The Makeshift Marriage

by Sandra Heath

  “Yes,” she said quickly, “yes, that would be most kind of you.”

  He stood, tossing some coins on to the table and putting on his shako.

  The walk back to the canal seemed endless, with the baron determined to conduct a conversation with her. She answered in monosyllables. Drat the man, why did he not take the hint? His skin must be thicker than an elephant’s!

  At last she was free of him. The gondola nudged out into the canal and she looked back at him as he stood on the steps where people thronged the merchandise stalls on the quayside. She sat back beneath the felze with a sigh of relief. But what could she do now? She had got herself into a tiresome fix and somehow must now contrive to sit with the odious Sir Nicholas this evening. But how? She could not be certain that she would automatically be taken to the same table again—she could not even be certain that Sir Nicholas would take his dinner at the hotel!

  Her problem seemed all the more insurmountable when she and Sir Nicholas happened to arrive back at the Hotel Contarini at the same time. He disembarked from his gondola without giving her a glance, even though she knew perfectly well that he was aware of her presence. He seemed preoccupied, however, and she noticed that the account book was under his arm as he went into the hotel. She could not forgive him, though, no matter how preoccupied he was. What a truly disagreeable fellow he was, quite the most rude and infuriating of men! Why, oh why had she been foolish enough to fib about dining with him? She could have invented something a little more easy to carry out, but instead she had resorted to this, and now must face the consequences. At all costs she wished to avoid the baron, whose company was just a little more unpleasant than Sir Nicholas’s. Yes, Sir Nicholas Grenville was definitely the lesser of two evils as far as she was concerned.

  Entering the hotel, she heard the band beginning to tune up in the dining room, and as she glanced in she saw that the maître d’hôtel was there too. There was nothing for it but to brazenly ask him to see that she was seated at Sir Nicholas’s table that evening and to then cross her fingers that that gentleman decided to take his meal there! She knew that she was blushing as she asked, and she knew too that the maître d’hôtel quite obviously thought she was pursuing her handsome countryman, but she did not really care what he thought. The object of the exercise was to convince the baron that she had been speaking the truth. The maître d’hôtel beamed and nodded. But of course she could sit with Sir Nicholas, nothing could be simpler to arrange….

  Or more hateful, she thought as she climbed the grand staircase.

  Chapter 4

  The chandeliers in the bedchamber glittered as Laura dressed for dinner. Outside it was quite dark and the room was warmed by charcoal burning in a little terracotta stove. With a sigh of relief she lowered her arms after painstakingly putting in the last little artificial flower in the carefully pinned curls piled high at the back of her head. Ringlets twisted down from the curls, and she surveyed herself in the mirror. Her arms ached. Enjoying the services of the maid at Hazeldon Court, she had not realized how very hard it was to achieve a fashionable evening coiffure. But she looked well enough now, and certainly no one would know she had labored this past hour to look as she now did!

  She got up from the dressing table and shook out the skirts of her pale blue silk gown. The crossover bodice was trimmed with dark red and green embroidery, as was the hem, and the petal-shaped sleeves were tied with dainty golden strings that trembled against her naked arms. It was a gown she was very proud of, for it was very fine indeed, quite elegant and costly enough to grace the dining room of the Hotel Contarini. She pulled on her long white gloves. She didn’t really know why she had taken such pains with her appearance tonight; it wasn’t as if she was ever likely to impress Sir Nicholas, but somehow she had felt that she must look her best.

  Outside, the satin waters of the Grand Canal shone in the darkness, and the lights of the palaces were reflected brightly on its surface. The bell of the church of San Giovanni de Rialto had long since sounded sundown. It was time to face the dining room. For a moment she was chickenhearted. She could avoid all this by meekly taking her meal in her room. But that would be to give in, something she could not do.

  The maître d’hôtel smiled knowingly at her as she entered the dining room, where the tables were again completely full and the band was striving even harder to drown all conversation.

  A flicker of annoyance crossed Sir Nicholas’s handsome face as she took her seat opposite him, and he made a very poor show of getting to his feet. “Good evening, Miss—er, Milbanke.”

  “Sir Nicholas.”

  The meal was indeed as Austrian as the gondolier had predicted, but no one could honestly have grumbled at the excellence of the fruit-stuffed goose that was the main course. It was certainly a far cry from sausage, pickle, and cold cabbage! And from calamari and risi e bisi! Thinking of her disastrous luncheon brought her thoughts inevitably to the baron, who was sitting at the same table he had occupied that morning. She could feel his dark, knowing eyes upon her. She was suddenly nervous, snapping open her fan to cool her face. She must at least attempt to engage Sir Nicholas in a conversation and make it appear as if they got on well enough for him to have asked her to dine with him.

  “Are—are you in Venice for long, Sir Nicholas?”

  He glanced at her in surprise. “A week or so.”

  “Is it your first time here?”

  “Yes.” He was not at all encouraging.

  She continued, undaunted as yet. “Are you one of the Flintshire Grenvilles?” she asked, inventing a fictitious branch of his family.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “The Flintshire Grenvilles.”

  “No, my family comes from Somerset.” He sat back, looking steadily at her. “I’ve never even heard of the Flintshire Grenvilles.”

  “Indeed? How strange.”

  “Am I to presume from your question that you come from Flintshire, Miss Milbanke?”

  “No. From Sussex.”

  “Ah, so you are not one of the Leicestershire Milbankes. I did not think that you could be somehow.” He spoke smoothly, and his words conjured up a reminder of her misconduct on the balcony that morning, just as he had intended they should.

  She flushed, at once hurt and furious.

  “And now, Miss Milbanke, could we please dispense with polite conversation, for I vow I find it tedious in the extreme.”

  “I was not aware that either you or your conversation had been in the least bit polite, sir, so dispensing with both will be exceedingly easy,” she said acidly. His manner upset her, even though she knew it was foolish to expect anything else of a man who had obviously taken a dislike to her from the outset.

  “I did not come to Venice to make small talk. I came to think, as I have a great deal which is of concern to me at the moment,” he said, as if belatedly thinking he needed to make some restitution for his gross ill manners.

  “There is no need to excuse your appalling conduct, sir. I shall put it down to your ignorance of how to behave in polite society.”

  His gray eyes darkened angrily, but he said nothing more, allowing her the privilege of the last word this time.

  The conversation, such as it was, had served her purpose. The baron must have realized very swiftly that her appointment with Sir Nicholas was proving disastrous, but at least he could not possibly know she had fibbed about it all in the first place.

  She continued silently with her meal, still smarting from her verbal duel with Sir Nicholas. From beneath lowered lashes she surveyed him, however. He was wearing a tight, dark blue velvet coat, which sported a handsome set of gilt buttons, and a white brocade waistcoat, its top buttons undone to reveal the frill of his shirt. The jeweled pin glittered in the unstarched folds of his cravat, which was tied in the loose style known as the Byron, from the poet’s liking for it. He looked, she thought grudgingly, exceedingly excellent—and exceedingly attractive. Was he always as disagreeable as this, she wondered,
or was there another side to him? What would it be like to be courted and flattered by him? She pondered the thought for a moment, and came to the reluctant conclusion that he could probably charm the birds down from the trees if he wished. No doubt the beautiful redheaded woman whose portrait he carried only saw that other side of him. Laura suddenly wished that she too knew that other side, for she had to admit to herself that in spite of everything she found him very attractive. Damn him. And damn her own appalling taste!

  Coffee was at last served and not a single word more had passed between them. It was at this point that the baron chose to present himself at their table, his heels clicking loudly as he bowed.

  “Good evening, Miss Milbanke.”

  Her heart sank. “Good evening, sir.”

  Nicholas glanced curiously at her as he slowly got to his feet, waiting quite obviously for her to introduce him to the baron. She was a little surprised, for she had somehow assumed that they were already acquainted in some way after the baron’s question earlier that day.

  “Sir Nicholas,” she said quickly. “Allow me to present Baron Frederick von Marienfeld. Baron, this is Sir Nicholas Grenville.”

  Nicholas inclined his head, but his manner was decidedly chill.

  The baron smiled, and it was a smile that did not touch his eyes. Laura felt an urge to shiver as he took her hand and raised it to his lips. “I look forward to our next meeting, my dear Miss Milbanke,” he said softly. Then he turned and left them.

  Nicholas sat down again. “You keep poor company, Miss Milbanke.”

  “I know,” she said coldly. “I’m sitting with it.”

  A glimmer of a smile touched his lips. “I was referring to your friend the baron.”

  “He is not my friend. I hardly know him.”

  “He, on the other hand, would quite obviously like to know you a great deal better.”

  “I assure you that those feelings are not in the least reciprocated.”

  “Beware of him. He is a notorious and dangerous man—certainly not someone I would think suitable company for you.”

  “Notorious and dangerous?”

  “He is virtually a professional duelist; his services can be purchased and he is considered to be almost above the law here in Venice as he is a close friend and confidant of the governor.”

  She stared at him, the coldness she had felt before about the baron returning now that she knew the truth.

  “At least ten men have died at his hand, Miss Milbanke, six by the pistol and four by the sword. He is equally proficient with both weapons.”

  “I did not know,” she breathed.

  “I thought not. Have great care in your dealings with him, for his notoriety does not stop at dueling. His reputation with the far sex leaves much to be desired.”

  Her dealings with him? Once again she felt that she was being unfairly condemned for appearing on the balcony in her undress. Did he imagine she was a demimondaine, a Cyprian whose favors could be purchased as easily as could the baron’s prowess as a duelist? An angry flush stained her cheeks as she got to her feet, folding her napkin. “I thank you for your timely warning, sir, and I shall take care to conduct myself decorously in future,” she said stiffly.

  “You would be wise to avoid the baron’s company entirely, madam.”

  “Why, Sir Nicholas,” she said with sugary sweetness, “that is exactly what I have been endeavoring to do this evening. Why else would I wish to sit with you? Good night.”

  Chapter 5

  For the next week or so, Laura enjoyed Venice. Venice in the springtime was probably at its finest, for the burning heat of summer would take the edge off pleasure, and indeed the wealthy citizens of the city took themselves to the mainland during the hottest months when the canals could smell so unpleasant and the mosquitoes and other insects came to torment the unwary. In March, however, it was perfect—as warm as May in England, and as colorful, with its flowers and trees bursting into blossom. The glorious city and its treasures were a constant source of delight to Laura, never tiring her and never causing a moment’s boredom.

  The only clouds on her horizon were those which appeared at breakfast and dinner in the hotel when she shared Sir Nicholas Grenville’s table. She continued to endure his presence, for to have asked to be seated elsewhere would be to risk the baron thrusting himself upon her again. But one thing became more and more obvious to her with each passing day, and that was that she was still annoyingly drawn to the blond Englishman. He paid her scant attention, but she yearned for him to be more pleasant. He was not, however, and she kept her self-respect by treating him in exactly the same way that he treated her. The result was that they conducted their meals in virtual silence, apart from a polite greeting before and after.

  She was very careful to keep out of the baron’s way, although that was very difficult when she was sure that he was still following her. She met him on the grand staircase and he begged her to attend the theater with him, but she declined, pleading a headache she quite obviously did not have. She became adept at waiting until there was a crowd of officers in the vestibule before entering or leaving the hotel, so that she could slip past him without him being able to stop her. She had disliked him at first sight, and now that she knew more about him she found him quite abhorrent.

  When she was sightseeing, she frequently felt that he was watching her, and when she glanced in what she thought was his direction, it was always as if he stepped from sight a bare second before she turned. It was unnerving, and she told herself that she was imagining things, but the feeling still persisted. In the hotel he stared quite openly at her and there was little she could do except ignore it, but outside it was quite different, for she felt alone and unprotected. The tall figure in green and crimson was always there, just on the edge of her thoughts—close and menacing.

  The nervousness he wrought in her remained with her all the time, until one afternoon in the Piazza San Marco it erupted into sudden terror. In the shadow of the campanile she came face-to-face with him. He seemed to appear from nowhere to stand in her path, and although the square was crowded, she felt that she was alone with him. His hands were on his hips in the arrogant stance she had come to loathe, and there was something positively threatening in his silence. She froze, unable to move, and he reached out to catch her wrist, drawing her inexorably toward him, but as his other hand slid around her waist she at last could fight him. With a cry she pushed him roughly away, turning in wild panic to run across the square, setting a cloud of pigeons fluttering wildly into the air as she fled, and almost knocking some costly bales of cloth from one of the many stalls cluttering the open space before the cathedral. Her heart was thundering as she ran blindly toward the steps leading down to the water. She hailed a gondola and begged the gondolier to return her to the Hotel Contarini as swiftly as possible. She felt hot and frightened, and her wrist burned as if the baron still held it. When the gondola was well out on the waters of the Grand Canal, she dared to look back, but there was no sign of him.

  She remained immured in her room for the rest of that day, trying to convince herself that it was all foolishness on her part. But she had been badly frightened now, and there was no mistaking the baron’s actions as he had drawn her closer. He desired her.

  The time to dine approached and she reluctantly began to dress. She must make herself go down, for she could not remain locked safely in her room for the remainder of her sojourn in Venice. Just as she was putting the final pin in her hair, however, someone knocked very softly at her door. She went to open it, but then her outstretched hand froze on the handle. Instinct told her that it was the baron. She remained absolutely still and silent, conscious of the thunderous beating of her heart. He knocked again and the handle turned, but she had taken the precaution of locking the door earlier and so he could not come in. At last he went away, and she leaned weakly back against the door, her eyes closed. Her mouth was dry and her hands ice cold.

  She waited until she heard
several people in the passageway before daring to emerge, and even then she felt compelled to glance over her shoulder in case the baron was there, but there was no sign of him again. Her silk skirts rustled as she hurried along, but then she halted as she passed the open doors of one of the many elegant drawing rooms, for inside she caught a glimpse of the reassuring figure of Sir Nicholas Grenville seated at an escritoire.

  Under any other circumstances she would never have dreamed of approaching him, but today was decidedly different and so she entered the green and gold room.

  “Good evening, Sir Nicholas.”

  He looked around quickly, the surprise plain in his gray eyes. “Good evening, Miss Milbanke.”

  “Are you about to go down to dine?”

  “I am.”

  “Then may I wait for you?”

  He stared.

  “After all,” she went on bravely, “we are the only two Britons here and we should show a united front, should we not?”

  His eyebrow was raised just a little. “If you wish.”

  She smiled nervously, toying with the strings of her reticule and opening and closing her fan with a flick of her wrist. She glanced back at the open doorway.

  Nicholas watched her for a moment but he said nothing. Dipping the quill into the ornate ink stand, he put the finishing sentence to his letter. Laura could read what he wrote. With all my affectionate and enduring love. N. Folding the letter and sealing it with his ring, he addressed it to Miss Augustine Townsend, King’s Cliff, Somerset, England.

  For the first time she noticed that the miniature was lying on the escritoire nearby. “Who is she?” she asked. “She is very beautiful.”

  “There is no one more beautiful. Her name is Miss Townsend; she was my late father’s ward and is soon to be my bride.” He stood and offered her his arm. “Shall we go down, Miss Milbanke?”

  The baron sat in his usual place and had almost finished dining. The waiter brought him a glass of kirsch, which he raised to Laura as she happened to catch his eye. She did not smile at him and looked away again.