She became accustomed to the moments when he felt it necessary to administer a few minor modifications with his hands on hers, his fingers on her legs or in her hair. Accustomed, but not unmoved. Every touch made her want him more. What had started out as a necessity, ridding herself of her virginity, had become an incessant craving, a longing she didn’t quite understand.
By night, they joined the revelers who celebrated Carnival with abandon, dancing, laughing, kissing in alleyways or as they rode through the fog in a slow-moving gondola. She never tired of the way Giovanni touched her, the way he looked at her.
He couldn’t paint fast enough.
The Palazzo Celesti was a fine palace, one of the three homes her husband had left her. On the Grand Canal, it had an impressive entrance and a grand foyer, room after room of marble floors and arched doorways, of elegant and extravagant furnishings. As in the rest of the city, here there was an exquisite blending of hundreds of years of culture, of color and warmth, with mosaics and fine carvings and rich paintings on the walls. A fine private garden waited at the back entrance, and above stairs there were several lavish chambers.
She was happier here than she’d been in years, perhaps in all her life, and her happiness had nothing to do with marble floors and elegant furnishings.
“Lady Graystone.” Fiorello Viscosi was the majordomo, in charge of the upkeep and management of Palazzo Celesti, and had been since the Celesti family had owned it. He greeted her anxiously, wringing his thin hands. “Thank goodness you’re home.”
Viscosi was agitated, a rare state from what Audrey had seen of the man thus far. He was unfailingly efficient, and on occasion was haughty to the point of rudeness.
“What’s wrong?” she asked.
The majordomo pursed his lips and glanced sideways, as if to see if anyone lurked around the next corner, eavesdropping. “A most unpleasant man arrived this afternoon,” he said in a lowered voice. “He claims to be your nephew by marriage.”
Audrey could feel the blood drain from her face, could actually feel the floor tilting beneath her feet. “He can’t be here.”
It was all the warning she had before her late husband’s odious nephew came sauntering down the stairs and Fiorello made a hasty exit. “Well, home at last,” Norton said in his usual nasal whine, a voice that made her skin crawl.
Audrey lifted her head and managed a small, cool smile. Norton Graystone was a nauseating, loathsome, lazy excuse for a man who had never done an honest day’s work in his life and, like her own father, had a love for a sport he had no talent for. Gambling. But no matter how violently his presence affected her, she refused to allow him to see that he bothered her.
“What a pleasant surprise,” she said, never moving from the spot. Norton Graystone had tried, behind her back, to ruin her. He had started the rumors about his uncle’s death, and whenever the rumors showed signs of fading, he whispered in a few well-chosen ears so that the stories would make the rounds again. He’d also had the gall to ask her to marry him. Twice.
“If you had told me you were planning to travel to Venice I would have gladly escorted you, dear Audrey,” he said.
“I assumed you would be much too busy to bother with a holiday of old school chums.”
“Surely you know I would do anything for you.” He reached the ground floor and sauntered to her, his form slothful, his shoulders slumped. His rounded, well-fed stomach, as well the rest of his body, was soft and fleshy. He was built much like his uncle, and possessed the Graystone hawklike nose. “You must tell me all about Venice,” he said, offering his arm.
Audrey looked into Norton’s muddy brown eyes, narrowed slits that were dull and mean, and she wondered what Giovanni would paint if he saw this face. The very thought made her shudder. “I would love to spend the afternoon talking with you, but I’ve made plans to meet a friend and I must change into my costume.”
“Costume?” He raised his eyebrows and dropped his offered arm. “Is this appropriate behavior for a grieving widow?”
Ice formed in her veins. “My husband’s been dead more than two years,” she whispered.
Norton leaned close. “Yes, he has, poor old Uncle Harry. Two years can be a very long time, can’t it? Dear Audrey, I think it’s time that you gave thought to marrying again.”
Perhaps the expression he was trying for was solicitous, but all she saw was a wretched, whining man with a leering gleam in his eyes and a greasy glistening of his fat lips. It seemed his jowls jiggled with excitement.
“I really must go,” she said, hurrying past Norton and running up the curving staircase.
“Perhaps I can come along,” he called after her. “I’d love to meet your friend.”
She pretended not to hear as she made her way to the suite on the second floor, closing the door behind her and leaning against it in relief when she’d escaped. Norton! He was the last person she’d expected to see, the last person she wanted to see. Unfortunately, she couldn’t throw him out of the palazzo without causing herself trouble. After all, he was Sir Harry Graystone’s nephew, and that made him her family as well. Pity.
Thank goodness Norton’s older brother, the Graystone heir, was not as unpleasant as Norton had always been. Phillip had graciously accepted the generous arrangements his uncle had made for his young bride. Arrangements her father had surely insisted upon when the marriage had been orchestrated.
The upstairs maid, Sophia, arrived shortly to help Audrey prepare for the evening. The peacock blue costume was spread across the bed, along with matching shoes, hat, and mask. With the maid’s help, Audrey shed her green cloak and plain muslin gown, and they began preparations for the evening ahead.
Audrey was quiet as she bathed and dressed, and Sophia didn’t seem to mind the silence. The maid hummed to herself on occasion, and seemed lost in her own thoughts as she went about her duties.
The peacock blue costume was Audrey’s favorite. The layered skirt flowed softly from a high waist that was marked with a band of blue stones, ending in an uneven hem that danced like a collection of delicate scarves when she moved. The neckline was low and rounded, exposing the swell of her breasts. The sleeves were long and loose, and like the skirt they danced when she moved.
Audrey sat before the dressing table and looked into the mirror as Sophia combed her hair and then divided it into sections to be braided and twisted atop her head.
“Wait,” Audrey said as the maid began. Giovanni liked her hair down, and right now her only thought was escape from this beautiful palace. The sooner the better. She left her hair loose and covered her head with the small, close fitting cap. The mask attached, with a tiny, hidden hook and eye, at her temple.
“Sophia,” Audrey said softly. “Would you please take a peek into the hallway and see if our newest guest is about?”
Sophia opened the door a crack, peered through the opening, and then closed it quickly and softly. “He is there.” The tone of her voice and the sour twist of her lips made it clear she’d already met Norton.
Audrey went to the window, and actually stepped onto the small balcony to look out on the Grand Canal, wondering if there was some way she could exit the palazzo without using the stairway Norton guarded. Unfortunately, escape via this route was impossible.
She stepped into her chamber and turned to Sophia with a smile. “Tell Fiorello to offer Mr. Graystone tea and biscuits, and to inform him that I usually take several hours to prepare for a masquerade.” Norton had never turned down food that she knew of, especially if sweets were offered. He was very much a large child. “When he’s in the sitting room with his tea, come for me. Quickly,” she added.
Sophia flashed a devious smile of her own. This was obviously not the girl’s first brush with subterfuge. “Yes, Lady Graystone.”
Audrey put on her heavy white cloak and paced as she waited. It seemed to take forever, but finally Sophia reappeared with the hushed report that all was clear.
She hurried down the stairs, steppi
ng so fast her feet barely touched the steps. Without looking back, she ran out the front door to the water steps, where she was assisted into one of her private gondolas. She turned to the remaining gondolier as her own pushed away and into the canal.
“A man will try to follow me,” she said. “There’s a handsome reward for you if you take him in the opposite direction.”
A wide smile was her answer, and she leaned back in her seat and relaxed, feeling safe at last. As she drifted away she heard Norton’s whining voice calling her name. She did not turn around, but gathered her cloak close about her and watched the palaces of Venice float past.
She no longer had a difficult time spotting Giovanni in his tabarro and bauto. His costume was like many others, but he moved differently. She knew the tilt of his head, the rhythm of his walk, the way he lifted his hand and turned his head. Tonight she approached Giovanni in the crowd of the Palazzo Barbieri, slipping up behind him to take him by surprise.
“Tesoro mio,” she whispered, and he spun around.
Behind the mask his eyes glittered. His lips parted invitingly as he looked her over. Her heavy white cloak had been taken away and she stood before him in her peacock blue costume, with her hair down and the upper part of her face masked.
How could he look at her so, desirous and openly admiring, when he’d seen her completely naked for most of the day, for the past several days? He should be sick of looking at her, tired of the hair that flowed over her shoulders and bored with the shape beneath this dress. When he took her in his arms and led her into a dance, she found she didn’t care why he looked at her this way.
He did something he’d never done before, in all their nights of Carnival. He kissed her, right there in the middle of the room as people swarmed past, dancing and laughing and running, drunk on sweet wine and fervor and Venice. He tilted his head so that the long nose of his mask skirted her face, and he kissed her, soft and deep and sweet.
She should protest, knowing that someone in the crowd might recognize her, but she didn’t. At the moment she didn’t care what anyone thought, what anyone said. Tonight nothing and no one mattered, but Giovanni.
They didn’t stay long at the palazzo, but collected Audrey’s cloak and left by way of the rear garden. Giovanni led her through a maze of alleyways, through courtyards where music played and people danced. He held her hand, threading his fingers through hers and holding on tight, running until they were both hot and breathless. Finally they emerged into the piazza. Unlike the quiet mornings when they met here, it was crowded with revelers. Musicians played, people danced, jugglers performed their acts for laughing people in bright costumes. On the other side of the square, a wheelbarrow race was in progress. The participants were costumed, adding a touch of absurdity to the event. A harlequin pushed a man who wore a yellow cape and a mask that sported a beak and a profusion of feathers. A man in a traditional costume much like the one Giovanni wore pushed along a woman in a fine gown that whipped in the wind, exposing her spindly legs.
Audrey and Giovanni walked arm in arm through the crowd, making their way to Little Lions Square. They found an empty space on the steps and sat there, side by side, much closer than was proper. As if any of this was proper! Audrey took a deep breath. There was so much life here, so much joy and spirit. Somehow she had become a part of it, and she was not the woman she’d been a week before.
She rested her head on Giovanni’s shoulder, and he wrapped his arm around her. They fit together so perfectly. It was so right.
“I know nothing about you,” he said softly. “Nothing.” There was a touch of awe in his voice.
His simple statement stole a small part of her tranquillity, reminding her that what little he did know was a lie. “What do you want to know?”
“Everything.” He repositioned himself so she fell closer against him. He protected her against the cold and the wind, against the Nortons and the scandals of the world.
“Let’s see,” she said softly, determined to stick to the truth. “I was born in a small town north of London, and my mother named me Audrey Marie Miller.”
“Audrey Marie Miller,” he said. “You see? I did not know even your full name. Audrey Marie Miller,” he said the name slowly, as if he savored the feel of it on his tongue.
“My mother was a fine lady from a wealthy family.” She looked out over the square. At the moment there was no fog, and moonlight shone on the bustling, happy crowd. “Her father had arranged a suitable marriage for her, but she rebelled and married for love. She followed her heart and married my father.”
“How very romantic,” he said softly.
Audrey tried not to scoff, as she usually did when she thought of her foolish mother. “The story turned out to be not so romantic after all. My father was handsome and charming and very poor. He was, he is, a gambler. For a long time my mother’s family supported us, but my father managed to gamble away everything he got his hands on, time and time again.”
Giovanni somehow managed to hold her closer, to draw her more completely into his embrace. She liked it. His closeness made the pain go away. “I’m sorry.”
“My mother died when I was ten. I think she died of a broken heart, I really do. Her family sent me to a fine boarding school, in hopes of getting me away from my father, I think. But it didn’t work. He kept showing up, when I least expected him.” When she’d least wanted him around.
“He loved you.”
“No, he needed me.” A touch of anger laced her soft voice. “Without me, the money was gone. There was no way Grandmother would finance his gambling if he didn’t constantly hold me over her head. I look very much like my mother, which made me special to my grandmother. My father wasn’t afraid to use that. Audrey needs clothes, Audrey needs shoes. Audrey needs.” He had used her even then, sold her in his own way long before she’d ever heard of Sir Harry Graystone. She’d just been too young to realize it. “And then, when he was really desperate, it was ‘Don’t you want me to bring Audrey home for Christmas?’”
Giovanni cursed beneath his breath.
“When my grandmother died, three years ago, it all stopped. My uncle, my mother’s younger brother, wasn’t so generous. Uncle Spencer’s not a heartless man, not at all. He even offered my father a job.”
“Which your father refused, I suppose,” Giovanni snapped.
“Of course. Timothy Miller, working for a living?” There was a touch of bitterness in her voice. “Heaven forbid.” So he ran up insurmountable debts and sold me to the highest bidder.
“I’m sorry I asked.” Giovanni removed his mask and put it aside to nuzzle her neck. In that instant, she was able to put aside her bad memories and her fears about the future. In fact, she giggled as his mouth found a sensitive spot beneath her ear.
“Are you laughing at me, Audrey Marie Miller?” he whispered, teasing that sensitive spot again.
“Yes,” she breathed. “I’m laughing at you, Giovanni Valentino.” But she wasn’t laughing, not anymore. His lips on her neck started a deep fire that burned hot and sure.
Giovanni held her so close, so dear, that he shielded her with his body and his heart. That certainty touched her as surely as his lips and his hands. No one had ever tried to protect her so completely.
He lifted his lips to her ear. “Don’t go back,” he whispered. “When Carnevale is over, stay in Venice. Pose for me forever.”
She didn’t take him or his offer seriously. It was the moment, the moonlight, the music, and the beat of their hearts that made him talk this way. “Forever your virgin model,” she said languidly.
He lifted his head to look at her, and with lanterns burning behind them and the moonlight all around, she had no trouble seeing the fire in his eyes. “I think not.”
7
The next morning, sneaking away from Norton wasn’t at all difficult. The odious man usually slept until well after noon. Still, she’d been especially cautious as she’d left the palazzo, as if any sound might wake the ma
n who slept on the fourth floor. Sophia had seemed to understand, moving soundlessly, her eyes cutting to the stairs as she stood in the entryway and placed the dark green cloak over Audrey’s shoulders.
Sophia told her how Norton had complained about being assigned the suite on the fourth floor, about the long climb he had to make. Fiorello had explained to him, in his usual efficient manner, that the other rooms were occupied, or soon would be, by Lady Graystone’s guests and their personal servants.
Poor Norton had had a lot to complain about since his arrival in Venice. Apparently one of the gondoliers had made a sudden turn and dumped him into the canal yesterday, before the gondola Norton was trying to step into could even pull away from the water steps.
Giovanni uncovered his canvas while she disrobed. All her inhibitions were gone now, and she undressed and dropped her clothes onto the bed without so much as a glance over her shoulder to see if he watched. As she had done on the past several mornings, she positioned herself before the red velvet sofa, placing her hands over her breasts and cocking one knee in.
Giovanni lifted his head to look at her, to stare at her harder and more completely than any man ever had. Last night she’d told him more about herself than she’d intended. No one knew about her childhood, her past, her shameful father. Even Isabel didn’t know much... but then Isabel didn’t know about the portrait that was being painted either. She was busy with her own pursuits.
With a sigh, Giovanni put down his paintbrush and walked to her—for more adjustments, she imagined. He would lay his hands on her and move her fingers and her knees this way and that, and he would run his fingers through her hair until it pleased him. He would stand over and above her, powerful, handsome, his fingers barely brushing her skin until her heart beat so fast she’d be sure he could hear every telling thud.
Behind the Mask Page 5