Amelia gave the woman a subtle once-over. Lush and beautiful and clearly either married or widowed, she was precisely the sort of woman with whom Archie would acquaint himself. “I am Lady Amelia Windermere,” she said.

  The woman smiled at the group forming a semicircle around them. “See? I told you she must be.”

  Amelia found herself unwillingly drawn into conversation as the striking similarity between the Windermere siblings was discussed—tall, striking, and very blonde—which evolved into a more general discussion about siblings and their similarities and dissimilarities.

  Amelia went for another sip of prosecco and found her coupe empty. Serendipitously, at that very moment, a sparkling silver tray appeared before her.

  As the conversation began to exhaust itself, Signore Rossi jumped into the breach. “Signorina Amelia es una cima with the watercolor brush. I hope she will allow her work to be shown before she returns to England.”

  Interest entered a few sets of eyes, and pride stole through Amelia. She’d never received such praise in the public sphere. She might like it.

  Something else she liked: how she felt from her fingertips to her toes. She’d never felt this good in her life. Why had no one ever told her about prosecco? How had she made it to the age of seven and twenty without knowing its magic?

  With a renewed confidence, and another few sips of prosecco, she turned toward the lady to her right—a new one had appeared—and asked, “And when are you expecting?” In England, she would never ask such a question in mixed company, but in Italy, such rules didn’t seem to apply.

  “Expecting what, mia cara?” the lady asked with a puzzled smile.

  “Your baby.”

  Puzzlement turned into utter confusion. Perhaps her English wasn’t fluent.

  “I only ask,” continued Amelia, “because a dear friend of mine who married before me—actually all my dear friends have married before me.” She dismissed the wave of self-pity that tried to surge. “Anyway, when she was about your size, she got a case of the hiccups that lasted for an entire fortnight.”

  The woman blinked, her brow deeply furrowed.

  “You’ll never guess the remedy.”

  The woman continued staring at Amelia. Or was she glaring?

  “Fresh sardines,” said Amelia. “One bite, and the hiccups were gone. The only problem was that she ate sardines for the remainder of her confinement. One could hardly stand to be in a room with her.” She waved a hand in front of her face. “The breath.”

  A solid five seconds beat by before the lady emitted a spew of rapid Italian into Amelia’s face. Once finished, the lady charged away.

  Amelia remained unperturbed, even sympathetic. “Expecting ladies can be quite temperamental. All my friends were.”

  Signore Rossi cleared his throat. “Signora Fontana is not with child.”

  “Oh, dear,” said Amelia, “should I go and⁠—”

  A hand wrapped around her upper arm. A large, calloused, strong hand. She glanced up and found the Duke of Ripon staring down at her, his opaque gray eyes giving nothing away. “You’ve done enough.”

  Signore Rossi redirected the subject with the fluidity of a skilled host, and the stream of conversation began to flow around Amelia and Ripon. Awareness of him—of his body only inches from hers—raced along her skin, lighting her veins as it skittered through. His hand had fallen away, but she could still feel the outline of his fingers on her skin.

  By chance, her gaze landed on the older, bespectacled German gentleman across from her. Something about his ear… She squinted. A small, furry animal of some sort—a caterpillar?—appeared to be nesting there. She couldn’t decide if it was repulsive or cute.

  As discreetly as possible, she gave a little wave and waggle of her fingers in his direction.

  “What are you doing?” Ripon hissed into her ear.

  “Trying to get the herr’s attention.”

  “Whatever for?” He sounded no small bit suspicious.

  Before she could answer, she succeeded in securing the herr’s attention, even as she was all too aware of Ripon at her side. “Pardon me, herr, but I have a question for you.”

  “Oh?” the man asked, strangely wary.

  “Is the small, furry animal in your ear a pet?”

  The herr turned a particular shade of purple that couldn’t be good for his health. “Fräulein, who are you to go around a civilized gathering, hurling insults at everyone you lay eyes upon?”

  Again, the hand wrapped around her upper arm. This time it tugged.

  “That’s quite enough for tonight.”

  As Tristan guided Lady Amelia across the courtyard, through Signore Rossi’s open villa, and onto the quiet terrace at the back of the house, it occurred to him that he didn’t have the right.

  After all, he wasn’t her brother or husband or even fiancé.

  Or lover.

  Definitely not that.

  But he wasn’t doing it for her. He was doing it for everyone else. A Lady Amelia Windermere with a few drinks in her was a menace to society.

  She jerked to a stop, outraged eyes rounding on him. “Who do you think you are? King of the villa?”

  “A duke.”

  “Yes, well, hyperbole.” She rolled her eyes toward the sky. “I know you’re a duke. Everyone knows, don’t they?”

  “Everyone seems to.”

  “And you don’t like that, do you?”

  What Tristan didn’t like was how Lady Amelia had turned the conversation around on him.

  Or how she was looking at him.

  As if she could see into him.

  That wouldn’t do. He needed to get her out of here. The woman was completely foxed.

  “If we follow the path around the villa to the alleyway,” he said, “I can summon my coachman to drive you to your villa.”

  Her brow furrowed. “To my villa? Why would I go there?”

  “Because you’ve managed to insult every person you’ve spoken to tonight?”

  Her head tipped back, and a smile broadened across her face. “But look at the moon.”

  He didn’t need to. He was looking at its goddess, her hair shining silver in the light, her eyes the clear blue of an East Indian sea. Her beauty was nearly too much to gaze upon, as if the moon would exact a price from those who stared too long.

  Possibly at the direction of her mistress, Lady Amelia backed one step away from him, then another, mischief in her eyes. Then she whirled around and vanished into Rossi’s garden. Tristan had no choice but to follow.

  Ahead, an object shone white on the ground. He grabbed it and held it to the moonlight. A flimsy scrap of lace. A lady’s fichu, if he wasn’t mistaken. Lady Amelia had been wearing a fichu.

  “Lady Amelia,” he called out, muted so her name wouldn’t carry to the villa.

  A faint yes sounded in the distance.

  “Have you lost something?” Like her inhibitions, for starters.

  Another sound floated across the still night air. Was that a giggle?

  “Oh, I would say a few somethings.”

  What on earth⁠—

  He rounded a bend of high shrubbery and beheld what on earth, indeed.

  A fountain.

  Lady Amelia.

  Lady Amelia splashing in the fountain, wearing nothing but stays, stockings, and a chemise.

  Playful…wet…

  His cock sprang to instant life.

  “Oh, it feels so good,” she cooed. “The water and the breeze against one’s bare skin. I’ve never felt so…good.”

  Oh, he—and his cock—could think of a few ways to make her feel even better than good.

  He cleared his throat. “You must come out of there at once,” he commanded with all the ducal authority he could muster. Which was a great deal, even under the current circumstances.

  She acted as if she hadn’t heard him and began floating on her back.

  Little of her was left to the imagination.

  She was as exquisite as his imagination had insisted—long, slender, yet all the lines of her so very feminine.

  “Out,” he barked.

  “I think not.” She hadn’t even bothered to look at him.

  Tristan wasn’t accustomed to people ignoring his commands. It irked him. Especially when any rational person could see he was in the right.

  Of course, Lady Amelia was no longer a rational person. She was a person stewed to the gills.

  He moved to the edge of the fountain. “Now.”

  “I’m afraid not.”

  “Don’t make me come in after you.”

  “You won’t.”

  She spoke the last bit with a certainty that rubbed against his last remaining nerve.

  That was it.

  With focused efficiency, he shed coat, waistcoat, and cravat, stripped down to shirt and trousers. That was as far as he would go. What if someone happened upon them, and he was in the buff?

  He would have to marry the chit.

  That was what.

  Even in Italy.

  “How fussy you are,” she said, blithe and unconcerned.

  On a great charge, he cleared the lip of the fountain and sank to his waist in an instant.

  “It’s deeper than you’d think,” she said with the wisdom of one who had gone before.

  That irked him, too.

  In five great strides, the water dragging against him, he reached her. For her part, she remained floating on her back, staring up at him, small nipples hard as cherry pits through the translucent muslin of her chemise.

  Now what?

  What the bloody hell had he been thinking? Did he mean to lay hands on her?

  That would be a bad idea.

  A very, very bad idea.

  “You wouldn’t dare touch me,” she said, and laughed with all the unconcern of the innocent.

  He remained silent, unable to trust himself to speak. He wouldn’t dare?

  “Your reputation is so very salacious, but I’ve found little to warrant it. Surprising, really.” She scoffed. “The Dissolute Duke, my arse.”

  What was this? Was he some flaccid, toothless old man?

  Well, wasn’t she in for a surprise?

  In another great stride, he closed the remaining distance between them, taking particular delight in watching her unconcerned smile transform into very concerned shock as she bolted upright and began a sloshy scramble away from him.

  But she’d started too late.

  He was scooping her up in the next instant. Of their own accord, her arms lifted and slid around his neck to steady herself. Her face separated from his by mere inches, they stared at each other in utter shock. Her arms began to tighten around his neck and her lips parted a fraction, wide enough for her tongue to dart out and wet them. Before he understood what she was about, her mouth was pressed against his.

  A wave of impressions flooded him. Soft…sweet… She tasted of sugar…of prosecco and lemon and woman…of everything delicious in the world.

  On carnal instinct, his tongue slid through her parted lips, unable to resist a deeper taste of her, knowing to his bones a taste would never be enough…

  She gasped.

  And like that, he knew what else she tasted of.

  Innocence.

  He jerked back, tearing himself away from the kiss, and met eyes wide with shock. He didn’t kiss innocent women. Further, he didn’t kiss tippled women, especially when he was stone sober. And this woman wasn’t just any woman, but an unmarried one. Most assuredly a virgin, her reaction to his tongue told her.

  Right.

  Confusion and curiosity warring in her eyes, her arms tightened around his neck, bringing her mouth closer to his. The chit was trying to kiss him…again.

  He averted his face and began wading to the edge of the fountain. For such a tall woman, she weighed hardly anything, even sopping wet. He nearly dropped her when her mouth found his neck, her warm breath raising goose bumps along his skin.

  Then she licked him, her tongue a slick drag up his neck.

  Was the woman trying to get herself ravished?

  “Mm, salty,” she said, breathy. “I wonder where else you’re salty.”

  He could provide a thorough tutorial.

  Stoically, he kept moving until they reached the grass, where he unceremoniously deposited her. “Dress yourself,” he commanded and pivoted so his back faced her. He couldn’t watch her struggle into her clothes, without offering to help.

  Perhaps not without helping himself to her.

  And that would be ungentlemanly.

  While he’d come to Italy to not be a gentleman, a man must adhere to a few principles. Not taking advantage of an intoxicated woman was one of them.

  But, oh, how his body screamed for just one more taste of her…

  A throat cleared behind him. He turned to find she’d dressed herself…somewhat. Her hair was half up and half down, and thoroughly sodden, and her dress might be on backwards, but it was enough to preserve her modesty from prying eyes.

  His prying eyes, to be exact.

  Side by side, they followed the path that led around the side of the villa.

  “About our bargain,” she said.

  Perhaps she’d come to her senses and thought better of it.

  “Yes?”

  “I’ll expect you at my villa tomorrow night—” Her brow furrowed. “Tonight?”

  He nodded. It had grown late.

  “For our first painting session.”

  “You cannot be serious.”

  “And bring a fig leaf.”

  “A fig leaf?”

  “To preserve your modesty.”

  For the first time in what felt like an age of thirty years—perhaps it had been—he laughed, long and hard and without reserve. It cleansed, this sort of laughter. But, really, the things that emerged from this woman’s mouth. “You mean to preserve your modesty,” he said.

  “Whatever do you mean?”

  “You’ll see.”

  Could she truly be that innocent?

  He looked into her eyes.

  She could.

  “Midnight,” she continued. “You know where my bedroom is located.”

  They reached the alleyway, but before they emerged from the shadows, he signaled that she stop. “Stay put and out of sight.”

  With a sharp whistle, he caught his driver’s attention. Within a few minutes, the carriage rolled into view. Tristan waved it as close as could be managed. Even so, Lady Amelia would be exposed to a good five feet of light. The unconcerned eye would find nothing amiss. The gossipy eye, however…

  She was a Windermere. That was what people would say. What they didn’t understand about Lady Amelia, however, was that she was a different sort of Windermere.

  He opened the carriage door and waved at her. She seemed to understand the mission, for she dashed as fast as her sloshy slippers could carry her and made a mad scramble inside the carriage tout suite. As she passed him, he might’ve even caught a few droplets of spray from her hair, which now streamed down her back in wet blonde streaks.

  Once inside, she stared straight ahead and didn’t acknowledge his existence. She might’ve sobered up a bit.

  He poked his head into the open window. “One bit of advice,” he said to the side of her face. “When you get home, drink a large glass of water. Your morning self will thank you.”

  He pulled back and gave the side of the carriage two sharp raps.

  As he watched the carriage speed off into the night, he knew what he should do. He should send a note first thing tomorrow backing out of their bargain.

  But he wouldn’t.

  He knew that, too.

  Chapter Seven

  Next evening

  As Tristan had known he would, he’d come.

  And here he stood in her garden, beyond the terrace, beyond the edge of light.

  He’d been standing like this for a full ten minutes.

  Staring…

  At Lady Amelia, illuminated by the warm, yellow glow of the two candelabras in her studio, as she moved carefully and seriously, readying her materials for his arrival—easel placed before a straight-backed chair, indicating she would sit while she painted; brushes arranged with meticulous care at precise intervals on a small table; paints and water ready to be mixed and made into magic on paper.

  He shouldn’t be here, he understood that. But he was an adult and, last night’s escapade in Rossi’s fountain notwithstanding, she was an adult, too. And as adults they’d made a bargain. Further, he was a gentleman; he wouldn’t be breaking his oath.

  But…as a gentleman, shouldn’t he?

  Well, he was here, so that was that decided.

  Except he was watching her through her open double doors like a lecher.

  Right.

  He cleared his throat, and her head whipped around, her clear blue gaze searching the night beyond the terrace for him. He had no choice but to step into the light. She didn’t smile or greet him in any way, but simply kept arranging brushes that had already been resituated three times since he’d arrived, and however many more before that. She was nervous.

  He entered the studio and decided it would be best to get the obvious out of the way. “About last night,” he began.

  Bent over the small table, she froze. Very deliberately, she straightened her long, elegant body, squared her shoulders, and faced him. “I licked your neck.”

  His eyebrows lifted toward the ceiling. They couldn’t help themselves. That was certainly the obvious sorted.

  “And…and…” she continued, her cheeks and the tips of her ears glowing pink. “And I apologize.” She swallowed. “Profoundly.”

  Tristan hadn’t known what to expect, but it wasn’t this. A profound apology. He didn’t want her apology, profound or not. What he wanted, if he was being truthful, was for her to lick his neck again. He’d detected some talent in that tongue of hers.

  But he wouldn’t say that. Any of it. Instead, he picked up the sound of piano drifting on the air. “Is that music coming from this villa?”

  “Oh, that’s Archie.”

  “Archie? Your brother?”

  A tiny smile formed about her mouth. “There’s only one Archie, Your Grace.”

  Intricate and skilled, the music carried on, each note following the next with inevitability. Nay. Archie wasn’t simply skilled. “He plays magnificently.” An idea about the Windermere siblings occurred to him. “And Lady Delilah, does she have artistic ability?”