The Very Daring Duchess Part 39

But now he was the one who looked down, the candlelight glinting on the top of his golden head.

"Once you said I was your anchor, la.s.s," he said, his voice as heavy as lead, as heavy as her heart. "But no more, eh?"

"Oh, Edward, my darling husband," she whispered, reaching out to him. "Il mondo e vuoto senza di-"

"Don't," he ordered so harshly that her hand jerked back as if it had come too close to a flame. "Show me your pictures."

"But Edward, that doesn't-"

"Show me your blasted pictures," he said again, and when he now lifted his gaze, she found his eyes shuttered against her, closing her out. "That's what you chose to do, isn't it? If these paintings and this gallery mean so b.l.o.o.d.y much to you now, then show them to me."

She hesitated, torn, before she finally nodded. If this was the game he wished her to play now, she would.

"Then first you must make yourself at ease, per favore, Your Grace," she said, and he sat on the cushioned bench, his gaze intent upon her. She tried to smile, wishing desperately that he would smile in return, and with a graceful arch of her wrist she turned toward the nearest painting.

"This pretty little Saint Catherine comes from the studio of Guido Reni," she began, "and with its rosy palette of colors and gentle subject, it is-"

"Show me your father's brothel paintings, Francesca," he interrupted. "That's what I want to see. The pictures that made your studio so d.a.m.ned popular in Naples."

"This isn't Naples, Edward," she said swiftly, his request taking her by surprise, "and I'm not showing the Oculus Amorandi here in London. Those pictures do not seem to have a place here."

She didn't want to explain that, because of loving him, she now found the pictures too unsettling to show to others, but somehow he seemed to guess that anyway.

"You can show them to me, Francesca, can't you?" he said, challenging her. "I'm your husband. We've no secrets between us, do we?"

Why was seeing the Oculus suddenly so important to him? His expression was studiously blank, revealing nothing, but if this were some sort of dare, she'd take it. Without a word she went to the far corner of the room, behind a screen where she'd stored the crates containing the Oculus. She pulled a panel free from its wrappings, relieved to see that it was one of the less explicit, a scene from the ancient myth of Danae receiving Zeus as a beam of golden light.

Even Francesca's imaginative father had had trouble depicting such an abstract coupling as that, and so he'd chosen simply to concentrate on showing Danae as the kind of plump, alluring, and mostly naked young woman, lounging on her bed, that both G.o.ds and mortal men apparently found irresistible. Lightly Francesca touched little Danae's winsome face, her shining dark eyes and her tousled hair curling over her bare shoulders. Perhaps if she were lucky, some of Danae's charm might rub off on her in return. Saints in heaven, she'd need all the help she could muster if she was to redeem herself with Edward.

With the picture tucked under her arm, she returned to him. But instead of standing before him to display it, she sat on the bench next to him, bracing the small painting on her knees, where he'd have to lean closer to her to see it.

"This is called Danae Receiving the G.o.d Zeus as Her Lover," she explained, aware of how he'd shifted nearer to her. "I'm sure you recall the legend, caro mio, how her father had imprisoned her in a tower to keep away all lovers. But Zeus is too ardent a lover, too wily, and manifests himself to the willing Danae as a shower of golden light through the window, raining down upon her ripe and eager body."

She'd explained the picture and the myth more times than she could recall, but she'd never felt as nervous and unsure as she did now. Most gentlemen would make some flippant comment while they ogled Danae's bare b.r.e.a.s.t.s, about how that old rogue Zeus had all the luck and the pretty women, too.

But Edward said nothing, and Francesca's uneasiness grew.

"Certainly Danae looks quite pleased with her lover, doesn't she?" she said, striving to fill the silence. "But then Zeus would-"

"She reminds me of a certain nymph in a drawing, a nymph with a centaur," said Edward, his voice rough and raw. "Not that she's the same model, but her sly smile, her eagerness, how her hair falls over her shoulders-aye, that's there in my nymph, too."

"You kept that drawing?" she asked, turning toward him with surprise.

"Of course I did, la.s.s," he said. "It's all I had left of you."

She was terribly conscious of how closely he was sitting beside her on the bench, of how his arm and his thigh were touching hers, of the simmering heat between them that had nothing to do with Danae and Zeus.

"I could show you other paintings in the Oculus," she said breathlessly, trying not to stare at him. She'd forgotten the contrasts of his mouth, how this close she could see the little gold whiskers that framed his lips, and how when he'd kissed her, those lips could be both soft and demanding and so ready with pleasure that she wondered what he'd do if she leaned forward and kissed him now, right now. "I could show you Zeus with Leda, and Zeus with Io, and Zeus-"

"To h.e.l.l with them," he said, slanting his face toward hers. "All I care about now is Edward and Francesca."

When his mouth found hers she could have laughed with all the joy and relief and pleasure, too, that was rising up inside her. Instead she closed her eyes and parted her lips, welcoming him deep into her mouth. He wasn't lost, and even better, he was forgiving her, and wordlessly she rejoiced, slipping her arm around Edward's shoulders to draw him closer. She let the painting slide from her fingers to drop to the floor with a thump that she ignored, and Edward likely didn't even hear.

But surely Danae would understand, and approve.

Blindly Francesca unhooked the clasp on the front of Edward's coat, then began the long row of b.u.t.tons down the front of his waistcoat. Women were always being faulted for their dress, but ah, how vastly more complicated was a gentleman's uniform.

He broke away and began feathering breath-stealing kisses along her temple, down her cheek to her jaw, to make her turn her face up at him with a little gasp of delight.

"Mi coraggioso inglese leone," she whispered fiercely. "Ti amo, and I love you in English, too!"

"And I love you, my wicked little nymph, in English and Italian and whatever other language you please," he said, tugging at the tiny ball b.u.t.tons on the back of her bodice so he could slip it forward from her shoulders. "I cannot promise you it will always be smooth sailing between us, because it won't."

She kissed him again, her happiness welling up inside her. "You are too honest, Your Grace. I must do my best to corrupt you."

"I am serious, la.s.s," he said, though he couldn't keep from dropping another kiss across the bridge of her nose. "We've both lost our pasts, and our only hope to be happy in the future is to build one together."

"There will still be people like Lady Hingham who'll judge me unworthy of you, Edward," she said, her joy flagging. "They will talk."

"Let them talk all they want," he said, smoothing her hair back from her face. "Just don't listen."

He made it sound so simple, as if he hadn't become so frighteningly angry with Lieutenant Pettigrew. And there remained one more question to be settled, too.

"There will be time for me to paint, Edward?" she asked anxiously. "Not just as a lady would, dabbing willows and roses upon tea trays, but in a studio of my own, where I might hide myself away and paint as I wish? As I must?"

"Your, ah, promessa maestasa mia?" His mouth twisted wryly as he mangled the Italian. "You see, I did pay heed. Your promise to your father, wasn't it? For the sake of your art? How could I stand in the path of that?"

"You remembered?" she asked, incredulous. How could she not love a husband like this? "You would do that for me?"

He nodded. "On the condition that you must sign only your name, and paint only what you wish. No more forgeries, understand?"

"Yes, yes, of course!" she agreed eagerly, until he held his hand up between them for her to stop.

"One other condition, too, pet," he cautioned. "I can no more give up the sea than you can your painting. While I could ask you to let me go alone, I'd much prefer to have you sail with me, and make pictures there."

"Aye, aye, my captain, as long as you promise I shall always be your first mate." She leaned forward to kiss the place to the front of Edward's ear, there where Peart so carefully shaved away his beard. "Two hearts, two souls, one love. I did not understand when Lady Hamilton first said it to me, but oh, have you made me believe it as truth now!"

"She told you that?" he asked with surprise. "I would never have thought it of her. Ah, so this is what you've done with my ring!"

Slowly he drew it from her shift, teasing the chain across her skin until she shivered as he lifted it over her head.

"I couldn't give up wearing your ring," she confessed. "You were still my anchor, even when I wouldn't claim you as my husband."

"But you will now." He pulled the ring from the chain and slipped it back onto her hand, folding her fingers closed over it for good measure. "I won't have my wife forgetting her husband."

"Then love me, sposa caro mio," she ordered in a husky whisper as she pulled him back with her onto the bench. "Love me, and remind me, and never let me forget."

0="15"15.

They made love slowly, taking the time to discover what pleased one another and to let their pa.s.sion glow and smolder before the flame rose white-hot between them. Last time they'd been driven by the urgency and despair and the dreadful certainty that that single moment would be all they'd have to share before death claimed them. But this time, on a pillowed bench with the tiny painted Danae as a witness, the promise of a long, shared life before them gave a richness and a freedom to their lovemaking that Francesca had never dreamed she'd find with anyone.