“This gentleman was an English nobleman, wealthy, powerful, and exquisitely manly.”
“But your son, contessa. You have not told me about your son, save that he is twenty-five years old.” Who cared about some English nobleman from her murky past?
Giovanna turned a ruby ring slowly about her finger. “My son, Lady Arabella? His name is Kamal.”
Arabella could not seem to keep her eyes from the glittering ring. “Kamal?” she repeated. “That is an odd name, is it not, madam?”
“His Italian name is Alessandro, as I believe I once told you. But you will meet him, my dear. Yes, you will meet him, and very soon now.”
Arabella tore her gaze from the ruby. “Alexander,” she said. “That is his name in English. And how will I meet him, madam? Is he coming to Naples?” Her tongue felt oddly thick in her mouth, and her fork, poised to spear a pink shrimp, seemed suddenly heavy.
She heard the contessa say, as if from a great distance, “No, my girl, he is not coming to Naples. You will journey to meet him.”
“That is impossible.” The words slid from her mouth, slurred even to her own ears. “I don’t feel quite right,” she said.
“Would you care to hear more about the Englishman who was my lover, child?” Giovanna rose from her chair and leaned toward Arabella. “I wanted him, signorina, but he cast me aside and chose someone else.”
Arabella pulled her gaze from the contessa’s face. Her face dropped to the wineglass still held between her fingers. The wine had tasted so sweet, too sweet. “The wine—” she said.
“Yes, my dear, the wine. You came here to bait me into revealing myself. You see, you have succeeded.”
The contessa gently pulled away Arabella’s plate.
“The wine,” Arabella whispered, the contessa’s words drifting like brittle fall leaves through her mind. The contessa’s face blurred. “Someone help me.” Arabella slumped forward, her arms cushioning her fall.
She heard a woman’s voice. “Sleep now, my girl. Enjoy it. When you awake, you will be glad for it.”
Gervaise, Comte de la Valle, fell forward over the woman, his head on the pillow beside hers. Damn her, he thought, his breathing calming. At least she could feign pleasure and not lie like a statue beneath him. He heaved himself up on his elbows and felt her squirm under his weight.
“You are always in such a hurry, caro,” Giovanna said. “A gentleman never takes his pleasure first.”
Rayna Lyndhurst’s beautiful pale face rose in his mind. He pictured her body as he had seen it briefly the night Pietro raped her. She was so white and slender, so tantalizingly young. But not innocent anymore. He felt himself grow hard at the thought of having her beneath him, struggling against him, if she wished.
“Ah,” he heard the contessa murmur, “I knew you would not disappoint me.”
He stroked Rayna, caressed her with his mouth as he moved slowly over her. He quickened when she tightened her white thighs about his haunches, and eased his fingers between them to caress her. He heard her breathing sharpen, felt her body writhe beneath him. He opened his eyes, and the vivid image was gone. The contessa, her black hair tangled, her face contorted in her climax, lay shuddering beneath him.
Gervaise groaned his disappointment. He withdrew from the contessa and fell away from her onto his back.
He is young, Giovanna thought, and young men are selfish. But he had given her pleasure, at last. She felt satisfied, both with herself and with him.
“Caro,” she said, turning on her side to face him. “I am leaving Naples.”
Her eyes traveled down the length of his lean body and she nearly laughed out loud at her memory of the king’s paunchy belly, his nearly hairless groin and legs.
“When, contessa?” Gervaise asked at last, pulling his thoughts from Rayna Lyndhurst.
“As soon as you leave, mon brave.”
He wondered why she had asked him here in the early afternoon. He usually rode to her villa in the evening, under cover of darkness. “Why do you leave so quickly?”
“My business is completed here,” she said. “I have enjoyed our time together, Gervaise.”
He frowned, for her voice sounded different, perhaps mocking. He shook his head. The payment she had given him for his services wasn’t enough in his mind for having made love to her several nights a week. “What is your business, contessa?” he asked abruptly. “You have never told me.”
“Revenge,” she said lightly, trailing her fingers over his chest.
“Revenge,” he repeated. He pulled away from her stroking hand and sat up. “I thought you wished to support the French, and that was your reason for—”