“Andrea Doria—he is the one who tossed away all the silver plates.” The earl paused a moment, his long fingers deftly peeling the skin off an orange.
He gave her an engaging smile. “Yes, he is the one. He was a brilliant man, an admiral, who saved Genoa early in the sixteenth century, primarily from the French, but of course there were others, like the Spanish and the Milanese. It was he who gave Genoa an oligarchic constitution and reestablished peace on the Riviera.”
The earl leaned forward and handed Cassie a succulent orange slice. “It tastes quite sweet. I hope you will like it.” His long fingers lightly touched the palm of her hand.
He watched her nibble at the orange slice between her even white teeth and smile as a drop of juice trickled down her chin. He sat back in his chair and continued, his tone somewhat pensive. “Unfortunately, since Andrea Doria, Genoa has been sadly bereft of heroes. But we survive, as Europe’s bankers, primarily. And that, Cassandra, is what occupies my time when I am not being a nobleman of leisure, or traveling.”
She looked up, startled. “You—a banker? An English earl is not involved in trade,” she said succinctly.
“It is only the Genoese half that is so involved.” He uncrossed his long legs and stretched them out in front of him. Her eyes were drawn momentarily to his thighs, encased in the black tightly knit breeches. “It is a long tradition,” he said, handing her another orange section. “Back in the early fifteenth century, during one of the darker moments in Genoa’s history, a group of local merchants pooled their talents and their resources and created the Banco di San Giorgio. Over the years, these men from Genoa’s patrician families perfected the art of credit. If Philip II of Spain needed money for foreign conquest, it was to the bankers of Genoa that he applied. But, of course, things change. Genoa cannot protect herself from foreign intervention. In our century, we have known cruel conquest by the French, and the Austrians in league with the Spanish. Only eight years ago we had to sell that accursed island of Corsica to France.” He leaned forward and gently wiped Cassie’s mouth and chin with a white napkin. “It is sticky, but I hope you liked it.”
“I very much liked it, my lord. It tasted very sweet.” His gentleness confused her, and she did not draw away from his lightly caressing fingers.
“Enough of Italian history, cara.” He tossed down the napkin and gently wrapped his fingers around a thick tress of hair on her shoulder. “I do not think I told you how much I admire your new style. It is very elegant.”
“I wish you would stop being so nice,” she said and pulled away from his hand. His lips were slightly parted, revealing his strong white teeth.
He grinned at her, a boyish grin so engaging that she smiled in response.
“But, cara, it comes quite naturally to me. I am really not such a bad sort of fellow, you know, if you will give me a chance. And it is my wish always to please you.”
His eyes fell to the white expanse of bosom that swelled above her pale yellow silk bodice. She laced her fingers over her breasts, aware of a delicious tingling sensation spreading through her body.
She pushed back her chair and rose abruptly. “I am cold, my lord.”
“I trust, my love, that I have a pleasurable remedy.” He rose leisurely and walked to her. She licked her lower lip, but did not try to move away from him. For several moments, he did not attempt to touch her, but merely stood before her. When he finally reached out his hand to her, Cassie stepped into the circle of his arm and arched her back against his chest. She raised her face to his, mutely. He teased her mouth with his tongue, until with a deep sigh, she parted her lips and let his tongue mingle with hers. He felt the deep heaving of her breasts against his chest and tightened his arm about her back to press her closer.