A Most Unconventional Courtship Page 5

  ‘No harm done, my lord.’ To pick up the basket and bolt, as her nerves were screaming at her to do, seemed gauche, so she left it and stood waiting, feeling at a disadvantage. Who would he be today? The man who talked so easily with her while he whittled ridiculous animals out of soap? The intense, almost angry man who had spoken of jealousy? Or was he, on his own ground, going to prove to be one of those English aristocrats she had learned to despise—cool, remote, arrogant? ‘Are your injuries less painful today?’

  Her eyes were regaining their focus. He did look better. The lines of strain around his eyes had gone and his colour was healthier. ‘They are much improved. The hip joint is much more comfortable, although the bruise is spectacular. My ankle is still painful, but Dr Pyke promises me rapid improvement if I will only rest it.’

  ‘Good, I am sure he is right.’ His feet were bare, she realised with a shock—long-boned and elegant like his hands. It was the most sensible thing, of course, with one ankle bandaged, but somehow it seemed shockingly intimate. Alessa dragged her eyes away, trying to forget the feel of his unconscious, naked body under her hands. The look of his body…Then, until Kate had commented, she had thought of nothing but his injuries, now she could no longer maintain that indifference.

  She began to back away.

  ‘No, please do not go. Have you brought me my clothes back?’

  ‘Yes.’ Alessa nodded to the basket. ‘They are in there. I should—’

  ‘Please sit down.’ He patted the wall beside him. ‘Have a glass of lemonade, if you would be so kind as to fetch it.’

  ‘It would not be proper.’

  ‘Why ever not? I am not inviting you back to my bedroom, for goodness’ sake.’ His shirt was open at the neck, showing just a hint of dark hair. His trousers were belted tight, emphasising narrow hips and taut waist. Alessa was certain she was blushing.

  ‘Because of my position here,’ she said stiffly. Any minute now Mr Williams might come out of his office.

  ‘You are not a servant. Why act like one?’ The deep brown eyes were amused. It was all very well for him—he did not have to tread a careful line between familiarity and subservience in the most important household on the island.

  ‘I provide a service here. I am expected to know my place.’ She said it without rancour; she did not envy them their lives, their position.

  ‘And I am asking you to sit down, drink lemonade with me and keep me company for a few minutes. That too would be a service. If you wish, I will pay for your time. You are not in your own home, so I can offer remuneration without risking your wrath, can I not?’

  Defeated, Alessa went to fetch the tray, set it on the wall and sat down. Beside her an orange tree in a pot gave out its sweet fragrance and she bent her head to inhale.

  ‘They flower at the same time as they fruit—I had not realised that.’ Chance was twisting to reach the jug of lemonade. Alessa jumped to her feet and stretched across him to take it before he hurt his hip, realising too late that it brought them almost face to face.

  She could smell the tang of limes, not from any tree, but from the cologne he was using. Seizing the jug in both hands, she moved round to pour it at a safe distance. ‘Limes are the same,’ she blurted out. ‘And lemons. Grapefruit as well, I believe.’ I’m prattling. She stopped talking and handed Chance his glass carefully by the base so there was no opportunity for their fingers to touch.

  Back on her perch, she raised her glass to her lips. The sweet-sharp shock of the drink jerked her back from the turmoil that his closeness and the scent of him had stirred up. It was ridiculous. She was among men every day. With some of them she massaged their naked shoulders, or dressed injuries on their bare limbs. None of them made her feel like this, as though one word would tumble her into his arms…

  ‘Alessa, what is your real name?’ He said it in so conversational a tone that she responded before she could think.

  ‘Alexandra—’ She caught herself just in time.

  ‘And you are English? You would not answer me before.’

  ‘My father was English.’ She took another mouthful of lemonade. No one in Corfu Town except Kate knew the truth. Why am I telling him?

  ‘And your mother? Was she Greek?’ She found she was watching the firm, expressive lips as he spoke.

  ‘French.’ His lips parted fractionally in surprise. He did not expect that. ‘My father met her long before he came to Greece or the islands. She died when I was very young.’

  ‘It cannot have been easy for them, with England at war with France. But of course, she was a Royalist sympathiser, a refugee in England, I presume.’

  ‘Oh, no. Papa picked her up—quite literally—in France in ‘93. Her husband had been killed in the revolt in the Vendée; Papa found her near Niort.’

  ‘Good God, that must have caused difficulties!’

  ‘Not really. The General was dubious, but Maman was so very charming and Papa was always extremely unconventional, so he shrugged and did nothing. She followed the drum, even after I was born. I have been to England a few times, but I hardly recall it. Then, when she died when I was twelve, I just stayed with him. It made his disguise more convincing. He changed my name to Alessa then.’

  Alessa came out of the haze of memories conjured up by telling the story to find Chance staring at her with dawning comprehension. ‘There were no British troops involved in the Vendée—not regular British troops, in any event. You are an officer’s daughter. An intelligence officer’s daughter.’

  ‘Yes.’ There was no point in denying it now. ‘We’d been in and out of the Ionian islands for years on missions, but we settled on Corfu in 1807 when the French regained it. Papa would use his boat at night to rendezvous with English agents. He had a reputation locally as a smuggler, which helped.’

  ‘But he could have been shot! Is that what happened in the end?’

  ‘No.’ Alessa shook her head, giving herself a little time to steady her voice. Even now, it was hard to speak of. ‘He took the boat out one night, out towards Albania for a meeting. A storm blew up, as they do hereabouts, very sudden, very fierce. He never came home.’

  Chapter Five

  She had done it now, told Chance almost everything, as much as she had confided to Kate. Madness.

  ‘Alessa—’ She threw up a hand as if to ward off his sympathy and he caught it in his. ‘Alessa, why are you still here? Where are your family?’

  ‘Here. Dora and Demetri are all my family now,’ she said doggedly, her eyes fixed on the orange tree. It was the truth in every way that mattered.

  Chance had trapped her hand, palm down between his. ‘But you must have relatives in England! Aunts, uncles, cousins—someone, for heaven’s sake. They cannot know that you are alone like this, surely?’

  ‘Papa did not wish…after Mama died…They did not want me,’ she burst out hotly. ‘I do not want them.’

  ‘And so you married a local man,’ he stated. ‘Was it for love or for security?’ His voice was oddly flat.

  Alessa turned her head away, avoiding answering. He still thought her a widow and it seemed safer that way, although she was not sure why. But she did not want to lie to him.

  ‘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.

  Alessa had been snatched out of her rightful place by a father who, however courageous, seemed to have been unconventional to a fault, and now she was being kept there by her own stubbornness. He could not believe that her English relatives would not want her. There must have been some falling
-out over the French wife and Alessa was refining too much on the stories her father would have told her of that.

  He folded the neckcloth and was standing holding it, deep in thought, when Alfred came back into the room. Hastily, Chance stuffed it into his pocket. Carrying a lady’s handkerchief around was one thing, one’s own neckcloth quite another.

  ‘The Peerage, my lord.’ Alfred laid it on the desk. ‘Dinner is at eight. Shall I have your bath fetched at seven?’

  ‘Yes, thank you.’ Chance was already thumbing through the thick, red book. He found Henry, Lord Blackstone. The name rang a faint bell: someone in the diplomatic service possibly. He ran his finger down the entry: Married to Honoria Louisa Emily Meredith, only daughter of the late Charles Meredith, 3rd Earl Hambledon and his wife the late…

  Impatient, he flicked forward to the entry for Hambledon. Edward Charles Meredith was the fourth Earl, married and with a large family. His father had been less prolific: one daughter—Lady Blackstone, his heir Edward and one other son.

  ‘The Honourable Alexander William Langley Meredith,’ Chance read out loud. ‘Alexander.’ And Alessa had said that her real name was Alexandra. He studied the entry, but it showed no marriage, no date of death. It was as though the Honourable Alexander had vanished into thin air. ‘Or into the Ionian islands with his scandalous French wife and his daughter.’

  Chance dressed for dinner with care. He had not got off to the best of starts with Lady Blackstone and now much depended on the degree of diplomacy he could exert.

  Sir Thomas had loaned him an elegant silver-topped ebony cane and Chance considered that with its aid he managed to cut not too ridiculous a figure as he limped out on to the broad terrace overlooking the bay. It made a charming setting for the Residency dinner-party guests to assemble.