Chapter 26
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
CASSANDRA
Candied orange peel glistened in the candlelight on the marble terrace overlooking the bay. The sun had just set, but here in the Mediterranean, the heat lingered.
Slices of melon were arranged in careful spirals upon silver platters. Oysters were piled high on a heap of ice. Purple figs paired with delicate slices of cured ham were artfully displayed on brightly painted dishes.
Violin music drifted through the open windows, the faint scent of orange blossom rising from the garden below mixed with the tang of sea salt in the air. Rowen pressed a glass of pale wine into his wife’s hand.
Cassandra smiled. “Ah, wonderful.”
“The Lacryma Christi has become your favourite, has it not, my darling?”
Touching her husband’s arm, she sipped on the golden wine as her gaze lifted to the volcano that towered in the distance beneath the setting sun. “Who could resist a golden wine cultivated upon the slopes of Vesuvius?”
“Not missing England, are we?”
“Not at all, Oakley.” An easy laugh erupted from her.
“I am so pleased you are enjoying Naples. There is so much more I wish to show you.”
“And I very much look forward to it. Although we do have many social obligations here, still, the atmosphere is so very different. I find it terribly refreshing.”
“Being away from the ton is agreeable, eh? This is only the beginning. I promise you.” He kissed her hand.
This evening’s fête held at the villa of a Neapolitan nobleman, the Conte Filippo, a friend of Rowen’s from his first round of diplomatic service here, offered an abundance of delights to amuse and entertain, along with a carefully chosen assembly of distinguished guests.
This evening, there were but a handful of British diplomats present. Nobles from the Habsburg court mingled with envoys from Spain, Russia, and Denmark, alongside Roman and Florentine aristocrats who always passed the warmer months in Naples.
What Cassandra had found most stimulating in the weeks since their arrival in the Kingdom of Naples was the intriguing variety of minds she encountered.
Not merely the usual aristocrats and politicos, but artists, writers, musicians, and antiquarians from all over the world.
History and classical ideals were debated at length.
Sketches and watercolours of ancient ruins and vivid landscapes were eagerly shared and admired.
New archaeological discoveries were discussed with excitement.
The warmth of the stone seeped through the soles of her slippers.
Indeed, it was not only the Neapolitan sun and blue sea or the sumptuous food and wines that she found intoxicating, but conversation itself seemed more lively here than in England.
Certainly it was less guarded, and ideas were expressed with a boldness she had seldom witnessed before. All of it most invigorating.
Laughter echoed across the marble. Through the archways, gilded bronze candelabra burned low on console tables, their steady flames scenting the air with beeswax and illuminating the vibrantly painted walls.
Marchese Alessandro, a Florentine nobleman, had been observing her attentively for some time.
His dark smoky gaze suggested velvet shadows and rough whispers in the dark.
For hours she had pretended not to notice his interest, yet whether it was the wine or the music, she now met his gaze fully and held it longer than appropriate.
Appropriate in England.
The Marchese knew she and the Duke of Oakley were married.
The Marchese had a wife, Celia, a woman of great elegance who stood next to him now as she spoke with a Spanish lady.
But there he stood, drinking Cassandra in whole as if savouring her taste before he’d even taken his first sip.
She turned her attention back to the other guests who greeted Rowen.
“Your Grace, Your Grace,” vibrated a deep accented voice. The Marchese stood before them, accompanied by a finely dressed fair-haired man. “May I present Count Nikolaj of Copenhagen, recently arrived.”
“It is good to see you again, Nikolaj. I had heard of your arrival in Naples.” Rowen extended his hand.
“You know each other?” said Alessandro.
“We first met in Corfu, a long time ago,” replied Rowen.
“Oakley.” The Count’s pale eyes brightened as he shook Rowen’s hand.
“Welcome, sir,” Cassandra inclined her head.
“Your Grace.” The Count bowed with elegant precision and lifting her hand, his lips brushed lightly across her glove. His gaze lingered a moment longer than she expected. “What an exquisite beauty you have married, Oakley.”
Rowen only smiled.
Over the Marchese’s shoulder, Cassandra noticed his wife, Celia, speaking with the Russian envoy, Count Dimitri.
She laughed at a remark he’d made, and he moved closer to her.
He leaned in and whispered in her ear, and a faint smile swept her lips, a finely shaped eyebrow rose on her temple.
Her hand went to his chest and lingered there.
He continued to speak and her smile grew deeper, then he took her hand in his and kissed it.
They strolled together to the steps of the terrace and down to the garden.
Celia donned her mask which she’d been holding in her hand, the feathers in her headpiece waving as she walked with the Count on the stone pathway through the citrus trees, past the sculptures toward a pavilion at the other end of the garden, its arches open to the night.
Two servants dressed in black, unlike the servants in the house who wore red, lit the two torches marking the entrance. An entrance marked by crimson drapes. Dimitri adjusted his black mask over his face, the servants swept open the curtain, and Dimitri and Celia, holding hands, stepped through.
“Your Grace, would you care to walk with me?”
Her gaze lifted sharply. The Marchese stood before her. Her hand flew to her chest. “Alessandro…”
Bowing his head, he smiled. “I thought I might show you the garden. Filippo’s estate is much admired for the singular beauty of its gardens.”
“So I have heard.” She looked to Rowen who smiled and gave her a nod, and she slid her hand through Alessandro’s arm.
The scent of the Marchese’s bergamot and amber cologne wafted by her as they descended the shallow steps into the formal garden.
Gravel paths wound between sculptures of proud lions and anguished Roman gods. An aisle of orange trees beckoned.
“I very much enjoyed our conversation with Master Luigi the other day regarding the newly uncovered frescoes at Pompeii. Your observations were remarkably perceptive and revealed a sensibility rare among English ladies.”
“I very much enjoy sharing my ideas and in doing so, learning from others.”
“Master Luigi is a great teacher. Do you draw, Your Grace?” They circled a marble fountain adorned with a dolphin and a young cherub.
“I have made attempts, but I much prefer to be a student of the fine arts. And here, there is much beauty, wild and refined, everywhere I turn.”
His lips tipped up. “Napoli agrees with you, does it not?”
Cassandra smiled at him. “It does indeed.”
Violincello music flared from the secluded garden pavilion at the far edge of the garden, its colonnaded portico veiled behind silky drapery that rippled in the evening breeze.
She turned her head toward the sensual notes.
The torches seemed to blaze brighter in the now deeper darkness of the night.
Alessandro gestured toward the pavilion. “That is the salon where the private fête is being held.”
“Where we must wear our masks?”
“I see you have yours with you…” He touched the edge of her black and purple mask which hung from her wrist.
Her pulse quickened. “I do.”
“May I accompany you to the salon?” His eyes seemed to narrow, a hand pressed gently over hers.
“I…”
Footsteps struck on the stone path. Rowen and the Danish count came up alongside them. Nikolaj fitted himself with a gold mask. “Night has fallen, my friends. The torches are lit. Shall we enter?”
Alessandro slid a red and black mask from the inside of his frock coat and fit it over his face.
“Zandra, do you wish to attend?” Rowen asked, a hand on her arm. “Would you like to—”
“We shall wait for you inside, my friends,” said Alessandro, and he and Nikolaj bowed to them and entered the pavilion.
Rowen’s lips brushed her ear as he moved closer beside her. “If you wish it, we shall attend.”
“If I…” She turned toward him, her breath catching.
The back of Rowen’s hand caressed her cheek. “Consider it akin to tasting wines you have never before had the opportunity to try. Each possesses its own character. One might be sweeter, more syrupy, and another brighter, fresher. Would you not wish to know the particular delights of each one?”
They were not discussing wine.
Her face flared with heat. “I should like to know those particular delights. One must experience their flavours to discern.”
“Exactly so. I would have you discover all that you wish, Zandra. Once I had promised you that you shall have nothing but amusements. This, should you choose it, is that promise being freely offered to you.” His voice had lowered, his warm breath fanned her face, his hand cupping her cheek. “For you to enjoy freely.”
Her fingers trembled slightly as she fit the mask over her face, and he adjusted the ribbon behind her ears. He took out his mask and put it on. His thumb stroked her lower lip and slid down her throat, settling on her décolletage. Reaching up she kissed him, her tongue sliding against his.
He held out his arm to her, and she took it.
The black liveried servants who wore red masks swept open the drapery, and they entered the room.
Golden candelabras lit the corners of the salon, and heavier candles melted on the floor along the walls, offering a discreet glow, concealing and revealing.
Ladies dressed as ancients, bare but for the loose chitons draped around their bodies, danced to a low drum beat in the centre of the room.
The intoxicating scent of jasmine hung in the warm air.
Wine poured freely from caskets along a wall.
Voices murmured, moans pleaded, fans snapped open, silks rustled, laughter unfurled.
In one alcove, Cassandra immediately recognised Nikolaj who was taller than most of the men.
He kissed Celia, whilst, standing behind her, the Russian count had slid off the top of her gown and stroked her breasts as his face sank on the side of her throat.
Others near them unfastened laces, loosened trousers, tugged on cravats.
Heat gathered in Cassandra’s blood as her fingers tightened over her husband’s arm. Alessandro appeared before her in the flickering shadows. His necktie was loosened, the visible skin of his chest darkened by the sun. “You have come,” he said.
“Yes,” she said.
The Marchese held out his hand to her.
She looked to Rowen. He bowed his head, and released her.