‘Luca, I’ve been trying to reconcile myself to a future without you, without the means to put a roof over my head, in a foreign country...’
‘Then marry me. At least that way you’ll always have a roof over your head.’
‘I’d prefer to live on the roof here.’
‘That can be arranged. Anything you wish, if only...’
‘I wish only for you, Luca. And—and not to be the Contessa del Pietro like your mother. I can’t quite believe this is happening.’
Luca pulled her to her feet. ‘The Procurer has a reputation for making the impossible possible. I remembered that today, and I thought, if she can do it, why, then, can’t we? Do you love me, Becky?’
She twined her arms around his neck. ‘With all my heart, Luca.’
‘Will you marry me, Becky?’
Finally, she allowed her joy to burst through, allowed her love to show in her smile. ‘Yes, my darling Luca, I will marry you.’
He pulled her roughly into his arms, holding her so tight she could barely breathe. ‘I promise you that you will never, ever regret it,’ he said, and then he kissed her. Tenderly at first, almost tentatively his lips touched hers, his hands crept up to cradle her face, but as Becky pressed herself against him, as their tongues touched and their kiss deepened, passion flared.
Enveloped in the sweet delight of a love they had both come so close to losing, they surrendered to each other on the hearth in the library of the palazzo, affirming their love for each other over and over as they kissed, as their limbs tangled, as their bodies merged, climbing together to their climax, clinging together as one, as they would be for the rest of their days.
* * *
If you enjoyed this story be sure to check out the other books in the Matches Made in Scandal miniseries
From Governess to Countess
From Courtesan to Convenient Wife
And be sure to check out the books in
Marguerite Kaye’s
Hot Arabian Nights miniseries,
starting with
The Widow and the Sheikh
Sheikh’s Mail-Order Bride
Keep reading for an excerpt from The Warrior’s Bride Prize by Jenni Fletcher.
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Historical Note
I’ve never been to Venice, but thanks to Peter Ackroyd’s Venice: Pure City and John Julius Norwich’s Paradise of Cities, I feel as if I have. Any inaccuracies or mistakes about the Venice of Luca and Becky’s time are all my own doing.
Norwich mentions Contessa Isabella Teotocchi Albrizzi, and I came across her again in Benita Eisler’s epic biography of Byron, Byron: Child of Passion, Fool of Fame. Known as the Madame de Staël of Venice, hers was only one of two surviving salons from the heyday of the Republic. The renowned sculptor Antonio Canova was a regular there, and the bust of Helen of Troy, which he is delighted to show to Becky, was a gift from him to his hostess.
The other salon was run by Contessa Maria Querini Benzon. Byron, on his last visit to the Venice Carnival, decided that hers was more interesting than her rival’s, perhaps because the Contessa was happy to include his low-born mistress into her drawing room. Contessa Benzon was notorious for having danced in a skimpy tunic around the Tree of Liberty, and she did indeed inspire a ballad, ‘La Biondina in Gondoleta’, which, according to Norwich, is still sung by today’s gondoliers. In Becky and Luca’s time she was more fond of food than dancing, particularly polenta, which she carried around with her, stuffed into her ample cleavage in winter—hence the name the gondoliers gave her: El Fumeto, The Steaming Lady.
Gambling was illegal in Venice in 1819, though a blind eye was turned during Carnival, when many of the large palazzos opened up private gaming hells called ridotti. Both women and men could play, provided they were masked, and the stakes were not always financial but a very different currency indeed.
Much of the Carnival atmosphere, both seamy and fiesta, I’ve taken directly from Byron’s descriptions quoted in Benita Eisler’s book.
Byron—obnoxious man, but excellent source—called marriage Venetian-style a social convenience rather than a sacrament. Though he was more than happy to avail himself of the custom for married women to take a lover, he was hypocritically scathing of the practice. By the time in which my book is set Venice was very much in decline, and the rich were forced to be careful with their wealth, thus the custom to try to limit the number of sons who could inherit, and the expectation that only the eldest would marry.
Regular readers of my books will notice that shipbuilding is a recurring feature, and in particular Clyde-built ships. The reasons are simple: my paternal grandfather built ships on the Clyde, my maternal grandfather captained them, and my writing view is of the Clyde estuary. If you’d like to read about an actual Clyde shipbuilding hero, then I can offer a choice of two: Iain Hunter in Unwed and Unrepentant and Innes Drummond in Strangers at the Altar.
Finally I owe a debt to Jeffrey Steingarten, for his exhaustive index of Italian and Venetian terms for all things from the sea in The Man Who Ate Everything. I had enormous fun creating dinner menus—and worked up a huge appetite in the process!
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The Warrior’s Bride Prize
by Jenni Fletcher
Chapter One
North Britannia, AD 197
‘Halt!’
Livia woke with a gasp, startled back to her senses by the shout. With a lurch, the carriage rolled to a standstill, jolting her forward on the bench at the same moment as she heard a dull clanking of armour and a heavy thud outside, like dozens of feet all stamping the ground at once.
Quickly, she pulled herself upright, tightening her arms around the four-year-old girl asleep in her lap. To her amazement, their unscheduled halt hadn’t disturbed her, though Livia had the ominous feeling that something was about to.
‘What’s happening? Are we under attack?’
Porcia, her maidservant sitting opposite, sounded on the verge of hysteria. Despite the presence of an armed escort, the girl had been a bundle of nerves ever since leaving Lindum a month ago. Perhaps with good reason, Livia thought grimly. Her own anxieties had been gathering in strength the closer they travelled to Coria, though for very different reasons.
And now this! Whatever this was... She felt a shiver of fear, as if an icy claw had pierced its way through her chest and was clutching her heart, making her feel cold all over.
‘I don’t think so.’ She leaned over, trying to see out of the carriage window,
but whatever was happening was taking place at the head of their small procession. ‘I don’t hear any fighting.’
‘What if it’s Caledonians?’
‘They’re on the other side of the wall. This side is under the Pax Romana, remember?’
‘Barely.’ Porcia’s bottom lip trembled. ‘They say only savages live this far north.’
‘Who say so?’
‘Civilised people. Romans...like us.’
‘Like us.’ Livia repeated the words sceptically. ‘Well then, it must be true.’
Not that now was the time to be debating the merits of Roman society with her maidservant, she admonished herself, though somehow the words themselves gave her courage, forcing the claw to relax its grip slightly. If civilised Roman society said that she ought to be afraid then she’d be more than happy to prove civilisation wrong.
In any case, there were still no sounds of combat, no clamour of weapons or shouting. If they were really under attack from Caledonians or outlaws, surely they’d know it by now?
‘Stay here. I’ll go and see what’s happening.’ She slid herself out from beneath the sleeping child. ‘Take care of Julia for me.’
‘Shouldn’t we wake her...just in case?’
‘No.’
Livia shook her head emphatically, bending over to press a kiss into the spiral curls of the little girl’s hair. It was every bit as wild and untamed as hers had been at that age, as well as the same shade of blazing copper red, a legacy from her own mother that she wished Julia might have avoided.
If only her daughter could have had dark hair like Julius, she thought regretfully. If only Julia could have looked anything at all like him, then mother and daughter might never have been in their current perilous situation. Julia might have been a rich heiress and she an independent widow, safe from her brother—half-brother, she corrected herself—Tarquinius and his scheming. Strange how great a difference something as trivial as hair colour could have on a person’s life...
She straightened up again, dismissing the thought as unhelpful. Now wasn’t the time for regrets. Now she had bigger problems to worry about and she had to be brave for her daughter as well as her terrified maid.
‘There’s nothing to worry about, I’m sure of it.’
She squeezed Porcia’s hand reassuringly and then climbed down from the carriage, glad to be out of the confined space for a while, no matter what the circumstances. It was more comfortable than horseback, better for Julia, too, but her muscles were still cramped and stiff from so much prolonged inactivity. Cautiously, she looked around, searching for some sign of an enemy attack, but there was none. On the contrary, it was hard to imagine a more peaceful, springlike scene than the one before her. The sun was high in a cloudless sky and shining for the first time in days, warming the air and giving the woodland road along which they were travelling a fresh, almost sparkling appearance. The trees on either side were starting to bud, too, if not yet bloom, and the birds within chirruping loudly, as if to celebrate the fact that the long, hard winter was finally coming to an end.
It was a whole different world to the makeshift camp they’d left, shivering and cold that morning, as if some enchantment had fallen over the carriage during her brief nap, turning the hours into weeks. But then time seemed to have been working differently during the seemingly endless days of their journey north. Hardly surprising when they were travelling as far from Rome as they could possibly go, following the great road beyond Eboracum to the very limits of the Empire and the great wall built less than a century before by the Emperor Hadrian—a massive eighty-mile structure stretching from one side of the country to the other.
Despite the relentless pace of their journey, however, there’d been days when she’d had the uneasy feeling they might be travelling for ever, trapped in some never-ending loop. Then again, there’d been days when she’d hoped that they might never arrive in Coria, one of the northernmost settlements of the frontier. Being sent to marry a stranger of her half-brother’s choosing wasn’t an experience she’d relished the first time. It certainly hadn’t been one that she’d wanted to repeat, yet now it was happening all over again, barely two months after Julius’s funeral, as if her past were repeating itself in the present and she was powerless to do anything to stop it.
How many more times would Tarquinius use her as a bargaining tool? she wondered. How many more times must she be humiliated? Bad enough that he had so much power over her life, but now he was controlling Julia’s, too. Her only hope was that her new husband might prove a different kind of man to Julius. If not, then it was surely only a matter of time before her second marriage turned just as sour as her first... If he did prove to be different, however, then there was still hope. If he turned out to be good and honourable, then perhaps she could talk to him, perhaps even tell him the whole truth about herself before Tarquinius got a chance to interfere.
Of course, that was supposing they survived their current danger and made it to Coria in the first place. Not that it sounded very dangerous, she reassured herself, heading around the front of the carriage in search of Tullus, the leader of the small band of men entrusted with delivering her safely to her new husband. She could already hear his voice at the front of her escort, talking calmly enough—in Latin, too, which was another good sign—though oddly without his usual bravado.
She caught sight of his back at last and then stopped, rooted to the spot in amazement at the view before her. The road was blocked by tens upon tens of Roman soldiers, a whole century of them by the look of it, all standing in perfect formation and dressed in full military regalia, shields and spears at the ready, as if they were marching into battle. They looked even more impressive and imposing than the ones she’d seen on parade in Lindum, their burnished shoulder plates and polished helms gleaming like molten gold in the spring sunshine. And there at the front, wearing a transversely plumed helmet that immediately signalled him out as a Centurion, stood their leader, the man—surely it had to be him—that she’d come to marry.
‘Oh!’
She didn’t intend to utter the exclamation aloud, but it came out anyway, too loud in the silence that greeted her arrival, and the Centurion’s gaze shifted towards her, sweeping briefly over the long folds of her stola before their eyes met and held. For a few moments he didn’t move. Then he inclined his head, courteously enough, though his gaze never left hers. His eyes were dark, she noticed, like pools of black tar, deep and mysterious and compelling, though the expression in them looked strangely arrested.
‘Livia Valeria?’ He broke the silence at last.
‘Yes.’
This time her voice sounded too quiet as she forced her feet to move forward again. She couldn’t think of a single other thing to say either. How was she supposed to greet the man she was going to spend the rest of her life with? A simple Ave seemed insufficient.
‘I trust that you’ve had a good journey, lady?’
‘Yes,’ she repeated, wincing inwardly at the repetition. ‘At least, as good as we might have hoped for in springtime.’
He glanced up at the sky. ‘The weather’s been milder than usual.’
‘Ye—True.’
She corrected herself just in time, tucking her red curls back behind her ears self-consciously. In her haste to discover what was happening outside, she’d left her palla behind in the carriage, leaving her hair uncovered. Now she felt uncomfortably exposed, wishing she’d brought a shawl to cover her stola as well. The silken fabric felt too thin and flimsy in front of so many men, but then she’d dressed to impress her new husband, just as Tarquinius had instructed her to...
As awkward as their first encounter felt, however, at least this got it over with quickly. It wasn’t exactly the way or the place that she’d expected to meet him, on a woodland road in the middle of nowhere, but perhaps it was as good as any. She’d sent a rider ahead with news of their i
mminent arrival the day before, though she hadn’t expected any response. Having never met him in person—Tarquinius not having considered a meeting necessary prior to their marriage—she’d had no idea what he thought of their union, but surely this had to be a good sign, his coming to greet her with an honour guard of soldiers.
‘Are we close to the wall?’ She asked the first question that sprang into her mind.
‘About ten miles away.’
‘So close? Then we should be there before nightfall.’
‘Even sooner. It’s barely half a day’s march from here, lady. We’ll get you there for dinner.’
‘Thank you.’
She smiled nervously and he reached up to remove his helmet, revealing a head of light brown hair, close-cropped like most soldiers’, above a ruggedly handsome face, with prominent cheekbones, a slightly crooked nose that looked as if it must have been broken at some point and a resolute-looking jaw. Judging by the ingrained frown lines between his brows, he didn’t smile very often, but taken as a whole his face was stern, not cruel, as if whatever burden he carried—and she had the sudden conviction that he carried something—was his alone.
He wasn’t as young as she’d feared he might be either. Tarquinius had said that he was newly enrolled in the army, but the man before her looked both older and more experienced, closer to her own age of twenty-four than that of a raw recruit. The realisation was both a relief and a fresh source of anxiety. After marriage to a man almost three times her age, the last thing she’d wanted was to go to the other extreme and marry a boy—something this soldier most definitely wasn’t—though there was something powerfully disconcerting about him, too.
His Rags-to-Riches Contessa Page 24