Devil's Embrace (Devil 1)

“You cannot mean it. I know that you want me,” she said, her eyes steady upon his face.

“It is, however, quite true.”

“How dare you?” She was rigid with fury at his curt dismissal.

“You must learn to mind your manners, contessa, as well as your passions. Now, if you will excuse me.” He turned on his heel and strode to the door.

“How can you go back to that little slut? When you take her, Antonio, do you ask her how it was she shared her favors with common bravi?”

“Leash your venom, Giovanna, else I might be tempted to forget that I do not strike women.” He heard her panting behind him as he opened the door and let himself out.

“Damn you, my lord earl. You will pay for this.”

The earl raised himself on his elbow and kissed Cassie lightly on her lips. Her eyes flew open and she stared up at him, her mind still blurred with sleep.

“Merry Christmas, cara,” he said.

She yawned and smiled up at him. “Merry Christmas to you, my lord.” Her eyes darkened for an instant at the thought of Christmas in England, and she turned her head away. She did not wish to discomfit him, not today. She thought of their chess game the night before, and smiled. She had finally achieved a draw and had teased him mercilessly the entire evening.

“Oh dear,” she said suddenly, and threw back the bedcovers. She quickly averted her face, for he was naked.

“Oh dear what?” he asked, rolling onto his back and pillowing his head on his arms.

“I cannot tell you, my lord Anthony. It is Christmas, you know.” There was a distinct twinkle in her eyes as she whisked herself out of the bedchamber into the dressing room.

The morning passed swiftly. Cassie stood beside the earl as he dispensed gifts of money to his servants and colorfully wrapped packages to their children. After a light lunch, they rode in a closed carriage to Genoa to attend Christmas mass at the Church of the Annunciation in the Piazza della Nunziata. Cassie had never before attended a Catholic mass, and she found herself awed by the rich solemnity of the service. It did not matter that she did not understand the deep chanting voices, intoning Scriptures in Latin. She copied the earl’s movements, kneeling when he did and mouthing the Latin responses he chanted. She thought it odd that everyone was dressed in severe black, particularly on such a joyous day as Christmas. During the priest’s sermon, she gazed about the ancient stone church, lit with hundreds of candles that cast eerie shadows on the life-size statues of saints that lined the walls. She was reminded of an English Christmas service only when she saw the cre`che, the manger surrounded with mounds of hay, with painted statues of Joseph and Mary leaning over the tiny Christ child. She felt as displaced as the figure seemed to her, and felt a wrenching tug of loneliness. I cannot continue in this way, she thought. I am locked away from myself, from what I know and must want. The earl’s hand closed over hers in that instant. When the priest chanted the final prayer, she turned her hand in his and clasped his fingers to her palm.

She was th

oughtful on their carriage ride back to the villa.

“What did you think of the Genoese Christmas mass, Cassandra?”

“It was beautiful,” she said, breaking herself away from thoughts that did not seem to lead her anywhere. “I only wish that I could have understood what they said. But you know, it was so very different from—” She broke off, grinning self-consciously.

He patted her gloved hand. “One could tell that we are much together. I am able to finish your sentences for you.”

As Cassie removed her heavy black veiled hat, the earl called to her from the drawing room. “Come have a glass of mulled wine with me, Cassandra.”

But it was not a glass of wine he handed to her, but a large box, wrapped in a bright red velvet ribbon. For a moment, she stood tongue-tied, staring at him and at the box.

“Merry Christmas, Cassandra.”

She took the box from him and laid it atop an ivory inlaid table. She felt a tug of excitement, for she dearly loved presents. She carefully parted the layers of silver tissue paper and lifted out the most exquisite gown she had ever seen. It was dark blue silk, of such a texture that it seemed to ripple like gossamer through her fingers. The stomacher was woven with gold thread, as were the full sleeves that flared out from the elbows. The skirt was yard upon yard of billowing rich silk. She hugged the gown against her breast a moment, unable to meet the earl’s eyes.

“It is incredibly beautiful,” she said finally, shyly gazing up at him.

“It is Venetian silk. Mr. Donnetti brought it back on his last trip.”

“May I try it on, my lord, now?”

“Certainly. I will await you here.”

When she reappeared some thirty minutes later, he stared at her, his breath suspended. The dark blue matched the color of her eyes, the golden threads, her hair. She danced lightly toward him, paused, and performed a pirouette. As a final step, she curtsied deeply before him. The neckline plunged low, in the French style, and her white breasts blossomed above it in rounded splendor.

“It suits you,” he said.

“Do you really believe so?”