Lilian And The Irresistible Duke

Chapter Two

Pietro had been having a bad day. Or rather it was not so much that the day was any worse than any other, but that he had awoken feeling restless and that restlessness refused to go away no matter how much he tried to divert it with purpose.

The restlessness, as he called the odd mood which crept up on him without warning, had always plagued him since he was a young man. A sense of something not quite right, something missing, a peculiar feeling of dissatisfaction with his life. It predated his marriage and had bothered him throughout its short and turbulent duration. In his youth, he put it down to ambition and over-exuberance and had always assumed it would disappear with age. Except with each passing year, and despite his success and his significantly increased fortune, it seemed to plague him more now than it ever had. His usual method of distracting it with work, and if that failed to assuage it with a brief fling with a willing woman, no longer seemed to alleviate it for quite as long as it used to and he often found his mood soured because he was so very bored with it all. Although he could never quite pinpoint exactly what it was he was dissatisfied with because he had no earthly idea exactly what it was he wanted.

To make matters worse, despite actively looking, suitable distractions outside his punishing work schedule had been thin on the ground lately. The stalwarts he could always rely on held little appeal and he hadn’t met a new woman in months who had seemed worth the effort.

Apart from one…

One whom he would have enjoyed thoroughly seducing just before Christmas. The troubled, proper, pretty one who had strangely intrigued him at Lady Fentree’s festive gathering in England. The one who had just apparently walked straight into him.

‘Hello…’

Her dark hair was loose about her shoulders, silky and wavy against her pale English skin as one of those creamy shoulders was exposed bare above the shawl she clutched tightly. Feline green eyes blinked up at him, the mouth he had thoroughly enjoyed kissing all those months before a startled O. And she was blushing. At her age. How…interesting.

All in all, the woman who had strangely intrigued him during that chilly English winter, because she wasn’t his usual type at all, suddenly looked very much his type in his home town now. A petite, gloriously curvaceous, tousled and thoroughly intriguing armful of woman who looked wonderfully scandalised to have collided with him again. Her eyes were on his mouth and he realised in that second she was remembering their heated kiss in the carriage just as he was. It was a memory which he had often revisited since, which was not like him either as he was not one to reminisce. What was the point? The past usually only served to depress him and he enjoyed the here and now.

But she had surprised him that night. He still couldn’t think of a reason why he had been initially drawn to her at the interminable house party he had been dragged to. But once they were alone in that dark carriage, thick fresh snowflakes falling outside under the moonlit sky and crunching beneath the wheels on that much-too-short journey, he had remembered clearly why he had kissed her.

Because in that moment, he had wanted to. It was that simple. And she had surprised him by kissing him back with barely contained passion and, for a few short minutes, the carriage, the snow and the entire world had disappeared the second his lips had touched hers.

Pietro could not remember the last time such a thing had happened because his head was always full of other things. His business, his wealthy clients. Brokering discreet deals with the many financially challenged aristocrats who needed to liquidate some of their assets, then creating enough excitement and intrigue about those paintings and sculptures so they not only found a welcoming new home, but he was paid a fortune for rehoming them. At least one of these things was always at the back of his mind at all times and usually more to the forefront than the recesses, yet in that carriage, on that short road between one house and another, it had only been him and her.

It had been a truly unforgettable kiss. One which, if he were honest with himself, had caught him off guard and left him decidedly off kilter. Enough to leave the area quickly in case he was tempted to do it again. Such an unexpected and unforeseen reaction was far too complicated to indulge further and Pietro avoided complications like the plague.

‘What are you doing here!’

‘I live here.’

‘You do?’ Her voice came out in a delightfully outraged squeak as she simultaneously realised her shawl wasn’t entirely covering her modesty and wrestled with it ineffectually.

He nodded, his mouth curving into a smile for the first time that day. ‘Which begs the obvious question, cara…what are you doing here?’

‘I am here with my late husband’s cousin…with Lady Alexandra…we’ve come to stay with Carlotta…’

‘Ah…’ Instinct told him this was no accident. It had the stamp of his sister all over it. She despaired of his quarter-century of bachelorhood, declaring it unnatural—especially as he had been widowed so young. ‘And she put you in this room?’ Conveniently located right next to his in the family wing. Much too coincidental to be coincidence.

‘Do you know Carlotta? Silly question…of course you know Carlotta if you live in her house…’

‘Actually, this is my house.’

‘It is?’ She didn’t look very happy about this news, her dark eyebrows drawing together to create a charming wrinkle between them. ‘Lady Alexandra led me to believe this is her friend’s house. Carlotta’s house.’

‘Carlotta moved in here after her husband died three years ago. To bother me. Something she does very well. My little sister has always liked to meddle.’ And matchmake. Although she was usually more subtle about it.

‘Your sister?’

‘They never told you?’

‘No…neither she nor my dear cousin thought to tell me that my host was her brother… Or that we had met.’ Her eyes flicked to his lips again before she caught herself and forced them to hold his gaze. He bothered her. The knowledge warmed him until he reminded himself he should probably be more wary than warmed. Mrs Fairclough was a widow. He was a widower. Carlotta and Alexandra had conspired to put her in the room next door to him, thrust directly in the path of temptation, when there were another twenty serviceable bedchambers in the palazzo well away from his.

‘Clearly they both like to meddle, as I suspect you have been brought here on purpose, Mrs Fairclough.’ It didn’t take a genius to work out what was going on. Alexandra must have reported back straight after Christmas, eager to tell his sister he had shown an interest in a woman and Carlotta being Carlotta, she had assumed it meant more than it did and had thought to encourage it. ‘To matchmake, perhaps?’ Unless the woman before him was in league with them. She wouldn’t be the first to assume he was in need of a wife and, as he had instigated their kiss, she might well assume she could be the one to tempt him to abandon his bachelor ways…

‘Well, if they did, I can assure you it has nothing to do with me! I would have put them straight and told them I wasn’t the least bit interested in such nonsense.’

A vehement and convincing denial which needed testing. In his experience, nobody manipulated better than a woman, especially a woman with a mission. ‘Yet here you are… Right next door to my bedchamber…’ His eyes appreciatively travelled the length of her, settling on the bare toes poking beneath the hem of her dress and back up again to the blush which now stained her delicate collarbone, swanlike neck and the alabaster cheeks his fingers suddenly ached to touch—despite all his rampant suspicions. ‘Looking decidedly interesting.’

‘I was about to get into the bath.’ In her embarrassment, her teeth worried her plump bottom lip, drawing his eyes there as she clutched at her shawl like a shield. ‘Your servants brought me the wrong trunk by mistake. Mine must be with Lady Alexandra.’ As if noticing her bare toes for the first time, she twisted her feet awkwardly to hide them under the copious material of her skirt. ‘I was fetching my soap.’

‘I can fetch it for you—and perhaps help to scrub your back?’

His outrageous flirting had the most wonderful effect. Her green eyes sparkled like emeralds and she threw back her shoulders like an offended queen. Something which did wonders for her full bosom beneath the thin shawl. ‘No, thank you.’

‘If you change your mind…’

‘I won’t!’ She spun on her bare heel and marched back to her bedchamber, slamming the door loudly, and he found himself frowning as he heard her turn the key decisively in the lock.

A woman determined to seduce a man would have flirted back, not shut him out. She would have parried and simpered and used all her feminine wiles to lure him into her trap. Mrs Fairclough had been offended and angry. Much too keen to get out of his way. Exactly like a woman who was as surprised and horrified to see him as he was her.

Pietro winced at his own crassness.

What was the matter with him to be so unforgivably rude? He was prone to cynicism and who could blame him? But thanks to the restlessness which continually ate away at him, he was in danger of becoming too cynical and jaded. And perhaps too vain and arrogant in his appeal, if he was assuming she had purposely been patrolling the hallway in a state of partial undress simply to meet him and seduce him—when there was no possible way she could have known he would come back when he had. In fact, he had told his sister he would not be home that night as he had a longstanding meeting with an old friend in Napoli he could not possibly cancel.

The old friend had really been one of his stalwarts, the American widow Mrs Ida Wayfair, whose house was but a stone’s throw from here. But like the paintings he bought and sold, he kept his affairs ruthlessly discreet. In public he was widely known as a charmer—but was careful nobody knew which of the women’s beds he actually visited.

Ida had an insatiable physical appetite, a liberal attitude in the bedroom and the same strict views on any sort of serious, emotional and permanent attachment as he had. She was also very discreet—something he liked her a great deal for. Except the thought of slipping between Ida’s well-used sheets again hadn’t been enough to tempt him from feeling sorry for himself this evening, and he had cancelled. Then taken his frustration at his own dissatisfaction and bad mood out on Carlotta’s unexpected guest because the sight of her had unnerved him.

Again.

She hadn’t deserved that.

He would apologise to her later for being crass and for offending her delicate sensibilities with his outrageous and indelicate flirting. He never usually behaved so clumsily—especially if he found the lady as attractive as he did in this case. Usually, Pietro prided himself on being a charming flirt, who enjoyed the subtle art of seducing as much as the ultimate seduction itself.

He wasn’t entirely sure what had just come over him, but knew he had to make amends. She was a guest in his house and of his sister’s. He shouldn’t be shamelessly flirting with her for exactly those two reasons. Firstly, it was a point of principal to never dally with any friends of the family, because it was much too close to home for comfort. And secondly, he never ever dallied at home because it was much too personal. He might use the house as a way to seduce them, but he would never seduce them in it. The only person who had ever slept in his bed here in the palazzo was him and that was the way he intended to keep things.

He could leave a strange bed at exactly the time of his choosing, which was always before the lady beside him woke up. Cosy breakfasts gave ladies ideas—even ladies like Ida—and daylight brought a truth to the proceedings which Pietro would rather not experience. He liked to keep his emotions detached from his desires and to do that required distance. For both those reasons, Mrs Fairclough and her potent kisses were strictly out of bounds henceforth. He had no place flirting with her because she was already much too close for comfort.

Although Mrs Fairclough had looked like a woman who needed a bit of flirting in her life. That was probably what had drawn him to her last winter. That and her lovely green eyes which had called to him. She had seemed burdened then, worried, and he had taken it upon himself to make her feel better. He still had no idea why he had needed to do that. He wasn’t completely heartless, it was true, but he was no Good Samaritan either. Yet her quiet sadness had lured him to her and once he was with her, he had fallen completely under her spell. Then fate had placed them in the same carriage unchaperoned and he had kissed her because…well…he still wasn’t entirely sure how to explain that. Other than it had felt entirely right at the time. She had responded with more passion than her prim, no-nonsense attire had suggested she would. More passion than either of them had expected. Certainly enough to keep her fresh in his mind these past four months. The little oasis of excitement in the barren desert of dissatisfaction he seemed doomed to wallow in.

Chapter Three

Lilian had to give herself a stiff talking to before plucking up the courage to go down to dinner, and that was after the stiff talking to she gave Alexandra. Typically, her cousin brushed it aside as an oversight, claiming she hadn’t remembered introducing the Duca to Lilian at Lady Fentree’s party. Without confessing to her they had shared a heated kiss in a carriage all alone, and that kiss now rendered her situation very awkward, to say the least, it was difficult for Lilian to convey exactly how miffed she was about being kept in the dark about the situation.

She was even more miffed at his behaviour earlier, because his shallow, unsubtle flirting had soured a memory which she had stupidly treasured since. In that carriage, she had felt special, interesting and appealing in a way she hadn’t in years. Or so she had thought after three large glasses of wine and some of the worst weeks of her life. His clumsy attempt at seduction on the landing this evening had made her realise he hadn’t thought her particularly special or interesting at all. Merely convenient, needy and pathetically malleable and that galled. Because she had been all of those things that fateful night in that carriage.

But as a guest in his house, she would have to remain polite even if she was annoyed at him for making her feel cheap and convenient. Besides, she would not allow the despicable actions of one overly charming Lothario to spoil her great Italian adventure. Better to face it head on, learn from it and consign it to the past like the foolish mistake it was. At some point this evening, she would talk to him and politely explain it had not been his charm which had led to her kissing him back, but the alcohol and that she had realised it had been a huge mistake from the outset. One she had absolutely no intention of repeating. Then, the air cleared, she would keep herself occupied with Rome and all the delights it offered and avoid her now-distasteful host wherever possible.

Lilian took a deep breath, then sailed into the drawing room, or salotto as Alexandra had called it when they had arrived, with what she hoped resembled more confidence than she was feeling. Carlotta rushed towards her smiling, so she was able to ignore the arrogant Duke leaning against the fireplace directly across from the door. Or at least her eyes could. Her body apparently had a mind of its own. Her skin felt decidedly odd, her nerves a bit bouncy and her stupid pulse a tad too fast.

‘Lilian…you look beautiful. Those colours really suit you.’ She had argued against a dress as bold and as fashionable as this one, assuming the vibrant printed coral stripes on the cream brocade, complete with the sweeping ruffled neckline and short sleeves, was too young for her. It had been Lottie who had convinced her to get it, pointing out that older women than she had worn gowns far bolder at Millie and Cassius’s society wedding celebration—and looked lovely in them. Lilian had relented, but never actually intended wearing it, but for some reason tonight she had needed to feel bold and lovely, so had donned it on a whim. It was too late to regret it now, despite the rakish Duca’s obvious expression of appreciation as he sauntered towards her and her recklessly bouncing nerve endings.

‘Indeed she does.’ He bowed politely and kissed her hand. She withdrew it quickly in case he had a mind to linger again, but felt her pulse quicken anyway. The accent, combined with his undeniably rugged, handsome features, sublime spicy smell and impressive height called to the passionate female within her despite all her common sense. ‘Welcome to my home, Mrs Fairclough. My sister tells me you have had no time at all today to explore the palazzo. I should be delighted to take you on a little tour of the ground floor now.’

Seeing her hesitation, Carlotta got the wrong end of the stick. ‘You might as well. Dinner is not for another thirty minutes at least and I am still awaiting Alexandra. Be sure to show her the fresco in the gran salone, Pietro. Lilian is a huge lover of art. Something you both have in common, no?’ Or perhaps she had completely the right end of the stick and was matchmaking as Pietro had suspected. Yet either way, she had been pushed into a corner. Refusing would be impolite and would cast an atmosphere over the entire holiday.

He offered his arm and she took it, pasting what she hoped was a polite and indifferent smile on her face. At least this unwelcome time alone with him would give her the opportunity to clarify his misapprehensions about their kiss and her presence in his house. She might well be at a metaphorical crossroads, but not one of the paths ahead of her included a man!

He led her out of the cosy family room and along a long hallway filled with gilt panelling and a marble floor. As soon as they turned a corner he stopped dead and sighed.

‘I cannot move another step until I have apologised for my disgraceful behaviour earlier. I have no defence of it, other than you caught me off guard after a taxing day and I wrongly assumed that you were complicit in my sister’s incessant matchmaking. I realise that is no excuse for my ungentlemanly behaviour and I apologise unreservedly for insulting you. It was not my finest hour and I was certainly not behaving as myself. I beg of you to forgive me.’

Entirely disarmed, because he had completely taken the outraged wind out of her sails, all Lilian could do was accept his pretty apology in the manner it was given. ‘You are forgiven. Because I also suspect Alexandra had a hand in it. She likes to meddle, too, and seems to have made me a bit of a project, as you can see.’ She gestured to the bold gown and then regretted it when his eyes swept her body again at the invitation. There was something about the way he did it which played havoc with her insides. ‘I really had no clue there was any connection between you and the Contessa until tonight.’

‘I realised that the moment you rightly slammed your door in my face at my gross impertinence.’ His voice was like melted chocolate and his accent made normally curt English words like ‘impertinence’ sound positively sinful. Or at least the goose pimples on the back of her neck found it sinful. And the least said about his intense dark eyes the better. The way they looked at her, boldly locked with hers… Gracious, he was lovely! And she had plainly taken leave of her senses to be thinking such nonsense after just one pretty apology and a foolhardy kiss in a carriage.

‘It would appear we are equally reluctant to be toyed with, both the innocent victims of two scheming women. I am only relieved we discovered their machinations in time before it created any irreversible awkwardness between us. I would hate to be the reason you did not enjoy your visit to Rome.’

‘Forewarned is forearmed, as we say in my country. I am glad we cleared the air.’ However, there was no point in shying away from the difficult bit of the conversation. The bit which would thoroughly clear the air. ‘I feel I also owe you an apology for what occurred at Christmas.’ She hoped ignoring the blush which threatened to bloom might make it subside, but the ugly heat crept up her neck regardless. ‘December was a particularly trying time for me and, fortified with more wine than I am used to, I might have given you the wrong impression. What I mean is…er…the…er…kiss…was a mistake.’

‘And there I was, thinking it was my charm, the moonlight and the magic of the moment.’ He was smiling at her, his dark eyes dancing, as he clutched at his heart as if she had wounded him. ‘Have you no sympathy for my delicate male pride?’ Then his eyes seemed to darken further and his deep voice became positively naughty as it dropped an octave. ‘But mistake or no, it was a spectacular kiss, was it not? At least credit me with that, signora.’

She couldn’t help smiling in response. The combination of his mischievous dark eyes, seductive voice and his knowing expression conspired to bring out the worst in her. ‘It was pleasant enough, I suppose.’ Good grief! Was she flirting? After twenty-five years she’d assumed she had forgotten how.

‘Only pleasant? Oh, signora, that will not do and it is not wise to confide it. Such a lacklustre compliment might only spur me to do better, as a matter of honour. For both the noble house of Venturi and my wounded male pride… Unless that is what you want?’ He was most definitely flirting again, but more the way he had at Christmas. Witty, playful, thoroughly charming and disarming. Exactly as she so fondly remembered him. ‘In which case, I shall be forced to accept the gauntlet you have thrown down. We Venturis never shy away from a challenge.’

Inside her chest, her sighing heart was doing somersaults. ‘All right, then…it was quite lovely.’

‘Better—but still not spectacular…’

‘If I tell you it was spectacular, but still very much a mistake I have no intention of repeating, will you take me to see the fresco, Your Grace…is it correct to say Your Grace? My knowledge of your language is limited.’ To around ten words, give or take a cappuccino.

‘As, by your own admission, we have shared a spectacular if reckless and unwise kiss, and as you are my guest, you should call me Pietro. And, yes, I shall take you to see my fresco.’ He offered his arm again and she took it, trying not to feel the obvious muscle in his bicep or the gentle heat coming through his sleeve and warming her suddenly inquisitive palm. ‘Might I be so bold as to call you Lilian, now that we are doomed to be nothing beyond merely platonic friends?’