To Deceive a Duke (8 page)

He swung down from his horse, shaking hands with Sir Walter, bowing to Cory. He slowly drew off his riding gloves, watching thoughtfully as her father gestured to the villa, the cracked steps leading to the agora. She saw that he did not wear his rings today. There was no gaudy sparkle of emeralds or rubies, no antique stickpin in his simply tied neckcloth. No satin waistcoat, either. Nothing to distract from his austere beauty. His simple clothes, his solemn mien, it all spoke of a seriousness of purpose here.

A purpose she still could not get to the bottom of.

Her father and Averton turned toward the pavilion where Clio stood, making their way slowly as Sir Walter talked and gestured avidly. Averton nodded, listening intently.

Edward
, she thought suddenly. He was not the Duke today. He was Edward.

And she was shocked to realise she wanted to run forwards and throw her arms around
Edward
’s neck. To feel the press of his lips on hers as he lifted her from her feet, twirling her around and around as the world blurred and crumbled around them. No Duke, no Lily Thief, just Clio and Edward, free to feel and do whatever they chose. To forget the past.

As if such a thing was even possible. Clio was too much a realist to believe
that
.

She smoothed her skirt as they drew closer, folding her hands tightly to still their trembling. To keep them from reaching out for him.

‘…should be here soon with our meal,’ Sir Walter was saying. ‘In the meantime, perhaps you’d care to see the mosaics of the villa. They are extraordinarily well-preserved.’

‘I would like that very much, Sir Walter,’ Averton answered. ‘Everyone speaks of their beauty. Good day, Miss Clio. It is most pleasant to see you again.’

Clio swallowed past the dry knot in her throat. Where was that grappa when she really needed it? ‘And you, your Grace. Father is always so happy to have someone new to Santa Lucia to show off his villa.’

‘I’m honoured to be allowed to see it. I haven’t yet had time to see any of the sites of Enna properly.’

‘I think there are too many to see “properly” in a decade,’ Clio said, surprised to find that she
could
chat politely with him. ‘We have been here many weeks now, and my family have not even been to the castle. We’ve just seen it from a distance.’

‘It isn’t
Greek
, of course,’ her father said dismissively. ‘Just thirteenth century. Far too new for me.’

‘But lovely, or so Rosa says,’ Clio answered. Rosa also said it was haunted, just like Clio’s ‘cursed’ farmhouse, but she didn’t mention that.

‘Rosa?’ Averton asked.

‘Our cook,’ said Clio. ‘Her family has lived in Santa Lucia for generations. She seems to know every inch of the land.’

‘Then if she says the castle is worth seeing, she must be right.’ Averton glanced at Clio, his expression unreadable under the shadow of his hat. ‘Perhaps you would care to accompany me there after luncheon, Miss Clio? We could discover it together. And you, too, of course, Sir Walter.’

Her father laughed. ‘Oh, no, not me! I have work to do on things that are truly old. But you two must go. Clio has been wanting to see it, have you not, my dear?’

‘Well, yes, but…’ she began.

‘Then it is settled. Now, you really must let me show you the mosaics, Averton. Especially the mermaid in the baths. So extraordinarily well preserved.’

Clio watched helplessly as her father led Averton away. It seemed she was now committed to an outing with the Duke. Or was it with Edward?

Either way, she would have to watch her step very carefully. Any unwary move in this slippery game they played would send her tumbling right down into a new abyss.

‘Just don’t push him off the battlements, Clio,’ Cory whispered. ‘That would surely not be polite.’

Edward nodded as Sir Walter pointed out the sections of his villa, the old peristyle hall, the long space where the women had their weaving looms, the walled gardens. He
listened closely, yet his attention was not on the ancient past. It was on the all-too-near present.

Clio sat with her younger sister in a pavilion, her dark red hair cast in shadow, her face unreadable. Servants scurried around them, setting up their luncheon, yet she was an island of stillness.

She had agreed to show him the medieval castle, but how did she feel about that? About spending yet more time with him? How did
he
feel about that?

Edward frowned, nudging at a bright mosaic tile with his boot. Self-examination was not what was needed now; action was. He thought of the dark house on its poor street, of what he had learned in his secret space there. Santa Lucia was not safe for Clio, not if she kept wandering off on her own in the hills. He could warn her again, but would she ever listen?

Truly, Clio Chase was maddening! Every time he determined to stay away from her, from the complications of her fierce intelligence and lithe body, of her tangled past, something pulled him back to her. Pulled them together.

Just like this castle outing. Perhaps it was one last chance, a chance for him to persuade her at last to leave things alone. Persuade
himself
to leave
her
alone! If talking did not work…

Then more drastic measures were called for.

C
lio led the way up the steep stairs carved in the rocky hillside, the only access to the castle, conscious at every moment of the Duke’s footsteps close behind her. Despite the fact that he was a tall man, he walked softly, gracefully, an ever-present ghost. His movements were light, stealthy, as unpredictable as the clouds overhead, and as always when he was near her senses were poised and alert. He had taken her by surprise more than once in the past—he would not do so again.

She glanced back at him as they climbed ever higher, to find him watching her with solemn wariness, his face half-shadowed by the brim of his hat. When she had come to Sicily, she had been so sure she had left him and his all-seeing gaze far behind. Perhaps she had thought she would never even have to face him again! Face the truth of her own feelings. What folly that had been. Even when he was not in the same country, he was always with her.

In her distraction, her boot sole slipped on a loose pebble, and she slid backwards. Caught off guard, her stomach lurching in a sudden jolt of panic, she reached out to steady herself, but clutched only insubstantial air. Before she could
tumble off the narrow walkway to the valley far below, a strong arm came around her waist, stopping her in mid-fall.

Breathless, Clio found herself caught against the Duke’s warm, muscled chest, his embrace surrounding her, holding her safe above the chasm.

‘You should watch your step, Clio,’ he whispered. ‘These paths are treacherous.’

‘The entire world is treacherous, to those who are unwary,’ she said hoarsely. She disentangled herself from his arms, pressing close to the rock-cut hillside. She could not leave him entirely, though. He held on to her hand, their bare fingers a lonely connection in that treacherous world. ‘Thank you for catching me.’

‘Oh, Clio,’ he answered, an undertone of sadness in his voice, ‘don’t you know that I will always catch you?’

Before she could reply, he slipped past her on the narrow path, holding her hand as they finished the climb to the castle. They didn’t speak as they walked through the broken archway into the old keep itself. It was not much of a castle any longer; a year-long siege in the twelve hundreds had broken down the sturdy grey stone walls, reducing the twenty towers to ten, then three, and now only one.

But Clio loved the tumbling piles of stones, overgrown with vines and twisted almond trees, the cracked floors and ruined arches, more than she could have loved any intact fortress. There were stories here, thousands of them, tales of heroism and death and passion that whole walls could never hold. The wind whipped through the fissures, bending the overgrown tree limbs, and bright green lizards skittered over the chipped rocks.

The rest of the island seemed so far away, insignificant. And even the Duke seemed to belong here. In London, he was
bigger than life, an awe-inspiring figure of brilliant light among the drabness of the grey city. A person of gossip and speculation, of envy for his title, his money, his fine looks. Here, among old scenes of battles and tragedy, of power won and lost, he was no less impressive or unique. But he
belonged
. Belonged in a way he never really did in England.

Which was exactly how Clio herself often felt. Calliope was so good at playing the lady, at being respectable and admirable. Whereas Clio always seemed to find herself floundering, fighting. Endlessly seeking for something, some beacon of meaning that would never be found.

Here, in the silence and the ancient memories, she only had to
be
. Even the Duke—Edward—could not mar that. Indeed, he, too, seemed to find a rare stillness. He played no role of extravagant overlord. He merely stood there, holding her hand, and just
was
in this moment.

If only all time could be like this! But Clio knew well it never could. He would always be a duke. She would always be a thief. And the world would always be waiting, besieging these walls as surely as it had hundreds of years ago.

She gently disentangled her fingers from his, hurrying through the three interconnected courtyards that had once held together the castle towers. She raised the hem of her skirt, stepping carefully over rocks and birds’ nests. ‘It was built in 1082,’ she said, her voice echoing off the walls. ‘The Bourbons once used it as a prison, since those stairs on the hillside were the only access and were easily blocked. There used to be twenty towers; now there is only this one still intact.’

‘And is it always so deserted?’ he asked. ‘So—haunted.’

‘Not at all. My family haven’t been here yet because it always seems so crowded with English tourists. And too many Sicilian guides trying to part them from their coins.
They are very good at that!’ She threw him a wry smile over her shoulder. ‘Everyone must have heard you were coming and obligingly cleared the way.’

‘You see, there
are
advantages to a lofty title,’ he said. ‘Even an unwanted one.’

‘I have never heard of a ducal title being unwanted.’

‘Well, my dear, there is much about me—and about being a duke—you don’t know. Fortunately for us both.’ With those puzzling words, he strolled past her to the base of the tower, entering its tall, empty doorway.

The tower, constructed of weathered local grey stone like all the castle and most of the village, rose up three stories in clean, flat straight lines, covered in ropes of emerald-green ivy. A narrow, winding staircase gave the only access to the top, lit by old arrow slits.

Edward waited for her at the foot of the stairs. Without a word, without even looking at her, he held out his hand.
I will always catch you.
Clio slid her fingers into his, and they climbed upwards into the sky itself.

The steep stairs were covered not just with loose pebbles and windblown dirt, but by the detritus of the tourists: torn, trodden handkerchiefs; empty wine bottles; an abandoned phrasebook. Edward nudged all those out of her path with his boot, holding her steady as they moved through the pale, chalky light. She could hear only the scuff of their boots, the distant cooing of birds hidden high in the old beams. The rush of breath, the pounding of her own heart in her ears.

Even during her Lily Thief exploits, she had never been as anxious as she was in his presence. To be alone with him was a dangerous, unpredictable thing. She never knew what he would do; what
she
would do! Kiss him, hit him. Their meetings always ended in one disaster or another.

They emerged into the daylight at the very top of the old battlements. The wind was quick and chilly there, whistling past in swift currents that pulled at her hair and skirts. But the view between the crenellations was glorious. Rolling waves of Sicilian hills, glowing gold and purple all the way to Etna. And, in the other direction, the silvery expanse of Lake Pergusa, where Hades had snatched away Persephone as she gathered flowers.

Yet another unwary female
, Clio thought. She herself should learn from Persephone’s example. Never take your gaze from the horizon.

Edward leaned his elbows on the wall, his gaze narrowed on the lake. He had taken off his hat, and the wind tangled his hair, tossing it over his shoulders as the sun caught on those beautiful red-gold strands. He looked so alone.

Clio knew what it was to be alone. But even as she felt drawn to his side, she could not give in to sympathy or understanding. When she was weak, that was when she fell. She leaned against the wall beside him, staring out over the rugged landscape.

‘I have never seen anything so beautiful,’ he said.

‘Nor have I,’ Clio answered. ‘But surely you have seen far more of the world than I have! Are you not a member of the Travellers’ Club?’

He gave a half-smile, not looking at her but at the lake, as if he thought to see Persephone herself strolling its banks, flowers falling around her. ‘I am.’

‘Which means you have travelled to at least four countries. Seen all the loveliest, most exotic parts of the world. Places far more sophisticated and elegant than this rustic place.’

‘For sophistication and elegance, Clio, one need not leave London. For real truth and beauty, though, I think a person
must come
here
. Why would so many—the Greeks, the Romans, the Byzantines, the Saracens—fight to possess it?’

‘And why do
we
come here, struggling to find our own corner of it?’

‘Because we, too, belong here, of course.’ He turned to her suddenly, his gaze so steady and piercing. As if he could see right to her heart, her most secret desires.

Clio slowly nodded. ‘Edward,’ she said. The sound of his name was so strange, so delicious, on her tongue. His eyes widened at her word—Edward. ‘Why do you and my brother-in-law hate each other?’

His half-smile faded, until it was only a bitter little quirk at the corner of his lips. ‘Ah, yes, the esteemed Lord Westwood. I dare say you
have
noticed something of our old—mistrust.’

‘I dare say I have. Especially when it came to fisticuffs in Yorkshire.’ Clio remembered all too well Cameron’s anger that night.

Edward rubbed at his crooked nose, the only flaw in his handsome, Celtic-god face. ‘When I first knew your brother-in-law, we were both young and foolish. Though I admit I was far more foolish than he ever was. He cannot forget what I was in those days.’

Clio studied him carefully in silence. His expression, that mocking smile, did not alter. But it was as if an opaque veil had fallen over his eyes, shielding his deepest thoughts and feelings from her. It was always thus with him, a dark core of truth hidden away. Obscured by the glitter of his position, the sheer strangeness and charisma of his personality.

‘How very quizzical you look,’ he said.

‘I merely try to make out your character,’ she answered.

He laughed. ‘Such a useless occupation for such an intel
ligent mind as yours. And how do you make out in such an endeavour?’

‘Not well at all. I have never been able to understand you. Even when I think I am close, you change on me.’

‘How ironic that
I
puzzle
you
. For you, my dear Miss Chase, are as ungraspable as the sea itself.’

Clio smiled to think of the Mediterranean waves breaking endlessly on the rugged Sicilian shore, blue, green, grey, white, never tamed. There were storms and tides that could kill, hidden glories under the surface, a dangerously beautiful place. One that most people feared, but for a few hardy mariners it was home.

She
was not like the sea. She was shore-bound by her family, by expectations. Yet he—he was like the waves. Unpredictable, irresistible. She could not resist moving nearer and nearer, that dangerous undertow catching her skirts and drawing her down for ever.

‘What foolish things did you get up to when you were young, then?’ she asked.

He shook his head, turning away from her to stare out over the landscape again. The wind tossed his hair over his brow, hiding his face from her. ‘You don’t really want to know. Young noblemen are a terrible breed.’

‘Hmm. It is true that I have no brothers, but I am not entirely a sheltered, delicate miss. I know the sort of japes young men get into at university, or on their Grand Tours. You were probably no worse than dozens of others.’

‘I was more spoiled than most,’ he said. ‘And more angry, too.’

‘Angry?’ Clio well knew
that
emotion. The burning helplessness of it. She stepped closer to him, then closer still. They did not touch, not even the brush of his sleeve on her hand,
but she felt the heat of his skin, the clean, spicy scent of him, reach out to wrap all around her. Binding them together.

‘What were you angry about?’ she whispered, longing to know, to understand.

‘You are thinking that I, a rich duke’s son, had nothing to be angry about?’ he said lightly. He gazed down at her with those veiled, jewel-like eyes. ‘And you would be right.’

‘Everyone has something to be angry about. Something to fight against.’

‘Well, I fought against myself. Or, I suppose, against expectations of myself. Until my older brother died, of course.’

Clio stared at him, startled by his words, by the hint of pain that lay under them. Like sharks circling under the blue sea surface. Before she could answer, a party of tourists appeared in the courtyard far below them, their laughter echoing off the old walls. Their prosaic reality seemed to pierce the quiet, tense web around her and the Duke, tearing their isolation.

She moved away from him, pressing her back to the wall.

‘I beg you, Clio, do not try to make out my character,’ he muttered. ‘I could not bear for you, of all people, to discover the truth of what I hide there.’

‘Discover what?’ Clio asked, her throat dry. She felt as if she were teetering on a crumbling precipice, staring down at the rocky shoals of truth. One sharp push would send her tumbling down and down, falling into that whirlpool that was
him
. She was surely closer to discovering the essence of him than ever. Yet did she really, truly want that?

Maybe she
was
one of those eccentric souls who were drawn to the mysteries of the dangerous sea.

‘I am many things, Edward, but coward is not one of them,’ she said. ‘I am not afraid of you, even if your soul is as fearsomely black as this castle’s dungeon. There must be a reason
we keep meeting. Why our lives keep colliding. Perhaps I am meant to discover it now.’

He studied her for a moment, the air tense between them as the visitors’ voices grew closer, louder. Finally, he nodded. ‘I know very well you are no coward, Clio. But consider that you are warned. I am no fit company for a young lady.’

‘Perhaps you are not. But Muses are contrary beings, are they not? Seldom sensible, and never wanting what is good for them. And I have told you before, I can’t bear a mystery.’

‘So, I am like one of your antiquary sites, am I?’ he said, a thread of shimmering amusement in his voice. ‘Just like your farmhouse.’

‘Oh, no. You are beyond my poor excavation skills.’