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A STOLEN KISS
Valerian looked down at her, seeing the adorable pout that had appeared on her enticingly pink lips, and swallowed hard.
He had to retain the knowledge that she was little more than a child.
He had to remind himself that he was a man of the world, an honorable man, and knew better than to steal a kiss from an innocent.
He had to remember that he, although so much older than she, and the possessor of graying temples, was still a reasonably young man of five and thirty, and not nearly ready to settle down and start his nursery.
He had to keep it clear in his mind that—“Oh, the hell with it!”
Valerian quickly took Allegra’s chin between his fingers. “Imp,” he said, his voice husky. “If you think I’m going to ask your permission for this first, you’re fair and far out!” So saying, he lowered his head to hers and allowed himself to succumb to the sanity-destroying attraction of her moist, pouting mouth.
Kasey Michaels is the New York Times and USA Today bestselling author of more than sixty books. She has won the Romance Writers of America RITA Award and the Romantic Times Career Achievement Award for her historical romances set in the Regency era, and also writes contemporary romances for Silhouette and Harlequin Books.
The Chaotic Miss Crispino
Kasey Michaels
MILLS & BOON
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To my niece and godchild, Lisa Scheidler Johnston,
who is as chaotically wonderful as Allegra,
and just as beautiful!
CONTENTS
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
EPILOGUE
CHAPTER ONE
VALERIAN FITZHUGH stood before the narrow window he had pushed open in the vain hope that some of the stale, dank air trapped within the small room might be so accommodating as to exchange places with a refreshing modicum of the cooler, damp breeze coming in off the moonlit Arno.
Both the river that divided the city and the lofty dome of the Cattedrale di Santa Maria del Fiore were vaguely visible from Fitzhugh’s vantage point, although that particular attribute could not be thought to serve as any real consolation for his reluctant presence in the tumbledown pensione.
Florence, birthplace of the Renaissance, had been one of Valerian’s favorite cities when he had visited Italy during his abbreviated Grand Tour some sixteen years previously, although his youthful adventures had come to an abrupt halt when the brief Treaty of Amiens had been shattered. So it was with a willing heart that he had begun charting his current three-year-long return to the Continent in Brussels the very morning after Napoleon had been vanquished forever at Waterloo.
Touching a hand to his breast pocket, Valerian felt again the much-folded, much-traveled sheets of paper that had led him, two and one half years into his journey—and not without considerable trouble—to this small, dark, damp room on quite the most humble street in Florence.
It was damnably wearying, being an honorable man, but Valerian could not in good conscience turn his back on the plea from Lord Dugdale (his late father’s oldest and dearest friend) that had finally caught up with him at his hotel in Venice—and the crafty Denny Dugdale, never shy when it came to asking for assistance, had known it.
So here Valerian stood, at five minutes past midnight on a wet, wintry night just six days after the ringing in of the year of 1818, waiting for the baron’s difficult-to-run-to-ground granddaughter to return to her pitifully mean second-story room in a decrepit pensione so that he could take a reluctant turn at playing fairy godmother.
“…and chaperon…and traveling companion,” Valerian said aloud, sighing.
He stole a moment from his surveillance of the entrance to the pensione beneath the window to look once more around the small room, his gaze taking in the sagging rope bed, the single, near-gutted candle stuck to a metal dish, the small, chipped dresser, and one worn leather satchel that looked as if it had first been used during the time of Columbus.
“One can only hope the chit knows the English word for soap.” A second long-suffering sigh escaped him as he turned back to the window once more to continue his vigil.
“Chi é? Che cosa cera?”
Valerian hesitated momentarily as the low, faintly husky female voice asked him who he was and what he was looking for. He stiffened in self-reproach because he hadn’t heard her enter the room, then a second later remembered that he had glanced away from the entrance for a minute, probably just as she had come down the narrow alley to the pensione.
Slowly turning to face her through the dimness that the flickering candle did little to dissipate, a benign, non-threatening smile deliberately pasted on his lean, handsome face, he bowed perfunctorily and replied, “Il mio nome é Valerian Fitzhugh, Signorina Crispino. Parla inglese, I sincerely pray?”
The girl took two more daring steps into the room, her arms akimbo, her hot gaze raking him up and down as if measuring his capacity for mayhem. “Sì. Capisco. That is to say, yes, Signor Fitzhugh, I speak English,” she said at last, her accent faint but delightful, “which makes it that much easier for me to order you to vacate my room—presto!”
Instead of obeying her, Valerian leaned against the window frame and crossed his arms in front of his
