was just a further aphrodisiac to her addled mind. She wanted to lean against his arm, her head on his shoulder. She wanted...
When the singing began Dominic whispered something to Donatello, who nodded and grinned, waving his hand in dismissal.
Dominic took her hand again. ‘Come, time to leave before we’re called on to join the chorus.’
Outside the clouds had gathered into full-bellied darkness and the air smelt of rain. She raised her face to the breeze, drinking in the blessedly cooler air. Every one of her senses was at its fullest.
When he hailed a gondola she wanted to protest. She wasn’t ready to return to the Gioconda just yet. At all. But she said nothing, afraid that if she said anything at all it would be something very foolish. He didn’t speak either, but he didn’t let go of her hand as they sat.
The rain began lightly—a shiver of drops pricking the surface of the water. She raised her face to its coolness, laughing as the clouds burst under their own weight and the rain came quick and hard. The gondolier grinned at her, and Dominic put his arm around her, tucking her against his side. As protection from the rain it was rather futile, but as another blow to her armour it was masterly.
She sank against him, turning her head so she could breathe in his scent—sweat and rain and that deep, dark musk that kept pulling at her like the call of her own personal opium den.
She was about to speak when the gondola stopped before an arched door in a brick wall. She didn’t know where they were and didn’t care, and when Dominic helped her out of the gondola she followed him through the door and into the garden of Eden. They ran through the rain towards a Moorish palazzo at the far end of the garden, passing bloom-heavy rosebushes and a gazebo smothered in vines whose tendrils danced wildly under the rat-tat-tat of the storm. The building was as beautiful inside as out. It was nothing like the Gioconda’s long-decaying splendour. Here the candle sconces gleamed, gilt banisters bracketed a grand staircase, and above them the ceiling was a masterpiece of cherubs and angels and clouds, as if the heavens had been trapped here.
She stood for a moment looking up, her soggy dress dripping audibly on the pale-veined marble floor.
‘It’s beautiful.’ Her voice was a hoarse whisper and he turned to her with a smile just as a man in livery appeared from behind the stairs. Phoebe stepped back in alarm, but Dominic caught her elbow and delivered a series of instructions to the footman including the mention of baths. Phoebe held back her panic until the man disappeared.
‘I cannot stay here. I shouldn’t be here at all. I certainly cannot bathe here.’
‘Why not? You’ll have a far nicer bath here than in the cracked hip baths and tepid water at the Gioconda. And once your clothes are dry and this biblical storm lets up, I shall see you safely back to your aunt. Meanwhile I shall send a footman with the message that you are visiting with the Contessa di Benedetti.’
‘The who?’
‘The owner of this palazzo.’
Phoebe looked around her. ‘Oh. Is she a...a friend of yours?’
‘She’s a little more than a friend.’
‘Oh.’
‘She is my cousin,’ he clarified.
‘Oh!’
‘And seventy-three.’
‘Oh...’
‘I’m tempted to continue this just to see how many variations you can extract from a simple “oh”.’
She flushed. She felt transparent and strangely...young. She wasn’t certain she liked feeling like this. It felt raw.
It felt...true.
He held out his hand. ‘You’ll feel better after a hot bath.’
She placed her hand in his and for a moment they stood there. His hand tightened, but then he turned and led her up the stairs.
Chapter Seventeen
Dominic was right. She did feel better after a hot bath.
Especially a hot bath in a large claw-legged tub set in the middle of a cosy boudoir warmed by a crackling fire. Phoebe dried herself and slipped into the elaborate purple and gold dressing gown the maid had left when she’d taken away Phoebe’s soaked clothes. She sat down at the mahogany dressing table and began brushing her hair with a heavy silver-backed brush, watching her almost unfamiliar reflection as her hair slowly dried, turning from dark to light. She felt like a medieval queen.
There was a tap on the dressing-room door and, expecting the maid, Phoebe bade her enter and paused in mid-stroke, all her post-bath languor disappearing in an instant as Dominic stepped over the sill. He wore long, dark trousers and a white linen shirt and nothing else. The light of the fire turned his eyes black and gold and accentuated the shadow of the corridor behind him so that he seemed to materialise from darkness.
The devil coming for her soul.
Why not? He already had her heart.
All the warnings—remember who he is, remember what he is, and mostly—remember who you are—went up in a puff of sulphurous smoke.
Any other night must...must be tonight.
‘You look like you belong here, Rosie,’ Dominic said, surveying her from her head to her bare feet. ‘A Venetian princess with fiery eyes ready to command us lesser mortals.’
Her heart hitched but she laughed. ‘And here I was, thinking you looked like the devil come to claim my errant soul.’
‘Huh. That’s not very nice. Besides, your soul is far too pristine to interest any devil.’
She looked away and went back to her brushing. It should not matter that that was what he thought of her. After all, that was what she wanted people to think of her. Her efficacy as a spy depended upon it.
He sat down on the matching chair beside her and brushed her cheek with his fingertips. ‘What did I say wrong?’
She shook her head. ‘Won’t your cousin be upset I am using her dressing gown and brush?’
‘Gina will only be upset she was not here to meet you...’ He paused as the maid re-entered with a tray and set it down on the table beside her with a smile at her and a wider one for Dominic. When she was gone Dominic poured Phoebe a glass of wine and she drank a little and picked up the brush again, tugging at a damp knot.
‘Here, I’ll do that.’ He took the brush from her and turned her gently back towards the mirror, drawing her damp hair over her back as he shifted his chair to sit behind her. Her shoulders clenched but she said nothing. She had never liked people brushing her hair. Her mother had done that when she was little but she’d always been hurried and abrupt, always half-listening to Phoebe’s father’s movements in the next room and jumping up when he called. Phoebe preferred doing it herself. She almost hoped there would finally be something she could dislike about Dominic’s touch.
The brush pressed against her back as he worked slowly on the ends, raising them to the warmth of the fire.
‘Shall I stop?’ he asked, tracing a finger along the rigid line of her shoulder.
Yes.
‘No,’ she answered, but she was still waiting for the surge of resentment to strike.
‘Drink your wine.’ His words were as soft as his touch and she did as she was told. Her scalp and back tingled with something between alarm and surrender, and she could see it in the face reflected in the mirror and tried to chase it away, but it only made it worse.
She focused instead on his reflection beside hers. With his lashes lowered in concentration his face fell into stern lines, the impersonality of the glass accentuating how handsome he was. Unfairly so. Next to him she looked even less remarkable. Just another face in the crowd when his must always stand out. It was a barrier between them, but even more she felt it as a burden he must carry with him wherever he went. She closed her eyes to shut out both of them, the fire warm and orange against her lids.
‘Did you enjoy your visit to the Giardini Reali yesterday?’
His voice was soothing, but her eyes opened of their own accord, trying to read in his face what she sensed in his voice. She was beginning to recognise the tell-tale signs of his moods, but she wasn’t certain where he was now. He seemed both relaxed and tense at the same time, and there was something in his question she could not place.
‘Very much, but it is not as pretty as your cousin’s garden.’
His mouth quirked in a smile. ‘Did von Haas bore you to death?’
‘Not at all. We discussed the rise and fall of the Republic of Venice and he showed us the changes Napoleon made to the Procuratie when he was there, and the lovely ballroom in the imperial residence designed by Giovanni Santi.’
‘He took you on a tour of the Procuratie?’ There was surprise and still that other, harsher undertone in his voice, and she tried to untangle it as she answered.
‘He did. It was very kind of him.’
‘There you go, using that word again. Von Haas and “kind” have never met. Do you like him?’
Was that jealousy in his voice? And if it was? It felt...good. Foolish good, but good. Power came in many and strange forms. This form was new to Phoebe.
‘Herr von Haas has been kind to me. Why shouldn’t I like him?’
His fingers tightened in her hair, not painful, just... It felt good, too. That sign that she could elevate his tension. Foolish Phoebe.
‘I’ve been kind to you, too, Rosie.’
It was a childish thing to say and she couldn’t help smiling. ‘I like you, too.’
He shifted a little closer, his eyes narrowed. ‘Why did you come to the campo today?’
‘Because I was curious?’ She’d meant it as a statement, but it crept up into a question. She cleared her throat. ‘I once went to watch a bullfight when in Arles. It made me quite ill.’
‘You didn’t appear to be suffering from any...indisposition today.’
‘I was nervous. It looked quite as if you were all trying to kill each other.’
‘And yet it was a surprisingly tame game. Not even one broken bone.’
‘Someone tore your shirt off.’
‘Ah. That was the ladies, not the players.’ She could hear his grin and shook her head but couldn’t help smiling.
‘Oh, vanity, thy name is Dominic.’
‘So you were merely cheering because the game was over?’ he prodded and she shook her head again.
‘No. I was happy you won. You looked...’ joyous, alive, beautiful ‘...happy.’
‘I was. Am. I was happy to see you, too. For a moment I thought I was seeing things.’
‘I didn’t mean to intrude. I was planning to watch for a moment and leave, but Signor Luzzatti saw me and demanded I join him on the tribune. In truth I was afraid to say no.’
‘Your instincts are sound. Donatello doesn’t often hear that word. In fact, it even occurred to me that Donatello had brought you to pressure me into doing my best.’
‘Is he that conniving?’
‘Worse.’
‘He seems nice.’
‘He’s as nice as von Haas is kind. Pietro is nice, but Donatello is that breed of beast that smiles as he plucks your eyelashes out one by one.’
She shivered a little. ‘I am glad he is fond of you, then.’
He paused combing to brush his hand over her shoulder. ‘So am I. I would rather you be fond of me, though.’
‘You know I am. I would hardly be here otherwise.’ Her words were a little hurried and he didn’t answer, his hand resting on her shoulder, his fingers just touching the bare skin beside the lapel. Then he removed it and continued brushing. She took her glass and drank some wine. It wasn’t wise, but then neither was she, apparently.
‘Your hair is like silk.’ His voice flowed over her the way the wine flowed inside her. ‘It’s damnable you cannot have it down all the time. I want to see it blowing in the wind, slipping over your skin. Damn, I want to see it slipping over mine...’ There was a faint snap as if he’d closed his teeth on those words. ‘Sorry, Phoebe. Forgetting myself here. I’ve never played lady’s maid before. I could become accustomed to the role.’ He didn’t seem to expect a response, which was lucky because she couldn’t think of any. Couldn’t think at all past the melting of her body. He continued, his voice musing, ‘You’re not accustomed to having your hair brushed, are you?’
She shook her head.
‘Hmm.’
She straightened. ‘What does that mean?’
‘Nothing, sweetheart. Don’t turn, I’m not done yet. There’s still a little more to dry.’
A sharp comment hovered on her tongue and she swallowed it. He sounded so comfortable and yet she was a confused jumble of nerves and need. It wasn’t fair.
He reached past her to lay the brush on the dressing table. He was very, very close; her already tingling back could feel his warmth through her dressing gown. The urge to lean back was so strong.
He rubbed his cheek against her hair, his breath moving warmly through it, caressing the side of her neck like a kiss. His fingertips just brushed the pattern of the brocade dressing gown along her thigh. ‘I liked the way you rested your leg against mine in the banquet hall after the game, Phoebe. It felt so damned good.’
She stifled a whimper.
‘Just that line of heat against me,’ he continued. ‘I wanted to curve my hand over your thigh, under your skirt, just gently, like this...’ He eased the edge of the gown aside, revealing the line of her thighs pressed together. He traced his finger up that line, from her knees almost to the dark curls hidden by the shadow of the dressing gown. He straightened, drawing a deep, unsteady breath. ‘Damn. I told myself I’d behave. This is not going as planned.’
His tone was light but she heard the strain beneath it. He was fighting this as much as she. She turned. His pupils were dilated, the blue pressed back against an indigo wall. His jaw clenched as their eyes met and he looked away. ‘You are a very bad influence on me, Phoebe Brimford.’
It was an absurd thing for someone like him to say, but it calmed her a little.
‘You are a far worse influence on me, Dominic. And I wanted to touch you, too. Under the table. Before that. When you came to the tribune. No, before that. When I saw you standing on the campo. And when I saw that giant of a man throwing himself at you, I wanted to rush in there and stop him.’
There was a streak of heat along his cheekbones as he smiled. ‘I’m very glad you didn’t. Strozzato is something of a juggernaut and if he so much as ruffled your beautiful hair I’d have had to take measures.’
‘I don’t need you to protect me, Dominic. I understand why you wouldn’t...that night...and I admit that perhaps you were right that it was ill-timed. But I wanted to do it before that cad Clapton made an ass of himself and now in the light of day I still want to. If you don’t wish to, then tell me and I shall leave and not bother you again...’
Her words ran aground as he turned her fully to him, his knees apart to make room for her legs, his hands curving under her bare thighs as he slid her forward. The movement dragged at the gown, uncovering her legs further. She grabbed a fist of the fabric before she was bared altogether, but that merely drew his gaze downwards, his lashes shielding her for a moment from the scorching heat of his eyes. It didn’t help. Now she could look her fill without being pinned by his gaze.
‘You know I wish to, Phoebe. All you have to do is look down to see how much,’ he murmured, his fingers brushing gently on the sensitive skin of her thighs. Her muscles clenched as her gaze followed his invitation to look. He wasn’t trying to hide his arousal and she couldn’t hide her response, either. Her whole body was one big answer.
She swallowed and looked up and he nodded, slowly, as if they had just sealed a solemn pact.
‘Lean back.’
‘What?’
‘Back.’
She did as she was told, her elbows on the dressing table, taking her weight. He traced his finger along the lapel of the gown, just skimming her skin. It was so light, but her flesh lit from within at its passage.
‘These colours suit you, Rosie. Fire and passion. Everything you keep bottled so tightly inside.’
That was what it felt like, something bottled so tight it might explode...would explode. It could not be released safely. It was frightening, but not as much as forcing the cork back into the bottle. She couldn’t imagine that.
His finger reached the meeting of the lapels and descended, the gown parting without resistance and revealing the shadowed valley between her breasts, their creamy swell.
‘A thing of beauty...’ he murmured as he slipped both hands under the fabric, warm and strong on her ribs, his thumbs brushing against the weight of her breasts. He was breathing through his parted lips and she was barely breathing at all. She watched in embarrassment and excitement as the pale rose of her nipples tightened and darkened, echoing the almost painful core inside her.
‘Phoebe...’ His voice had darkened, too. ‘Do you know what you are doing to me?’
She shook her head and he moved forward and her knee came into contact with his crotch. He was hard and thick, his pulse beating against her. Because of her. An inner scale began tipping inside her, turning heat and fear to power.
