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Seduction of an English Beauty
Miranda Jarrett
“It was bella fortuna that sent you to me. Bella fortuna—luck, fate. Or is your London too dry and serious for such notions?”
“I don’t believe in fate,” Diana said. “Fate means you’ve abandoned reason and choice.”
“You’re listening too much to your head,” he said, tapping one finger to his brow. “That is acceptable for London, I suppose, but here in Rome you must rely on your heart. Romans do not think. They feel.”
“How did you know I’d be here?” she said, her voice sounding oddly breathy. “I certainly didn’t tell you.”
He smiled. “You didn’t have to. I knew you’d come. I knew it here, in my heart.”
“That’s enough,” she said. “My head—my English head—makes my decisions for me. I must go now, sir.”
“Ahh, you wound me, my lady! Have you remembered so much and forgotten my name?”
She looked up again, unable not to. One minute more with him. That was all she’d allow herself. Maybe two, three, but certainly no more than that. “I haven’t forgotten.”
“Then say it, my own Diana,” he whispered. “Say it to me from your heart, not your head.”
“Antonio,” she whispered in return, unable to stop herself. There was no one here to help her. But no one to watch and know what she did, either. “Antonio di Randolfo.”
Miranda Jarrett considers herself sublimely fortunate to have a career that combines history and happy endings—even if it’s one that’s also made her family far-too-regular patrons of the local pizzeria. Miranda is the author of over thirty historical romances, and her books are enjoyed by readers the world over. She has won numerous awards for her writing, including two Golden Leaf Awards and two Romantic Times Reviewers’ Choice Awards, and has three times been a Romance Writers of America RITA® Award finalist for best short historical romance.
Miranda is a graduate of Brown University, with a degree in art history. She loves to hear from readers at PO Box 1102, Paoli, PA 19301-1145, USA, or at MJarrett21@aol.com
Recent novels by the same author:
PRINCESS OF FORTUNE
THE SILVER LORD
THE GOLDEN LORD RAKE’S WAGER*
THE LADY’S HAZARD*
THE DUKE’S GAMBLE*
THE ADVENTUROUS BRIDE†
*A Penny House novel
†Grand Passion on the Grand Tour
Miranda Jarrett’s latest Regency trilogy is filled with
Grand Passion on the Grand Tour
The Duke of Aston’s beautiful daughters
are in Europe with their governess
on the most exciting trip of their lives…
The daring Lady Mary Farren took France by storm in
THE ADVENTUROUS BRIDE
Her scandalous sister Lady Diana
is thrilled by Italian passion in
SEDUCTION OF AN ENGLISH BEAUTY
Coming soon, their calm English governess,
Miss Wood, has her own romantic encounter…
THE ADVENTUROUS BRIDE
‘Jarrett provides readers with a delightful,
charming art mystery set in a colourful palette of the
French countryside, ancient churches and regal Paris.
The interesting backdrop and art history
add that little something different that
many readers are searching for…’
—RomanticTimesBOOKreviews
SEDUCTION OF AN ENGLISH BEAUTY
Miranda Jarrett
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
Chapter One
Rome, Italy
October, 1784
Rome was a bore.
Lady Diana Farren stood at the parlor window of their lodgings in the Piazza di Spagna, watching the rain flatten the leaves on the trees in the garden below her. Everyone had promised her that Rome would be enchanting, fascinating, the Eternal City among all other cities on the continent. Yet after a week of steamy rain and tedious company, of endless tours of more old churches, old temples, old statues, old paintings and company old enough to be her grandparents, the only thing eternal she’d discovered here was endless, eternal boredom.
Bore, bored, boring.
If her life had gone as she’d hoped and planned, she would have been staying in her family’s town house on Grosvenor Square in London by now. She would already be the prize belle of the new season, with a score of young lords vying for her attention and her hand, each willing to duel one another for the sake of a single dance with her. She was eighteen, and she was beautiful: a fact, not a boast, just as it was a fact that she was worth a fortune of at least £20,000 simply by being the younger daughter of the Duke of Aston.
But those facts hadn’t saved her from Rome. Nothing had. Instead, one evening in June, she’d been caught in her father’s stables with a groom whose face she tried never to recall, and she’d been sent abroad as punishment. She’d been banished, really. There was no other way to look upon Father’s decision, and no chance to appeal it, either. She’d finally, regretfully exhausted Father’s patience.
But matters had only grown worse in France. Through absolutely no fault of her own, she’d been knocked on the head and kidnapped at the orders of the wickedest old libertine in Paris, the Comte de Archambeault. To her great good fortune, the Comte had been mortally ill and unable to do her any harm. But the scandal had been bad enough, and a whole new set of ill-founded rumors and lies had attached to her name.
Now she was doomed to wander about Italy like some hapless gypsy at least until the spring, with her governess Miss Wood to watch her like a sharp-eyed hawk. By the time she finally returned to England, all the best bachelors would be claimed by other girls, or frightened clear away by her tattered reputation. Only the buck-toothed weaklings and spindle-shanked fools would be left. She’d never discover the kind of love her sister had found with her new husband: joyful, passionate and forever. Was it so very much to long for a love of her own? She might not even marry now, but be doomed to empty, loveless spinsterhood, just like Miss Wood.
Diana took a deep breath, trying to keep back her tears. Better to be bored than homesick, but with the gloom of this rain, the homesickness was winning out. She missed her sister and her father and her friends and her cousins. She missed all the young men who’d flirted with her and made her laugh. She missed her corner bedchamber at home in Aston Hall, and the way the sun would stream in the east windows in the morning. She missed England: the words she could understand without a pocket dictionary, the people who laughed at the same things she did, the food and the drink that could comfort her with their familiarity.
She was so lost in her own misery that she didn’t hear the other person join her at the window until it was too late to escape.
“Buongiorno, mia gentildonna bella,” the gentleman began. “Mi scusa, non posso a meno di—”
“Per favore, signore, no,” Diana said without turning, giving her refusal the stern conviction that Miss Wood would expect from her. Please, sir, no. What could be more direct than that? She’d already had practice enough on this journey; Italian men could be persistent, and if Diana ever wished to see London again, she had to be as discouraging as possible. “Grazie, no.”
“Ahh.” The man cleared his throat, perplexed. “No speranza, mia gentildonna?”
Suspicious, Diana frowned. She thought he was asking her if she could offer him any hope or encouragement, but she wasn’t certain. Her Italian was so limited that she had to be very careful. She’d already suffered through one unfortunate (though amusing) experience when she’d thought a servant had been offering her more tea, and instead he’d been begging to kiss her, and quite shamelessly, too.
“Sono spiacente, signore, noi non sono stato introdotto.” I’m sorry, sir, but we’ve not been introduced. That had become her well-practiced answer to all questions. “Grazie, no. No.”
But the man didn’t budge, and Diana sighed wearily. Until now, she’d thought that she and Miss Wood were the only guests at Signor Silvani’s palazzo, and that she’d be left alone here in the common parlor. If this impertinent fellow wouldn’t leave her, then she’d have to leave him, and return to the private suite of rooms she shared with Miss Wood and their servants.
She folded the ivory blades of her fan into her palm, and turned away from him to leave. “Arrivederci, signore.”
“Don’t go, please, oh, hang it, that is—Parla inglese, mia gentildonna?”
Surprised, she paused, but didn’t look back. He didn’t sound Italian, but he sounded young and charming, and rather handsome, too, if sound alone could be trusted.
“Of course I speak English, sir,” she said cautiously. “What else would an Englishwoman speak?”
“Then we’ve that much in common,” he said, “because I’m English, too.”
“Are you, sir?” She would have to turn to face him now. What was necessarily discouraging to a forward foreign gentleman would be unforgivably ill-mannered to a gentleman who was English, like herself.
And so she set her face into a polite smile, and turned. The gentleman was not only English, but handsome, with curling blond hair streaked with gold, a smile full of charm and blue eyes that seemed bright enough to light even this gray day. Though not tall, he had the manly sturdiness of an English country gentleman, with a broad chest beneath his well-tailored waistcoat. He was young, too, of an interesting age not much older than her own. Her smile grew and became genuine. How could it not?
“Good day to you, sir.” She didn’t curtsey, guessing his rank to be below hers, but her smile remained, warm and interested. She let her gaze slide past him, looking for Miss Wood to be their chaperone. The parlor was empty except for the two of them and the dreary sound of the rain echoing up into the room’s high coved ceiling. Diana could predict Miss Wood’s lecture: to be alone with a gentleman, English or not, was not acceptable, especially not without a proper introduction.
Diana knew the rest, too. Loneliness didn’t matter. She shouldn’t speak another word to him. She should put aside her smile behind frosty indignation and reserve. She should return at once to her own rooms. If she wanted her banishment from London to end, she mustn’t falter now.
And yet how would a few minutes in this gentleman’s company hurt? From his accent, his manner, and his bearing, she was certain he was a gentleman, just as he must realize she was a lady. And if he were another guest in this particular palazzo, then he must also have impeccable references and a well-lined pocketbook, for these lodgings were the most exclusive in a neighborhood that already catered to aristocratic British travelers.
Surely, then, he’d understand the value of honor, both hers and his own. Surely he could be trusted, especially with a smile like that.
And surely, too, he must understand the little shiver of excitement she felt at doing something that she’d been so expressly forbidden to do.
“I’ve frightened you, haven’t I?” he asked, misreading her silence. “Coming up behind you like that, taking you by surprise. Ah, forgive me, my lady!”
“I’m not so tender as that,” she said. “It takes far more to frighten me. And how did you know I was a lady?”
“I guessed,” he confessed, his smile becoming a grin. “I was right, too, wasn’t I, my lady?”
“You were.” She turned her wrist and tapped him on the arm with her fan, not hard, not really, but enough to make it clear that she still held the advantage. Oh, this was a hundred times more enjoyable than all the musty old galleries in Rome combined—a thousand times! “Just as I will guess, and guess correctly, that you are a gentleman.”
He cocked his head to one side. “A gentleman, but no lord?”
“Perhaps,” she said, narrowing her eyes to appraise him teasingly. “Your tailor would say so, and so would your tutor at school. And if you’re staying here, with Signor Silvani’s blessing, then most likely you are what you claim.”
“But I’m not,” he said. “Staying here, I mean. My rooms are down the street a ways. I’m only visiting my uncle.”
“Your uncle.” Blade by blade, she opened her fan, holding it just below her chin as she smiled over the painted arc. “And now, you see, you’re visiting me.”
“Lady Diana?” Miss Wood’s voice echoed faintly down the hallway from their rooms. “Where are you, my lady?”
Diana snapped her fan shut. “That’s my governess,” she said, her eyes round with urgency. “I can’t let her find you here with me. Hurry, hurry, you must hide!”
“Hide?” The gentleman smiled indulgently. “There’s no need for that, my lady.”
“Oh, yes, there is.” Swiftly, Diana glanced around the room, searching for a hiding place, and grabbed his arm. “There, behind those curtains. I’ll send her on her way as soon as I can.”
But he didn’t move, only patting her hand as it clung to his sleeve. “I’m not ashamed to be here with you, my lady.”
“That is not the point, sir, not when—ah, Miss Wood, you’ve found me!” Diana smiled brightly, and pulled her hand free of the gentleman’s. “I was just coming to answer your call when this gentleman stopped me.”
With her hands clasped at the waist of her plain gray gown, Miss Wood didn’t answer at first, taking her time to judge the situation for herself. Such silence was hardly new to Diana, and she knew that the longer it continued, the less likely her governess was to decide in Diana’s favor. While Miss Wood herself was still a young woman, not yet thirty, in Diana’s eyes she would forever be a model spinster-governess: small, drab, inclined to stoutness, severity and suspicion. If Father had sent her away with the head gaoler of Newgate Prison, he couldn’t have watched her more closely than Miss Wood.
Even now the governess was studying the gentleman, from the silver buckles on his shoes to the top of his gold-colored head, with the same shrewdness that a farmer’s wife used to gauge the worth of vegetables on market day. Finally, she gave a quick little nod, her way of prefacing disagreeable tasks.
“Good day, sir,” she said, her voice as chill as ice as she dropped a perfunctory curtsey. “Forgive me for speaking plainly, sir, but I do not believe you have been properly introduced to her ladyship. My lady, come with me.”
Diana sighed with frustration. All she’d wanted was a few moments’ conversation, a small diversion from this wretched trip’s tedium. She’d meant no harm nor scandal, nor had she intended to do anything to put her return to England and London and her season in jeopardy.
But there’d be no use in arguing with Miss Wood, because, as usual, Miss Wood had truth on her side. Diana hadn’t been properly introduced to the gentleman; she didn’t even know his name. Besides, if he was like all the others, now he’d make as hasty a retreat as he possibly could, the cowards. No man, gentle or otherwise, liked to be reminded of the fearsome prospect of her father’s displeasure, even though Father was hundreds of miles away in England.
She swallowed back her unhappiness and raised her chin, prepared to follow Miss Wood back into discretion, gentility and exquisite, undeniable boredom.
But to her surprise, the gentleman spoke first.
“Hold a moment, Miss Wood,” he said, his voice strong and sure and not the least cowardly. “If all that’s lacking between this lady and myself is an introduction, then introduce us properly, and set everything to rights.”
Diana gasped, startled that a gentleman had dared challenge Miss Wood’s authority or her father’s wrath. None of the other men that she’d known in the past would have. But this one was already proving himself to be a superior gentleman—quite superior.
But Miss Wood remained unconvinced. She stopped abruptly, drawing herself up as tall as she could before him. “How could I possibly introduce you to her ladyship, sir, when no one has introduced you to me?”
“Then I shall.” He bowed, more towards Diana than her governess. “Miss Wood, I am Lord Edward Warwick, and my father is the Marquess of Calvert, and if you choose not to believe me, you need only ask my uncle, who is also a guest of this house.”
