Devil's Embrace by Catherine Coulter
“Buon giorno, signore,” she said stiffly, forcing her attention back to her master’s face. “I have brought your breakfast.”
“Mille grazie, Marrina. Ho appetito.”
Il signore said something in English to the girl and she moved reluctantly toward the table. He turned to Marrina.
“Grazie,” he said shortly, and waved his hand in dismissal.
She curtsied stiffly and walked from the bedchamber.
The earl said between mouthfuls of warm toast, “I am at your disposal for the next couple of days, Cassandra. There are many places for you to see and, I trust, enjoy. You can begin to accustom yourself to Italian sights, people, and living before you meet Genoese society.”
Cassie said coldly, still smarting from the earl’s provoking hand and Marrina’s pursed lips, “You mean that after a couple of days I am to be spared your presence, my lord?”
“Oh, never that, cara,” he said cheerfully. “Surely you would not believe me so ungallant. But I will need to spend some time in Genoa, though I do conduct most of my business from here.” He paused a moment, then said meaningfully, “Joseph will be arriving shortly. He will watch over you when I am not here.”
“What you mean to say is that poor Joseph is to be my guard.”
“Perhaps, if you wish to view his presence in that light. I trust you will not try to shoot him.” He softened his tone. “Your life is with me now, Cassandra. I pray that you will soon accustom yourself.”
“I think not,” she replied, quite softly, and rose from the table. “If you will excuse me, my lord, I wish to bathe and dress now.”
“As you will, my love,” he said easily, and moved to pull the bell cord. “I will have Paolo fetch your bath water.”
The day passed pleasantly enough for Cassie, though she did not admit it to the earl. She became acquainted with the palm trees, whose bizarre layered trunks and wide serrated leaves lined the perimeter of the terraced gardens, and the odd gray weathered olive trees that seemed content in the most arid soil and climbed up the steeper slopes of the hills in neat layered rows. All the marble statues had titles, and each a fascinating story. When the earl showed her a colossal statue of Jupiter, framed by a rose-covered marble bower in a lower garden terrace, he said with a grin, “Each time I see old Jupiter, I think about another statue of this esteemed god, built over the tomb of a dog given by Charles V to Andrea Doria, who was, incidentally, one of my illustrious ancestors. The story goes that for his maintenance of the tomb, he received the principality of Melfi. To thank the Emperor, Andrea Doria entertained him and a hundred others to a banquet, where the astonished guests saw three services of silver plates from which they had eaten flung into the harbor after being removed from the table. Andrea Doria, in the true Genoese spirit of thriftiness, achieved this magnificent gesture without being a penny the poorer—he stationed fishermen with nets below the terrace to catch the plates as they fell.”
She laughed heartily and plied him with an endless stream of questions. It struck her forcibly that the earl was an amusing companion, and she frowned at her lapse.
“You are troubled, cara?”
“Must you even read my thoughts?” She sat down on a marble bench that faced another fountain.
“But, dear one, have I not told you that we are to be as one in all things?” As she stared stiffly ahead of her, he added softly, “I do thank you for sitting down. As you have said, my advanced years compel me to rest.”
“Is your shoulder paining you?” she asked, unaware that her eyes narrowed in sudden concern.
“A bit, perhaps, but I shall survive. After luncheon, cara, I will introduce you to a sacred Italian custom.”
“Pray what is that?” she asked warily.
“In English one would call it a nap. Here it is called a siesta. When the sun is at its zenith, Italians retreat indoors, close their shutters, and sleep. It is, of course, a marvelous opportunity for other pursuits as well.”
He closed his hand over hers and caressed her fingers.
“When will you believe that I have no such demands of you, my lord?” She tried to jerk her hand away, but he held it fast.
“I will believe that, cara, when you cease to find pleasure in my arms.” He rose and drew her up with him. “Let us have lunch, little one.”
Perversely, Cassie was a trifle peeved when the earl made no sexual demands on her when they returned to the bedchamber after a light luncheon. Yet she found that she quite enjoyed the siesta. Clothed only in her chemise, the curtains drawn against the hot afternoon sun, she stretched out on the large bed and was soon asleep.
She was awakened by the gentle touch of a hand on her bare arm. An angry rebuke rose to her lips as she opened her eyes. To her surprise, she peered up into the fresh round face of a young girl who was staring curiously down at her.
“Voglia scusarmi, signorina,” the girl said in a soft musical voice.
Cassie shook English words from her mind. “Who are you?” she asked in Italian, struggling up on her elbows.
The girl grinned at the heavily accented Italian. “I am Rosina, signorina, niece to Marrina. I am to be your maid. Il signore asked that I help you to dress. He wishes to see you in the library.”
“Very well,” Cassie said, and swung her feet over the side of the bed. Rosina, she saw, was dressed in somber black, her glossy black hair pulled tightly back from her round face in as severe a knot as that worn by her aunt, Marrina. She looked quite young, perhaps sixteen. Cassie became aware that the girl was staring at her. “Well, what is it?” she asked, thinking the girl would be as sour-minded as her aunt.
“It is your hair, signorina. It is like spun gold, and so thick. I have occasionally seen hair of a fair color, but not like yours. I am said to have an ability with hair. If you would allow me, signorina, I would be most honored to dress yours.”
Cassie felt instantly guilty at her rudeness and said in a friendlier voice, “Thank you for your compliment, Rosina. I would be most pleased if you would help me.”
Rosina nodded her head and smiled. Two deep dimples appeared in her plump cheeks. “I will fetch you a gown, signorina.”
Cassie rose and walked to the commode in the dressing room to splash cool water on her face. When she returned to the bedchamber, she stood for a moment watching her new maid. She looked to Cassie to be a gentle creature, her dark brown eyes guileless. Cassie wondered whether she would ever see Rosina’s placid expression replaced by tight-lipped disapproval.
“You are very young, Rosina,” Cassie said as her new maid helped her into a light muslin gown of pale blue.
“Si, signorina,” she answered brightly, motioning Cassie to be seated before her dressing table. “The nuns told my mother that I was too efficient a servant to waste myself getting married just yet.” She shrugged philosophically. “Perhaps when I am seventeen I will want a husband and babies.”
As she brushed and arranged Cassie’s hair, she continued in her soft voice, “It is honored I am, signorina, to be allowed to come to the Villa Parese. Il signore is an honored and much admired nobleman despite the fact that he is—”
A flush rose to Rosina’s plump cheeks.
“Despite the fact that he is half-English,” Cassie finished, smiling.
“Si, signorina, though most do not think of that now. It is only that he has just returned from England that makes one remember.” She paused for a moment, concentrating on the thick plait she was braiding. Cassie, who had little liking for braids, frowned, but held her tongue waiting to see the result. In a very few moments, she stared at herself in the mirror, startled and quite pleased with the style Rosina had created. The maid had fashioned her hair in what Cassie thought of as a Roman style, with a coronet of braids atop her head, and the remainder of her long hair falling from the circle down her back.
“It is lovely, Rosina,” she said, and shook her head to feel the mass of hair swinging free. “I could never achieve such a result.”
&nbs
Actually, the last person Cassie wanted to see was Rosina’s aunt. But Marrina stood at the bottom of the staircase, her eyes narrowed at nothing in particular, a dust cloth in her hand.
“Che cosa Le abbisogna, signorina?”
Cassie pursed her lips at the rude tone. What did she want, indeed. It was time, she decided, squaring her shoulders, to put this thorny woman in her place. Cassie stopped on the bottom step purposefully, so that she towered over the housekeeper, and said coolly, “I would like you to fetch me a glass of lemonade, Marrina. It is to be cold, mind you, and not too sweet. I shall be in the library with il signore.”
Marrina had very small, crowded front teeth, Cassie observed dispassionately, teeth unsuited for snarling.
“I am really quite thirsty, Marrina. Now, if you please.” She walked around the rigidly silent housekeeper. “Mille grazie.” She drew up after several steps, a bit of devilment burgeoning, and asked in the blandest of voices, “Voglia scusarmi, Marrina, but are you a signora or a signorina?”
“Signora,” Marrina snapped. She turned on her heel and disappeared through a door on the far side of the entrance hall.
Cassie was still smiling at her minor triumph when she reached the great oak doors of the library. She held the griffen-shaped knob and cocked her ears. Either the earl was talking to himself or there was someone with him. She stood quietly for a few more moments before chiding herself not to be a timorous fool. Whoever was with the earl could not be more disapproving than Marrina.
She opened the doors.
She had had only a cursory glimpse of the library that morning, for she had been anxious to continue exploring the gardens. She had initially disliked the dark-paneled room. Its heavy leather chairs and prepossessing mahogany desk were too stark and masculine for her taste.
The earl stood against the desk, dressed as he had been earlier in black breeches, loose white shirt, and black boots, his right hand cupped beneath his slinged elbow. He looked up, a welcoming smile softening his features. Cassie looked upon a young gentleman who was lounging negligently against the mantlepiece of a black and white marble fireplace, his hands plunged into his waistcoat pockets. His black hair was powdered, and tied at the back of his neck with a dark blue velvet ribbon. He was slight of build, but finely proportioned, not much taller than was she. His black brows were arched above his olive complexion, flaring upward toward his temples, and his dark eyes seemed somehow familiar to Cassie. He looked every inch an elegant Italian gentleman. He parted his full lips slowly and smiled at her, bending slightly in a bow of recognition at the waist. He was also very graceful, she thought to herself, smiling back at him.
“Cassandra, my dear,” the earl said to her. “I have a surprise for you. This is my half-brother, Caesare Bellini.”
He moved forward to stand at the earl’s side, and she recognized him as the earl’s half-brother. He had the same high cheekbones and the same straight Roman nose. She saw that the young man’s dark eyes were twinkling attractively and at the same time taking in every aspect of her appearance. He said slowly, as if fearing that she would not understand him, “I am honored, signorina. The Villa Parese has never housed such beauty.”
Housed, she thought. He makes it sound as if I were a horse or a painting. Still, she nodded her head and made him a slight curtsy.
“I only discovered recently that the earl was blessed with any relatives, signore.”
“You must ask him if he believes me a blessing, signorina. My brother tells me that you are English.”
She wondered silently what else the earl had told his half-brother. “Si, signore, I am English.” She shot the earl a challenging look. “Although I find your country very interesting, I must confess that I miss my homeland immensely.” She would have said more, but Marrina entered, a silver tray in her hands. Without even looking at Cassie, she walked to the earl.
“The signorina’s lemonade, il signore.”
So you have engaged my housekeeper in battle, have you, cara, he thought. “Most kind of you, Marrina. You may set the tray on the table. La signorina is most fond of lemonade.”
The housekeeper curtsied deeply and walked stiffly from the room, her lips so pursed that she looked as if she had been sucking a lemon.
After Marrina left the library, the earl said lightly to Caesare, “As you see, brother, Marrina has not yet taken to the idea that she now has a mistress to obey.”
“That is not exactly true, signore,” Cassie said sweetly. “If it were the contessa and not the mistress, I am certain that she would be all compliance.”
“You have but to name the day, cara,” the earl said, his dark eyes gleaming.
Cassie opened her mouth, then closed it. She saw that the earl’s half-brother was eyeing the two of them with considerable confusion.
She turned away and sat down in a deeply stuffed leather chair. She ignored her lemonade. “The earl has told me very little of you, signore.”
Caesare spread his hands before him. “It would obviously not be to his advantage to tell you all about me, signorina. He is such an ungainly giant and even wears a sling on his arm. So graceless, it seems, that he returns from England a battered man.”
Cassie’s smile at his gay banter disappeared. “It was not he who was graceless, signore.”
The earl gave a little chuckle. “Let us just say that I was careless, Caesare.”
“It appears that I have hit upon a mystery,” Caesare said gaily, looking from Cassie’s flushed face to the earl’s grinning one. As if he sensed further inquiry would add to Cassie’s discomfiture, he adroitly changed the topic. “Genoa has been bereft without your dashing presence, Antonio, but your business concerns, as usual, continue to prosper. You’ll not believe it, but old Montalto has been in hot pursuit of the charming Giovanna.”
The earl appeared only mildly interested, but Cassie found that she was all attention awaiting his response.
“I fear Giovanna would topple poor Montalto into an early grave.” He grinned ruefully and shook his head. “For a man so astute in worldly matters, it is a surprise that he would succumb to the charms of a woman half his age.”
“Caesare, will you share a glass of wine with us? We can toast Montalto’s success with the fair Giovanna.”
Cassie experienced a twinge of disappointment when Caesare, regretfully, took his leave.
He gallantly raised her hand to his lips and lightly kissed her palm. “You must insist that Antonio invite me more often to the Villa Parese, signorina.”
“You know that you are always welcome, fop,” the earl said, and gave his brother a light buffet on his immaculate shoulder.
Caesare shot him a mischievous smile. “But Antonio, with but your company to sustain me in the past, I really had no enduring interest. All is different now.”
“I will look forward to seeing you again soon, signore,” Cassie said, and meant it.
“May we always be in such agreement, signorina.” He proffered his half-brother a mock bow and gave Cassie a droll smile when Marrina came into the library to see him out.
In the evening, as the earl and Cassie ate their dinner in a small protected veranda that overlooked the gardens, she lowered her fork to her plate and said in a silky voice, “I find myself wondering, my lord, what your very kind half-brother would do if I told him of your infamy. Surely he would not approve your ruthlessness.”
The earl cocked a sleek black brow and sipped his wine before replying, “Actually, cara, I was pleased that you held your tongue. If you had not, I fear you would have been much mortified. Although Caesare much enjoys playing the gallant to a beautiful woman, his loyalty to me cannot be questioned.”
Cassie looked away, angered by his amused drawl. “So you told him nothing.”
The earl sat back in his chair and crossed his long legs. “I told him that you were English and m
“Honored guest. You know very well that he now believes me your mistress.”
“Doubtless you are right, Cassandra, but let us not argue about it. If you have wish to throw yourself at my poor half-brother and beg for his protection—” He shrugged eloquently. “He will likely admire my audaciousness.”
Her shoulders slumped forward. His dark eyes softened upon her face, and he gentled his voice. “I told you, did I not, that Caesare is my only living relation? It is from our mother, and her dowry to my father, that I inherited the Villa Parese.”
Cassie looked up. “Parese—that was her family name?”
“Yes. It is a very old, revered family in Genoese history, dating back many hundreds of years to Andrea Doria, when Genoa still ruled the seas.”
“Andrea Doria—he is the one who tossed away all the silver plates.” The earl paused a moment, his long fingers deftly peeling the skin off an orange.
He gave her an engaging smile. “Yes, he is the one. He was a brilliant man, an admiral, who saved Genoa early in the sixteenth century, primarily from the French, but of course there were others, like the Spanish and the Milanese. It was he who gave Genoa an oligarchic constitution and reestablished peace on the Riviera.”
The earl leaned forward and handed Cassie a succulent orange slice. “It tastes quite sweet. I hope you will like it.” His long fingers lightly touched the palm of her hand.
He watched her nibble at the orange slice between her even white teeth and smile as a drop of juice trickled down her chin. He sat back in his chair and continued, his tone somewhat pensive. “Unfortunately, since Andrea Doria, Genoa has been sadly bereft of heroes. But we survive, as Europe’s bankers, primarily. And that, Cassandra, is what occupies my time when I am not being a nobleman of leisure, or traveling.”
She looked up, startled. “You—a banker? An English earl is not involved in trade,” she said succinctly.
“It is only the Genoese half that is so involved.” He uncrossed his long legs and stretched them out in front of him. Her eyes were drawn momentarily to his thighs, encased in the black tightly knit breeches. “It is a long tradition,” he said, handing her another orange section. “Back in the early fifteenth century, during one of the darker moments in Genoa’s history, a group of local merchants pooled their talents and their resources and created the Banco di San Giorgio. Over the years, these men from Genoa’s patrician families perfected the art of credit. If Philip II of Spain needed money for foreign conquest, it was to the bankers of Genoa that he applied. But, of course, things change. Genoa cannot protect herself from foreign intervention. In our century, we have known cruel conquest by the French, and the Austrians in league with the Spanish. Only eight years ago we had to sell that accursed island of Corsica to France.” He leaned forward and gently wiped Cassie’s mouth and chin with a white napkin. “It is sticky, but I hope you liked it.”