Seduction of an English Beauty

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“Ah, carissima,” the man said softly behind her. “And here I thought my flowers would bring you pleasure!”

Chapter Four

“You!” Diana twisted around in the seat. The man was standing behind the carriage, his face level with hers. He looked different in the daylight—less mysterious, less the wild beast with his jaw cleanly shaven and his black hair combed more neatly, dressed in light blue-gray instead of black—yet still she’d know him anywhere. “What are you doing here?”

“Here?” He spread his arms wide, encompassing the entire crowded piazza. “‘Here’ is my home, my lady. I was born in Rome, and I’ve never lived anywhere else, nor wished to.”

“No, I meant here,” she said, jabbing her finger at the paving stones at his feet. “You must stop following me!”

He smiled, that lazy smile that revealed its charm slowly, a smile she’d come to recognize all too well.

“No, I mean what I say,” she said indignantly. The last thing she wished was to have Edward come out and see this man lurking behind her as if there were some sort of—of acquaintance between them. “You must leave at once, or I’ll have the driver send you away!”

His smile widened, and he made a nonchalant little sweep of his hand, a dare if ever there was one.

She jerked around in her seat and leaned towards the driver. “Driver, this man is bothering me.”

The man didn’t move, wheezing—or snoring—gently beneath his lowered hat.

With the ivory handle of her parasol, Diana tapped him on the shoulder. “Driver, please make this man leave me alone. Driveri, drivero—oh, how must I say it in Italian to make him understand?”

“Questo uomo mi da fastidio. Farlo andare via,” the man behind the carriage helpfully supplied. “That should do it.”

Diana whipped around to face him once again, the parasol clutched tightly in her hands. “What did you just tell him?”

“‘This man is bothering me. Make him go away.’ That’s what you wished me to say, isn’t it?” He leaned his arm on the back of the carriage seat, as comfortable as if it were a chair in his own parlor. “But I doubt the fellow is going to pay you any heed.”

“And why not?” Diana asked imperiously, though she’d wondered, too, why the driver was ignoring her. She was a duke’s daughter; she was accustomed to being obeyed. “He must do as I say. He’s in my employ.”

“Yes, my lady, but you see the last coin he took was mine, so I expect he’ll do as I ask instead,” the man said. “Which is to turn both a blind eye and a deaf ear to whatever protests you make about me.”

Diana frowned, restlessly tapping the handle of her parasol against her knee. She’d been in Italy long enough to understand the truth in what he said: there was almost no loyalty to be found in this country except to whomever waved the brightest coin last.

But that didn’t mean she was going to let him stand there like a grinning, handsome signboard. “This piazza is full of people, including English people. If you don’t leave directly, I shall shout and scream and make a general racket until others come to see that you do.”

“Will you now?” He lowered his voice a fraction, forcing her to lean closer to him so she could make out his words. “But then, dear, dear Lord Edward will understand if you turn into a shrieking banshee in the middle of the Piazza di Spagna. Even the daintiest of English ladies is permitted to draw a crowd on occasion.”

But Edward wouldn’t understand. He believed her to be refined and demure, a model English lady. Edward would be mortified if she created a scene, and blast this man for knowing it as well as she did herself.

She glanced over her shoulder, back to the doorway of their lodgings. “You must go now,” she said, her voice taut with urgency. “I don’t want you here, and I don’t want to see you.”

“But you do, cara,” he said softly, and it was the warmth in his gray-blue eyes that could convince her even if his words didn’t. “When you took my flowers into your arms and held them close, you thought of me, and how much you’d like to see me again. And I obliged.”

Her cheeks flushed with confusion. “You—you don’t know what I did. You can’t know.”

“But I do, my lady,” he said, and the way he smiled proved it. “You cannot deny it, can you? I chose every flower, every ribbon, knowing how they’d make you long to see me.”

Her back straight, she turned away from him, away from his eyes and his smile and his certainty. “You know nothing of me.”

“I know you wanted to see me, and now that you have, you’ll want to see me again, and again after that,” he said, his whispered voice so low and seductive behind her that it would almost have been better to have remained facing him. “I know that you don’t belong in this stuffy little carriage, with its stuffy little passengers, bella mia.”

“You don’t know anything about—”

“Hush, hush and listen,” he interrupted. “I know you belong with me, riding along the Palatine Hill and among the ruined palaces of the Augustans at sunset. With the kestrel’s cry overhead, we would laugh as the stars first showed themselves over the river and the dome of St. Peter’s. And I would kiss you, my wild lady, because that is what you want most of all from me. I would kiss you, and you me, there beneath the stars.”

She squeezed her eyes shut as if that were enough to close her ears as well. God forgive her, but she could imagine it all. Yet how had he known she’d prefer to see Rome on horseback instead of in this clumsy carriage? How had he understood that she was at heart a country girl who missed riding?

How had he known she would want him to kiss her again?

“You’re guessing,” she said defensively. “That’s all your prattle is. You can’t possibly know me as well as you pretend.”

“But I do, cara,” he reasoned, “because I know myself, and thus I—”

“Then why won’t you tell me your name?” she demanded. “You continue to insist upon this—this false connection between us, yet you can’t even bring yourself to tell me so much as that.”

“Antonio di Randolfo,” he said softly, surprising her. “My name is Antonio.”

“You mean Anthony,” she repeated with triumph, as if getting him to surrender his name was a great victory. “Like the Mark Anthony who murdered his Caesar? You were named for a traitor?”

He didn’t answer, and her triumph grew. At last she’d said something he couldn’t answer, and she turned around again to confront him, eager to see the confusion that must surely be marking his face.

But to her chagrin, he’d vanished. She looked across the piazza, to the left and the right, yet there was no sign of him. How could so large a man disappear so suddenly, and so completely?

“Anthony?” she called crossly, holding the back of the seat to peer down beneath the carriage. It would be entirely like him to hide underneath so he could suddenly pop up like a jack-in-the-box. “Anthony, where have you gone?”

“Lady Diana, what are you doing?” asked Miss Wood, her disapproval clear. “Hanging upside down like that! Come, sit properly, so Lord Edward and Reverend Lord Patterson might see your face instead of your—your other side.”

At once Diana spun around and dropped into her seat. “Good day, Lord Edward,” she said, concentrating on opening her parasol so she didn’t have to meet his gaze just yet. What if they’d actually seen her speaking to Anthony, with him leering over the seat? “I hope you slept well?”

“It was the wretched beggars again, wasn’t it?” Reverend Lord Patterson glared over the back of the carriage. “I’ve never seen such packs of the audacious rascals as here in Rome. I’m sorry, my lady, for leaving you to their depredation.”

“No better than thieves,” Edward agreed, dropping heavily into the seat across from Diana. “You should have come inside with Miss Wood, my lady, instead of having put yourself at risk alone. These Italian drivers and servants wouldn’t lift a pinkie in your defense. I say, it is warm today, isn’t it?”

“Thank you, my lords, but there was no harm done.” Diana smiled at Edward, whose own smile seemed somewhat sickly. His face was pale, too, with greenish undertones that made Diana suspect overindulgence in the local red wine after he’d left her last night. But she wouldn’t tempt fate. She’d say nothing. If they hadn’t noticed her talking to Anthony, then she wouldn’t notice Edward’s bleariness.

But Edward had other ideas. “You shouldn’t have insisted on sitting out here alone, my lady,” he said. “It’s not proper. You’ve no notion of the liberties these Roman men will take if you let them.”

“I told you, my lord, that I was quite well enough on my own,” Diana said, her displeasure simmering. She wished to make a favorable impression on Edward, true, but they certainly hadn’t reached the point where he was entitled to lecture her. “Do you see any Roman men within twenty feet of me at present? I may have no notion of their liberties, but I doubt they can take them at such a distance.”

He raised his chin like a bulldog, showing the softness beneath his jaw. “You shouldn’t underestimate them, Lady Diana. They are rough and daring, and all too willing to take advantage of an innocent lady.”

“Indeed, my lord.” She should have been comforted by his insistence on her innocence, and that she protect herself. But instead of his concern, she found herself hearing only the overbearing authority in his words, and thinking of how vastly more agreeable she’d found the stranger’s velvety, bemused tone instead. Nothing the stranger had said came close to being as vexing as Edward insisting she was a helpless imbecile.

No, he wasn’t a stranger any longer. His name was Anthony. Antonio di Randolfo. The name of a handsome, charming rascal, for whom pursuing her had become some sort of ridiculous game.

Antonio….

The driver turned the carriage about, the scraping of the metal-bound wheels against the paving stones a match for the discord in Diana’s mood.

“That was a beautiful bouquet you sent to her ladyship, my lord,” Miss Wood began, obviously trying to ease the strain within their little party. “A very unusual collection of blossoms.”

“Flowers, Edward?” His uncle beamed, turning towards him. “I didn’t know you’d sent her ladyship flowers!”

“Yes, my lord. I cannot thank you enough.” Diana smiled at Edward, waiting. He could confess the flowers weren’t his, or he could accept Anthony’s gift as his own. The difficult truth, or a comfortable, self-serving lie.

He smiled in return, and to her disappointment, she understood at once which path he’d take.

“I’m glad you liked the bouquet, my lady,” he said, touching his forehead. “Though the beauty of the flowers falls far short of your own, nor can they begin to express the admiration you inspire.”

She nodded in acknowledgement of his compliment, then looked away to the shops and houses they were passing. How could he so easily claim what wasn’t his? To take credit for flowers he hadn’t the imagination to gather, let alone the thoughtfulness to send to her—it made her both sad and resentful that he’d do such a base thing. Edward had seemed so honorable, so respectable. She’d wanted to trust him, even to love him, but after this she was inclined to do neither.