The devil to pay, p.16
The Devil to Pay, page 16
Cara shot him a sideways glance, amused by his unflattering inference. “Whereas I’m twenty-two and still unwed.”
“Oh, I haven’t lost all hope for you. I’m sure we’ll find someone to overlook your over-educated brain and bloodthirsty ways.”
“I don’t want or need a husband. How many times must I tell you?”
He ignored her continued rebellion. “There are plenty of eligible men here. Would you care to enlighten me as to your criteria?”
She feigned surprise. “You’re interested in my opinion? God Lord!”
He raised one brow and gestured for her to continue.
“Very well. If I ever did marry, I’d want my husband to treat me as a partner, an equal. I would not want some tyrant who’d dominate me, override me, and treat me like an imbecile.”
“Is that all?” It was his turn for sarcasm.
“Well, it would be nice if he wasn’t hideous to look at,” she added mischievously. “I’d like to have relatively attractive children.”
“You forgot to mention rich and powerful.”
“Money can’t make you happy.”
“Of course it can. This is exactly why you need me. Left to your own devices, you’d choose some weak, peace-loving scholar and Castelleon would fall to the first strong-armed invader that looked your way.”
Cara didn’t have time to argue that point. A handsome youth was approaching them with a determined expression on his face. He stopped in front of them and shot a nervous glance at del Sarto, even as he addressed her.
“May I have the honor of this dance, Signorina di Montessori?”
“Oh, no. I really . . . that is, I don’t dance—”
“Of course she does,” del Sarto supplied smoothly, pushing her forward. “She’d love to.”
Cara shot him a filthy look over her shoulder as she was dragged into a newly-forming line of dancers.
Del Sarto’s gaze burned her skin as she whirled and stepped around the floor. No doubt he was watching to see if she embarrassed herself—and therefore him, by association. But the steps were easy to follow and she quickly relaxed. It was far less nerve-wracking than dancing with him. Her partner made some amusing comments on the fashions of another couple and she laughed, beginning to enjoy herself.
Alessandro ignored a scalding stab of jealousy as he watched Cara move to the intricate dance, flushed and smiling at her besotted partner. This was exactly what he’d wanted, was it not? To find her husband and cement a peaceful alliance in the region.
The young buck she was dancing with was handsome, in a flashy, overconfident way. He was smiling at her like he wanted to eat her up. Half the men in the room were watching her, too. Alessandro made a conscious effort not to bare his teeth and snarl.
Cara was naively unaware of her own attractiveness, which made her a breath of fresh air amongst the practiced coquetries of the courtiers. Her dress shimmered as she moved with unconscious grace and the jewels at her neck caught the light.
He’d given jewelry to previous lovers, of course, generous trinkets that meant nothing. But he’d kept the spinel locked away. In truth, Cara was the only one he’d ever imagined wearing it. In his dreams she was usually wearing nothing else; blood-red gems for the woman who’d wormed her way into his blood. He frowned. The thought of allowing another man to have her made his chest hurt.
Chapter 30
Cara’s partner returned her to a scowling del Sarto and scurried off.
“That’s Il Moro’s wife, Beatrice, over there,” he said.
She followed his gaze. The younger woman seemed to be in her element, laughing and confident. Her dark hair was parted in the centre and tied back in a golden net that glittered with pearls. Her gown’s neckline was so low that the smock underneath only just managed to preserve her modesty. The dress itself was striped black and gold, embroidered with metallic thread that caught the light. The effect was sumptuous and utterly bewitching.
The woman noticed their attention; she excused herself from her companions, crossed the room, and bobbed a curtsey to Il Diavolo, who bowed low over her hand.
“My lord, thank you for inviting us to your magnificent home.” Her voice was low and melodic, and held a trace of laughter.
“You’re welcome. Beatrice, may I present Cara di Montessori, my honored guest. If you’ll excuse me, ladies, I’ll leave you to talk.”
He withdrew as the brunette gave Cara a dazzling smile. Her very poise made Cara nervous. What on earth could she have in common with such a stunning creature? “Your dress is amazing,” she blurted out desperately.
“Oh, do you like it?” The girl beamed and smoothed the fabric of one sleeve, then lowered her voice and shot Cara a conspiratorial smile. “This is the first time I’ve worn it in public. Be honest, do you think the sleeves are too much? The slashes are copied from a dress I saw in Germany. I’m trying to set a new fashion, but I’m not sure Italy’s quite ready for it yet!”
Her brown eyes sparkled and Cara had to smile. The girl’s sense of fun was infectious; she clearly didn’t take herself too seriously. “Don’t ask me. I know nothing about fashion. I grew up surrounded by men.”
“So I heard,” Beatrice chuckled. “Everyone’s talking about you. Did you really blow up a monastery?”
“Only part of one. It was an accident.”
“How exciting! I do hope you’ll tell me all about it sometime. So, you’re staying with Il Diavolo?”
Cara grimaced. “That’s one way of putting it. I’m effectively his hostage.”
This revelation failed to get the sympathetic reaction she expected.
Beatrice grinned. “Ooh, you lucky thing! No wonder Vanessa Canozzi’s in such a bad mood.” She chuckled. “Odious woman. That’s her over there, flirting with him now. He finished with her months ago, but she hasn’t taken the hint. That little man behind her is her long-suffering husband.”
Cara narrowed her eyes. “We’ve met.”
Beatrice raised an eyebrow, scenting intrigue. “Then you already know she’s awful. I won’t have her at my court. Still, she’s a lucky woman. Del Sarto’s extremely attractive, don’t you think?”
“I suppose so.”
Beatrice shot her a mischievous look. “What’s not to like about tall, dark and dangerously handsome?”
Cara glanced across the room. The blasted man looked devastating, as usual. Her gaze dropped to his lips and her blood heated as she recalled the feel of them against her skin. He looked up and caught her studying him, and her heart lurched as their gazes locked. He raised his wine glass in a mocking toast.
Beatrice followed her gaze. “Uh-oh. He’s talking to my father. I bet Papa’s offering one of my brothers as a potential husband for you.”
Cara felt the blood drain from her face.
“What’s the matter?” Beatrice touched her arm in a comforting gesture.
“I don’t want to get married. Ever.” Cara bit her tongue and savored the sting. She was an idiot, to be mooning over a man who was doing everything he could to get rid of her.
Beatrice interrupted her self-flagellation. “Marriage isn’t that bad, you know. Even men have their occasional uses! Still, I’ll try and put Papa off the idea. I’d love to have you as a sister in law, but no-one deserves one of my brothers. They’re too young for you, anyway. Experience is always preferable in a husband.” She gave a knowing smile. “How old is my lord del Sarto?”
Cara rolled her eyes. “I don’t know. At least thirty.”
For one, brief moment, she imagined herself married to him and her heart skipped a beat. The vision was both unnerving and strangely compelling.
“Are you honestly saying you’ve never thought about it?” Beatrice teased. “I know I have! There’s not a woman here who hasn’t imagined herself with him.”
“He’s not thinking of marriage. To me or anyone else. In fact, I can’t think of anyone worse suited to being a husband. All he thinks about is fighting and making money.”
Beatrice looked sympathetic. “Well, you’ll be lucky to avoid marrying someone.” She glanced across the room and sighed. “Oh dear. I should go and drag my husband away from the Medici. They can’t be in the same room without arguing.” She gave Cara’s hand a squeeze. “It was nice to meet you. I hope we’ll have a chance to talk again soon.”
Beatrice was quickly swallowed up by the crowd.
Cara had just turned to look for del Sarto when he reappeared soundlessly at her shoulder. She jumped. “Stop creeping up on people like that!”
He sent her a diabolical smile. “Force of habit. Did you enjoy gossiping with Beatrice?”
“I did indeed.”
“Her sister’s wedding to the Duke of Mantua was a good alliance. The ceremony alone cost over twenty thousand ducats.”
“Must you think of everything in terms of money and power?”
“Yes. That’s the way the world works.” He sounded bored. “Have you chosen a husband yet?”
“No.”
He withdrew a folded paper from his surcoat and Cara stared at it suspiciously. “What’s that?”
“Despite your lack of feminine accomplishments and your complete inability to take orders, I’ve received eight separate offers for you. These are the names. You will choose one by the morning. If not, I will make the decision for you.”
Shock and fury warred with disappointment in her chest. She felt brittle, like a glass goblet that might shatter into a thousand pieces at any moment. She couldn’t look at him. She took the paper and scanned the list instead.
“I doubt any of them meet your exacting standards,” he said darkly. “None of them will ride to your rescue on a dazzling white charger, kiss your hand, or serenade you with flowers and sonnets.”
She blanched. His mocking description was uncannily accurate to the daydreams she had spun when she was a little girl, still naively hopeful for a happy future. She raised her chin and forced words past her aching throat.
“If that is all, my lord, I think I’ll go to bed.”
He nodded coolly. “I bid you goodnight.”
Chapter 31
Cara sat on the window seat in her room and stared out at the darkness beyond. Del Sarto was a brute.
His insistence on a dynastic marriage for her was infuriating. Her own parents had married for love, not land or power. She’d been both proud and slightly envious of what they’d shared; she wanted what they’d had, that no-one-else-will-do conviction. And if she couldn’t have it, she wouldn’t settle for less. Even the prospect of living alone for the rest of her days was better than a loveless marriage.
At least del Sarto, the miserable cur, had finally provided her with a means to escape. She would accept one of these infernal suitors and leave San Rocco. She’d use the man’s forces to recapture Castelleon, break off her engagement, and return home. Alone.
It was hardly the most honorable plan, to be sure, but it was the best she could come up with under the circumstances. And at least she’d be free of del Sarto and their ridiculous bargain.
She studied the list again. None of the men were remotely appealing, but the most logical choice was the elderly Duke of Parma. He had the largest number of standing troops, after del Sarto. He was a widower, around sixty years old, with a tanned face and kind eyes. It would be cruel to mislead him, but he would recover. He could live without a wife, but she couldn’t live without avenging her father and regaining her home. Her primary duty was to the people of Castelleon, to free them from the tyranny of her uncle.
Cara gave a frustrated sigh. But what of her own needs? Her own desires? She’d done what others wanted her whole life. The most annoying part of all this was that, of all the traits she desired in a husband, Il Diavolo possessed more of them than any other man she’d ever met.
He was undeniably handsome. Protective. Strong. He encouraged her reading and appreciated her military knowledge. He found her lack of feminine accomplishments amusing, instead of repellent. He made her laugh, made her feel safe. She’d even appreciate his fiendishly clever mind if it were working with her, instead of against her, and she loved butting heads with him. The thrill of their verbal sparring, the challenge of testing her wit against his own, was thoroughly invigorating. The thought of leaving him, of never seeing him again, made her feel oddly wretched.
Cara stared at her reflection, distorted by the wavy imperfections of the diamond-paned glass, and the awful, irrefutable truth hit her in the face like a low-hanging branch.
Good God. She was in love with del Sarto!
She sat completely still, stunned. How could she have fallen in love with such an undeserving, black-hearted, conniving, arrogant . . . the list just went on and on.
He certainly didn’t want her, or anyone, to wife. He was using her for his own political ends. All he’d ever offered was a few nights of pleasure.
Cara stripped off her dress and jewels and slipped on the sheer silk nightdress Pia had provided—so insubstantial she might as well have worn nothing at all. She unwound the tight braids from her hair and sat on the edge of the bed to brush it out, then tossed the brush aside, flopped backwards, and stared sightlessly at the canopy.
She would be leaving soon. She didn’t need to lie with him for the sake of their bargain.
But that didn’t mean she couldn’t lie with him if she wanted to.
Her heart began to pound. Livy, the Greek historian, said “temerity is not always successful.” She’d never been good at sitting around, waiting for things to happen. Was she going to be like Ovid’s Daphne, always running away? No. She wanted del Sarto. He wanted her.
So why not take what he was offering? Why not allow herself one night of sin, of pleasure, before the rest of her life without him?
She glanced at the connecting door. It was well past midnight, but she’d heard him come to bed only moments ago, heard him moving around the chamber; the splash of water, the scrape of a chair.
Without giving herself time to think, she crossed the room, her bare feet soundless on the cool flagstones, and shoved aside the table that stood in front of the door. She experienced a moment of blind panic as she pushed it open. What was she doing? This was madness! She should turn around and go straight to bed. Already regretting her foolish impetuosity, she glanced around his room, suddenly willing it to be empty.
“Looking for something to kill me with?” del Sarto drawled.
Hellfire and Damnation.
He was lying in bed, propped up by the pillows like a lazy sultan, watching her by the embers of the fire. His chest, visible above the coverlet, was bare. Her heart caught in her throat.
His narrowed gaze took in what she was wearing. Or, rather, what she wasn’t wearing. The sheer silk was a scandalous piece of clothing, utterly impractical for anything other than seduction. It was the most revealing thing she’d ever worn and Cara suddenly felt ridiculous, like a child caught trying on her mother’s clothing.
“Where did you get that?”
She glanced down stupidly. “Pia gave it to me.”
“A definite improvement on my shirts. Dare I ask why you’re here?”
She stepped forward and adopted a cool, businesslike expression. “I’ve chosen a suitor. The Duke of Parma.”
He raised one eyebrow. “An interesting choice. But couldn’t it have waited until morning?”
Temerity is not always successful.
She strove to keep her voice cool, as though charging into a man’s bedroom and propositioning him was a regular nightly occurrence. “I’ve changed my mind.”
His gaze grew alert. Predatory. “About what, specifically?”
She quaked under his intense regard. “You said I had to come to you willingly.” She spread her arms out in a gesture of both challenge and acceptance, and lifted her chin. “So here I am. Willing. I want you to teach me.”
He narrowed his eyes, obviously suspecting a catch. “Teach you?”
“Everything there is to know between a man and a woman.” She looked him square in the eye. “I want to go into my marriage prepared.”
His reaction was impossible to gauge; if she’d surprised him he gave no outward sign. He merely raised his hand in an imperious gesture and crooked one finger. It took all of her courage not to turn on her heel and run.
“Come here.”
She took one tiny step forward.
“Closer.”
Another step.
He watched her with a slumberous, hooded gaze, a wolf assessing her for weakness. The children of Castelleon played a game called Lupo del’ore. Players taunted the ‘wolf’ until the call of midnight, at which point he turned and gave chase until someone was caught. Eaten for dinner.
What’s the time, Mr Wolf? One o’clock.
What’s the time, Mr Wolf? Two o’clock.
What’s the time, Mr Wolf?
Dinner Time!
The ludicrous thought brought a smile to Cara’s lips. It was clear she was on the menu, but suddenly the idea was less terrifying than exciting. She’d chosen her wolf; she wouldn’t back out now, however unnerving he appeared.
She walked to the bed and stopped when her shins hit the wooden frame. Her gaze roamed over his biceps, ribs, the intriguing ridges of his stomach. Most of the men she knew had tanned necks and forearms but pale chests. Even when unclothed they appeared to be wearing shirts. Not him. He was golden all over, all sculpted planes and interesting shadows that made her fingers itch to touch.
She tensed when he moved, but he only rolled over onto his stomach; the sheet exposed his back right down to the indentations at the top of his buttocks.
Cara swallowed. Oh Lord. He was naked under there.
He rested his head on his folded arms and turned his face towards her.
“What would you like me to do?” she managed, her mouth dry.
“Give me a massage. You did offer, if you recall. In the forest.”
Had she? Her memories of what they’d discussed were vague, at best. Still, she was intrigued. “All right.”
