To Deceive a Duke (11 page)

T
he next few days were quite busy, and Clio could not make it to the farmhouse site as the Chases were in an uproar preparing for the Santa Lucia
feste
. Sir Walter, at Lady Rushworth’s urging, had agreed to host a small dinner party, and Thalia was occupied in planning for the costume ball that would occur in the town piazza.

She spent much time with visiting modistes, often calling for Clio’s opinion, so Clio found herself running from kitchen to drawing room and back again, overseeing menus, examining fabrics and sketching seating charts. Not to mention answering invitations, as it seemed everyone in town insisted on holding some kind of event. The small local
feste
, celebrating favourite saints and the old worship of Demeter and her daughter, was overflowing its bounds.

But all the domestic commotion did serve one purpose. It kept her from brooding over the Duke. From wondering at every minute what he was doing. Most of the time, anyway. Well,
some
of the time.

On the morning of the first day of the
feste
, which would open with the masked ball that night, Clio went out early to
buy fresh vegetables at the market. Usually the kitchen maid, a niece of Rosa’s, went, but Clio longed for a breath of fresh air. A moment of quiet, for the bustling market
was
quiet compared to Thalia and her last-minute costume alterations. When she returned with her basket of provisions, she avoided the tumult of silks and tulles altogether and crept down the backstairs to the kitchen.

Rosa was working at twisting long strands of bread dough into ornate plaited loaves, painting them with olive oil until they gleamed. Over the fire, the kitchen maid slowly stirred a pot of something delicious-smelling, all herbs and preserved tomatoes. All along the walls were piled baskets and crates, containing delicacies for tomorrow’s dinner party.

‘I thought it was meant to be a small gathering,’ Clio teased, hoisting her basket on to a work table. ‘Not a Florentine delegation.’

‘When a person eats at
my
table, they eat only the very best,’ Rosa said, clearly pleased she would finally get to properly use her culinary skills in the Chase kitchen. ‘Paolo has gone to find the right fish for my
tonno alla siciliana
. And for dessert, there will be
cassata
.’

‘Cassata?’

Rosa shook her head at English ignorance of good food. ‘Ricotta cheese with orange peelings and chocolate shavings on sponge cake. If Signorina Thalia does not drink up all the chocolate first.’

‘She is too busy trying on her new finery, I think. She does so love a disguise, almost as much as she loves chocolate.’ Clio gestured toward a brace of fresh rabbits, hanging from the beamed ceiling. ‘I see Giacomo has been here.’

Giacomo was the only one of Rosa and Paolo’s children who seemed not to have a vocation, beyond hunting—or
poaching—Clio never asked. But he sometimes popped up with offerings, often chatting with Clio about antiquities and local mythology. He had a great knowledge of such things. She didn’t ask where he had got
that
, either, for fear of discovering he was one of that dread breed of
tombaroli
. Men who raided undiscovered sites for antiquities to sell, and were not above murder and rape.

Rosa just grunted, not looking up from her bread. ‘I will braise the rabbit with a marsala sauce for tomorrow’s dinner.’

Clio nodded, sensing Rosa had no desire to chat at the moment. Not about Giacomo, anyway. She never wanted to talk about him. Clio went back upstairs to check on Thalia’s couture progress.

The drawing room was scattered with lengths of silks, velvets and muslins, spools of lace and ribbon. Clio looked around, but could not see her father or Cory. They had probably taken refuge at the villa.

Thalia stood on the dressmaker’s stool, undergoing final alterations on her costume. She had finally chosen the garb of a Venetian Renaissance lady, Clio saw, a high-waisted gown of gleaming ivory-coloured satin shot through with shimmering gold thread. Gold ribbons trimmed the tight sleeves and crisscrossed the bodice. Her blonde hair fell over her shoulders, crowned with a small gold satin cap trimmed with pearls.

‘What do you think, Clio?’ Thalia asked, fidgeting with the ribbons.

‘You look like an angel,’ Clio answered truthfully. ‘
You
should have been Juliet at Lady Riverton’s theatricals, not Mrs Manning-Smythe.’

Thalia laughed. ‘I have enough trouble being Antigone! Or even just trying to be Thalia.’

What if a person didn’t know who they were at all? Clio wondered, as she sorted through a basket full of masks.

The dressmaker put the final touches on Thalia’s hem. ‘There you are,
signorina
! I think you are quite finished. Do you like?’

‘I love,
signora
!’ Thalia cried, hopping off the stool to spin around in an exuberant circle, a blur of white satin and floating ribbons.

‘Now, Signorina Chase, shall we try yours?’ the dressmaker asked Clio. She reached for another basket, drawing out a spool of black thread. ‘There is much work to be done if the gown will be ready for tonight.’

‘Oh, yes, do, Clio,’ Thalia urged, slowing in her spins. ‘I haven’t yet seen your costume at all.’

‘That is because I don’t have time for fripperies like my beautiful little sister,’ Clio teased. But the truth was she did love a disguise, just as much as Thalia did. Probably more. Was that not what life was, a series of disguises?

She slipped behind a screen set up in the corner, and quickly changed from her simple muslin morning gown to the basted-together costume. Her dress was the opposite of Thalia’s, a creation of glossy black satin and cobweb-fine black lace that turned her into a Dark Queen. An empress of the night. With a jet-beaded black mask covering her face, and her hair drawn back under a tulle veil, surely no one would ever recognise her.

She would melt into the night itself, and discover the truth of all the puzzles that plagued her here in Santa Lucia. Even Edward could not hide from her tonight.

The town square was quite transformed after the sun set, with all the shops and booths shuttered, their façades draped
with spring garlands and wreaths, all tied with fluttering streamers in green and white and gold. The full moon, amber-gold in the dusty purplish sky, shone down on the revellers, who spun and twirled over the cobblestones to old country-dance tunes. Tables of refreshments and wine were laid out under a portal, while on the cathedral steps presided the painted ivory statue of Saint Lucia. She was not usually brought out until her own feast day in December, but tonight she watched the celebrations with bright blue glass eyes, hands outstretched to receive offerings. At her feet were heaped fruits and flowers.

Around the perimeter of the ‘dance floor’ were set flickering torches, reflecting in the waters of the fountain, the closed shop windows, the eyes revealed behind beaded and feathered masks. Dancers wove in and out of the light, fantastic wraiths in black dominoes, rustling satin gowns, antique doublets, creations of brilliant fantasy. Saints and devils, Greek gods, dragons, princesses, butterflies.

Thalia clutched at Clio’s hand in excitement, and Clio felt her own heart beat faster with anticipation. This was not like London masked balls, where everyone was meant to be incognito, but the world there was so small that each person was clearly identified. Here, it really was a great unknown. Behind that mask could be Mr Frobisher, or Peter Elliott or the Sicilian baker. Or someone else entirely. An exotic stranger. Or one of the deceptively lazy men who lounged about the piazza, watching, always watching.

‘Oh, Clio, it is so beautiful,’ Thalia whispered.

‘Indeed it is,’ Clio agreed. ‘Most beautiful.’

Thalia was swept into the dance by a young man dressed as Harlequin in black and white silks. And Clio saw her father, dressed as Socrates, strolling toward the refreshment tables
with Lady Rushworth in an elaborate Elizabethan gown. They would surely find friends aplenty, and talk about the work at the villa all night, just as Thalia would dance until dawn, as she was utterly inexhaustible. They wouldn’t look for Clio for hours.

Clio turned and made her way toward the cathedral steps, keeping to the edges of the rowdy crowd. The music was intoxicating, spiralling higher and higher, carrying the noise and happiness on a great wave to the sky. She laughed as an Apollo tried to coax her into the dance, shaking her head until he whirled away.

She did want to dance, she realised with surprise. Dancing was not often her favourite pastime, and she was not graceful at it as Thalia was. But tonight the music, the torchlight, the beautiful masks, even the night itself, so very deep and dark and full of great possibilities, conspired to fill her with restless excitement. She wanted to whirl and whirl, until she was giddy, until everything blurred and faded.

But she only really wanted to dance in
one
man’s arms. To find that mad passion only one man evoked in her.

Clio rubbed at her eyes through the mask, suddenly dizzy. Why had Edward come here at all, to remind her? When she was away from him, he haunted her thoughts, yet she could slowly find her balance again, come back to some sensible semblance of herself. Pretend. When they were together, nothing else seemed to matter. She was pushed off that precipice into a world where nothing at all made sense.

Clio hurried past the cathedral, the steps heaped with harvest offerings, and she could vow Saint Lucia’s blue glass eyes followed her, seeing all. Knowing her every sinful thought. She fended off more invitations to dance, taking refuge behind the church.

The narrow street that ran along there was quieter, hidden from the party. She could still hear the music, the thunder of dancing feet and wild laughter, could see the torchlight flickering on the slick cobblestones under her feet. There was no one near, though, just a stray cat on a low wall and the flaking white stucco of the cathedral at her back. The glow of stained glass high above her head.

And, just a little further along the lane, the gates of Averton’s palazzo. Clio peered closer at that arched shadow, the wrought iron slightly ajar in invitation to the garden beyond. One window was lit. Was that the room where the Alabaster Goddess resided?

Clio remembered that other masked ball, that other evening of champagne-fuelled revelry and strange disguises. She remembered taking refuge in the silent gallery, with Artemis. Remembered his hands reaching for her, and the longing, the terror she felt. Would it always be thus with her?

She shrugged her black tulle veil back over her shoulder, dragging in a deep breath of the smoke-tinged night air. This night was not that one; she was not the same person now. Edward wasn’t the same, either, yet she could not say if it was he himself who had changed, or only her perceptions of him. But she would never go back to
that.

She heard a slight sound in the shadows behind her, and spun around to find a cloaked figure standing by the wall. Despite the enveloping midnight-blue cloak, the chalk-white leather mask, she knew it was Edward. She faced him in silence, waiting with her breath caught in her throat to see what would happen.

‘Does the Queen of the Night not care to dance?’ he asked lightly.

Clio swallowed hard. ‘I fear she lacks the grace for it.’

‘And no doubt she is far too busy to practise. She has stars to rearrange, dreams to invade…’

Clio stepped closer, one tiptoe movement then another, her heavy black skirts and veils trailing behind her. She couldn’t help herself, she had to be near him. He drew her, like a dark magician, that underworld god, luring her with shadowy promises of passion and freedom. ‘Does she invade
your
dreams?’ she whispered, suddenly bold. For she did know one thing now—she was not alone in this spell.

He reached out to touch the edge of her veil. ‘Every night.’

Clio trailed her fingertips along the corner of his mask, down a loose lock of bright hair. His skin was warm and golden as sunlight, so alive—just like him. She could almost feel that powerful force of life, that flaming passion, flowing into her, coaxing her frozen heart to beat again. To want to know every part of life, every burning, fleeting, perfect moment.

She went up on tiptoe as he kissed her, twining her arms around his neck to hold him to her. She felt his own touch at her waist, drawing her even closer.

They fit so perfectly together now, their mouths, their hands, their bodies, as if made for this moment. Clio parted her lips, feeling the tip of his tongue touch hers. Their kiss was frantic, full of need, full of the hot desire to forget all the past and know only
now
. To fall into each other and be lost for ever, to be as one.

Edward pressed her back against the wall, his hands hard and hungry as they slid over her shoulders, tracing the curve of her breasts in her tight satin bodice. Clio moaned at the delicious friction, the sensations that shivered through her, fire and ice in the same instant. She forgot herself, her place in the world, her reputation, everything but the way he made her feel.

The way he always made her feel when they were together like this.

Vaguely, through the silvery haze of desire and need, she felt his fingertips trace the line of her bodice, drawing the thick fabric down to caress the bare curve of her breast. She twined her legs around his hips, holding him to her, not letting him escape until he gave her what she craved. She did not know what that was, only that she needed him more than air or water. He was like the warm flood of grappa in her blood, drugging, delightful.

Her head fell back against the wall, her hands tightening on his shoulders as she urged him ever closer. Her eyes drifted shut, blotting out everything but his touch on her naked skin. The warm, callused fingertips, the cold brush of his rings, the feel of his breath against her, mingling with hers.

He pressed a hot kiss to her neck, the sensitive spot just below her ear. She shuddered as his lips trailed along her collarbone, the curve of her bare shoulder, like a silky ribbon of fire, of molten Etna lava. Finally, finally, he placed a single soft, longed-for kiss on the upper curve of her breast.