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Caesare looked deep into her doe-brown eyes, and raised a surprised eyebrow at her audacity. Perhaps jealousy compelled her, but that did not, he discovered, overly distress him. He thought a moment, and frowned at her. “Even if what you say is true, what is to be done?”
“The earl must not wed the little strumpet.” She gazed at him beneath arched brows. “Do you not want her, Caesare, perhaps just once? To keep the earl on a string, she must employ quite tempting skills in his bed.”
Caesare remembered the desire Cassie had stirred in his loins. But when he spoke, his voice was harsh. “You expect me to seduce the girl away from my half-brother? Hardly likely.”
“No, you could not seduce her, Caesare.”
“I believe the Borgia’s habits are long out of practice.”
“But there are other ways, are there not? Other ways that would never lead the earl to suspect his loyal half-brother.”
Caesare felt a thrill of excitement, despite himself, and a tempering shaft of fear. “Yes,” he said slowly, “there are other ways. But it is dangerous, Giovanna, very dangerous.”
“But you are such a resourceful man, my love.”
He looked deep into her eyes, then turned and pulled on his discarded clothing.
“It must remain our secret, Giovanna,” he said, once he was fully dressed.
“Of course, caro. Our secret.”
He leaned down and kissed her lightly on her soft mouth.
“Do not stay away from me too long, Caesare,” she called after him.
* * *
Cassie shaded her eyes with her hand as she walked up the stairs to an upper terrace of the garden and gazed toward Genoa and the sparkling blue Mediterranean. She felt strangely lethargic, as if she were somehow drugged, her thoughts strewn about her unpredictably. She supposed it was the severe bout of illness she had suffered that morning. In all her eighteen years, she had never really known illness—save, she remembered ruefully, for the time when she was seven years old and had stuffed herself with Christmas sweets.
She turned away from the spectacular view, knelt down, and pressed her nose against a full-blossomed red rose. The sweet fragrances that hung about the gardens like a perfumed mist would soon began to fade, as summer drew to a close. Most of all, she supposed, she would miss the vases of flowers that Rosina brought daily to her room. She straightened slowly, her eyes caught by Joseph, who was talking to Paolo in the lower garden. She loved to watch Joseph talk, for though his face rarely changed its placid expression, she could make out much of his conversation from his expressive gestures.
But this afternoon, she found no interest in him. Indeed, nothing seemed to touch her. She wondered if she was becoming vaporish, like that ridiculous Lady Cumberland who seemed to produce a child every year, all the while lounging indolently upon a daybed, her vinaigrette in hand.
Cassie turned away and began to walk briskly toward the vineyards. She drew up short at the sound of Joseph’s deep breathing behind her. Her lips tightened in quick anger, and she whirled about to face him. “Damn you, Joseph, leave me alone.”
Joseph, startled by her outburst, stopped some paces from her to catch his breath.
“Now, madonna,” he said gently, “you must not excite yourself. You would not wish any harm to yourself or to the babe you carry.”
His soothing words had just the opposite effect upon her, and she yelled at him, brokenly, feverishly. “Has the earl not done enough? Must he still set you upon me, to report to him my every action? Is he not yet satisfied with his victory? Do I not carry his accursed child? Damn you and damn him.”
She picked up her skirts, turned on her heel, and made for the lake. Joseph stared after her, aghast at the near-hysterical pitch in her voice. He came to a quick decision and quickly retraced his steps to the villa.
Cassie heard his retreating footsteps and drew to a trembling halt. She wished she could wipe her mind clean of its terrible, jumbled thoughts, but she could not. The earl’s victory had been complete, she could not deny it. She had succumbed to him in less than three months, she who had sworn over and over that she would never wed him, no matter what he did. It was an accursed child that she carried, a child conceived of passion and hatred. And she had been so weak that within days of learning of it, she had bowed to his wishes, given herself and her future over to him. She dashed her hand over her forehead, in a futile effort to control the vicious bitterness, to stem her burgeoning despair.
“Cassandra.”
She whipped about to see the earl striding quickly toward her.
Something broke within her at the sight of him, and she lunged forward, away from him, toward the lake, her own high-pitched laughter sounding in her ears.
The earl heard that laugh and felt a cold knot of fear. For an agonizing moment, she was lost to his sight in the thick oleander trees. He tore through the trees, scarce aware that a low-lying branch rent the full sleeve of his shirt, gashing his arm. He saw her running full tilt toward the lake, her hair streaming loose down her back. Dear God, what could have happened?
“Cassandra!” he yelled at her again. For an instant, she froze, poised like a startled animal, before continuing her headlong flight.
She was but yards away from the water’s edge when he grabbed her about the waist and hauled her back. Her arms were flailing wildly and she kicked at him, in a terror-stricken rage he did not understand. He quickly pinioned her arms to her side and jerked her tightly against him.
“Stop it, Cassandra. Leave go.” He shook her. She stared up at him, mutely, her pupils black in her eyes.
