Prince Charming (6 page)

She stood and walked on wobbly legs over to the door, where she waited to see their honored guest out like a proper hostess.

God knew she wished the man would leave.

Rafe was contemplating seduction.

He was not quite sure what to make of old Chiaramonte’s granddaughter, but it would have been of great help if someone could tell him why Lady Daniela seemed determined to treat him as though she were too good for him. It would also have been helpful if someone could tell him why he found her aloof disinterest so potent a lure.

From the moment the defiant minx had tossed her chin at him, sassing him as though he were beneath contempt, she had caught his attention. One did not make a mistress out of a duke’s virginal granddaughter, ah, but rules were made to be broken.

Tomorrow was his birthday and she was a present he had decided to give to himself—and why the devil not? She was obviously in difficult financial straits. Perhaps with a few soft words and the right persuasion, he could entice her into an arrangement that would please them both.

The only challenge was that the girl would barely even meet his gaze, let alone speak to him. He had the feeling his reputation had preceded him, and oddly enough, her silent judgment of him stung. Odd indeed, when he could laugh off the prime minister’s tirades against his wanting character without a care.

He followed her down the hall at a leisurely stroll, weighing words to lead this wholesome country girl off the virtuous path and into his den of iniquity.

He did not expect an easy conquest—a fact which delighted him. Lady Daniela, he had swiftly concluded after her display of nerve outside, was one of the thankfully rare breed of intelligent and unsinkably poised females who had the power to make a man feel like a bumbling ass with a mere, slightly baffled look. She was unconventional, willful, and fresh, and a redhead, to boot, and in his experience, redheads were pure trouble.

Unfortunately, he craved trouble.

Clearly, to his amusement, she was not impressed with him. Yet looking around him, he could not fail to note the condition of their villa, their sorry lack of servants, the old man’s frail health, the lovely girl’s poor clothes when her skin, tender as flowers, ought to be swathed in silk, as befitted the heiress to so noble a name. Plans of getting her into bed aside, he ached to do something for these people.

There was the possibility of marrying her off to one of his titled, well-heeled friends, but that could come later, after he had had his fill of her. At the moment, he couldn’t bear the thought of her in anyone else’s arms but his.

Lady Daniela was stiff and silent as they walked to the villa’s front door. Her small, work-reddened hands were folded demurely over her middle. It was a crime, the condition of those poor little hands, he thought. He would give her a battalion of servants so she need never lift a finger again.

Gunpowder, eh?
he thought in amusement. She was like a little keg of it herself.

He was highly curious about her equestrian gymnastics and could not help wondering, with his dirty mind, if her agile skills could be carried over into other arenas where he, in turn, could boast a certain expertise. He tried to gauge what she might be thinking, but her lowered cinnamon lashes veiled her eyes.

He didn’t really know why he wanted her. A whim, perhaps. A passing fancy, the simple, selfish impulse of a seasoned rake. Chloe was ten times more beautiful, talented, sophisticated—a courtesan at the height of her powers. But then, he had Chloe wrapped around his finger, and where was the fun in that?

She must be very young, he mused, eyeing the prey furtively askance. She had the look of a developing child, with a round head perched atop a willowy body. She was a pleasing height, the top of her head a couple of inches below his shoulder.

The more he looked at her, the more intrigued he became. She had wide, prominent cheekbones angling down to a small, delicate mouth like a rosebud, and a firm, saucy little chin that he longed to pinch, just to see if he could make that young, serious face break into a smile. Her nose was small and pert, and he wished she would at least glance at him so he might learn the color of her eyes.

Because she had chosen the farthest seat away from him in their dim salon, he had only been able to make out the blazing expression of those large, intelligent eyes, full of fiery will and inborn command…full, too, of an innocent poignancy that made his chest tighten oddly.

Ah, she would give him a run for his money. It would be heaven to feel such a wild, untouched creature soften and yield beneath him. Tame her. She was a tough one, all right, he thought as they stepped outside into the starry black night. Somehow he knew she was the one holding this desperate household together. An awfully young girl for such a job, he thought, saddened and yet admiring her all the more for it.

“Thank you for your kindness to my grandfather,” Daniela Chiaramonte said quietly.

He turned and looked at her—a young girl out here in the middle of nowhere with no one to protect her and a criminal on the loose. God knew if the family even had enough to eat, for she was too damned thin.

Suddenly his mind was made up. He would seduce her and be damned. At least as his mistress she would be protected and well fed.

“It is my birthday tomorrow,” he said abruptly, tapping his riding crop lightly against his knee.

She gave him a startled look. “Oh! Many happy returns, Your Highness.”

“No, no,” he said impatiently, “you see—that is—my friends are giving a ball at my palazzo for the occasion. I wish you to come.”

She looked up quickly. “Me?”’

But Rafe neglected to answer, staring at her eyes as they caught the light from the lantern that the old housekeeper had left on the hook by the door.

Aquamarine.

Of course. He found himself gazing into wide, wary, very innocent eyes the most extraordinary shade of pristine aqua-blue, like the secret coves where he used to swim as a youth, where he used to fall asleep on the flat rock with the sun on his skin and the waterfall music lulling his ears, escaping now and then the crushing pressure of his destiny and the hopeless quest of ever pleasing his sire.

Staring into those crystalline eyes, their expression honey-sweet, his mood suddenly soared for the first time in thinking of his birthday.

It meant he would see her again.

“Yes, you must come,” he said with a determined smile. “Don’t worry over the practicalities. I shall send a carriage for you. You will be my guest of honor.”

“What?”

He searched for a delicate way to explain how he wanted to help her, then decided she was too green to take a hint. Best to lead her along slowly and make his wishes clear bit by bit. He favored her with one of his most winning smiles. “I would very much like to get to know you better, Lady Daniela,” he said. “Do you dance?”

“No.”

“No,” he echoed. Well, she hadn’t swooned at the request for a dance. Damn.

Pursing his mouth in thought, he stared at her consideringly. He longed to touch her, perhaps a light caress along her cheek, but thought better of it. “Do you like music?”

“Some.”

“What of pleasure gardens? Do you like those?”

She was furrowing her brow and staring at him in baffled suspicion, shaking her head slightly. “I haven’t seen any.”

He leaned toward her and lowered his voice to a wicked whisper. “What about sweets?” He slid a small flat tin out of his pocket and opened it, setting two peppermints on his palm. “I have a sweet tooth myself.” He lifted his hand and waited for her to take one of the mints. “It is my only vice.”

“Is that so?” she asked skeptically, as she looked up from the candies to his face, hesitating to indulge.

He laughed. “Come, have one. They’re not poison.” He watched her take one of the striped peppermints and place it warily in her mouth. “You, Lady Daniela,” he said, “are coming to my birthday party and together we shall indulge shamelessly in chocolate truffles, champagne ices, and delicious little quivering pink cakes called Breasts of Venus, which my chef makes”—He kissed his fingertips—
“alla perfezione.”

“Thank you,” she said, the mint puffing her cheek, “but I really can’t possibly—”

“Don’t talk with your mouth full,” he chided, neatly cutting off her protest. “What if I were to insist?”

The innocent confusion in her eyes intensified. She looked overwhelmed. She stared at him with an earnest expression, diligently sucking the mint.

To his amusement, she obeyed his injunction, not attempting to speak again until she was finished eating it.

God, he wanted her. The shivery, wild thrill of pursuit cascaded through his body.

“Your invitation is very kind and I know you are probably only saying all this because you feel sorry for me in this ramshackle place with no one but a dear, mad old colonel for company”—Daniela glanced over her shoulder at her house—“but I assure you, Prince Rafael, I cannot possibly attend your party.” She hesitated. “If you truly wish to do me a good turn, see that the child, Gianni, does not spend the night in jail.”

He tilted his head with a cajoling little half-smile that had worked on females since he was a tot in the cradle. “If I do that for you, will you come to the ball?”

“Truthfully, I don’t see how I could—”

“Hush. It’s settled, then.” He gave her his most dazzling smile. “I will send a carriage for you at six tomorrow evening. That will give you plenty of time to dress. A lady friend of mine will lend you a brilliant gown and I daresay I can get my hands on a necklace of fire opals that would superbly set off your complexion. Trust me, I have an eye for these things. Until tomorrow night, my lady,” he said, lifting her hand from her side and kissing her knuckles lightly as he sent her an intimate look. Then he released her and turned away. With a cool smile of victory, he jogged lightly down the few front stairs and strode toward the grazing white horse, whistling
“La ci darem la mano.”

“Sir, I said no.”

He paused, then turned, a little surprised, but pleased by her maidenly resistance. One didn’t want too easy a conquest. He rested his riding crop jauntily on his shoulder. “Lady Daniela, surely you are not averse to having a little fun in life?”

Her arms were folded tightly over her chest and she lifted her chin. “With all due respect, Your Highness, my friends have just been arrested. It isn’t a good time.”

“You should not be consorting with criminals in the first place, my dear,” he said with condescending patience, then smiled. “Our bargain is sealed. I will remove the child from the jail and see that he’s placed in safer quarters, and in return, you will dance with me tomorrow night—and you will try one of my chef’s pink cakes. I insist on it.”

She placed her hands on her waist, her brow knitted, her tone growing belligerent. “I said I will not come, sir. Are you deaf?”

Deciding that he adored the fight in her, he cupped his ear. “Pardon?”

“How can Your Highness ask me to be so selfish as to think of idle entertainments when my friends may be sentenced to hang tomorrow?”

Two realizations suddenly pierced Rafe’s brain, soaked as it was with music and
amore
. One, she still hadn’t taken the slightest hint about the true nature of his invitation; and two, her answer was no anyway because, it presently dawned on him, she was in love with that fiery young hothead he had just arrested.

Flat, unequivocal no.

The realization acted as a bucket of ice water dousing the gathering heat of his enthusiasm. He could scarcely believe it.

“Well, this is rich,” he said, staring at her, one fist cocked on his hip.

He recalled that the eldest of the rebellious young highwaymen whom he had sent to jail over an hour ago had been a tall, strapping farm boy of perhaps four and twenty, whose name the men had logged as Mateo Gabbiano. Clad in sturdy work clothes with a brown vest and a red bandanna knotted around his neck, Mateo Gabbiano had been the handsome sort of rustic youth, with curly dark hair and the kind of big brown eyes that melted tenderhearted women.

Aha.
Now Lady Daniela’s indifference to him from the start made sense.

Having been worshiped and adored by women from the day he was born, Rafe had had too little experience with rejection to take it well.

His opinion of her plunged.

A scowl settled over his face. How could the foolish wench give her heart and perhaps her favors to a skulking criminal? he thought with an inward, aristocratic snort of disdain. Maybe she was lonely in this isolated place, but had the woman no feeling for her rank? How the devil could she choose that peasant over…him?

“Well, my lady,” he said with cold hauteur, “I’ll see what I can do for the boy. Fare you well.”

He pivoted and stalked down the few front steps of the villa, marching stiffly toward the white horse. His better sense pointed out that the highwaymen had made a dash for her property, and she might well be mixed up in their crimes. But if she was involved, he did not want to know it.

A few steps away, Rafe stopped and abruptly turned.

She was still standing there, her slim body silhouetted in the light from the lantern.

“Why did you pretend not to know who I am?” he demanded.

“To lower you a peg,” she replied. “Why did you spend an hour with a senile old man when you were so determined to catch an outlaw?”

“Because, my lady,” he said crisply, “there are times when an act of kindness outweighs one of justice.”

She was silent for a moment, holding his gaze. “I am obliged that you wanted to help me,” she called. “But instead, I shall help you.”

“Help me?” he replied in worldly sarcasm. “I doubt that.”

“Look into the books of this county’s tax collector, Your Highness, and you may find the real criminal at large.”

He narrowed his eyes. “What are you implying, madam?”

“You’ll see.”

He tapped his riding crop across his palm. “Graft does not flourish under my father’s rule. Not so much as a bee drinks from the wrong flower without the say-so of King Lazar di Fiore.”