To Kiss a Count. Amanda McCabe
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Название: To Kiss a Count
Автор: Amanda McCabe
Издательство: HarperCollins
Жанр: Историческая литература
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She stepped close to the glass, reaching up to tuck an errant lock back into her coiffure. Her gloved fingertips trailed over her cheekbone, just beneath one blue eye. If she looked more like Clio, tall, auburn-haired, sun-browned as an Amazon warrior, and not so much as if she belonged in a swing in a Versailles garden, would people take her seriously?
Would Marco love her then, as he loved Clio? Or would she just be a distraction, an affair, like Lady Riverton?
‘Never say you have found something to displease you there,’ a softly accented voice said behind her. ‘For truly your face is nothing less than perfection.’
Thalia’s heart suddenly pounded in her breast at the sound of that voice. Her gaze shifted in the glass, finding Marco’s reflection just over her shoulder. He watched her, and for once he did not smile, there was no teasing gleam in his eyes. He seemed a part of the shadows.
Her hand fell to her side. ‘One could say the same about you. All the ladies are just as in love with you here in Bath as they were in Sicily.’
A whisper of a smile just touched the corner of his lips. ‘All of them, Thalia cara?’
‘Most of them.’ She turned away from the mirror, facing him. Perhaps that was a mistake, though. Looking into his eyes reminded her too much of that masked ball, of dancing under the dusty-black Sicilian sky. ‘And yet you seem to have eyes now for only one.’
Marco gave a low, deep chuckle, that maddening dimple flashing in his cheek. ‘Indeed I do.’ He took a step towards her, then another and another, until he leaned his palm on the wall just beyond her head, his touch brushing her hair. He leaned in close, so close she could see the shadow of dark whiskers along his sculpted jaw, the flecks of gold in his brown eyes.
That light citrus-ginger smell, blended with clean starch and the dark essence of him, reached out to her like a beckoning caress. Tempting her to lean into him, to curl her hands into the soft linen of his shirt and hold him against her. When he gazed at her like that, so solemn and intent, she forgot her name, where she was, everything. Everything but him and the way he made her feel like the only woman in all the world.
She even reached up to graze her fingertips along the satin lapel of his coat, but that last faint thought stopped her touch. He made every female feel like the only one. He caught them within the snare of his beautiful eyes, and they became giggling, silly creatures, just like Lady Riverton.
Feeling that sudden cold tinge of disappointment, of hurt, Thalia turned her head to the side so she could no longer see him. Her hand fell to her skirt. She did not want to be like all the others! She didn’t want to lose herself in some silly infatuation. To go helplessly following Marco around Bath with all his other fawning acolytes. She wanted purpose in her life, and that was not it!
Yet he still stood there, his arm inches away from her cheek, gazing down at her as if he could discern all her secrets.
‘What would Lady Riverton say if she could see you here with me?’ Thalia murmured, peering at him from beneath her lashes.
Marco frowned. ‘Lady Riverton?’
‘Yes. Are you not here in Bath as her devoted swain? I suppose she was in need of a replacement for poor Mr Frobisher, after they parted so precipitously in Santa Lucia! Though I must say you are far more handsome than he ever was.’
And surely he was in need of a replacement for Clio, for his hopeless feelings for her. But Thalia found she could not say that aloud. Once, for a few blissful days in Sicily, she had felt free of all constraints. Free to say and express whatever she liked. Here, everything was different.
He was different, too. No matter how close he was physically, there was a vast gulf between them.
Marco’s fingers curled into a fist against the wall. ‘Lady Riverton and I are merely, how you say—friends,’ he said tightly.
‘Friends as you and I were?’ Thalia said. ‘Or like you and Clio?’
‘No one can ever be quite like the Chases, I think. Lady Riverton merely offered to be my tour guide here in Bath, to show me the sites. How could I say no, after my old friendship with her late husband?’
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