Lord, she wished he didn’t understand her so well. She wouldn’t cry. Not here. Not in front of him. ‘You make me sound downright noble,’ she jested.
‘You are.’
‘A noble savage, perhaps,’ Becky said sardonically.
‘I wish you would not demean yourself. You are extraordinary, and I will be forever grateful to have known you.’
A lump formed in her throat. Her heart felt as if it was being squeezed. She had a horrible premonition of what life was going to be like without him. ‘Better not to say that, not until the Queen of Coins has finished her task,’ Becky said brusquely. ‘And better we don’t sit here any more, lest people think we’re taking advantage of Carnevale, only without our masks.’
She got to her feet and Luca followed suit, but before she continued over the bridge he caught her arm again. ‘I meant it, every word,’ he said. ‘You have to believe me.’
She didn’t doubt him, not the way he was looking at her. ‘I know you do,’ Becky said, blinking away a tear. ‘It would be better for both of us if you didn’t.’
* * *
Piazza San Marco was crowded, the cafés which lined the terraces packed. Becky, clutching Luca’s arm, eyed the huge sea of colour and faces in astonishment. ‘It’s like Covent Garden multiplied a hundred times,’ she said. ‘No, that’s not true. It’s like all of the theatres in Covent Garden had spilled all of their actors on to the piazza in their stage costumes. I had no idea it was going to be so spectacular.’
When Luca had likened it to a parade, she hadn’t taken him literally, but that was exactly what it was. A couple strolled past, clad in cloaks of scarlet and black silk stripes, beneath which they were dressed like court jesters. Huge feathered hats sat upon their heads. Chalk-white masks covered their faces. They were identical save that one was clearly a man, the other equally clearly a woman. There were a great many hooped gowns in garish colours, blue teamed with gold, cherry with emerald, red with burnt orange. The wearers swayed seductively, their tall powdered wigs adorned with stuffed birds and dried flowers, their masks, the type attached to a baton, painted to match their gowns. Not all of them were female, Becky realised, as one picked up his skirts to show a decidedly masculine pair of legs. He ran at speed towards a petite figure dressed in a vaguely Turkish outfit of scarlet spotted with gold, a gold mask on her face, a gold turban trailing a long red scarf on her head.
As they made their way slowly around the perimeter of the piazza, Becky noticed a good number of people in similar costumes. ‘Characters from the commedia dell’arte,’ Luca explained. ‘That is Mattacina, all in white, save for his red shoes. Then over there, you can see Pantalone, the emblem of Venice, in a red waistcoat and black cloak. In fact, you can see several more of them over there,’ he added, pointing at a group of men all dressed very similarly. ‘The costume preferred by those lacking in imagination, I think.’
Becky laughed. ‘What about that one?’ she asked, nodding at a man in an outfit patched with red, green and blue triangles which bordered on the obscene, so tightly did his pantaloons and jacket fit.
‘Arlecchino,’ Luca said. ‘You might know him as Harlequin.’
‘I doubt he shares his costume with anyone else,’ Becky said wryly, ‘unless he has an identical twin.’
A woman began to sing an aria, her voice amplified by the arcade under which she stood. As they proceeded up towards the imposing arches at the entrance of the basilica, Becky was slightly shocked to see coloured booths set up on the steps of the church. There were turbaned fortune tellers in bright silks with tarot cards and shimmering crystal balls. There was a man with skin like parchment clad in a sorcerer’s gown offering horoscope readings. Quacks stood on wooden boxes, proclaiming their wares, offering elixirs and pills which would cure baldness and childlessness, which would make an angel of a harridan, a daredevil of a coward. A tooth puller stood outside his tent, wielding a terrifying pair of pliers. A slight man clad only in a pair of white drawers and a turban was seated on the cobblestones. To Becky’s astonishment, as he began to play a discordant tune upon a pipe, a snake emerged from the basket in front of him. Poets declaimed, minstrels sang and played, adding to the cacophony of sound.
By the campanile, on a high rope strung between two poles, two men were balanced precariously, juggling wooden clubs. Beneath them, a group of child acrobats climbed on to each other’s shoulders to form a pyramid, waiting only for a smattering of applause before they leapt down, tumbling and leapfrogging each other in a blur of sequins and satin. Then came the magicians, the illusionists and the conjurors. A pierrot rolled up the sleeve of his tunic, brandishing a knife. The crowd gasped as he sliced into the flesh of his own arm, and blood seemed to gush from the wound. Cheering and applause followed as he towelled the arm dry to reveal not a trace of a scar.
Becky, who had seen such tricks before, was more interested in the next stall. A white volto mask and a plain black domino was the magician’s disguise. His props were as simple. A ball. Three large cups. ‘He’ll find someone in the crowd to shout out which one the ball is under,’ Becky whispered to Luca. ‘There, see.’
A well-dressed youth stepped cockily forward and proceeded to wrongly guess the location of the ball every time the magician moved them around. Becky whispered the correct location to Luca and the crowd jeered at the victim’s every mistake. ‘If he’s wise,’ Becky said, noting that the lad was becoming aggressive, ‘he’ll allow him one win.’ Almost before she had finished her sentence, the magician did exactly that.
Luca chuckled. ‘A pacifier before he passes the hat round, I think.’
‘Exactly.’
They moved on, past a man juggling knives and a puppet show to another magician with a pack of cards, and Luca stopped. ‘He’s doing your trick,’ he said, ‘the one where I had to guess the card. Do you think Cousin Rebecca might take him on?’
She was tempted, remembering how impressed Luca had been that night by her silly card tricks, confident, watching him, that her own skills were superior to the sharp plying his trade. ‘No,’ she said firmly, turning away. ‘This is his pitch, Luca, his livelihood.’
She was rewarded with a warm smile, the slightest pressure on her gloved fingertips. ‘I should have known,’ he said. ‘My most honourable card sharp.’
She couldn’t help but laugh at that, trying to ignore the glow inside her, caused not only by his admiration but by his nearness, for the continually jostling crowd had forced them more closely together. At least that was what she told herself.
* * *
It was a perfect day out of time. Against the odds, they did not encounter a single acquaintance. As a result, Becky forgot to be Cousin Rebecca and was herself for the duration, embracing the spirit of this bright, alluring side of Carnevale with the same innocent, endearing joyfulness Luca remembered from their trip to the Lido. It was infectious. He found himself calling out a warning to Pulcinella’s wife at the puppet show, surprised to discover that Becky was as familiar with the characters as he was, for it was a popular show in Covent Garden, she told him. They shared a bag of roasted chestnuts, which he had the tortuous pleasure of peeling for her, popping them into her mouth in order, he claimed, to save her from soiling her gloves. They watched a balloon ascend from the centre of the piazza and come perilously close to colliding with the campanile before it disappeared over the rooftops, apparently intending to land on Guidecca, though the stiff breeze seemed intent on taking it directly out to sea.
Florian’s was crowded, but for once Luca was happy to be recognised, the Conte del Pietro and his cousin being ushered into the warm interior to a quiet table where Becky marvelled at the gilded ceiling and frescoes he was so familiar with as to fail to notice, leaving him free to marvel at her, her cheeks pink with the cold, her big violet eyes bright with delight as the waiter set a hot chocolate and sugared pastry down in front of her. She ate delicately but w
ith relish. It touched his heart to think that this too was a result of deprivation. He couldn’t bear to think of her, a young, vulnerable version of the glowing woman beside him, fending for herself, peering into the steamed-up windows of cafés such as this one.
* * *
As the sun sank, the atmosphere in the piazza subtly altered. The necromancers and the quacks packed up. The music became seductive, in tune with the changing mood of the crowd, now seeking entertainment of a very different nature. ‘We should go back to the palazzo,’ Luca said reluctantly. ‘My mother will be expecting us for dinner.’
‘Our little holiday from reality is over. It’s been truly wonderful Luca, a day I’ll never forget.’
The way she smiled up at him gave him that odd sensation again, as if his heart was contracting. It was because he’d miss her, he thought. Of course he would. After all they had been through it was natural enough. Something of his thoughts must have shown on his face. Becky looked away, started walking, forcing him to follow, away from the throng, out of the piazza, back in the direction they had come, though she faltered at the first junction, and he took the lead once more.
The air was heavy and still, the sky already darkening to night, the temperature plummeting. They walked on, their steps muffled. He thought it was rain at first, the cold sensation on his cheek, but Becky’s surprised exclamation made him stop, look up at the sky.
‘It’s snowing,’ she said, her voice hushed.
She tilted her face up to the sky, closing her eyes as the snow began to fall thick and fast, flakes landing on her cheeks and her lashes. When she opened her eyes again and turned to him, smiling, he caught her in his arms. Time stopped. It truly felt as if time stopped as he held her, as she reached her arms up to twine around his neck, tilting her face to his with an inevitability that could not be resisted.
And then they kissed, cold lips meeting, melding into the sweetest of kisses, warming his blood, stirring him into an aching desire. It was wrong, yet when it was over their lips clung, the tips of their tongues touching. And then came more kisses. Little kisses that shouldn’t mean anything, butterfly kisses that were surely harmless, though the way they were pressed together now, her back against the stone wall of a shuttered building, his body covering hers, hers arching against his, though there were layers and layers of clothes between them it felt as if they were stripped bare.
Their kisses deepened, their tongues tangled and he gave himself up to the moment, forgetting everything save for the taste of her, the heat of their kisses, the agonising delight of them, so longed for, so illicitly dreamed of and so much better than any dream. Drugging kisses, impossible to resist, so sinuously, deceptively languorous that he could pretend he wanted nothing more than this, just this, warm lips, tangled tongues, cold snow framing their faces.
But he wanted a great deal more. He was so hard he was throbbing. Dragging his mouth from hers, Luca saw his own desire clearly writ on Becky’s face, her big eyes glazed, her cheeks flushed. There was nothing to be done about it, nothing to be said. She slipped her hand on to the crook of his arm, and they continued the short walk back to the palazzo through the swirl of the softly falling snow.
Chapter Twelve
‘My mother sends her apologies,’ Luca informed Becky when she joined him in the drawing room before dinner. ‘She has gone to comfort a sick friend and will not return until tomorrow.’
Their escape from reality was not over after all, Becky thought. The Fates were conspiring to test their resolve.
Her evening dress was one she had not worn before, of turquoise silk trimmed with silver ribbon. ‘Your gown is the colours of the canal on a winter’s morning,’ Luca said, handing her a glass of Prosecco.
His hair was still damp from his bath. His cheeks were freshly shaved, his beard neatly trimmed. Their eyes met as their glasses touched in a silent toast, and she knew that he, like she, was thinking of those kisses in the snow, so achingly sweet, a refrain of longing and yearning. A refrain which surely deserved to be sung to the end, just once.
Smiling inwardly at this flight of fancy, attributing it to her new-found passion for the opera, which she had now been to see six times, Becky made for the windows, pulling back one of the heavy curtains which had been drawn against the cold of the winter’s night. It was still snowing heavily, huge flakes tumbling like snippets of lace, coating the moored gondolas in a cloak of white, giving an eerie light to the night sky.
‘It’s so beautiful,’ she said, entranced by the view, still caught up in the enchantment of the day, acutely aware of Luca standing just at her shoulder. ‘Even more unreal than usual.’
She felt the whisper of his lips on the nape of her neck. She felt the whisper of his breath on her ear. She turned, lifting her hand to caress his cheek, the merest touch causing such an upsurge of longing as to make her catch her breath. ‘Luca,’ she said, and he reached for her, and then the door opened, and they jumped apart as Brunetti appeared to announce that dinner was served.
But still the heightened mood lingered as they ate, scarcely aware of the servants pouring the wine, bringing the different courses, leaving them, at Luca’s behest, to serve themselves. The fates continued to smile, Becky thought to herself, as she sampled some of her favourite dishes, calamaretti, the little baby squid fried in batter, the razor clams which the Venetians call capelonghe cooked in butter and parsley, the baked fish which they called John Dory at home and which here was known as sanpiero, served with a fragrant pesto.
They talked of Carnevale, of the sights they had seen in the Piazza San Marco. A perfectly innocuous conversation to anyone listening, but there was another unspoken conversation continuing between them all the while. It was there in the slanted glances, in the lingering gazes, in the grazing of their fingers as they passed the dishes. The day was far from over.
* * *
After dinner, they retired to the small parlour, where the dark red walls, the tightly drawn curtains and the well-stoked fire gave the palatial room an illusion of cosiness. They had sat here many times before, practising cards, but tonight there was no question of cards.
They sat on the sofa facing the fire. Becky knew that nothing had changed, that nothing could alter the ending which loomed, but tonight she didn’t care. This was a moment out of time. Tomorrow, they would return to reality, see the dangerous game they played to its conclusion and then she would leave Venice and Luca for ever. Tonight was their only chance. She knew that if she didn’t grasp it, she would regret it.
Luca poured them each a cup of coffee, downing his in one gulp as usual. ‘I shouldn’t stay here like this, alone with you. I can’t trust myself to keep our promise if I do.’ He shifted on the sofa, his knees brushing hers. ‘We agreed,’ he said, ‘that we must extinguish the attraction between us.’
But the fire was burning in his eyes even as he spoke. His hand was already covering hers, he was already leaning towards her. ‘Do you think we’ve succeeded?’ Becky asked.
His laugh was a low growl. ‘We’ve succeeded in making it burn ever brighter.’
She leaned closer, so that they were within kissing distance. ‘Do you think if we allowed ourselves this one night, it would douse the flames?’
They both knew her question was sheer sophistry. Luca was more honest than she. ‘You know it would not be enough, Becky.’
Her fingers tightened on his. ‘But if it is all we can have?’
‘Then I would rather have this than nothing.’ His free hand touched her cheek, pushing her hair back behind her ear. ‘Are you sure?’
Looking into his eyes, she felt such a surge of emotion that it twisted her heart. She knew then, though she refused to acknowledge it, that something profound had just occurred. She reached for him, twining her arm around his neck. ‘I’m absolutely certain,’ Becky said, and then she kissed him.
He kissed her back fiercely. The restrai
ned yearning from those earlier kisses in the snow was unleashed as their mouths clung, ravaged each other, desperate to sate the hunger which had been far too long suppressed. It was as well that Luca, tearing himself free, retained a modicum of sense. ‘The door,’ he said, dragging himself away from her to lock it, but when he returned to her, instead of more kisses, he pulled her to her feet. ‘We have waited so long,’ he said with a smile which made her burn inside. ‘We can wait a little longer.’
He kissed her again, but slowly, smoothing his hands over her back, as if to calm her. He shrugged out of his coat and his waistcoat. Turning her around, he kissed the nape of her neck, the pulse at her collarbone, untying the laces of her gown, sliding it down her shoulders, over her hips. She had never been undressed before, not by anyone. She was facing the mirror above the mantel. She could see her reflection, Luca behind her, his hair dark against her skin, his hands cupping her breasts over her corsets. She shuddered. She arched her bottom against him, feeling the ridge of his arousal, and shuddered again.
He released her only to untie her corsets. When he cupped her breasts again, there was only the thin film of her cambric chemise between them. In the mirror, she could see his thumbs circling her nipples, felt her nipples harden, saw the result in the mirror, felt and saw his sharp intake of breath, and then he turned her around and their mouths met again in a savage kiss.
She tugged his shirt free of his breeches, gazing hungrily as he pulled it over his head, her hands already roaming over the muscle-packed flesh, pressing wild kisses over his chest, relishing the way her touch made him groan. The bow which held her chemise in place was undone, the garment slid down her arms to pool on the floor beside her gown, and for a moment Luca simply gazed at her breasts, and the stark longing in his eyes swept away any embarrassment, and then he pulled her into his arms, naked flesh to naked flesh, and Becky thought she would die with the bliss of it.
His Rags-to-Riches Contessa Page 19