DEVIL’S EMBRACE by Catherine Coulter

Cassie drew a deep breath. “It is lovely. Indeed, I have never seen so beautiful a scene in my life. It all seems to fit together perfectly.”

“Yes,” he agreed, leaning his elbows on an open stretch of railing next to her. “If it were not for the more restrained customs that prevail here, I would never miss England.” At her questioning look, he continued, “The Genoese are a very thrifty people. Indeed, many of the gowns I bought for you would be seen as ostentatious here. If you see me dressed frequently in somber black, it is because I wish my Genoese brothers and colleagues to see me as one of them and not some foreign nobleman.” He paused a moment and shook his head ruefully. “There is one item that the Genoese do not consider extravagant, and that is the wig.”

“But you never wear a wig,” she said, smiling up at him despite herself.

“True, and I never shall. But the Genoese as a rule adore them—and the most outlandish concoctions. At the beginning of this century the Doge even passed a law against them, but you’ll notice there is a wig on every head in all the portraits from that period. I believe the law is still entered in the books, but it is not heeded any more now than it was then. You will discover that there are more wig makers in Genoa than there are cafes.”

“My father always wore one,” Cassie said. “White with little sausage rolls over his ears.”

“Yes, I remember,” he said with a smile. He turned and Cassie followed him back into the bedchamber. “There are dressing rooms through that door.” Even as he pointed toward the far end of the bedchamber, he was aware that Cassie was not looking at the dressing room door but at his giant bed, which was set upon a dais, its four thick posts carved with fat, naked cherubs.

He grinned. “It is rather impressive, is it not? My father was quite fond of it. When one becomes used to that expanse of bed, the one aboard The Cassandra seems like a niggardly bunk.”

Indeed, Cassie thought, five people could stretch out, side by side, and not be overly crowded. She raised strained eyes to his face. “Surely there are many bedchambers in the villa, my lord. I would prefer to have my own room, if you please.”

“No,” he said easily, still smiling, but with finality. “Did I not make it clear to you that we would live as man and wife?”

“But your servants, visitors . . .” Her voice trailed off in embarrassment.

“Perhaps their disapproval will speed your change from La Signorina to La Signora and La Contessa.”

“Never.”

Scargill came in then, valises and portmanteaux under his arms. He was breathing heavily from exertion, and Cassie turned on the earl. “Where are your other servants, O most noble lord? Must poor Scargill do everything?”

“Paolo is seeing to the return of the barouche, I doubt not. As I told you, cara, the Genoese nobility are a thrifty lot. Paolo and Marrina see to the house and stables. Scargill looks after me, and I will have Marrina bring in one of her many female relations to be your maid. The gardens, though, require more attention than we mere mortals. You will meet Sordello’s father, Marco, and his three minions in due time.”

“It’s fagged ye look, my lord,” Scargill said, his eyes narrowed on the earl’s face. “Ye need rest if yer shoulder is to heal quickly.”

The earl could not disagree. His shoulder pained him. He turned to Cassie, whose attention was again upon the massive bed.

“Would you care to rest with me, Cassandra, before dinner? The bed would certainly accommodate any distance you wish to keep from me.”

“Perhaps the madonna would like to see the rest of the villa, my lord.” He added severely, “As to yer dinner, I’ll instruct Marrina to serve both of ye here. The last thing ye need, my lord, is to force yer poor shoulder into evening raiment. Madonna, take yerself to the balcony and I’ll assist his lordship into his dressing gown.”

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