Wicked (35 page)

"That'd be damned convenient." He slid down in his chair, relaxing, his legs sprawled out before him.

"And I've appreciated
your
convenience," she said, the sardonic lightness in her voice familiar. "All ten inches of it."

"When you're feeling better again, we're here for you," he lazily drawled. "In the meantime, let me take you shopping tomorrow."

"Buying off another woman's tears, Rochefort?" The irony was mild, her eyes amused.

"Assuaging my conscience."

"I didn't think you had one."

"I didn't think so either," he softly said.

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

They went shopping the next day because he convinced her it was useless to resist; she should understand that by now.

She did. He was right.

So for a few days more she'd allow him to mollify his conscience because the futility of continuing to fight against his wishes would soon be moot and her principles and ethics had lost their fine edge last night, inundated in the flood tide of her tears. It was very clear too, after their cordial, nonchalant conversation in the middle of the night, that once he left, he wouldn't be co
m
ing back.

He bought her a dozen pair of slippers in a dozen different colors and two lush carpets from Baghdad and the sofas and chairs and mirrors and tables he hadn't dared buy the day he brought home the bed. Then he also purchased the tapestry she admired of the
Pri
m
av
e
r
a
—
a
very close approximation, he thought, Botticelli's lithe blond maiden like Serena Blythe from Gloucestershire. And over her protests, because even her disregarded principles took notice of the exorbitant price, Beau bought her a necklace of gold and pearls and a robin's-egg ruby. "Think of me when you wear it," he said.

She would think of him every minute of the da
y
with or without the necklace, she knew. He could have saved his money.

He stayed almost two weeks more in her lavishly furnished apartment and then one afternoon, he turned from the window where he'd been contemplating the view of the river for some time and said, "There may be messages for me at Palermo, which I have to bring back to England."

"I understand."

"I'd like to stay longer."

"I know."

"If Sir Hamilton has no news, I could come back."

He wouldn't. "I'd like that," she said.

"Are you going to be all right until the Castellis return?"

"I'm going to start painting. Then I'll have some work to show when I enter an atelier." She wouldn't cry; if she didn't think of him leaving, she could keep her feelings in check.

"You have plenty of paints?"

He'd bought out two stores for her. "Thank you, yes."

"What are we going to do tonight?" He tried to speak casually, but he found it difficult.

"I thought I'd fuck you to death."

He laughed and felt better. "A woman after my own heart."

If you had one, my dear Glory, she thought, understanding beneath her derision why a man like Beau St. Jules had never acquired one. "We're a good match then, because I like your cock."

He covered the short distance between them in three swift strides, and grabbing her shoulders, half lifted her from her chair, bending down to kiss her, his mouth harsh, his fingers biting into her flesh. A second later he pulled her completely to her feet, spilling the prints in her lap to the floor and jerking her hard against his body, forced her mouth open with his, drove his tongue deep into her throat, anger and frustration eating at his brain. He couldn't bear to think of her saying that to another man. She was his.

Or at least tonight she was, cooler reason reminded him, and suppressing his rankled territorial emotions, he lifted her into his arms and walked into the bedroom.

They stayed up all night, neither wanting to waste a moment of their last hours together. They made love with tenderness, with exquisite slowness, and at the last when dawn was breaking, they burned flame hot, stung by the searing finality, by the inexorable end of their affair.

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

He said he didn't want breakfast when she asked.

He was packing swiftly, tossing his clothes into his portmanteau, and his gaze when it lifted to hers was startlingly blank. "If I reach Leghorn by dinnertime I can catch the evening tide." His voice too was without emotion.

"Would you like me to make you a lunch?"

He smiled the
n
—
a
flash of the man she knew. "If you could, I'd say yes." She'd not yet mastered the most rudimentary cooking. "But thank you for asking."

"I
could
help you pack."

"I'm almost finished. Have you seen my watch?"

"It's in the parlor; I'll get it."

When she returned to the bedroom, his portmanteau was strapped shut and he was slipping on his bottle green coat.

He took the watch from her, threaded the chain through his waistcoat buttonhole, and slid the timepiece into his pocket. "Thank you for everything," he said, standing a foot away but his voice already distant.

"You're very welcome. But you've been infinitely more generous than I. I'm in your debt." She spoke in an even, level tone, as capable as he of politesse.

"Certainly not." His tone was clipped, curt. Then his eyes held hers for a moment. "I wish you well," he softly added, and reaching for her hand, he pulled her close. "Kiss me," he murmured, "although I hate good-bye kisses."

"No more than I," she whispered, lifting her mouth to his, willing herself not to cry.

And for that warm, tender moment as their lips met, the world was filled again with wonder.

She was the only women he'd ever left with regret, he thought, the scent of her sweet, redolent of lush passio
n
— and yet he had no intention of tying himself to one woman, however tantalizing
.

His mouth lifted away.

"I'll probably see you next as the toast of the Royal Society. You paint like an angel."

"I'll send you an invitation to my first exhibition." She hoped she sounded as casual as he. But she wanted him to leave before she humiliated herself by begging him to stay. "Pleasant voyage," she said.

He looked at her for a moment more, his expression masked, and then he turned away to pick up his valise.

Straightening, he smiled, dipped his head in a faint bow, and a second later he was gone.

"Look in the top dresser drawer," he called back before shutting the apartment door. And she heard his footsteps racing down the stairs.

She ran to the window and watched him enter the carriage, waited until it disappeared from sight. Walking back into the bedroom, she pulled open the dresser drawer. The red leather boxes were nestled among her silk stockings and a note lay atop the largest.

Every lady needs diamonds, he'd written in a loose, open scrawl. And he'd signed it, "Fondly, Beau."

She opened the elegant cases one by one, the dazzling collection of diamonds enough to buy her years of securit
y
— the necklace, earrings, bracelet ablaze with hundreds of enormous diamonds. Beau St. Jules couldn't give his heart, but in all else he was the most generous of men.

•
    
•
    
•

She cried all morning, then slept for two days, escaping from her pain and unhappiness in the cocoon of the bed Beau had bought for her and when, finally, toward evening two days later, she decided to reenter the world, she began to paint. She worked as though her life depended on it and perhaps it did in those first days; she hardly took time to eat or sleep. She painted with fury and passion, with fervor and rage; she painted ta
l
l, handsome, dark-haired men in every conceivable pose and genre and mood. She cried at times as she splashed paint across the canvas, impatient with the unfairness of life. And then on other days she felt such overwhelming love from her joyful memories, she smiled while she worked and hummed light-hearted tunes.

But it was the very worst at night and often she painted through those melancholy hours when she wanted desperately to be held in his arms. And on those nights when she was defenseless against the pain of her loss, she hoped against hope this time she might be carrying his child. But her cycle came again the following month, the stark crimson blood mocking her dreams, and she couldn't even paint for a week afterward so deep was her despondency.

He'd forgotten her by now, she knew.

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

While Serena was painting her way through her melancholy, Beau was drinking himself numb in a futile attempt to suppress the heated images flooding his mind, of pale blond hair and blue-green eyes, of passion and desire. He'd called for a bottle of brandy when he boarded the
Siren
and hadn't stopped drinking since, sitting on deck their first night out, not speaking to anyone, brushing away Re
m
y's offers of food.

He washed and shaved the next morning and put on fresh clothing but he was changed inside, consumed. No one knew how to respond to their employer's new subtle acidity. His voice was different when he spoke, his observations cynical, a rueful disillusion investing each word.

He was drunk as a lord when they reached Palermo and when he returned from his visit to Lord Hamilton and the court a day later, Countess Niollo was on his arm. Francesca's estate, Baccate, bordered on St. John land; she'd invited herself along ostensibly to check on her properties. "Fine," Beau had said when she'd approached him, his gaze gently sardonic. "I'll save you from the republicans and you can save me from boredom."

Both properties were distant enough from Naples to have escaped the destruction of the city's defense and when they reached Beau's villa, Di Cavalli, the bucolic green countryside lay untouched by armies and revolution.

"There's no need for you to go on to Baccate immediately, is there?" Beau said as he helped Francesca dismount in the courtyard of his villa.

"Would you like me to stay?" she flirtatiously asked.

"I'd like to fuck you, Francesca, for a week or so," he drawled. "Are you interested?"

"A charming proposal, Rochefort," she pettishly retorted.

"Do you or don't you?"

"I'm not sure, you graceless man."

He was looking for oblivion, not romance, and he'd never led Francesca down anything remotely resembling a garden path. "Suit yourself. I need a drink."

"You have to pay attention to me," she said, "not just your brandy." A direct, self-indulgent woman, she always knew what she wanted.

"Don't worry, darling, you'll have all the attention you want." In his current black mood, the thought of fucking himself to death held real merit. "I hope you can keep up."

"That sounds intriguing. ..." Her gaze took on a heated glow.

"I intend to intrigue the hell out of you, darling," he said, his voice low-pitched, bland.

He did.

She was.

An
d
n
either noticed that a week had gone by.

He drank from the moment he woke in the morning, a liquor bottle always conveniently within reach on his bedside table. But he maintained a preoccupied kind of sobriety despite his intemperance as if his acid thoughts burned away the alcohol, as if his all-consuming need for Serena allayed the brandy's potency. And Francesca de Bru
n
i, Countess Niollo, enjoyed the passionate rewards of Beau's rage and discontent.

He found a servant girl to warm his bed when the countess left for a time to see to her estates and when she returned to find a pretty housemaid in his arms, being a woman of sophisticated tastes, she joined them.

Beau no longer knew what day it was; he didn't care; he didn't care to care. He just wanted to forget the pale blond beauty who persisted in his thoughts, who haunted him.

And after a month, he found he didn't care about anything much at all.

In the early days of the dissipated ménage a trois at the St. John estate, far to the north, the Austrian offensive opened and made rapid progress against the French on all sectors. On the eastern flank General Ott captured Recco and the dominant Monte Becco, forcing the French right wing back to Nervi, five miles east of Genoa. In the center Hohenzollern stormed the important Bocchetta Pass on the main road northward from Genoa to Tortona, while Me
l
as's main drive secured the Cadibona Pass and broke through to the coast at Vado, thus separating the groups of Sou
lt
and Suchet. After three days of stiff
f
ighting Me
l
as had gained all his first objectives and had driven the French from their forward line on the crest of the Ligurian Apennines, though at the cost of serious casualties. Massena had put up a stubborn resistance against heavy odds; the Austrians outnumbered him five to one.

While the residents at Di Cavalli passed April in self-gratifying pleasures, in the environs of Genoa, Austrian pressure continued and the French were gradually driven back through Voltri and Sestri, harassed all the time by the fire of the British sloops who blockaded the coast. By April 20 the French left flank was withdrawn to the mouth of the river Polcevera, on
l
y three miles west of Genoa; on the right flank they had withdrawn to the river Sturla
,
while in the center they were holding the fortified enceinte and the detached forts to the north and east of it. General Massena in Genoa was now entirely cut off from his base at Nice and from Suchet's corps.

On April 24, Admiral Keith from his flagship, HMS
Minotaur,
sent a parlementaire to Massena, summoning him to surrender in view of the hopelessness of his position; otherwise, the admiral said, he would have to bombard Genoa. Massena promptly replied: "Genoa will be defended to the last extremity," and immediately opened fire on the British ships from the Lanterna battery. On the same day Massena sent off Major Franceschi, one of Soult's ADC's, to run the blockade and carry a dispatch to Bonaparte, giving an account of the operations to date and saying that, by still further reducing the troops' rations, he could hold out "for another ten or twelve days, perhaps fifteen."

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

Captain Berry arrived at Di Cavalli near the end of the month with letters and news. He found Beau and his small harem outside, the women lounging on chaises in the garden and sipping on champagne, their indolent gazes on Beau, who was working with one of the barb horses that had been brought out of Tunis. A profusion of blooms colored the greenery in the garden, the scent of roses heavy in the air.

"Could I offer you a drink?" Beau casually inquired when Berry reached the riding ring, sliding from the saddle, handing the reins to a stable boy. He offered the captain a small flask from his vest pocket.

"Thank you, sir, don't mind if I do. The ride from the coast was a mite warm and dusty."

"Even hotter here inland; drink it all. There's more over there," Beau added, gesturing toward the ladies. A sheen of perspiration burnished his skin. He wore only riding boots and buckskins, a vest with the requisite pocket for his flask unbuttoned in the heat. His tanned arms and shoulders, his powerful chest were gilded with sweat, the contrast of male strength and the delicate embroidery on his linen vest striking.

The captain emptied the flask, and handing it back with a smile, said, "If you're otherwise engaged, sir . . ." He glanced at the women seated in the partial shade of a flowering apple tree, their lacy boudoir robes revealing, their voluptuous sensuality blatant. "I'll wait in your office."

"I've been otherwise engaged," Beau sardonically murmured, "for weeks now. They won't miss me overmuch if I take you inside. Have you met the Countess Niollo?"

"Once briefly, si
r
—
o
n Capri."

"Ah . . . yes, well, come and make your bow and then we'll retire to the coolness of my office." With a courteous small dip of his head, he waved Berry before him.

It was only a short distance to the garden and when Beau introduced the women, he treated them with equal deference, regardless one was a countess and the other his housemaid. The countess nodded minutely in the captain's direction, her notions of consequence requiring no more than the merest acknowledgment to a man of his rank. Thebia, the pretty maid, jumped up and bobbed a curtsy for the captain, her smile open, warm.

He'd have to see that she was well rewarded when he left, Beau thought, her engaging charm bringing a smile to his face. "If you'll excuse us, ladies," he urbanely said, as if the two women in dishabille were at a drawing room for the queen and not just recently risen from his bed. "The captain has some messages for me."

"Don't be gone long," Francesca said, cherishing an inflated sense of her prerogatives after a month with Beau.

"Will this require much time, Berry?" Beau drawled. The countess is impatient."

"I'm not certain, sir." Although he felt his news was significant enough to interrupt Beau's hermitage regardless, he had orders not to disturb him.

"Duty calls, Francesca," Beau casually declared, understanding Berry wouldn't have come without good reason. "Perhaps one of the grooms could entertain you in my absence.
 
I mean riding of course. Do try that pretty barb."

Thebia giggled behind her hand.

The countess glared at Beau for a moment and then said, "I found him wanting, darling, don't you recall?"

Scandal never affected Francesca; her beauty insulated her from censure as did her dead husband's generous marriage settlement. "In that case I must endeavor to make haste," he smoothly replied.

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

Captain Troubridge, one of Nelson's subordinates, had taken the islands of Ischia and Capri, Berry told him, perched on the edge of his chair in Beau's office, his voice clipped and rushed as he detailed the campaign. The British were once again in control of the harbor of Naples.

"Pitt won't commit land troops," Beau said, seated across his desk from him. "How do they expect to drive the French from Naples?"

"
R
uf
f
o's on the march with his Army of the Holy Faith."

"Ah . . . Ferdinand's bloody hand of God. The pillaging must have reached a fine pitch by now."

Berry acknowledged the assessment with a grimace. "And Massena's done, they say at Genoa."

"And Bonaparte?"

"No one knows."

Beau gazed at his captain, his eyes sharply direct. "Perhaps someone should find out."

"My thinking, sir."

"Am I obliged to give up my amusements then?" He leaned back for a moment, a faint smile on his face, a crackling excitement obliterating his monthlong ennui.

"I took the liberty of having the servants pack you a bag, sir."

"The countess will never forgive me," Beau cheerfully said.

"I'm thinking she will, sir, seeing as how you left her in Capri last year and she seems to have, er, forgiven you."

"Did I really?"

"She was screaming something awful, sir. I distinctly recall our departure."

"I must have sent her something."

"Two diamond necklaces, sir."

"Ah. I don't suppose you brought any along with you?"

“The jewelry case is in your room."

Beau grinned; Berry's organizational skill was impeccable. "I imagine our itinerary is planned as well."

"Palermo
f
irst, sir, and the
n
—"

"Genoa."

"Yes, sir."

"I should be sober by Palermo."

"You'll find Lock in charge, sir," Berry calmly remarked, knowing Beau was competent sober or not. "Sir Hamilton has been formally recalled."

"All the twittering biddies finally got to the king then."

"There are those who take scandal seriously, milord."

"Luckily no one of interest to me."

"Just so, sir."

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

Beau and Captain Berry left Di
C
avalli within the hour, the countess less p
r
one to sustain a temperamental
fit
when
offered free rein in a jewelry case. She was greedy, as Beau expected, and she sniffed in outrage when Beau selected two items of jewelry and gave them to Thebia. He'd lef
t
orders for his steward to pay the young woman a handsome sum as well once Francesca was gone, in the event Thebia
'
s sojourn in his bed had irreparably damaged her reputation. The steward had rather thought not, mentioning that the young maid's casual disregard for propriety wasn't a recent manifestatio
n
—
t
wo of the footmen were special favorites of hers.