Dante's Flame Read online

  “I fear you have no say, Alessandra. I have found a husband for you.”

  Her eyes rounded with disbelief. “Was he paid handsomely before he agreed to a marriage? Or is he simply interested in matters of the flesh?”

  Fabroni’s eyes closed to mere slits. “Hold your brazen tongue.”

  “How can I when you are telling me how my life will be? Even my father was not so presumptuous. At least he would have allowed me to refuse a man of his choice if we were not suited to each other.”

  She attempted to leave, but Benito closed his fingers around her upper arm and forced her to face his father. Biting back a heated complaint from the burning pain he inflicted, she glared up at him until he released her.

  “I have hired a French tutor for you. A man who, I am assured, is highly respected. He may not come from a noble background, but I am told he is a man of wealth. He will arrive shortly. I will warn you, Alessandra, do not become unpleasant in an attempt to turn him away else I’ll not hesitate to find another who will gladly marry you. And there are many in Naples who would kill to have a well-bred, comely and fairly well-off woman. A virgin.”

  Alessa shuddered. She knew of which men he spoke. She had seen them from afar—paunchy, balding, impoverished, old. The kind of men who preyed on the upper class and the hefty purses the women brought into a marriage.

  “Get yourself to the kitchen for a meal. It will not do if your stomach churns loudly in the company of a gentleman.”

  Disheartened, she stared at Fabroni. He’d had it all figured out. How long had he been planning this arrangement?

  “By the by, who taught you to climb a tree?”

  Alessa choked on her shock.

  “Come now, Alessandra. I would be remiss in my duties as your guardian if I did not make myself aware of you at all times. So too, your father forewarned me about your craving for seeking escapades in the night.” He lifted a navy leather-bound book from the mantel and thumbed through the pages. She held her breath as he read.

  “He was a phantom in the night, too handsome for words. His strength as he captured my hand, then my waist, brought shivers of longing up my back. When his warm lips touched mine, I could not contain the shudder of excitement consuming my body.”

  Fabroni snapped the journal shut, and Alessa startled. She was more than mortified that he’d rifled through her belongings and read an entry meant for her eyes only. She’d written the passage late last night. He had snuck into her room while she slept!

  “You have no right taking what is mine.”

  “I have every right. You are in my home and under my guidance.”

  “I am a grown woman, not a child who needs your hand of direction.” She argued boldly, even though she knew it was wrong.

  “A woman, Alessandra. All the more reason you need a husband. With writings such as you are wont to put on paper, you are a disgrace to your family and a danger to yourself. Should word of your lascivious imaginings come to light, I fear there is naught I can do to save you from the lowly ilk of this city.”

  She bunched her hands into fists. “Not moments ago you were ready to hand me over to the lowly ilk of Naples.”

  “Beware, Alessandra. You are walking on dangerous ground by baiting me.” Fabroni nodded to his son, who grabbed Alessa’s arm and escorted her from the room. “One more thing,” he said as she struggled against Benito’s manhandling. “What you wrote was a work of your imagination, was it not?”

  She clamped her mouth tightly.

  “If the man in this passage is real, I am obligated to find him and force him to marry you.”

  ****

  Outwardly, Alessa appeared calm. Inwardly, she resisted falling apart. If only her nerves would stop jumping and twitching, her stomach wouldn’t be ill. She feared she’d not keep her morning meal down. Clutching her middle, she stood at the back of the great room while Fabroni answered the knock at the door.

  The tutor had arrived. The man who could very well become her husband. Would that she could jump out the window. But without a tree beside it, she’d fall to the stone below. She knew not which was worse—the pain of breaking her bones, or the agony of meeting the man who might force her to his will.

  “You are on time.” Fabroni sounded pleased.

  Alessa swallowed hard and closed her eyes. Then she heard the stranger speak.

  “I am Dante Santangelo.”

  Her eyes sprang open wide. That voice. She’d know it anywhere. He was the mysterious Frenchman who had chased her the night before. Confusion marred her thoughts. He was the man Fabroni chose to be her husband?

  “I was told you are looking for a French tutor.”

  “Sì,” Fabroni affirmed. “You may enter.”

  Slowly turning to the wide doorway, Alessa prayed her trembling limbs would not forsake her. It wouldn’t do to crumble in the midst of meeting her future husband.

  Across the vast room, the Frenchman appeared. He was the epitome of a lover—tall, virile, and oh so handsome. The wide breadth of his shoulders aligned impressively beneath the black satin short gown he wore. She glanced at the garment’s green velvet collar and cuffs before her gaze slid downward. Green satin breeches hugged his legs, which she couldn’t see too well. The breeches ended not far from the top of his black boots just below his knees. Alessa almost lost her composure.

  “You come highly recommended, Signor Santangelo,” her cousin said.

  She waited breathlessly for the man to speak. Instead, he nodded his head and thick strands of deep brown hair brushed forward over his neck and ears. Her gaze strayed to his full and luscious lips. Kissable lips, she imagined, about to fan herself from the sudden heat climbing up her face.

  “Alessandra!”

  She jerked out of her mind’s wandering, and her shock collided with the smirk in the tutor’s intriguing eyes. Never had she seen eyes the color of ripe grapes, their violet-blue almost too beautiful for a man.

  “Come forward,” Fabroni commanded.

  Smitten with the tutor, Alessa obeyed, forgetting for the moment how she disliked taking orders from anyone. Dante Santangelo observed her closely. As she closed the distance between them, Alessa was reminded of how the dark of night had made him an intimidating figure. Seeing him in the light of day was no less alarming. Everything about him spoke of quickness, power and cunning. Certain now he could have easily caught up to her, she was intrigued by the fact he chose not to.

  “Signore, may I present Alessandra Podesta,” Fabroni said.

  The tutor inclined his head, and the meager smile on his lips did not change. Neither did the attentive light in his eyes. Alessa drew in a fortifying breath and bowed her head. “Pleased to meet you, Signor Santangelo.”

  “The pleasure is mine, I assure you, signorina.”

  Alessa was in love. Not unusual by any means. Ever since she reached her thirteenth year, she had the tendency to fall in and out of love in haste. The truth was, she liked men. Adored their fawning attention. Took pleasure in flirting. But in the depths of her mind, she knew toying with this particular man’s heart might get her into trouble. He had that look in his eyes, all knowing and clever. She’d not fool him with her ill-kept infatuation. But she was certain he was ignorant of the true reason Fabroni hired him.

  “Alessandra has been with us a week,” Fabroni began. “I fear she has little self-discipline. She is schooled in reading and writing. Mayhap too schooled.” He shot her a damning look, as if to say her knowledge was the reason she behaved rashly and wrote the provocative stories she felt compelled to compose.

  “You are interested in learning French?” the tutor asked.

  “She is.” Fabroni cut in before she let the truth slip. “As it is her father’s wish for her to learn another language.” He gestured to the doorway with an open hand. “Go now, Alessandra. I must speak with Signor Santangelo in private.”

  “I am not to begin my lessons immediately?”

  Fabroni stared at her with suspicion
. After having been adamant about not wanting French lessons or a husband, he undoubtedly wondered what changed her mind.

  “We must discuss payment,” he replied.

  What would the tutor say when he learned the payment was marriage to her?

  Alessa inclined her head and smiled becomingly. “How know you Signor Santangelo is qualified to tutor French?”

  “Mind your tongue,” Fabroni chastised sharply.

  Was that a flicker of amusement in the tutor’s eyes? She glanced from the man to her cousin. Apparently, Fabroni was unaware about Signor Santangelo’s acquaintance with the French else the tutor would not be standing in the Valente home. She had overheard her father relating to her mother how Fabroni disliked the French, something the family kept secret.

  “Your pardon, Signor Valente.” The tutor turned to address her inquiry. “I tutored French and Latin at the University before it closed. I speak both languages fluently.”

  His explanation pleased her cousin for now. Alessa tilted her face upward. “Well then, you are most qualified. Until our first lesson, Signor Santangelo.”

  Dante dropped his gaze to the Valente’s skin stretched white over the knuckles of his fisted hand as the young woman glided past. He continued smiling, though deep down he was giddy over his good fortune. When word had spread through the lettered circles in Naples that Fabroni Valente was searching for a tutor for his visiting cousin, Dante rushed at the chance to get closer to the family. But to find the fleeing angel from the night before… He’d laugh out loud at the irony. Instead, he composed his urge to celebrate and eased the smile from his lips.

  “She is young and impetuous,” he commented. And quite beautiful in the morning light.

  “She is more than that, I fear.” Fabroni spoke grimly. He offered Dante a seat on a dark-wood bench facing the stone hearth.

  Dante observed the shoemaker as he leaned an arm on the low mantel. The man’s clothes were impeccable, from his silk tunic to his smooth, leather boots. For a man approaching his fiftieth year, he retained his dark hair with only a smattering of gray threaded throughout. Even the furniture was smartly appointed. Obviously, his life was far from unpleasant. How a shoemaker lived so well, Dante couldn’t begin to guess. The man had a fine reputation, but even a shoemaker to the king did not make the sum of money needed to live as comfortably as the Valentes.

  “Her father could not control her,” Fabroni went on.

  Dante’s mind switched thoughts rather quickly. The idea of the woman in need of mastering brought a secretive smile to his lips. However, it was only that—an idea. Signorina Podesta was much too young and impetuous for his tastes. In spite of that, it was damned difficult to look past the innocence in her beauty, the fair color of her unblemished skin, or her small breasts tucked within her expensive gown, even if he preferred his women experienced and voluptuous.

  “She seems harmless,” Dante commented. As harmless as a harlot in the company of soldiers.

  Fabroni raised his brows. “Alessandra’s penchant for adventure was the reason she left Venice. Her father caught her alone with the doge’s married son. She claims it was harmless flirting. I ask you, when is flirting trivial?” Wagging his head, he sighed. “She is headstrong and heedless, and prefers naught but seeking adventure and writing shameless tales, the likes of which should condemn her to eternal hell. Yet she is innocent and unmindful of how her stories truly appear.”

  Dante’s interest rose. Licentious tales? What tales could an innocent woman weave if she hadn’t experienced passion first hand? Perhaps he was hasty in his summation of the imp. “Her father believes furthering her education would calm her…willful ways?”

  “A woman with too much education is trouble.”

  Not so, but who was Dante to argue. He’d lain with many women in the past, from nobles to harlots, but none were as highly educated as Signorina Podesta.

  “What the girl needs is a husband.”

  Dante chocked on his own swallow and fought to regain his composure. It wasn’t so much the way Fabroni said it as it was the way the man looked at him as he spoke. He fixed an accomplished smiled on his face, one he’d used often in the presence of adversity. But it did naught to quell the nervous twitching in his cheek.

  “Mayhap a husband’s ruling hand is good for most women. But if Signorina Podesta is as you say, then marriage could break her extraordinary spirit and cause the man her father chooses a lifetime of woe.”

  “Sì, but only if the man is weak. It would take a man of strength and determination. A man with a firm hand.”

  Heat crept up Dante’s neck. He was uncomfortable with the turn of their conversation. What he thought would be a discussion of wages and a little insight to his student became an unbearable roasting. If the temperature in his body rose any higher, he’d boil from the inside and out.

  Standing, Dante wiped his damp palms against his breeches. “Signor Valente, I must take my leave.”

  “We have not discussed payment for your services.”

  Apprehensive of the payment the shoemaker had in mind, Dante would bet his soul Fabroni meant to gift him with Alessandra. In truth, he wouldn’t mind waking up beside the girl in the morn, but not with the binding title of husband and wife. Marriage was not in his future. It couldn’t be. His future was with King Rene and the French cause in Naples. The battle could go on for years.

  “I have been told you are an honorable man, signore. Those who know you, speak highly of you.”

  “And I am grateful for their recommendation. However, I must be on my way.” Dante strode toward the door. “Pay me what you see fit.”

  “Very well, then. Will you begin tomorrow?”

  Pausing with his hand on the door handle, Dante tried to figure out how to decline this appointment without rousing suspicion. For the good of the French, it was important to gain access to the Valente family. He really had no other choice but to accept.

  “On the morrow, then.”

  Chapter Three

  Mist drifted in from the bay, creating a rolling blanket over the town. Taller buildings shrouded by the haze emerged at the highest peaks, appearing disconnected, as if a whole different town sat high above Naples. Soon the veil would lift to reveal the sparkling sun. Until then, Alessa relished the crisp early morning, the smells emanating from the harbor, and the newness of the dawning day. Every bit of it reminded her of Venice where the fog banked off the canals like fresh air bursting through her veins. To her dismay, melancholy overcame her for the home and parents, and the friends she had left behind.

  As she walked to the mercato with her cousin Attilo at her side, she tried to focus on the hawkers with their filled bags of vegetables and the herder lazily guiding his goats toward the center of town. Other women left their homes wrapped warmly in cloaks, some wearing layers of clothing, their sacks laden with goods carried over their shoulders.

  The aroma of freshly baked bread permeated the air. Her mouth watered for the warm sponginess she imagined melted on her tongue. Yet naught completely captured her thoughts for they kept returning to Dante Santangelo.

  He was unlike the people of Naples. Most had black, almost woolly, hair and short, upturned noses. The tutor most assuredly had been created unequal in looks. Thank the Lord, for she found the Neapolitans unattractive by nature. He was taller, too, much leaner than the stockier city dwellers.

  Her mind drifted to his face. His features were devilishly handsome and his eyes so very beautiful. The intelligence and overt sensuality she often wrote about in her lusty tales were every bit apparent in Signor Santangelo. Oh, to be enveloped in the arms of a man as virile as he. Her heart thumped delicately in her chest.

  “Ho, Alessa! Where does that mind of yours run?”

  She angled a questioning look up to her young cousin. He equaled his father in height and because Attilo enjoyed every morsel of food his family provided, he was twice as round.

  “Nowhere,” she lied.

  They appro
ached Piazza Mercato and meandered about while the merchants set up their stalls. Amalia sent them to buy bread and eggs, a fowl and vegetables for the day’s meals. Alessa wondered why her cousins did not employ a cook to shop for the food. At first she assumed the Valentes couldn’t afford the help. But after a week in their neatly furnished home, she noticed they could well afford a cook, a laundress, and other staff.

  She glanced up at Attilo’s pudgy-cheeked face. “Why does your family have no servants?”

  Horror briefly crossed his eyes, then he covered his strange reaction with a dimpled smile. “My father does not believe in wasting money on that which my mother is capable of doing.”

  “She is no better than a servant,” Alessa mumbled.

  “What say you?” His voice cracked and deepened.

  She studied the dark shadow eclipsing his eyes. “I believe only the poor make do without servants.”

  Attilo’s cheeks reddened. “We are not poor.”

  “Then why do you not have servants?”

  He huffed and glanced down the street, away from the mercato. “Think you capable of shopping without my aid?”

  Alessa glanced at a young man loitering outside a tavern. “A buffoon is capable of buying food. It is not a difficult task. So go on. I’ll not have you moping at my side when you are wont to join your friend.”

  “Be quick about it then. I shall return soon.”

  He hurried toward the tavern, not in the usual strolling walk of a Neapolitan, but with the urgent pace of a boy with a mission. Pray she hadn’t offended him with her questions about his family’s wealth. Perhaps she had wounded his pride. She shrugged off Attilo’s odd behavior and walked up to the first vendor to purchase two loaves of bread—one laced with herbs, the other baked with olives.