“From . . . this earthly plane?” Mariana nearly stammered.
It was just... he looked capable.
His lips performed the slightest of taut curves. “From the premises.” He turned to Giancarlo, and added, shortly, “For a start.”
Giancarlo had gone as white as the marble-fronted fireplace. Other than this, and a certain tautness of his own features, his composure remained admirable. He raised his palms in self-deprecating surrender. “There is no need to speak of me as if I am not here. Or to... cut off my hand with a sword.” He lowered his hand and circled his wrist with the other hand. “I shall take my leave. Miss Wylde, I apologize if I offend”—he looked the duke full in the face, his own speculative, awed, and resentful—“or trespass. If you will please allow me to pass, I will go.”
He bowed quite beautifully—first to Mariana and then to the duke—because he was a graceful man, and second only to his instinct to flirt was his instinct for self-preservation.
Mariana held her breath while the duke’s eyes followed his swift progress from the building. No doubt he was counting Giancarlo’s pores, memorizing his eyelashes as he passed.
Mariana was surprised not to see two smoking holes in the back of Giancarlo’s head.
The slam of the heavy door echoed in the foyer.
Mariana put a hand to her heart as if to steady it. Her face was still hot.
He remained in the darker foyer. She remained in the light of the reception room. In silence, she and the Duke of Valkirk regarded each other.
No man had ever before come to her defense.
“Grazie,” she said. A little ironically. Almost shyly.
“Prego,” he said shortly.
James found he could not quite produce a smile for her yet.
His fingers were still curled; they buzzed as though they’d been deprived of the feel of that man’s throat. Emotion entirely out of proportion to the situation simmered in his veins.
“Anger” was the safest word to call it.
She was so pale that the little gold spots on her face stood in stark relief, but two hot, pink, embarrassed spots sat on her cheeks.
“But he’s abrilliantcomposer,” she said finally, ironically, as though they’d been exchanged in a long, silent litany of Giancarlo’s grave flaws.
He managed a short, humorless laugh.
She cleared her throat.
“I’m terribly sorry you were forced to witness that, let alone intervene.” Her hands went to her cheeks. “I’m just so embar—”
“No. Please don’t apologize. There is no need. I am only glad that I was here and could be of some assistance.”
There were questions he wanted to ask. Of her, but mostly of himself, when he was alone. Because he could not catch hold of the ragged ends of his outsized rage to trace it back to its source.
She cleared her throat. “Signor Giannini is acomposer, and our relationship is professional. He brought about a third of the money he owes me. He’s dissatisfied with the current casting choices for his opera, and since he cannot hiremeat the moment, for obvious reasons”—she grimaced wryly here and she flashed a quick little smile—“and he claims he missed me. One can hardly blame him for that, yes?” Her voice faltered. “Though he tends to express such sentiments... with his hands.”
Her words began in a brittle, cheerful rush. They ended nearly inaudibly.
Mariana, he wanted to say softly.
She looked so alone, standing in the middle of the room. He realized he’d never fully understood her actual aloneness so acutely until now. The absolute singularity of her position.
“I hope,” the duke said carefully, “I have not introduced a complication into your milieu by interrupting your... shall we call it a conversation?”
She quirked the corner of her mouth. “Oh, what’s one more complication? It seems I’ve an infinite capacity for them. Rather like Mr. Delacorte has for gravy.”
James smiled a little, only because she seemed to need it.
