Louise Allen - A Most Unconventional Courtship

‘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.’

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.’