The Demon Count's Daughter Read online

  His mouth left mine and traveled in short, deli­cate kisses, over my cheeks, my eyes, my brow, my soft, silky hair, as his hands gently pulled away the thin cotton sheet that lay over my nude body. He pulled it only as far as my hips, and then his mouth moved down my neck, leaving a trail of fire in its wake as he drew me up into his arms.

  I lay there for a moment, enjoying the feel of his arms around me, his mouth on my neck. And then the feel of those strong, beautiful hands on my naked skin awoke a response in me I barely knew existed. His wrists lay against my breasts, and I reached my arms around his neck and drew his closer, closer, until we were kissing once more, his mouth hot and demanding, his warm, clever hands on my breasts causing me an almost un­bearable mixture of pain and pleasure.

  I let my untutored mouth trace the thin, angry line of his scar, and then his head moved down, down, until his lips found my full breasts, bared beneath his touch, and his hungry mouth fastened on my taut and straining nipples, kneading, suck­ing, and biting them, until I moaned aloud with delight. I laced my fingers through his thick, long hair and held him closer, ever closer to me, writh­ing on the bed as he pulled the sheet away from the rest of me, his lips . . .

  The yowl of a Venetian alley cat brought me suddenly, swiftly, horribly awake, and I lay alone in my narrow bed, the sheet at my feet, covered with a thin glow of sweat, trembling with the chill of the night air. A dream. It had all been a licen­tious, voluptuous, embarrassing, delectable dream. I wanted to cry out in rage and frustration.

  A shudder passed over my body, swiftly fol­lowed by another and then another. Stumbling from my bed I crossed the mosaic floor on bare feet and found the armoire in the fitful moonlight. I took the Englishman's coat from its hook and wrapped it around my naked, shivering body. Climbing back into my soft bed, I heaved a sigh that was an odd mixture of contentment, relief, and disappointment. And in another moment I was sound asleep, this time for the remainder of the warm and sultry Venetian night, whose warmth could turn suddenly, bitingly chill.

  CHAPTER SIX

  I slept later than usual the next morning. By the time I struggled out of bed, forced a comb through my salt-tangled hair and arranged it in a simple manner, threw on a wrapper, and washed my face, it was close to ten o'clock. I found Maggie sitting in the salon, sewing industriously on the rose- colored silk, a cup of tea at her left elbow, her neat little feet perched on a petit point stool only slightly frayed from age and damp.

  "You look quite demure this morning," I ob­served, pouring myself a blessedly strong cup of tea. "How long have you been up?" I wandered over to stare out at the noise and bustle of the Grand Canal.

  "Any number of hours now, Miss Luciana. I've been to the square to buy milk from those cunning little milkmaids, I've had breakfast, and made a great deal of progress on this dress." She held it up for my inspection, and indeed, it had begun to take shape in an amazingly short amount of time. "And you've received an invitation."

  I turned back quickly, almost spilling my tea. "Already?" I exclaimed, remembering my seem­ingly futile trip to the Merceria yesterday and Tonetti's secretive note. "From Tonetti?"

  "I sincerely doubt it," she replied wryly. "It's from the embassy. Lady Bute, the consul's wife, to be exact. For tea this afternoon; I was so bold as to tell the messenger you'd be pleased to attend. I think we can thank your Uncle Mark for that particular attention. Lady Bute was one of his old flirts."

  "How do you know that?"

  She waved an airy hand. "Servants have ways of picking up on things," she replied, looking in no way like a servant in her elegant green muslin dress that was deliberately cut just a trifle too low for daytime wear. "You know what that invitation means, don't you?"

  "I haven't the faintest idea, other than a possi­bly boring afternoon with a bunch of stuffy peo­ple," I said rudely. Formal teas had long been a bane of my existence, providing far more punish­ment than pleasure, and I wasn't looking forward to this afternoon's treat.

  "It's Lady Bute's official monthly tea," Maggie explained with great patience. "All those people who are anybody will be invited. Including your mysterious friend who arrives so opportunely."

  She made a neat little knot and cast a suspicious glance at my happy face. "You needn't be quite so jolly, Miss Luciana. He might not be there."

  "No, you're right, Maggie." I waltzed around the room in the strong Venetian sunlight. "He'll be there, I know he will. I . . . I don't suppose there's any chance the dress . . . ?"

  "Will be finished in time?" she continued for me. "Why do you think I'm sitting here on such a glorious day? I may have to sew you into it, but you'll have it to wear this afternoon. Your Uncle Mark will be calling for you at three."

  I swooped down and gave her an exuberant hug, careful to watch my surprising strength or I could have cracked a few ribs. "Bless you, Maggie! What more could I ask?"

  "That we get out of this devilish situation your impulsiveness hurled us into with our skins intact," she suggested morosely.

  That afternoon I dressed with far greater care than I usually expended and consequently Uncle Mark was left cooling his heels in the salon for a good twenty minutes while Maggie sewed me into the rose-silk dress. She had done an admirable job of it—the soft folds hugged my uncorseted body and draped gracefully around my narrow hoops. The deep fold of Venetian lace around the shoul­ders set off the warm tones of my skin to perfec­tion, and as I moved it rustled in a soft, feminine manner. We had worked a full hour on my thick, straight black hair. The damp sea air had given it more weight than usual, and as Maggie twined and plaited and pinned, small tendrils escaped the severe style and framed my face in a flattering fashion. I applied rose hips to my cheeks, char­coal to my already dark lashes, gardenia scent to my wrists, breasts, and the nape of my neck. When I was finished Maggie drew back and looked at me in astonishment.

  "My Gawd, Miss Luciana," she breathed in amazement.

  "What's wrong? Don't I look pretty?" I de­manded, worried that I had been too partial to my reflection in the gold leaf mirror.

  Maggie shook her curly head. "No, dearie, you aren't pretty. Not a bit." She laughed as my mouth drooped. "You are absolutely beautiful. I never knew you could be such a looker."

  "You swine!" I shook her. "You frightened me for a moment." I pranced in front of my reflection, turning my full, graceful skirts this way and that. "Will he think so too?"

  Maggie had no doubts as to the identity of "he." "He'd be half-mad not to. You look just like that picture your pa has in his study. Of the lady."

  "The Giorgione Madonna?" I supplied, amazed. "I really do? She's beautiful!"

  "And so are you," Maggie said stoutly. "If you'd just keep those spirits under control. You have the same serene sort of looks. When you aren't being wicked, that is."

  "I'll work on it, Maggie," I promised solemnly, turning to give myself one last smug grin in the tarnished surface of the mirror.

  Uncle Mark's reaction was fully as flattering as Maggie's, though not quite so amazed. "I always knew you were a beauty," he said loyally, helping me into the gondola with surprisingly careful hands. "How could you help but be, with parents like yours?"

  This was unanswerable, and the trip to the British Consulate was quick and silent. Uncle Mark seemed vague and abstracted; even more so than usual. Only once did he break the stillness.

  "You still haven't heard from Tonetti, have you?"

  I started guiltily, then met his worried blue eyes with a limpid expression. I had already determined not to confide in anyone if I could help it, smugly certain I could handle it far better without his meddling. Besides, I told myself virtuously, he would only worry needlessly. "I haven't heard anything yet," I replied with sweet innocence. "I expect to any day now."

  "I don't understand it," he said worriedly, more to himself than to me. "I would have thought someone would have made contact by now. We've been here almost forty-eight hours—usually these people don't waste any time." He sighed,
looking at the magic city as we glided by with blind eyes. "I can't rest easy until I've gotten you safely back in Somerset. This was a crazy idea to begin with. Bones must be senile!"

  I listened to him in silence. "What's done is done," I said with great originality. "We should hear something soon. No doubt we'll be back in England before you know it."

  "I only hope it's before your father knows it. I shudder to think of his reaction when he finds I've accompanied you here."

  I patted his hand reassuringly. "His reaction would be far worse if he found that you had let me go alone."

  "Yes, that's true," he muttered, brightening somewhat. My father had the ability to terrify most of his acquaintances when he chose to, and Mark Ferland was particularly vulnerable.

  I stirred uneasily, and the gondola rocked slightly as it sliced through the dark green salt water. "Well, it should all be cleared up in a while," I said optimistically, wondering whether I ought to take Uncle Mark into my confidence. Despite his vague demeanor, he had some experi­ence in the field. I sat there in a quandary, unable to make up my mind.

  "I must say Venice agrees with you," my god­father continued thoughtfully after a moment. "Perhaps Bones knew what he was doing after all when he sent you. I only wish he'd had the foresight to send someone along to protect you."

  But didn't he send you, I thought suddenly? And if not, who and where was the watchdog Bones had promised me? I opened my mouth to question him when the gondola pulled up along the quay outside the British Consulate, and in the bustle of disembarking and greeting our various fellow guests, all of whom seemed to know Uncle Mark and my parents intimately, the subject was lost, not to return until late that night when I was alone and half-asleep.

  We were halfway across the formal receiving room on the third floor of the old palazzo that had become the consulate, making our leisurely way to greet our hostess, Lady Bute, when I whispered uneasily to my godfather, "Everyone is staring at me. I must look a freak in this pink dress." Years of doubt and horrid self-consciousness about my unusual height came flooding back to me, and I felt like sinking through the polished marble floor.

  Uncle Mark stopped short, turning amazed eyes on me. "My dear girl, they're not staring at you because you're tall—they're staring at you because you're beautiful. Remember, Luciana," he ad­monished sternly, "you're a del Zaglia."

  Unconsciously I threw back my shoulders and smiled at the assembled multitude. The number of smiles I received in return amazed me.

  "My God," I whispered, amazed, "I believe you're right, Uncle Mark."

  Lady Bute was a very carefully preserved blonde somewhere on the shady side of fifty. She greeted her old beau, Uncle Mark, with a noisy and enthusiastic kiss on the lips and looked as if she were about to bestow the same salute on me upon our introduction. I quickly proffered my cheek, clanging into her chin with jarring force, and then drew back, aghast at my unusual clumsi­ness.

  Lady Bute, far from being irritated, let out a high little trill of laughter, squeezed my hand with surprising strength, and waved my godfather away with one plump, bejeweled wrist. "You are Luc and Carlotta's daughter! How I've longed to meet you, my dear. No one ever told me you were such a beauty . . . every eye is upon you today. I feel quite put out."

  No one had ever told me I was a beauty, either, I thought, and then realized that was untrue. My parents had always made me feel exquisitely lovely. It was only when I was away from their protective, sheltering love that I felt overgrown and lost the natural grace that was mine.

  "Sit beside me, my child, and we shall enjoy a great gossip. There's nothing I don't know about who's in Venice, and I'm dying to hear the latest from your dear family. How many brothers do you have now? Was it three?"

  "Six," I replied, smiling. "The youngest is Marco, who's barely a year and a half."

  "Your mother never ceases to amaze me," she said sincerely. "The lucky creature."

  We passed the next half hour in an extremely agreeable fashion. It seemed there were very few people present at the formal tea who hadn't a scandal hidden deep in their past, a scandal Lady Bute had managed to unearth long ago. So fasci­nated was I in all this that I failed to notice Uncle Mark's defection with a pretty, blue-haired widow, or the arrival of my mysterious gentleman, until a pause in Lady Bute's voluble conversation al­lowed me to cast a casual eye over the proceed­ings.

  From my vantage point in the little alcove at the head of the room I could see him clearly, towering over the various international guests with easy grace. As far as I could tell he had yet to see me. Or if he had, he hadn't cared, I thought morosely.

  "Who are you looking at with such a curious expression, my dear?" Lady Bute demanded, her long nose itching for more gossip. "Do I detect an expression of romantic longing on your lovely young face? You shouldn't be so transparent, my girl. Gentlemen should be kept guessing."

  Blushing, I tried to deny any romantic interest. As my protests came out in stammered half- phrases, an old campaigner like Lady Bute was not fooled for a minute.

  "I beg you, darling, tell me who he is! I can be discreet, I promise you." Unlikely chance, I thought cynically, closing my mouth tight- against my usual longing to confide in anyone or anything. "I do so love romance," she twittered on. "Is it an attachment of long standing?"

  I had to laugh. "It isn't an attachment at all, my lady. I was merely curious about one of your guests." Should I keep my mouth shut or should I not? I wondered feverishly beneath my calm ex­pression. I doubted I would find such a gold mine of information again. And what harm would it do if she knew of my interest? I would be gone from Venice in a few short days, never to return until the Austrians had finally departed.

  Lady Bute's sharp little eyes, like hard, shiny marbles, followed the direction of my limpid gaze, and widened in consternation. "Evan Fitzpatrick!" she exclaimed in an undertone, and I turned to her eagerly.

  "Is that his name? I've seen him any number of times since I've arrived, but we've yet to be intro­duced. Would you . . . ?"

  "Introduce you? Never," she said flatly, a decep­tively merry expression in those eyes.

  "But why not?"

  "My duties as the wife of the consul, my dear, do not include introducing young ladies of proper upbringing to men who are scarcely gentlemen."

  "Scarcely gentlemen?" I echoed, puzzled. "He seems perfectly genteel enough. I don't under­stand."

  "You've talked with him?" she edged closer. "My goodness, what an intrigue! I didn't know Evan had ever bothered to exchange more than two words with a young lady of virtuous ways. This is absolutely fascinating. Tell me, where did you meet him?"

  "At the Merceria," I replied. "And the train station. And outside Edentide." For the first time the coincidence seemed unpleasantly striking. "He's very rude," I added.

  "Yes, that's Evan," the older woman said fondly. "Hated you on sight, didn't he?"

  I remembered his gentle hands smoothing away my sea-damp hair, the look of concern in his angry, silver-blue eyes. I smiled reflectively. "Well, no, not really," I allowed.

  "Then you've worked some sort of spell on him," she said flatly.

  "Why? Why won't you introduce me to him, why is he not quite a gentleman, why should he hate me on sight?" I demanded, unable to tear my eyes away from the back of his neck, the lovely way the overlong dark blond hair curled around his collar, the deceptive strength in those shoul­ders.

  Lady Bute hesitated for only a moment. "Very well, my dear. I will tell you what I know of Evan Fitzpatrick, and then you will see just how totally ineligible he is. We shall take a short stroll on the north terrace, where we are unlikely to be interrupted. Come with me." She rose to her small height with classic dignity, and I followed suit, towering over her and feeling like a giantess. "My, you are a Juno, aren't you?" she said sweetly, drawing her arm through mine and leading me away from the multitude out onto the flowered terrace.

  "To begin with," she said in a lowered voice once we were alone,
"he is divorced." The tones she spoke in suggested an axe murderer at the very least, and I sighed with relief.

  "Is that all?"

  "Isn't that enough? But no, that is not all. England must have changed if the young people accept divorce so easily. In my day divorced peo­ple were not received."

  "But you receive Evan Fitzpatrick?" I pointed out.

  A sly smile creased her aging face. "Indeed, I do. But you'll find, my dear, that there are very few men as handsome as Evan Fitzpatrick that I don't receive. But I also do not introduce them to the innocent daughters of the nobility, be they Venetian or English."

  "And what else is so horrid about him?" I de­manded, feeling absurdly protective. "Did he aban­don his poor, frail, helpless wife?"

  "As a matter of fact Amelia was the most ghastly bitch. She had the morals of a Roman, and didn't bother to hide it. Daughter of a duke, but the most ill-bred creature I have ever met. She gave Evan that attractive scar, you know. I believe she did it with a letter opener."

  "My God," I whispered in horror. "Is that when he divorced her?"

  "Heavens, no! It wasn't until two or three years after that. They have a son. Sweet young boy, I believe; goes to school in England somewhere. It wasn't talked about openly, and the divorce trial was closed, but I have friends in high places. It turned out that the dear Amelia had a particu­larly nasty habit of having her five-year-old son watch while she disported with her current lover. Or lovers, as the case may have been. If the poor child was uncooperative she would fly into one of her maniacal rages. I gather she broke his arm in three places. That was when Evan divorced her."

  I felt like throwing up. "I would have murdered her," I said quietly.

  "Well, as a matter of fact, there was some question of that. A few years after the divorce she was found strangled in a Paris bordello which catered to odd tastes. No one was ever caught, but it was rumored that Evan might have finally gotten his revenge. He was wandering around Europe at the time. Still is, I suppose, though he's been in Venice for almost a year now."