Wicked (34 page)

It was.

And when Serena emerged from the back hallway, she'd been greeted by the landlady's beaming countenance and a rapid flow of directions to the nearby markets, churches, and shops. Because Serena's Italian was flawless and the landlady was much pleased with the donna inglese who spoke with a Florentine accent, their discussion eventually included a lengthy interrogation concerning Serena's mother's family.

"She certainly seems to know everyone north of Rome," Beau remarked once the landlady departed. "You at least won't lack for someone to talk to," he added with a grin.

"She might even be able to help me find out a bit about my mother's family. Papa knew so little."

"A fault of men," he said and in that vein dismissed any further interest in family antecedents. "I'm off to bring the carriage and luggage back. Why don't you decide where you want your easel? And think about rearranging the bedroom; I'm going to see if the landlady has another bed."

"You don't like the bed?"

"If I was a foot shorter I might like it."

"Are you staying then?" Her mood was buoyant.

"At least for a few days and I don't care to suffer."

She didn't suppose the Duke of Seth's glorious son had suffered much in his life. And she also understood more practically that the small bed wouldn't suit him. "Ask the landlady where we can eat too."

"If you get hungry have some of that bread and cheese we bought at Badia. And I'll bring back something for dinner. Ciao, darling," he said, blowing her a kiss.

******************

Serena wandered through the rooms, pleased with the arrangement and size of the apartment. The salon was large, with a diminutive balcony overlooking the river; a small parlor suitable for an office or sitting room opened off the salon; the bedroom was more than adequate for her needs; the kitchen had a little porch, the scent of lilies rising from the garden below. She could paint in the salon; the light was wonderful. This was her first real home since Fallwood and alone in a strange land, she was more happy than she thought possible. Or not quite alone, she mused, which no doubt accounted for her good spirits.

As for the future, she wouldn't allow herself to think of Beau's leaving.

                                               
·
     
·
     
·

He came back two hours later, running up the stairs, shouting he was home, making her heart sing with happiness.

He'd said "home."

And even knowing better, she relished the intimate word.

Several porters followed him upstairs, bringing sections of a bed he'd found, the luggage, flowers, and vases.

"This bed isn't from the landlad
y
—
i
t's new. I can't afford it," she softly said, wishing there was some way on earth to keep him.

"Fight with me later," he murmured, his dark eyes sparkling, "when the bed is set up. I'll let you win."

"If I win, will you take it back?"

"If you win, I'll let you buy it from me."

"With what, pray tell?"

"I thought we could barter . . . something," he said, wicked and lecherous and charming still.

"Do I have a choice?"

He pretended to consider for a second and then grinned. Actually, no. And before you get all wrathful," he gently added, noting the flush rising on her cheeks, "I brought back food for supper."

"Am I not allowed to argue?"

"Not until the bed's assembled." His voice was equable, a half-smile on his face.

"You're impossible," she said. "Like a battering ram." And then she exhaled in a breathy sigh. "You're going to avoid discussing any of this, aren't you?" It was impossible to be angry with him. He utterly disregarded her resentment, his good cheer and impertinent charm unimpaired.

"Let's talk about it after we eat," he pleasantly offered.

But he wouldn't and maybe she was a fool even to consider resisting his largesse.

While they ate and drank wine and watched the sun drift behind the low hills surrounding the city, the workmen set the bed in place.

"If you stay around long enough, I'll become spoiled again," Serena remarked, "waited on like this."

"Time enough for you to work when I leave."

The word "leave" strummed in the air between them, her sudden feeling of abandonment shocking, incomprehensible considering she'd always known his company was transitory.

"But I'll stay for a time. . . ." he murmured, sensing her discomfort, his own emotions in flux. "If you don't mind."

"I'd like you to," Serena quietly replied, because she couldn't be modishly coy or unsusceptible even if the Earl of Rochefort might prefer less feeling in his amours.

"Well then." He inhaled as if he'd run a great distance, and smiling at her, he said, "What should we do tomorrow?"

******************

He stayed for another week and they strolled for hours each day through the streets of the Renaissance city, spending leisurely hours viewing all the art treasures of note, climbing to the top of the Duo
m
o and campanile to see the city spread out before them, walking through the endless corridors of the Pitti Palace and the serpentine paths of the surrounding Boboli gardens, marveling at Ghiberti
'
s sublime doors to the baptistry, standing in awe before Michelangelo's Davi
d
—
t
he eyes so lifelike the marble took on a warm humanity. The Palazzo Vecchio imbued with hundreds of years of Florence's history reminded Serena of how fleeting life was, as did the
U
f
fi
zi, awash in masterpieces collected by the Medicis, men of great passions and power, room after room filled with works of art so precious, she was speechless before them.

They often rode outside the city too, taking in the Etruscan and Roman ruins at Fiesole as well as the monastery Michelangelo had designed in the hills north of town. And they ate and drank and made love in their hours of leisure as lovers have done since the beginning of time, completely engrossed in each other, preoccupied with all the variations of pleasure, basking in the lush world of sensuality.

•
    
•
    
•

Late one night, Serena's monthly courses began and Beau, sitting up in bed after she left his side, lit a candle and silently watched her wash the blood from her thighs and deal with the necessary procedures. She slipped on a nightgown when she was finished and lay down beside him again, her mood reserved, strained.

"Does it hurt?" He drew her into his arms.

"A little."

"Would you like a brandy?"

She murmured no and then subsided into an unnatural quiet.

"Did you think you might be pregnant?"

"I was concerned." She spoke softly but brusquely, grudging the words.

"After . . . wel
l
—
a
fter so long," he obtusely said, "
/
thought you might be pregnant."

He'd noticed, she thought. And would it have mattered, she sullenly mused. "As you see"—
s
he forced herself to smil
e
—"you're quite safe."

"Since we weren't always . . . practical," he said, euphemistically referring to their occasional intemperate lapses in contraception, "it's fortunate."

"Extremely fortunate for me," she coolly noted, wondering how many times Beau St. Jules had had to extricate himself from the responsibilities of impending fatherhood.

He heard the repudiation in her voice. "I would have taken care of you," he softly said, "if there'
d
been a child."

"I imagine you would. You're a very generous man."

Her tone implied volumes more. He'd heard that pitch and resonance and implication befor
e
—
n
ot over a child, for he was normally cautious, but over his numerous departures from women's boudoirs and lives.

He didn't answer. He knew how useless words were at that stage. But he held her in his arms because he wanted to and she allowed him. A curious sense of sadness filled his mind as
if
he'd lost something, and the feeling was impossible to ignore even for a man who ordinarily ignored emotions having to do with ladies and amour.

She should have felt relief her courses had come, Serena thought, lying in Beau's embrace, and in the rational portion of her brain she did. But in the wishful, unreal part of her mind where longing and need overlooked practicalities, she grieved for the baby she might have had. She might have had his child to love when he was gone from her life. But she wouldn't now. And her tears were real.

He felt the dampness on his chest, heard her small muffled sobs, but he wasn't certain he wished to know the reason for her tears, suspicious, overcautious after too many adventuresses in his life.

Beau's indifference hurt deeply, his silence speaking more powerfully than words. Her tears erupted in a deluge, and abruptly pulling away, Serena scrambled from the bed. Realizing almost too late that she intended to leave, Beau grabbed at her, his hand closing on her wrist just as her feet touched the floor. "What did I do?"

It was what he hadn't done, she thought, sniffling, wiping her tears away with her free hand. "You haven't done anything," she lied. "It's just my courses. ... I cry easily when I'm . . ." Her voice trembled to a stop.

"Let me help. Should we do something ... go somewhere?"

Biting her lip, she shook her head, feeling forsaken when she should know better, when he'd never promised her anything at all.

"You're sure?" His gaze was kindly, perplexed.

She tried to smile but her mouth quivered and he found himself filled with bewildering remorse. Rolling on his side, he drew her back down beside him and holding her close, stroked her hair, her face, the gentle curve of her back, molding her body to his, murmuring words of comfort, sweet, consoling words, his voice gentle. "Everything's going to be fine . . . don't cry," he whispered. "Don't cry . .. I'm here."

But he wouldn't be for long, she despairingly thought, which only made her cry more uncontrollably, and sobbing, she hiccuped, "I'm . . . sor . . . so
r
—
r
y . . . for . . . crying."

"Don't be," he murmured, gently brushing her hair away from her temples. He wanted to give her something; it was all he knew about making amends, and racking his brain, he wondered what he could purchase in the middle of the night. "Let me buy you something," he said, thinking a promise might suffice until morning, knowing it wouldn't but at a loss to console her.

"You . . . can't." She h
i
ccuped, sobbing harder, distraite, heartsick, no longer caring about discretion or embarrassment or whether she was mortifying herself beyond redemption.

He could buy anything. "Tell me. It's yours."

She looked at him through a blur of tears, his beauty spectacular even veiled by a despairing mist. "I want . . .
you,"
she blurted out, the words exploding into the quiet like an artillery blast. As shocked as he at her boldness, she shoved at his chest, breaking his hold, and leaping from the bed, fled the room.

He lay very still listening to her agitated breathing in the adjacent room, his mind riveted on her words, the phrase locked in his brain as if gear wheels had jammed at her demand. As with any demand from a lady, the more cynical of his friends might say.

He blew out his breath.

And then he heaved himself out of bed and searched for his breeches. This was a conversation that would require at least a minimum of clothing.

When he walked into the salon, Serena looked up from the sofa where she sat curled up in one corner and spoke firmly. "There's no excuse; I shouldn't have said it. Feel free to leav
e
—
n
ow if you wish."

He sat down in a chair across the room.

Safe, she thought. He's done this before.

"I don't want to go," he murmured. "But I can't stay forever either."

"Whatever you like." Her tears were gone, burned away by her humiliation.

"I like being with you." His voice was deep, rich, sincere.

But he kept his distance, she noticed, wary after too many women crying for him to stay. "I can't believe I said what I did." She pulled her knees up under her chin and gazed at him over her nightgown-clad knees.

He found the openness in her eyes enchanting as he always did. "You're more emotional now wit
h
—"

"My monthly cycle," she said, helping him out. She'd had time to bludgeon her emotions into a semblance of normalcy.

"With that." His grin was white in the moonlight.

"We'll pretend this never happened." Following his dégagé lead, she could even smile with equanimity.