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She didn’t want to think about it. Not now.
She was a deity looking down on all the world, and for this moment, she had all she wanted: his touch, his kisses, the teasing nip of his teeth, so playful and so knowing…his long, clever hands touching her. And at the first intimate touch, her knees gave way. If not for the stone balustrade bracing her, she’d have sunk to the floor of the belfry.
Desire was an ache, a nagging pull in the pit of her belly. She squirmed against his hand but it wasn’t enough.
Please. Now, please.
She wouldn’t beg aloud but he understood. She heard the rustle of clothing as he bared himself. He pressed against her and she gasped. He was big and hot and she had an instant of panic—absurd panic, as though she were still a girl.
He pressed one hand to her back, gently pushing her down, angling her as he wanted. His fingers slid over her, where she was slick, all too ready. He touched her, parted her, then he pushed inside her. She gasped, and the sound slid into a sigh. Pleasure blossomed inside her, in a great surge of feeling, like the mad swell of the overture of La Gazza Ladra. It was like the aching joy the music brought her, and she thought she’d burst with happiness.
Oh, yes, oh, yes. It seemed she’d waited all her life for this.
She felt his mouth at her neck while he moved inside her. She turned her head and he understood, and kissed her, long and deep and with a strange tenderness that made her ache. But the ache for release was stronger, and she moved with him while sensations pounded through her, wild and unfamiliar. Her heart was too big, swelling in her chest, beating too hard. She tried to find her way back, to regain control, her precious control, but she couldn’t find her footing.
It was too late for control. She’d wanted him from the moment she’d met him, and all she could do now was want him to be hers. All she could do was own him for this moment and want to be his, only his. She gave herself up to the wild, mad happiness, rocking with him as his thrusts grew fiercer and faster, until at last the world exploded.
The ground seemed to shake beneath them, and it was a moment before she recognized the vibration and the deafening clang of the bells ringing above their heads. He laughed and covered her ears. She laughed, too. She couldn’t help it. Then she opened her eyes and looked out and saw on the horizon the small red arc of the rising sun.
She felt his warm breath at her ear. “Tell me, mia vipera,” he said hoarsely, “is this romantic enough for you?”
It was far too romantic for James. He told himself it was too much, so ridiculous: the bells ringing as they climaxed, the sun bursting up from the horizon.
But in the golden afterglow of lovemaking, he could only laugh as he helped reassemble her garments and smooth petticoats and untwist skirts. He could only laugh, when in the midst of doing so, she told him to pull up his trousers.
He looked down and discovered he was growing aroused again. He thought about England, pulled up his undergarments and trousers, stuffed his shirt inside, and concentrated on buttoning the flap. “By gad, you are a precious jade,” he said.
“I had no idea I was a miracle worker,” she said. “That is a remarkably quick recovery for a man of your age.”
“My age? What about Magny?”
“What about him?” She was rearranging her breasts in her bodice.
“He’s old enough to be my grandfather.”
“Surely not that old,” she said. She frowned down at her bosom. “Are they even? This is my favorite corset, but if my bosoms are not arranged just so—”
“They’re splendid,” he said. “Everything about you is splendid. But I’m not infatuated.”
She moved to him. She smiled. She reached up and patted his cheek. “If that’s what you want to believe, mio caro, I haven’t the heart to disillusion you. Especially not now. It really was quite wonderful, inexpressibly romantic, and dreadfully naughty. A perfect combination—and an experience I shall not soon forget. Grazie tante, amore mio. But it’s long past time I said good-bye.”
She turned and moved swiftly away.
Thanks very much? Good-bye?
He was slow to react, his mind still in a post-coital haze. He stood for a moment, staring in disbelief at her retreating back. Then he started after her.
“Plague take you, Bonnard.”
“Don’t call me that.” She moved quickly down the stairs.
“Francesca.”
“Don’t follow me. The sun is up, and you don’t want all of Venice to see you looking like a lovesick puppy.”
Lovesick puppy?
He came to a dead stop. “I am not—”
“It was great fun but it’s done,” she said, never turning her head. She flung up her hand in that aggravating gesture of dismissal. “Addio.”
Chapter 10
Oh Love! How perfect is thy mystic art,
Strengthening the weak, and trampling on
the strong,
How self-deceitful is the sagest part
Of mortals whom thy lure hath led along—
Lord Byron
Don Juan, Canto the First
If one could not obtain the upper hand, the next best thing was to pretend one had it.
Francesca left with a mocking wave and a mocking smile that dissolved as soon as she started down the ramp.
She feared he’d follow her.
She feared he wouldn’t.
She made herself hurry away, because she was too strongly tempted to linger, to find out whether he’d pursue her or not. If he did pursue her, she was too strongly tempted to let him catch up with her.
Games, stupid games. You’d think she was a dewy-eyed miss from the schoolroom, expecting her swain to chase after her.
Though she’d been no dewy-eyed miss when her marriage began to fall apart—or her dream of marriage, at any rate—she’d expected John Bonnard to hunt her down and wrench her from the man into whose arms she’d gone for consolation. She’d expected to make John jealous, to hurt him the way he’d hurt her.
But he wasn’t jealous or hurt.
He was disgusted.
You filthy slut. You’ve no more morals than your father. No wonder he was so generous with the marriage settlements. He feared he’d never get you off his hands in time, before the world discovered what you were.
Her eyes burned and her face as well. Inside she went cold, cold as death, then hot with shame, her heart pounding as it had done that day, that terrible day when she saw all her husband’s love curdle into hate.
Light filtered through the windows of the Campanile but she couldn’t see through the haze of
rage and misery. She stumbled. She flung her hand against the wall and regained her balance.
“Idiot,” she muttered. “Break your neck, why don’t you? And give Elphick cause to celebrate.”
This was what happened when one gave way to feelings, she told herself. Emotion took over. One became maudlin, fretting over the past. The husband she’d loved so dearly, so deeply, had called her a slut, a whore, and worse.
Very well. She had become a whore. A magnificent one.
No sniveling now. She’d made a fine exit. She would not spoil it by hesitating or hoping. She would not spoil it with old grief and grievances.
She hurried down the ramp as quickly as skirts, petticoats, and stays permitted.
When she left the building and came out into the square, she slowed only enough to preserve her dignity. In the early morning, the small square was as busy as its larger counterpart.
She made her way past the Ducal Palace to the Molo, where her gondola waited.
Uliva, who was awake, woke up Dumini, who was not. Whenever the gondoliers had a long wait, they took turns napping, so that one was always on the alert.
“Take me to Signorina Sabbadin,” she said.
From the top of the belfry, James watched her cross the Piazzetta. No matter what she said, no matter how angry he was, he should have followed her, if only to see her safely home.
It was no good telling himself how small the chances were of anyone’s attacking her at this time of day. The place was abustle with vendors and others who had their livings to get and could not lie abed until noon. Along with the worker ants were those straggling home after enjoying a night and early morning of dissipation.
“Unlikely” wasn’t the same as “impossible.” If someone did attack her, what excuse would he offer his superiors?
Sorry, but she hurt my feelings. Then she threw me into a mindless rage. I dared not follow her because of the strong chance I’d strangle her—and throw her luscious, lifeless body through the nearest window.
“What an idiot,” he said. “What a complete, utter imbecile.”
