A Most Unconventional Courtship

‘Well, you are not married now,’ Chance said briskly. ‘Tell me your maiden name and we will make enquiries. Sir Thomas will have all the right reference books, we will soon see who to contact in England.’

‘No.’ She made herself meet his eyes. ‘No.’ The idea horrified her—could she ever make him understand? No, of course she could not. The Earl of Blakeney would be no more capable of that than he was of flying. He was English, an aristocrat, a man. To him home and family meant wealth, position, security, independence. For her it meant a kind of imprisonment in a foreign country, and the aching fear that they—whoever they were—would take the children away.

To Alessa’s surprise he did not persist, instead looking down at her hand as it lay trapped between his. Chance’s skin was as tanned as hers, his fingers long and somehow

expressive, even though they were still. On one hand there was a signet ring with a dark intaglio stone.

‘How soft your hand is,’ he commented. ‘I would have expected all that washing to take its toll.’

‘You forget, I make salves for a living. I use olive oil soap too.’ She tried to match his light tone. Anything, to keep his mind off the subject of her parentage and her English relatives.

Chance lifted her hand. For a moment Alessa thought he was simply going to look at it, then he raised it to his lips, fingertips to his mouth. Startled, she did not draw back until it was too late, and the tip of her index finger was touching his lips. The sensation froze her where she was. It could not be called a caress—could it? He did not move his mouth, just held her finger against it.

Wide-eyed, Alessa stared back at him, and then he parted his lips and bit down, so very, very gently, on the pad of her fingertip. The effect was shocking. Not the painless pressure of his teeth, but the effect on her body. Heat pooled in her belly, her breath shortened, she could feel her own lips parting, but there were no words.

Then she felt the touch of his tongue against the tiny nub of flesh and she thought she would swoon. Nothing in her life had prepared her for the effect of such a simple thing. How could it be so intense? He was hardly touching her and yet she was drowning in those dark eyes. Her breasts felt heavy, aching as though they, and not a fingertip, were being ravished by the brush of his tongue. His hot, moist tongue.

What would have happened next, and how she would have reacted to it, she had no idea. The shrill yapping of Lady Trevick’s lapdog startled them both out of their wordless trance. Chance released Alessa’s hand and she snatched it back, jumping to her feet in the same movement, her skirts sending the beaker of lemonade to splash on the flagstones.

‘Alessa.’ Chance was on his feet, but she caught up the basket and ran, around the angle of the cloister, through the low arch and up two full flights of stairs before she collapsed, panting, against the housekeeper’s door. Safe. She was safe, but from whom? Herself or Lord Blakeney?

‘Hell and damnation.’ Chance sank back onto the ledge and cursed himself for a fool, fluently, and at length, and in five languages. It did not help. He had almost got the truth from her, the full story. Then he had yielded to whatever enchantment she spun around him and touched her. And not just touched her. The feel of her hand in his, so soft and slender and strangely fragile, despite the strong tendons, had completely undone him. Instinct had made him raise it to his lips, and sheer aching desire had made him open his mouth and take her in, between his teeth, against his tongue. The images that had conjured up had aroused him almost beyond bearing—were still arousing him, come to that. When he closed his eyes all he could see were Alessa’s green eyes, the winged black brows, the look of smoky passion, so responsive to him.

The sound of feminine laughter brought him to his feet. Lady Trevick and her daughters must be back, and here he was, bare-footed, dressed like a deckhand and in a state thoroughly unsuitable for conversation with well-bred virgins. Abandoning his possessions, Chance hobbled, wincing, towards the cover of one of the staircases, reaching it just in time as a party of ladies entered the courtyard from the opposite corner.

He leaned back against the wall, too shaken to attempt the stairs—wherever they led—praying that no one would come exploring. He closed his eyes and got his ragged breathing under control.

‘My dear Lady Blackstone, this is delightful! I am so sorry we were out when you arrived.’ It was Lady Trevick, apparently greeting a newcomer. ‘We had your letter, of course, but one never knows how long the sea passage will take. Now, do come and make yourselves comfortable in the shade. It looks as though Lord Blakeney has not long gone—he had a most unfortunate accident, poor man, no doubt he is resting in his room. You will both meet him at dinner.’

Chance grimaced. If they would only settle down, he could risk tackling these stairs and make his escape.

‘I will just run and get my reticule, Mama.’ That sounded uncomfortably like a young, unmarried daughter to Chance. He was already having to exercise considerable caution in dealing with the Misses Trevick. They were delighted to have an eligible, single, gentleman staying and Chance had no intention of being lured on to balconies after dinner or finding himself in compromising tête-à-têtes. Marriage was the last thing in his plans just now. When he returned to England he would look for a wife, a nice conventional, well-trained young lady who would understand her duties and who would please his mama.

‘Very well, Frances.’ There was the sound of chairs being moved and the creaking of wickerwork as the ladies sat. Hurrying feet scuffed lightly along the flagstones and Chance flattened himself back into the shadows of the archway at the foot of the steps.

‘Oh!’ The young woman who whirled round the corner collided with Chance, took a hasty step backwards and fluttered her eyelashes. ‘I am so sorry, sir.’

Chance closed his mouth, which was hanging open unflatteringly, and found his voice. ‘Ma’am. The fault was entirely mine. I was catching my breath before tackling these stairs.’

Big green eyes gazed back at him from under winged dark brows. He flattened his palm against the comforting solidity of the wall and made himself focus. It was not Alessa, of course. This young woman was perhaps nineteen, her hair was brown and she was shorter, and rather plumper, than Alessa. But the eyes, the shape of her chin, those eyebrows—she could have been her sister.

‘You must be Lord Blakeney,’ the girl said, dimpling at him. ‘May I help you? Lady Trevick said you have had an accident.’

‘Frances?’ The woman who swept into the now-crowded lobby could only be this girl’s mother—or Alessa’s. And the resemblance to Alessa was even more pronounced than with the younger girl. Chance shook his head to clear it, but he was not hallucinating. Lady Blackstone was tall and elegant. Her black hair, with sweeps of white at the temples, was dressed simply and did nothing to detract from the winged black eyebrows slanting over deep green eyes.

‘This is Lord Blakeney, Mama,’ Frances said, before he could speak.

‘Ma’am. I am Benedict Chancellor.’ Chance got his face under control and managed a reasonable sketch of a bow. ‘Am I addressing Lady Blackstone?’

‘You are, my lord.’ The cool look swept down past his open-necked shirt and loose trousers to his bare feet. Chance decided that convoluted explanations were pointless—if she decided he was a dangerous eccentric, not to be allowed near her daughter, so much the better in his current mood. Her ladyship deigned to smile. ‘I understand you are convalescing, Lord Blakeney. Perhaps we will see you at dinner. Come along, Frances.’

Left alone, Chance negotiated the stone stairs with gritted teeth, but his mind was only vaguely aware of the pain. It was surely impossible that Lady Blackstone was not related to Alessa. Which left one glaring question—what was she doing on Corfu? Could her presence there possibly be coincidence?

He found his room. Alfred, the valet put at his disposal by Sir Thomas, was folding away something in the chest of drawers. ‘Your clothing has been returned by Kyria Alessa, my lord.’

‘Let me see.’ He lifted the neckcloth off the top of the pile. It smelt of rosemary and some herb he could not identify. The valet waited patiently for it to be returned. Reluctantly Chance laid it back with the stockings. ‘Will you ask Sir Thomas’s secretary if he could lend me a Peerage, Alfred?’

‘Of course, my lord.’ The man shut the drawer and hurried out. Chance opened it again and lifted out the neckcloth, letting the soft fabric drape over the back of his hand. Soft, like her skin. Fragrant. Somehow he imagined her hair would smell like this, of sunshine and herbs and the sea air.