by Louise Allen
‘Now, slippers, a fan, a mask and you are ready. Not even your father would recognise you.’
Cassandra smiled. What her father would say if he could see his only child now beggared description. ‘Lucia, this is beautiful,’ she stroked the gown. ‘But I am still not certain I can go through with this.’
Lucia steadied the kohl brush as she shaded her own eyes. ‘We are going to the Turkish Ambassador’s ball and you will dazzle your Niccolo. What comes after is in your hands.’
‘I can’t do it, Lucia!’ Sudden panic ripped through her. When he found out, his anger would be unimaginable. Cassandra looked round for the maid to unlace her gown.
‘Nonsense.’ Lucia swept over and pressed her into a chair. ‘I do not recognise you and I created you myself. You do not have to decide anything yet. Follow your instincts. Here, drink this slowly and try on your mask.’
Cassandra slipped the wine then tied the strings of her mask. It covered her eyebrows, cheekbones and subtly altered the shape of her nose. Lucia was right, she could not recognise herself. And besides, she thought philosophically, there would be such a throng that perhaps Nicholas would never see her.
‘But my voice? What if he should speak to me?’
‘Oh, he will speak to you, that is certain.’ Lucia smiled her slow, mysterious smile. ‘You speak French? Good, then lower your voice, use a French accent and say only a little, with many French words. That will intrigue even more.’
Cassandra shrugged, still sceptical that Nicholas would even notice her among the throng of beautiful women, but the heavy scents of the room, Lucia’s confidence, the sweet potency of the wine, all came together, and suddenly she was careless of what the night might bring.
‘Wait,’ said Lucia suddenly, as the maid settled their cloaks around their shoulders. ‘One jewel is all you need.’ She clicked her fingers and the maid brought a casket, waiting while her mistress stirred the contents with one long finger. ‘Ah, yes, the very thing. This is a little gift for you to keep, my dear.’
She held up a flexible gold necklace, fashioned in the shape of a serpent. In its delicate jaws it held a rose quartz egg on a gold chain. Lucia fastened it around Cassandra’s neck where it hung, the jewel trembling on the swell of her breasts.
‘Thank you,’ Cassandra breathed, touching the ornament as she followed her companion from the room.
The journey was short, but their gondola had to wait, jostling for position with the dozens of others at the water gate to the Ambassador’s imposing palazzo.
Despite Lucia’s assurances, Cassandra was amazed to see groups of courtesans arriving, rubbing shoulders quite openly with nobility of all nationalities. English voices carried on the night air, mingling with the growl of Russian, German gutturals and mellifluous Mediterranean accents.
The entrance court was as bright as noon with turbaned servants lining the walls, each with a flambeau to light the guests threading slowly up the marble stairs to where the Ambassador greeted the company.
Lucia ignored the main throng and insinuated herself through a side door, up a flight of stairs and emerged, Cassandra in her wake, virtually at the Ambassador’s elbow.
He recognised her at once, bowing low over her hand with an intimate murmur of greeting. Cassandra realised all at once why Lucia had been so confident of her plan: the Turk was obviously a favoured client. The Ambassador’s dark eyes gleamed appreciatively as he bowed to Cassandra and she found herself smiling back at the hawkish, moustachioed face.
He snapped his fingers and an elegant young man, dressed like the Ambassador in national dress, hurried to his side. Cassandra heard Nicholas’s title murmured and the aide nodded and gestured politely for the ladies to precede him into the crowded salon.
It took some minutes to locate Nicholas. He was standing listening to a middle-aged man whose evening dress was bedecked with orders and medal ribbons. Cassandra recognised Nicholas’s rising boredom and stifled a giggle before sudden panic gripped her.
‘I must be mad,’ she whispered, pulling back against Lucia’s light grip on her elbow.
‘Do not worry, little one,’ Lucia whispered in return. ‘Go and fascinate your Niccolo. He will never know it is you, unless you choose to tell him. I will not be far away.’
The aide waited politely until the senior diplomat noticed him and broke off an exposition of the Russian situation.
‘His Excellency, my master, has commanded me to introduce these ladies to your eminences…’ The aide allowed his words to tail off discreetly as he melted backwards into the crowd.
The diplomat’s obvious irritation at the interruption vanished abruptly as his gaze fell on Lucia. She looked magnificent in her favourite emerald green, her white bosom scarcely contained in a jewelled net bodice, her Titian hair tumbled in artful disarray.
He stared for a moment through his quizzing glass, then it fell from his fingers as he surged forward to bend over Lucia’s proffered hand. ‘Madame! Your most obedient!’ He had no eyes for anyone, let alone Cassandra in her more modest attire and the Russian situation had obviously been instantly forgotten.
‘Sir Humphrey,’ Lucia purred. ‘I have met you at last. I have heard so much about you. Tell me, is it true that only your subtle intervention saved the talks at…’ She had already borne him off towards a curtained alcove and Cassandra never did discover Sir Humphrey’s great contribution to European statesmanship.
She was looking after them with bemused admiration for Lucia’s tactics, when Nicholas’s voice in her ear remarked, ‘Very prettily done. It is always a pleasure to see an expert at work.’
Cassandra started, realising with horror that she was all alone with Nicholas. He was looking at her with blatant admiration in his eyes, a warm smile playing round his lips. For the first time, she was experiencing all his charm, uncomplicated by their difficult, ambiguous relationship.
This was the man against whom prudent London mamas warned their susceptible daughters: not because he was a seducer of innocents, but because he would steal their hearts without for a moment taking them seriously. Many lures had been cast before the eligible Earl of Lydford, but none had hooked him.
Cassandra took a long, unsteady breath and the rose quartz jewel quivered between her breasts, drawing Nicholas’s eyes to the soft swell.
‘Monsieur?’ Cassandra hastily remembered the role she was playing and held out her hand to him. Nicholas took it and turned it so that his warm lips met the inside of her wrist in a lingering caress. Her heart leapt so she thought he must feel it in her pulse, but he drew her hand through his arm and began to stroll towards the terrace.
She forced herself to relax and move sinuously against him as he bowed and nodded to various acquaintances as they progressed through the crowd. A black page paused before them with a tray of wine glasses and Nicholas took two, offering one to Cassandra.
She took a cautious sip and realised it was champagne. The bubbles tickled her nose, but the taste was unthreatening and she drank more deeply.
Nicholas was intent on reaching the less crowded terrace and skilfully evaded all attempts to detain him with conversation. Outside it was much quieter, although couples and small groups strolled and chatted along the wide, balustraded space overhanging the Grand Canal. He found her a bench, its cold marble smothered in heaped cushions, and leaned against the wall at her side.
Cassandra could hear the slap of tiny waves as gondolas disturbed the water below, then quite forgot her surroundings as Nicholas spoke to her.
‘Will you tell me your name, ma belle?’ he asked. ‘I am Nicholas.’
‘Earl of Lydford,’ she finished for him, rolling her r’s.
‘You know? I am flattered.’ He dropped onto the bench beside her, stretching out his long legs, quite at ease.
‘I make it my business to know,’ she said, remembering Lucia’s words. ‘You may call me Antoinette.’
There was a small silence as they sipped their wine, their eyes meeting abo
ve the rim of the glasses. A frown creased Nicholas’s forehead and Cassandra was aware that he was puzzled somehow.
‘Something is wrong, Nicholas?’ She made her voice was husky, low and questioning.
He shrugged. ‘I thought you reminded me of someone, but no, it is a passing fancy. I cannot even recall who it might be.’
‘I, Antoinette, have never met you, Nicholas.’ Cassandra let her hand rest lightly on his sleeve. ‘I would have remembered you,’ she murmured to cover her alarm. There must be something about the way she moved, the way she held herself, that could not be disguised, and she was still not ready to commit herself to this masquerade.
Very well, then, she would use Lucia’s arts to divert his thoughts. He had known her in many rôles in their weeks together: tomboy, nurse, demure young lady, but never seductress. This was frightening, but excitement was racing in her veins.
She let her hand drift down his arm until her fingertips brushed his knuckles, then flexed her fingers, grazing the smooth flesh with her nails. She felt his instant reaction, and suddenly she was aware of her effect on him. This was what Lucia had meant when she spoke of the power her sisters wielded over men.
His free hand came over hers, trapping it. Again, he turned it, but this time, instead of carrying it to his lips, he rubbed one fingertip over the sensitive palm, the swell at the base of her thumb. A wave of tingling heat passed over Cassandra’s body, absurdly out of proportion to the lightness of his touch.
She met his eyes, allowing her painted lips to part invitingly. She could feel the snake on her breast rise and fall with her tremulous breathing.
‘You are refreshingly different, ma belle,’ he murmured against her hair.
Cassandra felt herself swaying instinctively against him, driven by her love, her need, for him. His warm lips grazed tantalisingly down the curve of her jaw to the soft hollow of her throat.
She had to touch him. She was beyond thinking how a courtesan should behave, beyond teasing and flirting. Cassandra put up her hand, caressing the nape of his neck, and instantly her memory supplied the recollection of his bare back under her palms in Nice.
Spreading her fingers in his hair, her thumb rubbing the strong tendon of his neck, she was hardly aware of the balustrade behind her shoulders, the yielding cushions beneath her.
Footsteps rang on the marble and, with a murmur that sounded like a mixture of relief at being stopped before things could go too far and regret, Nicholas sat up. He ran one hand through his hair and tugged at his cravat.
Cassandra, her heart in her throat, came back to reality with a start. The terrace was now virtually empty, but Lucia was approaching them with Sir Humphrey in her wake. All that had happened, Cassandra told herself, was that Nicholas had taken her in his arms, yet she felt stripped naked before everyone.
Behind the mask, Lucia’s eyes were quizzical. ‘We came to tell you that supper is being served and dancing will follow. Will you not join us? It would give us great pleasure, would it not, Sir Humphrey?’
The diplomat was totally under her spell. ‘Of course, of course. Damned good supper, by the look of it.’
‘Of course.’ Nicholas took Cassandra by the hand to escort her back into the salon.
‘One moment,’ Lucia said. ‘Look, my dear, your lace is torn. Gentlemen, allow us a moment while I pin it up. Please, go ahead, we will meet you inside.’
As soon as they were alone, she turned urgently to Cassandra. ‘What are you about, little one? You must tease, tantalise, flirt with him. Inflame him, yes, but not yield to him. At least,’ she added, ‘not yet.’
‘I couldn’t help it,’ Cassandra admitted. ‘I love him, I do want him… How could I realise it would be like this? What am I to do, Lucia? I have no experience.’
‘You have two choices. Flee now while you can, or take him back to my palazzo and there give yourself to him.’ She shrugged her shoulders. ‘You want him to know you as a woman. But I wonder if you understand truly what that means. I cannot dictate to you whether you follow your heart or your head, you must decide. Come now, they will be becoming impatient.’
Nicholas had heaped a plate of dainties from the buffet for her and Cassandra made herself eat, hoping the food would counteract the wine and clear her head.
Somehow she kept up her part in the light-hearted badinage which passed between their party, remembering to keep her voice low and accented. Yet, all the while, she was aware of Nicholas at her side, the touch of his sleeve against her bare arm, the caress of his fingers as he handed her peeled sections of fruit.
His regard was warm on her and she sensed his impatience to touch her was reined in only by the demands of good manners. Even as she chatted and flirted, her mind whirled on a treadwheel of indecision. What should she do?
The safest thing would be to disappear now. But meeting his eyes as he smiled down at her, she knew she wanted more than anything to be in his arms, for him to kiss her again as he had in Paris, for her to show him her love.
She wanted to be his wife, to be with him always. By giving herself to him tonight, he might come to love her as she loved him. But it was a terrible risk. He might reject her and an illicit love affair would be a betrayal of everything she felt for him, of her upbringing and sense of what was right.
‘You are very thoughtful, ma belle,’ he said lightly, tipping up her chin.
The touch sent the blood burning through her veins and she smiled at him, moving closer, wanting to be held. ‘Let us dance, Nicholas. Listen, it is the waltz.’
She had never performed this daring, intimate dance with a man as her partner. The Vicar’s four daughters, with whom she was friendly, had wheedled their dancing master into teaching them the waltz and Cassandra had learned it from them.
But dancing and giggling with Verity Lamb while sister Charity played the spinet was quite a different matter from standing close to Nicholas, his hand resting lightly at her waist, the other clasping hers. She gathered up her skirt gracefully in her free hand and tried to concentrate on the steps of the dance, not the touch of his palm against hers.
At home to have danced more than twice with the same man would have been shockingly forward, but in Venice, such conventions held no sway. Dance after dance passed, and Nicholas took no other partner, had eyes for no-one else.
As the clock struck three, he pulled her closer than the dance demanded and whispered huskily, ‘I can bear it no longer, I must be alone with you. Come to my palazzo.’
‘No.’ Cassandra was startled into bluntness, then remembered Lucia’s whispered instructions earlier in the evening. ‘I never go to a gentleman’s house.’
The look on his face gave her a feeling of power, of strength, she had never before experienced. This assured, experienced man was in her thrall, hanging on her decision. She wanted him – and he was hers.
‘You would leave me?’ His eyes were dark and glittering, although he kept his voice light.
‘No, my lord. I did not say that. Come, instead, to my palazzo. Come home with me.’
Chapter Sixteen
The blaze of torchlight on the Grand Canal seemed almost to ignite the water, the reflections were so bright on its dark surface. To Cassandra’s relief she had to give no orders to the boatman and Lucia’s gondolier followed his mistress’s instructions to return speedily to her palazzo, but by a route his passengers would not recognise. He steered south, not north, turning off to avoid the main waterways.
Cassandra was lost within seconds, but their route was of small importance beside the effect of being alone with Nicholas in the intimacy of the gondola. Now, in the velvety darkness, with the discreet silhouette of the gondolier above them, she felt panic, and a sudden doubt. Despite her overwhelming love for this man, was she doing the right thing? Would he understand that she was driven to behave like this only because she loved him?
Through the thin silk of her gown, Nicholas’s thigh was warm and hard against hers. He put his arm around her shoulders,
drawing her close against his chest, his lips moving in her hair.
Cassandra stiffened, then made herself relax as one hand slipped under the lace at her shoulder and he began to caress her skin. Any maidenly shrinking would betray her instantly, but how was she to restrain his mounting passion until they reached the palazzo?
‘Nicholas,’ she whispered. ‘Do you intend to stay long in Venice?’
‘Mmm?’ He was disinclined for conversation, his response merely a mumble as he nibbled delicately at her ear.
‘How long do you stay in Venice?’ she persisted, unable to prevent her treacherous body moving more closely into his embrace.
Reluctantly he freed his mouth. ‘That depends on what there is to stay for.’ He bent his head and trailed kisses across the swell of her breasts, his lips fretting at the confining lace.
Cassandra swallowed hard, filled with a strange mixture of panic and desire. ‘Oh, there is much to stay for, Nicholas,’ she managed to gasp out.
‘As I am discovering,’ he responded huskily. An unwelcome thought seemed to strike him, and he straightened up, still holding her close. ‘I am not entirely my own master in this matter,’ he said with heavy irony, his eyes on the dark water.
In the glow from a lighted courtyard, Cassandra saw his face harden with remembered anger. ‘Why not, my lord?’
‘I am encumbered,’ he said shortly. ‘Encumbered by a troublesome female for whom I have responsibility. I must take her to my mother in Vienna. If I do not strangle her first,’ he added bitterly.
Some devil prompted Cassandra to probe further. ‘You jest, of course, Nicholas. You have your little daughter with you? Do you not like les enfants?’
‘She is no relative of mine, thank the Lord. And she is not a child, although she is as unruly and ungovernable as one.’
There was real feeling in his voice and Cassandra realised she was still unforgiven, both for her words and for the blow. ‘Surely, if you are giving her your protection, she should be meek and grateful in return? Why,’ she fought to keep the anger from her own voice, ‘I am sure you must have been like an indulgent elder brother to her, mon cher.’