The Patrician's Fortune- A Historical Romance (11 page)

She turned and faced him, her expression one of pure, feigned innocence. “Personal experience? Exactly what personal experience do you reference?” Her eyes narrowed. “Perhaps the reason why you were being crucified?”

He almost applauded her deflection of the topic save that the peeved tone of her question sparked his own temper. He was used to such biting comments, had endured them most of his life and had resolved long ago not to allow them past the survival defenses he’d constructed. That hers had the force to dent his shields was unsettling and aggravating.

Damon held her gaze, forced his own biting observations of pampered Roman ladies, and their inability to see past anything besides their own cosseted lives, back down his throat. If he was to find out more about the Prefect he had to stay focused. “That—among a hundred others—are neither relevant nor of particular concern to the average aristocrat.” He folded his arms across his chest. “Now, if you will, wife. Why does Quintus wish to marry you?”

A stubborn expression settled on her face as she considered his request. Damon relaxed his stance. She didn’t want to tell him the truth but there was no mistaking the apprehension thrumming beneath her cool facade. There was more at stake here than Julia’s farce. The welfare of her family.

Lita’s freedom.

He blew out an impatient breath as she continued to stand there in silence. Patience was one of the tactics he least favored. Exploiting emotions, often the quickest route to useful information, was not a favorite choice either. But a successful spy used whichever tool was appropriate. “Do you wish your aunt and brother to die?”

Her head shot up and those sea—blue eyes filled with panic.

He’d hit his target.

“Quintus would not dare hurt them,” she said. The tremor in her voice a mixture of anger and fear. While he admired the trait, it reinforced his perception that she did not fully understand the magnitude of the problem. He gave her an indulgent smile. “Oh I assure you, he would, in less time than it would take his heart to beat. If he had one.” In the past three years Damon had encountered a fair number of men—and several women—who were ruthless and without conscience. Quintus Marcellus made them all look like a benevolent angel from a Hebrew testament.

She raised her hands then dropped them helplessly to her side. “You already know the reason. Quintus Marcellus wishes to wed me.”

Could she really be so naïve? “An arrangement approved by your father?” he prodded.

She sent him a horrified look, one that sent an inexplicable wave of relief coursing through him.

“Gods, no. Never. My father has never set terms for a betrothal with any man. He has left the choice to me.”

Damon inclined his head. “I am honored.”

“A
legitimate
choice,” she returned, eyes narrowing.

Damon put a hand over his heart. “You wound me, wife, for I thought I made a fair prize.”

She made a noise low in her throat. “Do you ever take anything seriously?” she asked.

He kept a smile fixed in place and worked to calm the emotions stirring in his gut. Oh, he took events that shaped and impacted his life very seriously, had since age eleven when he’d been purchased like a pet.

True, there had been no leash and he had been treated well, more than most slaves could expect, but he’d chafed at the loss of his freedom and missed his family so badly he thought he’d die from the ache of it. The only way he had survived was to become someone else, build solid barriers to hide the boy he’d once been. His jaw tightened. A boy whose own father had found no value in him save the bag of coins exchanged for his son to pay his gamblers debt.

Even when he had been emancipated at the age of eighteen Damon’s life had not belonged to him. He searched two years, found his mother and sister Tullia. Another four until he’d located Lita. The past three years of his life had not only been kept from him but whored out to a devious, unscrupulous man named Tertius Maximinus—illustrious Senator, powerful patron, advisor to the Emperor...bastard.

Yes, he took matters very seriously.

“Are you listening to me?”

Damon jerked himself back at her exasperated question and trained his attention on Julia, who was glowering at him. “You were saying that your father is too indulgent of your high—tempered ways and will not force you to marry which is, as we all know, the duty of any civic minded
pater
of Rome.” She gasped again, but Damon ignored it. “The Prefect is a man of opportunity and greedy as well. It is an assumption easily made that he seeks your family’s fortune or at least control of it until Lares comes of age.” He rubbed his chin with a finger. “The mystery is whether he arranged the opportunity to gain access to it.”

“Are you saying that he caused my father’s delay?”

Noticing for the first time the signs of strain pinching her features, Damon decided against voicing his suspicion—that Octavian Manulus would never be coming back, was most likely dead and had been since he’d first stepped foot outside the city.

“Julia, I’m saying that the Prefect is a powerful opponent and a dangerous man to have as an enemy. You...” He closed his eyes unable to believe what he was going to say. “
We
must be cautious if we are to carry out this ruse. Do not keep it a secret if there are other causes for the Prefect to be so eager to give up his bachelor’s life.”

He watched indecision flicker behind her eyes before she expertly schooled her lovely features into perfect Roman disdain. “There are no other reasons. And the notion that Quintus had anything to do with my father’s absence is preposterous.”

He covered the short distance that separated them until they stood toe to toe, masking his admiration when she stiffened, refusing to back away. Before the whole matter was done, she was going to need that courage.

“Remove yourself.”

Damon regarded her for a long moment. So she wasn’t willing to confide in him, even with information that could save her family. That kind of stubbornness would only lead to trouble and there was only one way to combat it. He must earn her trust. And doing so meant following her directives.

Standing aside, he allowed her to pass which she did with slow, deliberate steps before hurrying to the safety of the patio and Kaj who had finally returned and appeared to be near an apoplectic fit to find him alone with his mistress. Julia squared her shoulders and addressed him. “Senator Caucus’ party is tomorrow night. We will begin lessons in proper etiquette in the morning. You will go with Kaj now.”

Gain her trust
. Damon ground his teeth as he allowed the cretin to grab his arm.

“N
ow, what is it you must remember to do between courses?”

Kill myself
. Damon glanced to where Julia sat on a carved stool with her back to him. After a full day of her etiquette lessons his patience was well on its way to leaping off a cliff. He might as well follow. Every man had his limits and he’d reached his.

But he’d managed to rein in his displeasure thus far which was no small feat considering he’d spent a restless night tossing and turning on that pitiful excuse for a pallet—behind a locked door. How in Hades’ name was he to prove his trustworthy nature if she refused to cooperate?

Fortunately for Julia he was a tolerant man. He’d had to be to endure her preparations. Since dawn, she’d been drilling him with instructions on a thousand topics from how to properly recline at table, to the appropriate way to greet the host.  Gods, even how to scoop a snail from its shell and swallow it without making noise. Fool that he was he thought all nobles slurped their food.

What would be her reaction, Damon wondered, if she knew that he was already familiar with the proper behavior, the protocols and other stifling rules of the patrician world? What his mother had not taught him, he’d learned by attending functions with his master, Jared. Of course, by then he had become more skilled in the proper decorum of a slave; keep your head bowed, be invisible, silent and always prepared to do your master’s bidding.

His only respite had come when Julia allowed him time to bathe. Damon smiled as he remembered the way she’d hotly rebuffed his invitation to join him. He’d had to settle for fantasies of watching his goddess’ nude body slipping beneath the water, her bare foot running along his calf, the steaming water lapping at the curve of her breasts...

He sucked in a breath as his cock twitched at the memory. Suffice to say he had added to Kaj’s perpetual foul mood by taking a long dip in the
frigidarium
to cool his imagination.

He fingered the intricate stitching of gold thread that bordered the elbow—length sleeve of his white linen tunic. Additional embroidery enhanced the neckline where another medallion of beaten gold studded with topaz gems lay flat against his chest, identical in design to the bands at his wrists and the rings that adorned several of his fingers. Julia had him looking like a damned peacock. He’d swallowed protests at the opulence though if she asked him to preen his feathers, he would refuse. He glanced at her costly garments, one side of his mouth lifting. Unless she agreed to shed her own plumes that he may feast…

“Damon?” She held out a slender arm for her maid to slip a spiraled band of gold around her upper arm.

He propped his elbows on his knees. “Let me see if my inadequate mind can recall. Hmmm... Refrain from napping?”

The smirk on his face slid away when she rose from her perch and faced him. Dressed in a sleeveless under—tunic of pure white, her
stola
was spun gold, fastened at the shoulders with pearl—studded filigree brooches. The material fell in soft, flowing lines to the floor where it brushed the tops of her delicate, gold—sandaled feet. Ropes of interlocking gold chain twined with more pearls crisscrossed her waist enhancing her sensual curves and accentuating the perfect globes of her breasts.

He needed a drink of water. No wine. Several cups of wine. An
amphora
of wine. Gods what did it matter? His mouth felt like the great Sinai desert.

She frowned. “Are you ill?”

Her voice wrapped around Damon like a velvet cloak. He’d never been speechless before and he found it disconcerting. His smooth tongue was a gift that had served him well all his life. But now it took a great deal of effort just to keep his voice from cracking. “I am fine, wife.” He rose slowly, soaking in the sight of her.

It pleased him that she did not use the heavy cosmetics favored by the wealthy. Her complexion was already perfect, like a bowl of cream, and it took only a moment under his scrutiny to bring a becoming pink blush to her cheeks. Her mouth was luscious, just the right shade of rose and he felt an insane urge to trace the outline with his tongue. Who needed wine? He was clearly drunk on her beauty.

“You are beautiful, lovelier than Venus herself, deserving of a temple full of acolytes devoted only to your worship.” A flash of heat swept through him as he realized he could easily be the first.

“Another wall poem?” she asked dryly, arranging a diaphanous
palla
Dorcas offered over one shoulder.

Damon pressed his lips together as she fussed with the material. He felt like an awkward youth. Of course she’d not take a compliment from him seriously and the fact that it bothered him when she mocked his effort was like a douse with a pail of cold water. He’d been too long without a woman, months in fact, not counting the thirty days he’d spent in prison. He had to leash in his baser urges, stay focused. She’d given him the perfect opportunity to discover who was behind his death sentence and he couldn’t afford to let rampant lust distract him.

Julia looked up then and tilted her head, her sparkling eyes filled with question. He could get lost in those eyes, lose himself in the swirls of blues and greens. He quirked one corner of his mouth. “What can I say? I am a very well—read man.” He shot a smile at Dorcas’ confused look, turned away and snatched up a goblet of water.

*****

Julia narrowed her gaze, watched as Damon lifted the toga she’d provided off of the couch. He shrugged off Basil’s help, donned it expertly, knowing exactly how to manage the intricate folds. For a criminal he was very familiar with the garment and its proper wearing. One might think he wore one every day. She caught her lower lip with her teeth. Of course that was impossible.

She sighed. She was tired and her nerves were raw. It had been a long day, but there had been much to accomplish and very limited time. She wanted him well prepared for his introduction to the Roman nobles and had driven him mercilessly. It had taken a considerable amount of energy trying to imagine every possibility, anticipate any problems that might arise. She did not want him to fumble through the dinner with crude plebeian manners and disgrace the Manulus name—or inadvertently expose their charade.

But it seemed she’d worried for nothing. Without a bit of hesitation Damon had recited all of her instructions accurately, returned her painstaking demonstrations with amazing flair. It had been remarkable, as natural and easy as if he’d been born to it. She looked askance at him. His profile did have a rather aristocratic look to it and his bearing was arrogant enough but no, she decided, he was just very good at deception. Which was exactly why she needed him.

Basil came to the door and bowed. “Mistress. Your transportation has arrived.”

She adjusted the pearl earring dangling from her left lobe, tried to still the jitter of nerves that fluttered in her stomach. Everything had to go well tonight. One misstep and her entire life would be forever changed. “Very well, Basil,” she replied. She started to walk toward the atrium when Damon slid into place beside her.

“My lady?”

She looked at the arm Damon extended in invitation. She should have been impressed at the exhibition of proper manners especially since she had neglected to instruct him in this particular one but instead felt a wave of uncertainty.

“Changing your mind, goddess?” he murmured.

Her gaze shot to his and she saw it plainly in his eyes, a certainty that she would abandon her plan. It annoyed her more than it should that he would think her so weak willed. She raised her chin and placed her hand firmly on his forearm. She absolutely refused to acknowledge the rush of pleasure she felt at the warmth of his skin and the play of muscles beneath her fingers.