To Kiss a Count Page 15

  She shook her head. Truly, real life was far better than anything on offer at the Theatre Royal! It was enough to make her even angrier that Clio had shut her out of all the excitement for so long.

  She would not be shut out any longer.

  Thalia pulled herself to her feet, and marched over to pound on the door. Marco swung it open, growling, ‘Domenico, I will not—’

  She launched herself past him before he could realise who it was and lock her out. ‘You will not—what?’ she said, taking off her cap to let her hair fall free.

  Marco laughed wryly, crossing his shirtsleeve-clad arms over his chest. ‘Thalia,’ he said. ‘I should have known you would make an appearance. You have such a theatrical sense of timing.’

  She leaned back against the closed door, crossing her own arms. ‘So I am told. Was that Domenico de Lucca I saw departing in such a hurry?’

  ‘It was.’

  ‘And what did he want here?’

  ‘I think a better question would be—what do you want here? Surely this is not the way a well-bred English lady should behave?’ he said, tsking at her teasingly.

  Thalia tilted back her head, studying his closely. ‘And surely you know by now, Marco di Fabrizzi, that I am not a typical English lady.’

  ‘I may have gleaned that about you, Thalia, given the unusual nature of most of our meetings. What I cannot decide is what made you so. You are a puzzle.’

  ‘Not nearly the puzzle that you are,’ she said. He stood there in his thin linen shirt and loosened cravat, his glossy black hair rumpled over his brow, smiling at her as if he hadn’t a care in the world. As if it was every day he had a fight with a countryman and then discovered a lady lurking outside his door clad in breeches.

  No, she did not understand him one whit. But she wanted him, wildly and beyond all reason. Even now, when his overheard quarrel with de Lucca told her for certain he played at some dangerous game, she could think of little but kissing him. Of feeling his arms around her, his body against hers, and knowing that they were meant to be together.

  If only he felt that, too.

  ‘I have to be this way—it is my nature,’ she said. ‘If I sat at home sewing all day, I would miss out on too many interesting events. No one ever tells me anything, so I had to learn how to discover things on my own.’

  He arched one of his dark brows. ‘And what have you discovered tonight, mia?’

  ‘Not a thing,’ she said blithely. ‘Yet.’

  She took a step closer to him, then another and another, slowly reaching out to clasp his hands. She held them tightly in hers, unfolding his arms. The flickering candlelight behind him illuminated the lean outline of his body in that thin shirt, the soft fabric rippling against his muscles. He did not move away, just watched her intently, waiting to see what she would do.

  Thalia wasn’t at all sure herself what she would do. She was acting only on pure instinct, emotion. She went up on tiptoe, pressing her lips to the edge of his jaw.

  A muscle flexed under her kiss, and she heard the sharp intake of his breath. She tightened her grip on his hands, but he did not draw away. Emboldened, she traced the tip of her tongue to the dimple low on his bronzed cheek, delicately licking at that enticing spot, tasting the salty sweetness of his skin.

  ‘Maledetto,’ Marco groaned. His arms swept around her tightly, lifting her off her feet as he kissed her lips. Their mouths met, open and hungry, full of all the passionate longing that had carried them to this one inevitable moment.

  No, she had not known what she sought when she came here tonight. Yet now she knew. It was this. It was him. She loved Marco, and in that love she would give herself to him. Nothing that felt like this kiss could be a mistake.

  She wrapped her legs around his hips, her arms about his neck, holding him so close there could be nothing between them. No past, no future, no regrets. Only Marco and Thalia. Together.

  She tugged his cravat loose, dropping it to the floor as she slid her lips to his throat, to the bare vee of his chest, exposed at the parting of his shirt. He tasted so delicious, of sunshine, salt, the dark essence of him. She wanted more and more, wanted everything.

  She drew in a deep, unsteady breath, trying to inhale him into her very soul, to memorise him so she would never forget.

  ‘Thalia,’ he muttered, kissing her hair, the pulse beating so frantically at her temple. ‘You are killing me, bella. We shouldn’t do this.’

  ‘No,’ she gasped, tightening her legs around his hips, pressing herself close against his erection. ‘We shouldn’t. But…’

  ‘But we have no choice,’ he said flatly.

  She shook her head, her hair swirling around them in a pale golden web. ‘Our moment for turning back passed long ago.’

  He laughed roughly. ‘Thalia, we never had such a moment at all. I tried to fight it, deny it. I cannot.’

  Their lips met again. The kiss held no art, no thought—just raw feeling, desperate need, wild emotion. The rest of the world, the rest of their lives, did not exist. Only the two of them in that moment.

  She felt him move against her, but their kiss did not part. Not even when he lowered her to the bed, coming down atop her as she slid her legs higher, cradling him in the curve of her body. His fingers entwined in her hair, holding her as if he feared she might fly away. But she could not have left if she wanted to. She could never tear herself away from him.

  She moaned, turning her head to the side as his lips traced the line of her cheekbone, her closed eyelids. He nipped lightly at her earlobe, and she shivered with the hot wave of longing that swept through her. She caressed the hollow of his spine with her fingertips down to the waistband of his breeches, feeling the heat of his body through the linen. In one quick, desperate move she yanked his shirt loose and over his head, tossing it away.

  She arched her head back, studying him in the candlelight. He was more beautiful than she could have even imagined, his skin taut and glistening with the light sheen of sweat over his rippled muscles. A fine line of black hair traced down his chest, disappearing into those horribly concealing breeches.

  She pressed her open mouth against his heartbeat, feeling the frantic drumbeat of it echoing her own. His breath hissed, and he drew back from her touch.

  ‘No…’ she began, but her disappointment faded as he slid down her body to stand by the bed. He drew off her boots and stockings, kissing the sensitive arch of her foot, the curve of her ankle. As he moved up, kissing and caressing every inch of her, he took her clothes away, throwing them down to join his shirt on the floor. Soon, she lay naked before him, stretched out on his bed with only her hair to shield her.

  Suddenly shy, she tried to draw the blonde strands over her bare breast, but he would not let her. Gently, he took her hands in his, holding them to the mattress as he leaned over her. He trailed soft kisses along her neck, the line of her shoulder, easing away any concealment until she was completely bare to him. Until she was writhing with longing for more and more.

  But his hands held her still for his mouth, his tongue. For the alluring torment of his caresses. His open mouth slid over the swell of her breasts, licking between them lightly, teasingly. Closer and closer he would come to her aching, pouting nipple, then he would ease away, leaving her panting.

  ‘Marco, please,’ she groaned, arching her back, pressing closer to him.

  He chuckled deeply, the sound of it echoing against her skin. At last he gave her what she wanted, taking her nipple into his mouth. He rolled it against his tongue, letting go of her hands to slide his touch over the arc of her ribs. He weighed her other breast lightly on his palm, pinching and rolling the nipple, caressing, until she moaned.

  His kiss trailed wetly away from her breast over her hip, the curve of her thigh. Gently, slowly, he eased her legs further apart, kneeling between them.

  She felt so heavy and damp down there, aching with a dark, primitive longing she only half-understood. He traced the intimate opening with his fing
ertip, and she shuddered. The flash of sensation was overwhelming, frightening—delicious.

  And she wanted more of it. Much, much more.

  When she sensed his touch leaving her, she seized his wrist, holding him to her.

  ‘Are you quite sure, cara?’ he said tightly. His eyes were completely black and fathomless as he stared down at her, burning. His accent was rough. ‘If we go any further, I don’t think I can turn back.’

  ‘I don’t want you to turn back,’ she whispered. ‘I only want you, Marco. Please.’

  He kissed her again, their mouths and tongues desperate as his finger plunged inside her. She moaned at the rough, wondrous friction of it, the startling sensation. He pressed hard against one spot, and bright stars exploded behind her closed eyes.

  ‘Do you like that?’ he muttered. ‘Do you like it when I touch you there?’

  ‘Yes!’ she gasped.

  ‘And what about—here?’

  Those stars caught fire. ‘Yesss…’

  As he kissed her, she faintly sensed his movements as he loosened his breeches, as he spread her legs even wider.

  ‘I’m so sorry, angelina,’ he whispered against her lips. ‘I promise it will not hurt long.’

  ‘Hurt…’ she said, still dizzy with the pleasure of his most intimate caress.

  ‘Hold on to me tightly,’ he said.

  She wrapped her arms around his shoulders, and he eased himself inside her, inch by careful inch.

  Thalia knew what was happening; she could hardly help it, growing up surrounded by ancient statues and vases, and with two married sisters. But she gasped at the sudden ache, the burning sense of fullness. He pressed deeper into her than she would have thought possible. Then there was the strangest sensation, a flash of pain, of tearing.

  ‘Oh!’ she cried, digging her nails into his shoulder.

  ‘Scusa, scusa,’ he said again, over and over, his body resting heavy and still against her, his penis buried deep within her.

  Was this it, then? she thought, puzzled. Was this what made her sisters so crazy for their husbands? It was not terrible—indeed, the burning ache was already fading away, leaving a nice warm sensation. But neither was it so very grand.

  Marco drew back and thrust deep again, kissing her neck, her cheek, murmuring soothing, sexy little Italian words. Back and forwards, that friction building again, growing inside her. Their bodies found their rhythm together, their profound connection, and she moved with him.

  And then she knew. This was grand! It was—sublime.

  She tightened her legs around him, learning his movements, responding to them. They were as one, wrapped around by a spell of passion and need too long denied.

  Deep, deep inside, she felt a new pressure building. She couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think. There was only feeling. Only Marco. At last, that pressure burst, and those wondrous white-hot stars showered down on her again. Red, blue, green, burning away everything but the wonderful, glorious pleasure.

  ‘Thalia!’ Marco cried out, his body taut over hers, his head thrown back like an ancient god. Then he collapsed to the bed beside her.

  Exhausted, exhilarated, Thalia stroked his glistening shoulder, his hair. He shivered, his eyes tightly closed. Without opening them, he took her hand in his, kissing her fingers.

  ‘Grazie, cara mia,’ he whispered.

  ‘Oh, no,’ she said. ‘Thank you.’

  And she curled up beside him, the curve of her body against his chest as she gave in to the lure of weak, blissful sleep.

  Marco studied Thalia’s face as she slumbered. The dying candlelight cast a shadowed amber glow over her, making her look like an ancient Venetian mosaic of an angel. Serene and peaceful—deceptively so, for he knew well that she was anything but serene! She was a force of nature, throwing herself passionately into what she believed in.

  There was no artifice to Thalia Chase, and he loved that about her. He felt as if most of his life had been spent in illusions, hiding behind masks, behind cool calculation. Thalia’s theatrics, though, were so full of vibrant, irresistible life.

  He smoothed her tousled golden hair back from her brow, letting it flow over the white pillows. She sighed in her sleep, rolling toward him until they were nestled together. The two of them against all the world outside.

  Marco softly kissed her cheek, holding her close. Her body was soft and warm against his, so trusting in sleep, so very, very beautiful.

  He knew that he had made a great mistake tonight. After all his plans to protect Thalia, to stay away from her and end whatever this was between them, he had instead made love to her. Made everything far more complicated. More dangerous. For he knew Thalia was involved too deeply in his work to ever be easily shut out.

  From the moment he had seen her outside his room—no, far earlier, from the moment they had met in Sicily—their coming together had taken on a forceful inevitability of its own. He had held it at bay for as long as possible, but now the floodgates had broken free. Their lives were inextricably linked.

  Marco remembered half-forgotten tales his mother used to tell him when he was a child. The Contessa di Fabrizzi had shared her husband’s love of the Renaissance, of that time that was so gloriously colourful, passionate, and dangerous. She had told him of Medicis, of Romeo and Juliet, of Dante and his Beatrice. The golden beauty he could only worship from afar.

  Thalia reminded him so much of those tales. Of life that burned free and hot and true. Of all he never really knew until he found her.

  She murmured in her sleep, stretching against him. As he watched, fascinated, her eyes fluttered open. For an instant, her brow creased, as if she could not remember where she was. Then she smiled, and reached up to gently touch his cheek with her fingertips.

  ‘So it was not a dream,’ she murmured.

  He caught her hand in his, kissing her fingers, her rosy-pink palm. She smelled of white lilacs, of the cool night. He slid the tip of her littlest finger into his mouth, sucking at it until she shivered.

  ‘Not unless you want it to be,’ he answered, holding her hand to his cheek. Perhaps she would rather this night vanish—until they could marry, and a more proper wedding night take its place.

  ‘Never!’ she declared, arching up to kiss him. ‘I never want to forget tonight, for as long as I live.’

  ‘Nor do I. Though I fear there is not much of it left.’

  Thalia glanced toward the clock on the mantel, as it ticked away the moments until dawn. Until he would have to take her home, and they would have to resume their old lives, their old selves, again.

  She sat up, gathering the folds of the sheet around her bare shoulders. She shook her hair back, and gave him a sweet, beguiling smile he had learned could not always be trusted.

  ‘Then you must tell me something quickly,’ she said.

  ‘Oh, yes?’ Marco said warily. He sat up against the carved headboard, watching her.

  ‘What were you and Signor de Lucca arguing about? What is he doing here in Bath? It seems that this pokey old town is attracting the most interesting of characters this season!’

  ‘Including the Chase sisters? You are surely the most interesting of all, cara mia.’

  ‘My reasons for coming here are very simple—my sister’s health. But I must say I am very glad we came. Bath is proving to be far more amusing than London could ever be.’

  ‘Amusing until someone gets hurt,’ Marco warned sternly. ‘Thalia, you do not know the kind of people you are dealing with. They are devoted to their own ends, and they will be ruthless in seeing them through.’

  ‘I have seen ample demonstrations of that, both here and in Santa Lucia. I am impulsive, perhaps, but I hope I am not stupid! I won’t get hurt—and I won’t let anyone hurt Calliope and Psyche, either. Now tell me, how do you know Signor de Lucca really? Or perhaps I should ask him. He does seem rather charming, when he isn’t raging about…’

  Marco laughed. ‘Very well, bella, I surrender! You don’t have to ask D
omenico anything. It is all very simple. I knew him as a boy, when my father sent me away to school after my mother died. And then we were in the army together. We were friends.’

  ‘Were friends?’

  ‘Our opinions have taken diverging courses since then.’

  ‘Your opinions on what?’

  Marco reached out to touch one silken curl against her shoulder. ‘Are you always this inquisitive?’

  She smiled at him unrepentantly. ‘Of course.’

  ‘I should have known. You are a Chase, after all. And to answer your question—ever since we were young, Domenico and I have both seen the terrible course our country is following, dominated by foreign powers, losing its history and culture. The city-states all separated from each other, cut off from any real self-determination. We, and many of our friends, determined to do something about it. To make our homeland stand for something important again.’

  Thalia leaned closer to him, her eyes wide and serious. ‘But you no longer agree on how to do that, yes?’

  He frowned, remembering all the long nights of impassioned discussion in taverns and coffee houses. All the hard work, the plans. ‘I am not sure we ever did agree. I had the idea that recovering the lost heritage that had been stolen from us was of great importance.’

  ‘And that is why you joined Clio as the Lily Thief?’

  He nodded. ‘I write pamphlets, you see, about art and history, about what they mean to my country. They are read by many English scholars, who then offer their help and support. Your sister was one of them, though her “support” went further than anyone else’s.’

  Thalia swallowed, shifting her gaze away from his. ‘She became your great friend.’

  ‘Indeed she did. She helped me recover many pieces of great symbolic importance. Pieces that helped others see how we can be great again. How our past is a part of us, and how it can be part of our future, too.’

  ‘And that is what the silver is.’

  ‘Si. The altar set was spirited away from Demeter’s temple in the face of invasion by a brutal foreign force. It was buried by the goddess’s loyal acolytes, hidden. And it is so extraordinarily beautiful, unlike anything else that has ever been found. Surely that makes it a vital symbol of our culture, our resistance. I must find it before it disappears.’