Lessons of Desire Page 7

“I have already had the honor, Rothwell. I am happy to see you again, Miss Blair, and under less trying circumstances than the last time. Your mother was much esteemed by inferior scholars like myself, and generous to us. I was grateful for the introductions her reception afforded me.”

  Servants appeared and Matthias rattled off instructions regarding the baggage. “Come inside and refresh yourselves. My other guests take their siestas but they will join us soon.”

  She walked up the stone path and followed Matthias into the loggia. She glanced through its arches and her breath caught.

  The view was unreal, a prospect that begged for a paintbrush and canvas. If gazing up this hill was impressive, looking down left one in awe. The town’s roofs and ribbons of lane spilled straight down. The drop was so steep one marveled that anything had been built here. The endless sea, the low sky, the embrace of the promontory—it all created a vast, dreamlike panorama from a precarious hold on the world, one that was thrilling and romantic, drenched in beauty but tinged with danger.

  “It is a wonder that you do not simply live in this loggia and ignore whether the rest of your home falls to ruin, Mr. Greenwood.”

  “I almost do, Miss Blair. Here and on the other terraces and balconies. I go to the parish church even though I am not a Catholic, and light candles for the soul of the distant relative whose legacy allows me to live in paradise.”

  A woman greeted them when they entered the airy, marble-floored drawing room. She was an elegant, olive-skinned native of the country. She possessed a lovely, soulful face permanently touched with a melancholic expression. Her name was Signora Roviale, and the manner in which she came forward and saw to their comfort indicated that this was her home. Matthias Greenwood did not live in paradise alone.

  Another guest ambled in soon after a servant brought some wine. Phaedra recognized him too. He had not been at her mother’s funeral, but he had called at their home once or twice when she was a girl. He was so handsome in a golden, fine-boned, noble way that she had almost developed a tendre the first time she saw him.

  “See who is here to celebrate your visit, Rothwell,” Matthias said. “I wrote and told him you would come down from Naples, and he and his wife traveled from Rome just for you. Miss Blair, allow me to introduce Mr. Randall Whitmarsh, gentleman, scholar, and another refugee from England.”

  Mr. Whitmarsh had adopted Continental fashion and manners, reflecting his long years abroad. He muttered bellissima as he bent to kiss her hand, and fussed just enough to prove he had left reserve back in England when he adopted Rome as his main home.

  “It is a joy to meet the daughter of the indomitable Artemis Blair,” he said, bestowing a charming, admiring smile.

  Phaedra was not above enjoying a handsome man’s attention. She noticed that Lord Elliot kept glancing askance at Mr. Whitmarsh’s long hold of her hand.

  “I learned recently of Richard Drury’s passing,” Mr. Whitmarsh said, patting her hand. “I see that you are still in mourning, but it was perhaps healthy to come abroad so your grief is assuaged.”

  “My choice in fashion made ordering a mourning wardrobe unnecessary, but my father would not have wanted that anyway. He specifically forbade me to mourn when I last saw him.”

  She extricated her hand from the gentle grasp of Mr. Whitmarsh. “I did not anticipate that I would meet so many who knew my mother in remote Positano, of all places.”

  “We three are all members of the Society of the Dilettanti, Miss Blair. As a woman your mother could not join, but we all eventually called to pay her homage,” Mr. Whitmarsh said. “Considering her expertise in Roman letters, it is not so surprising that you meet those who knew her if you visit the lands of the ancient empire.”

  “Are you also a member of the society, Lord Elliot?”

  “I joined after my grand tour.”

  She had been merely eighteen when her mother died, and not yet admitted into those salons and dinners where Artemis entertained scholars and artists. Yet, here in front of her were members of her mother’s circle, even if they had merely stepped inside the outer edge on occasion.

  She would have to find out if either of these men had noticed or heard on which man Artemis had settled her late affections.

  She was relieved that she and Signora Roviale would not be the only women in this house party. Soon Mrs. Whitmarsh came down from her chamber.

  Phaedra knew at once that Mrs. Whitmarsh was not as open-minded as her husband. A little, pale bird of a woman, she did not speak much, but she possessed a face so malleable that one knew her thoughts. Upon realizing Phaedra and Lord Elliot had arrived together, Mrs. Whitmarsh smiled thinly, glanced to Signora Roviale with subtle scorn, and retreated into silent, resigned disapproval of the company of fallen women.

  While they dined alfresco in the long loggia that evening, Lord Elliot graciously drew Mrs. Whitmarsh into conversation that she would enjoy and talked about London society. Phaedra allowed the gentlemen to regale her with advice about the ancient wonders she should not miss.

  “You must go to Paestum,” Matthias exhorted. “Rothwell, I command that you take her there. I do not understand all these English visitors who tromp through bakeries and brothels in Pompeii, when nearby are some of the finest Greek temples in the world that they ignore.”

  “If Miss Blair desires it, we will visit the temples,” Lord Elliot said.

  Matthias appeared very much the university don at the moment. White hair disheveled, jaw chiseling the air, and aquiline nose poised high, he intoned his lesson as if she were the student that the universities had never allowed a woman to be.

  “That is why I am here, Miss Blair. Rothwell and Whitmarsh admire the Romans, but my focus is more ancient. This land was a colony of the Greeks when Rome was still a small town with five cattle. When you see Paestum you will understand the superior Greek mind.”

  “If it does not require extending my visit long, perhaps I will take your advice.”

  After dinner Signora Roviale led the women away from the loggia, leaving the men to discuss and debate antiquity. Phaedra did not relish forcing conversation with critical Mrs. Whitmarsh. She begged off any further social obligations, claiming fatigue.

  A servant brought her to the chamber she would use. Square and white, with the same marble floors seen throughout the villa, it had long windows that gave out on a shallow balcony that stretched above the loggia. A servant had already unpacked her garments into the dark wood wardrobe. Water waited at the washstand in a ceramic jug painted with red flowers and blue leaves. Similar colors decorated the tiles around the fireplace and the sill of one window.

  She opened her doors to the breeze coming off the sea and the final glow of twilight. Sounds drifted up from the loggia, of Matthias intoning and Elliot laughing and long rumbles of conversation. She wondered if her mother had ever really been accepted into those male discussions. When the Dilettanti paid homage, was it always that of men to a woman, with all that implied?

  Chairs scraped and farewells flew. Silence slid over the villa. She rose to undress for bed. She began to unhook her dress when the smallest sound outside her door caught her attention. A slice of golden light streaked across the balcony and into the night. She went over and peered out.

  Lord Elliot stood at the other end in shirtsleeves and waistcoat. She was sure that she had made no noise, but he looked in her direction as if she had.

  “I wondered if Matthias had put you in that chamber,” he said.

  She stepped onto the terra-cotta tiles of the balcony. The light came from another set of doors beside hers. Two rooms shared this terrace.

  “It appears our host misunderstood,” she said.

  “Possibly. However if I have to share a balcony, I prefer it be with you rather than Mrs. Whitmarsh.”

  She ventured out a bit farther but stayed on her side of the space. Standing near the stone balustrade one could see down on the water, sparkling now with a million tiny reflections of stars.

&
nbsp; “Mr. Whitmarsh said the Dilettanti paid homage to my mother. I am glad to hear her abilities were recognized.”

  “An honest man had to admit to her brilliance. Of course, there were those who were less honest and discounted it.”

  “Of course. Did you ever meet her?”

  “I was still at university when she passed away. I had heard of her, and I had seen her in town, but I did not have the stature to call on her.”

  “What did you think of her?”

  He turned and rested his hips against the balustrade and gazed through the night at her. She wished he did not look so handsome and appealing. She wished the light would burn out so his face was obscured.

  “I was raised in a household of men and my father did not comprehend women well. So learning about your mother was a revelation. There was much discussion about her among schoolboys. Some fell in love with her, others thought her unnatural, but mostly she made one question the order of things. As for me, I thought she was beautiful, interesting, intelligent, and probably dangerous.”

  “I expect she was dangerous. If the world were filled with Artemis Blairs, men could not remain as they are. They would all have to question the order of things as you did.”

  “That was my thinking, but I was a boy then and did not appreciate the real danger. I had to meet her daughter to understand that part of it.”

  It was her turn to laugh. “I am hardly dangerous to you.”

  “You misunderstand, just as I did. The danger does not come from you.”

  No, it didn’t. That was apparent out here in the night. A power flowed from him, carrying those masculine impulses. That did not surprise or frighten her. The way her own feminine instincts reacted did, however.

  “Do not blame me for your worst inclinations, Lord Elliot.”

  “They do not strike me as even among the bad, let alone the worst, lovely Phaedra. Instead they seem natural and inevitable and even necessary.”

  His quiet, sure voice cast out velvet ropes to encircle her. Her heart rose to her throat and her pulse raced. He had not moved. He stood not one inch closer, but it felt as if he had reached out and slid his hand down her whole body.

  “I want to take you.” His leisurely, calm tone stirred her blood much like the breeze teased her hair. “I want you helpless to the pleasure and begging for me. I want you naked and trembling and stripped of your—”

  “Enough, sir. If that is how you think of women—”

  “Only you, dear lady. You throw down a gauntlet to every man you see. Do not be surprised if one picks it up.”

  “How dare—”

  “Oh, I would dare. I am halfway to daring right now. You know that, but here you are. If you did not want me to dare, you would never have stepped out that door.”

  She opened her mouth to deny it but no words came out.

  With a vague smile, he pushed away from the balustrade. Her heart jumped and her legs felt weak.

  “This danger you incite in me—it excites you.” He walked toward the light and his chamber. “Who is doing the buzzing now, Miss Blair?”

  “An odd name to give a daughter. Phaedra,” Matthias mused aloud. He and Elliot drank coffee early the next morning in the loggia. Down below them Positano was coming to life with the dawn.

  “I doubt there is another woman with the name in England, considering the reference,” Matthias added. “Just like Artemis Blair to decide the source did not matter and to actually prize its uniqueness.”

  Since in ancient mythology Phaedra had an affair with her stepson, it was an odd choice. Elliot doubted that Miss Blair and her mother’s beliefs in free love went that far.

  “I suspect it was a matter of the sound. It is a lovely name,” he said.

  “I could have thought of five or six better ones. No, her carelessness on this first motherly duty suggests she was indifferent to that part of her life.”

  “You spoke well of her when I was your student, and Miss Blair idolizes her memory. Let us not say things now that she might overhear.”

  “She is still abed and will not overhear my allusions to her mother’s lack of feminine impulses, but your admonishment is well taken.”

  She was still abed, sleeping soundly. Elliot had walked over and peered in before coming down. Her doors were still open, like a repudiation of his last words to her. See, you are not dangerous to me at all. Your honor and the law protect me from the worst, and my own self-possession will deal with the rest.

  He had seen copper hair flowing over pillows and creamy skin twisted in a sheet. One lovely, tapered, naked leg stretched atop the mound of bedclothes. The temptation to go in, to just watch her, prodded him, as did his annoyance that she slept so damned deeply. He certainly hadn’t.

  He was thinking about her too much. Wondering too frequently. Wanting too often. He trusted that the company of others and the call of his work would dilute her presence and return his mental state to something more normal.

  “You are living like a king here, Greenwood,” he said, to distract himself from images of Phaedra so ethereally erotic in her repose. “The improvements since my last visit are impressive.”

  Matthias beamed. “I assume you refer to the building, and not my mistress, although I am hard pressed to say which pleases me more. Getting the stone in was hell, but worth it. You should join me, Rothwell. Buy an old villa and see how far your English money goes on this coast.”

  “It goes far because it is so inaccessible one must sail miles to get to a town a stone’s throw behind this hill. I need city life more often than twice a year, but if you are happy in your isolation I am glad for you.”

  “Not isolated at all. I always have company. They come to me from England and Rome and Naples and even Pompeii. I entertained the superintendent of the site last month. He does not mind riding a donkey over that hill behind us.”

  “I would appreciate a letter of introduction,” Elliot said. “I would like to see everything new that they have excavated the last few years, not merely the things on the tourist map.”

  Matthias arched an eyebrow. “Want to see the frescoes revealing the delights of the night, do you? They will not allow Miss Blair in, no matter what letters I write.”

  “I will be researching other things. Before I go, I would like some time to discuss the direction I am taking with you.”

  “Let us decide now that tomorrow morning we will lock ourselves in my study and go to it. I miss being the tutor sometimes. Then I remember how dim-witted most of my students were, and I dismiss the nostalgia.”

  “Playing tutor and student will be useful. It will clarify my thoughts. Oh, and I am obliged as a gentleman to say that I believe you misunderstand my friendship with Miss Blair.”

  “Do I? That is a damned pity.”

  The lady in question joined them then, looking like a beautiful Celtic witch in her black flowing dress and unbound hair. Matthias sat her down at the table. He poured her coffee and made a fuss that revealed the stimulation he found in her company.

  “I hope you slept well in my humble home, Miss Blair.”

  “It is anything but humble, and I slept very well. The sound and breeze of the sea is most soothing.” She turned in her chair to look down on the town. “What are they doing down there? That big red thing by the water?”

  “Ah, that would be the wagon for the procession. They must be painting it. Three days hence is the feast of San Giovanni. St. John the Baptist. It is a major holy day in these parts. No boats will put out to sea that morning.”

  “There will be a procession?”

  “A procession, a mass, a festival—among other rituals they collect walnuts in the hills to press for oil.”

  “It is interesting that it coincides with the solstice,” she said. “It may be another example of Christians taking over a pagan festival.”

  “Miss Blair is achieving a reputation in mythological studies that rivals her mother’s in Roman letters,” Elliot said. “She published a book on th
e subject that is well regarded.”

  “How commendable.” Matthias managed to dismiss the achievement even as he admired it. “This common date is a coincidence. The sun god was not even a major figure in Greek and Roman mythology. Apollo is associated with him, but the sun himself, Helios, plays a minor role. Perhaps that is because there is so much sun in these lands that there was no need to appease its god.”

  “There is sun aplenty in Egypt and their sun god still reigned supreme,” Elliot said. “I think Miss Blair is correct about the feast of San Giovanni.”

  “Possibly,” Matthias said. “And the symbolism of the walnuts would be?”

  Phaedra laughed. “I will think of one before I depart, Mr. Greenwood, since you are willing to be pliable in your opinions.”

  “For a beautiful woman, I can be too pliable, Miss Blair. It is my great failing.” He gazed out of the loggia. A man approached on a path from the north. “Here is Whitmarsh, back from his dawn hike. I promised to show him a new treasure I found. Would you like to see my humble but prized collection of artifacts, Miss Blair?”

  “Most certainly, Mr. Greenwood.”

  She took his offered hand to rise. Whitmarsh fell into line as they filed into the house.

  Elliot was curious to see if Phaedra could maintain the pose of indifference toward him that she had adopted this morning. Not a blush. No fluster at all. She acknowledged his presence boldly and blankly. Her manner only provoked the darker side of the desire that plagued him.

  That side was saying that he should have seduced her on the balcony last night like he had wanted to. The argument was making more sense by the minute.

  CHAPTER

  SEVEN

  It is a modest collection.” Matthias beamed with pride despite his words. “I keep it here to imitate the example of a Renaissance studiolo. This is my retreat within my home, full of my favorite things.”

  His studiolo was a large cube of a room, frescoed with ancient-looking urns and foliage on the plaster walls. In addition to a large writing desk strewn with books and papers, it contained bits of artifacts. The capital of a Corinthian column perched on the desk’s corner. An ancient portrait bust looked down from the top of a high bookcase. Glass cases on legs, such as one saw in bookshops in England, held other bits and pieces of antiquity.