Chapter 6 #2
Ahead, an object shone white on the ground. He grabbed it and held it to the moonlight. A flimsy scrap of lace. A lady’s fichu, if he wasn’t mistaken. Lady Amelia had been wearing a fichu.
“Lady Amelia,” he called out, muted so her name wouldn’t carry to the villa.
A faint yes sounded in the distance.
“Have you lost something?” Like her inhibitions, for starters.
Another sound floated across the still night air. Was that a giggle?
“Oh, I would say a few somethings.”
What on earth—
He rounded a bend of high shrubbery and beheld what on earth, indeed.
A fountain.
Lady Amelia.
Lady Amelia splashing in the fountain, wearing nothing but stays, stockings, and a chemise.
Playful…wet…
His cock sprang to instant life.
“Oh, it feels so good,” she cooed. “The water and the breeze against one’s bare skin. I’ve never felt so…good.”
Oh, he—and his cock—could think of a few ways to make her feel even better than good.
He cleared his throat. “You must come out of there at once,” he commanded with all the ducal authority he could muster. Which was a great deal, even under the current circumstances.
She acted as if she hadn’t heard him and began floating on her back.
Little of her was left to the imagination.
She was as exquisite as his imagination had insisted—long, slender, yet all the lines of her so very feminine.
“Out,” he barked.
“I think not.” She hadn’t even bothered to look at him.
Tristan wasn’t accustomed to people ignoring his commands. It irked him. Especially when any rational person could see he was in the right.
Of course, Lady Amelia was no longer a rational person. She was a person stewed to the gills.
He moved to the edge of the fountain. “Now.”
“I’m afraid not.”
“Don’t make me come in after you.”
“You won’t.”
She spoke the last bit with a certainty that rubbed against his last remaining nerve.
That was it.
With focused efficiency, he shed coat, waistcoat, and cravat, stripped down to shirt and trousers. That was as far as he would go. What if someone happened upon them, and he was in the buff?
He would have to marry the chit.
That was what.
Even in Italy.
“How fussy you are,” she said, blithe and unconcerned.
On a great charge, he cleared the lip of the fountain and sank to his waist in an instant.
“It’s deeper than you’d think,” she said with the wisdom of one who had gone before.
That irked him, too.
In five great strides, the water dragging against him, he reached her. For her part, she remained floating on her back, staring up at him, small nipples hard as cherry pits through the translucent muslin of her chemise.
Now what?
What the bloody hell had he been thinking? Did he mean to lay hands on her?
That would be a bad idea.
A very, very bad idea.
“You wouldn’t dare touch me,” she said, and laughed with all the unconcern of the innocent.
He remained silent, unable to trust himself to speak. He wouldn’t dare?
“Your reputation is so very salacious, but I’ve found little to warrant it. Surprising, really.” She scoffed. “The Dissolute Duke, my arse.”
What was this? Was he some flaccid, toothless old man?
Well, wasn’t she in for a surprise?
In another great stride, he closed the remaining distance between them, taking particular delight in watching her unconcerned smile transform into very concerned shock as she bolted upright and began a sloshy scramble away from him.
But she’d started too late.
He was scooping her up in the next instant.
Of their own accord, her arms lifted and slid around his neck to steady herself.
Her face separated from his by mere inches, they stared at each other in utter shock.
Her arms began to tighten around his neck and her lips parted a fraction, wide enough for her tongue to dart out and wet them.
Before he understood what she was about, her mouth was pressed against his.
A wave of impressions flooded him. Soft…sweet… She tasted of sugar…of prosecco and lemon and woman…of everything delicious in the world.
On carnal instinct, his tongue slid through her parted lips, unable to resist a deeper taste of her, knowing to his bones a taste would never be enough…
She gasped.
And like that, he knew what else she tasted of.
Innocence.
He jerked back, tearing himself away from the kiss, and met eyes wide with shock.
He didn’t kiss innocent women. Further, he didn’t kiss tippled women, especially when he was stone sober.
And this woman wasn’t just any woman, but an unmarried one.
Most assuredly a virgin, her reaction to his tongue told her.
Right.
Confusion and curiosity warring in her eyes, her arms tightened around his neck, bringing her mouth closer to his. The chit was trying to kiss him…again.
He averted his face and began wading to the edge of the fountain. For such a tall woman, she weighed hardly anything, even sopping wet. He nearly dropped her when her mouth found his neck, her warm breath raising goose bumps along his skin.
Then she licked him, her tongue a slick drag up his neck.
Was the woman trying to get herself ravished?
“Mm, salty,” she said, breathy. “I wonder where else you’re salty.”
He could provide a thorough tutorial.
Stoically, he kept moving until they reached the grass, where he unceremoniously deposited her. “Dress yourself,” he commanded and pivoted so his back faced her. He couldn’t watch her struggle into her clothes, without offering to help.
Perhaps not without helping himself to her.
And that would be ungentlemanly.
While he’d come to Italy to not be a gentleman, a man must adhere to a few principles. Not taking advantage of an intoxicated woman was one of them.
But, oh, how his body screamed for just one more taste of her…
A throat cleared behind him. He turned to find she’d dressed herself…somewhat. Her hair was half up and half down, and thoroughly sodden, and her dress might be on backwards, but it was enough to preserve her modesty from prying eyes.
His prying eyes, to be exact.
Side by side, they followed the path that led around the side of the villa.
“About our bargain,” she said.
Perhaps she’d come to her senses and thought better of it.
“Yes?”
“I’ll expect you at my villa tomorrow night—” Her brow furrowed. “Tonight?”
He nodded. It had grown late.
“For our first painting session.”
“You cannot be serious.”
“And bring a fig leaf.”
“A fig leaf?”
“To preserve your modesty.”
For the first time in what felt like an age of thirty years—perhaps it had been—he laughed, long and hard and without reserve. It cleansed, this sort of laughter. But, really, the things that emerged from this woman’s mouth. “You mean to preserve your modesty,” he said.
“Whatever do you mean?”
“You’ll see.”
Could she truly be that innocent?
He looked into her eyes.
She could.
“Midnight,” she continued. “You know where my bedroom is located.”
They reached the alleyway, but before they emerged from the shadows, he signaled that she stop. “Stay put and out of sight.”
With a sharp whistle, he caught his driver’s attention. Within a few minutes, the carriage rolled into view. Tristan waved it as close as could be managed. Even so, Lady Amelia would be exposed to a good five feet of light. The unconcerned eye would find nothing amiss. The gossipy eye, however…
She was a Windermere. That was what people would say. What they didn’t understand about Lady Amelia, however, was that she was a different sort of Windermere.
He opened the carriage door and waved at her.
She seemed to understand the mission, for she dashed as fast as her sloshy slippers could carry her and made a mad scramble inside the carriage tout suite.
As she passed him, he might’ve even caught a few droplets of spray from her hair, which now streamed down her back in wet blonde streaks.
Once inside, she stared straight ahead and didn’t acknowledge his existence. She might’ve sobered up a bit.
He poked his head into the open window. “One bit of advice,” he said to the side of her face. “When you get home, drink a large glass of water. Your morning self will thank you.”
He pulled back and gave the side of the carriage two sharp raps.
As he watched the carriage speed off into the night, he knew what he should do. He should send a note first thing tomorrow backing out of their bargain.
But he wouldn’t.
He knew that, too.