Devil's Embrace (Devil 1)

“Why, madonna?”

“Because I no longer had any wish to remain. You see, the Contessa Giusti was kind enough to speak to me, Scargill. She told me that she has been the earl’s lover for several months now. She told me that all he feels for me now is pity.”

Scargill stared at her, mouth agape.

Cassie whirled suddenly about and struck her fisted hand against the glass door. “How could he do such a thing? How could he serve me such a turn?”

Scargill’s moment of stunned surprise was over. He stared at her, realizing that she was in a jealous rage, and smiled. If she did not care for the earl, she would now be demanding that he send her back to England.

“Ye must listen to me now, madonna. The contessa lied to ye, probably out of jealous spite. His lordship would never return to her bed, or any other lady’s for that matter. It’s only ye he cares about.”

“You’re but trying to protect him.” Her voice faltered, for she had never known Scargill to lie. Perhaps, she thought, Scargill simply did not know.

It was as if he guessed her thoughts. “Nay, madonna, I have no need to protect him. He is an honorable man, not a loose philanderer. Think, madonna. Can ye really believe him guilty of such an act?”

Cassie ran a distracted hand through her hair. “Oh, I don’t know. But he has been gone, hours at a time, to Genoa.”

“Of course. He’s spent much time with Daniele, as he has told ye. Lord, madonna, I thought ye’d come to know his lordship better than that.”

Cassie drew a shuddering breath. She wanted to believe him. Slowly, she nodded. “Very well, Scargill. I suppose that I have been hasty, and possibly unfair.”

“More than

possibly,” Scargill said, his eyes never wavering from her face.

“Oh, all right. You have dressed me down quite enough. I will consider all that you have said.”

When Scargill left her, Cassie wandered out onto the balcony and gazed toward Genoa. It came as something of a shock to her to realize that she had been with him for nearly eight months now. She frowned and caught her breath. Ten months ago, she and Edward had been making plans for their life together. Try as she might, she could not seem to picture Edward’s face clearly in her mind.

She looked down over the lush gardens, so very different from the gardens in England. Sounds of laughter and lilting Italian came to her ears, and it took her a moment to realize that it was not English she was hearing. It is I who have changed, she said softly to herself, and she knew a moment of panic. I have changed exactly as he said I would.

“Edward.” Saying his name aloud brought nothing save vague memories that seemed to belong to another Cassie, a Cassie who was no longer she.

She wandered downstairs, stopping a moment to breathe in the sweet fragrance of a full vase of roses. Savoring the smell of them awakened her senses, and she knew that, even now, she ached for him. She pounded her fist savagely against the closed library door. It is lust you feel, she thundered to herself. How could you feel more toward a man who has done what he has to you?

She turned abstractedly at the sound of Marrina’s voice. It was Signore Montalto, come to see the earl.

“Ah, ’tis a pity,” he said after Cassie had informed him of the earl’s absence.

She gazed at him, clearly distracted, her thoughts elsewhere.

He mumbled something about papers, and Cassie, in an effort to get him what he wanted and thus have him gone from the villa, motioned him to follow her to the earl’s library. Together, they sorted through the ribbon-tied stacks of documents until Signore Montalto waved the paper he was searching for with a grunt of triumph.

“I have it, signorina. Please inform the earl that I shall return to discuss this matter with him.”

But Cassie hadn’t heard him. Toward the back of the drawer lay a neat stack of letters, letters that all carried the earl’s name and direction, letters all written in the same spidery handwriting.

“Signorina?”

Cassie raised bewildered eyes to Signore Montalto’s face.

“I have found the papers.”

“Si signore,” she said, forcing a smile. She wanted to scream at him to leave her alone, but instead, she schooled herself to escort him from the room and bid him a hurried good-bye.

Cassie quietly closed the library door and returned to the earl’s large mahogany desk. She picked up the letters, four of them in all.

“It cannot be true,” she said to the empty room. The spidery handwriting was as familiar to her as was her own messy scrawl. How many times Becky Petersham had chided her, had tried to train her fingers to form more economical, graceful letters.