He chuckled, imagining how she’d react, how indignant she’d be, how shocked. Lord, what possessed him to think such thoughts of a governess? Chuckling still, he pushed himself up against the pillows. High time he rose, anyway. His manservant Wilson would be here soon with his breakfast.
Exactly on cue, Richard heard the chamber door open and shut and saw the flash of sunlight behind the bed curtains that announced Wilson’s arrival. The curtains of the bed opened, the rings scraping on the metal rod overhead, and there was Wilson’s gloomy face to greet Richard’s day, the same as it had been for years.
But on this morning, there seemed to be a change in the never-changing routine. Wilson glared, as usual, but his gnarled hands were empty, without Richard’s customary cup of steaming coffee.
‘What’s this, Wilson?’ Richard asked. ‘Where’s my brew?’
‘There’s none, your Grace,’ Wilson said, his expression sour, ‘not that I’ll be bringing you, anyways. If it were my deciding, I would, but it’s not, so’s I won’t, and there’s no help for the change from where I can see it.’
‘No riddles, Wilson. It’s far too early for that.’ Exasperated, Richard swung his legs over the side of the bed. This made no sense. He was always most particular about beginning his day with the same breakfast. Wilson knew his ways better than anyone, and had personally made certain that Richard had had his customary breakfast even on the long voyage from Portsmouth, when his shirred eggs had required the presence and supervision of three miserable laying-hens. ‘Where the devil is my coffee, you lazy sot? And where’s the tray with the rest of my breakfast?’
Wilson groaned, and held up Richard’s dressing gown. ‘I told you, your Grace, it’s not for me to decide,’ he said almost primly. ‘It’s that Miss Wood who’s doing all the deciding this morning.’
‘Miss Wood?’ Richard thrust his arms into the waiting sleeves. ‘What does Miss Wood have to do with this?’
‘Everything, your Grace.’ Wilson’s wounded pride finally gave way in a torrent of outrage. ‘On account of her telling me it was wrongful for you to eat an English breakfast in your chambers while you was in Venice, she told me you had to come down to her and eat what they eat here, foreign-like, no matter that you never do and never would. That was what I told her, your Grace, that you liked what you liked for your breakfast, but she’d hear none of it, and told me you’d already agreed to do as she said. As she said, your Grace, and you a duke and a peer and she a governess and daughter of a two-penny preacher from Northumberland!’
‘Her antecedents matter little to me, Wilson.’ Richard whipped the sash twice around his waist, tying it snugly with the determination of a warrior readying his sword belt for battle. ‘But as for interfering in my breakfast—that is another thing entirely.’
He threw open the door and marched down the stairs to the floor with the more public rooms. Halfway down he wished he’d stopped long enough to find his slippers—the polished treads of the carved marble staircase were infernally cold beneath his feet—but he wasn’t about to retreat until he’d settled this with Miss Wood.
Following his nose and the pleasant scent of cooked food, he found her in a small parlour to the back of the house. The room was taller than it was wide, with narrow arched windows and a domed, gilded ceiling that made Richard feel like he stood at the bottom of some eastern gypsy’s jewel box. Two squat chairs covered in red were set before the little round table, likewise covered with a red cloth, only added to the sensation that he’d blundered into someone else’s exotic nightmare.
Except that sitting at the red-covered table was Miss Wood, as unexotically English as any woman could be.
‘Good morning, your Grace,’ she said cheerfully, rising to curtsy. ‘I’m glad you chose to join me for breakfast.’
Glowering, he chose not to sit. ‘There was no choice involved. You bullied my manservant, and refused to let him do his duty towards me.’
‘What, Wilson?’ She raised her delicate dark brows with bemusement. ‘Your Grace, you grant me supreme powers if you believe I ever could bully Wilson into doing—or not doing—anything against his will.’
Richard’s scowl deepened. She was right, of course. ‘Are you saying that he chose to disobey me?’
‘Oh, no.’ Her smile became beatific. ‘Rather I should say that I am most honoured that you have chosen to join me for breakfast in the Venetian manner.’
‘This is not as I wished, Miss Wood,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘Not at all.’
‘Oh, but it is, your Grace,’ she said. ‘Last night you hired me to act as your guide while you were visiting this city, and to teach you what I’d learned myself of Venice. This is our first lesson, you see, to experience how a Venetian gentleman begins his day.’
Richard looked down at the array of dishes laid out on the table before her. There was a plate with paper-thin slices of ham arranged to overlap like the petals of a flower, and an assortment of fancifully shaped breadstuffs. Beside her cup was a chocolate-mill and a smaller pot of hot milk.
‘Please, your Grace,’ she coaxed, turning the armchair beside her invitingly towards him. ‘As you see, everything is in readiness for you.’
Everything, hah. He retied the sash on his dressing gown more tightly with quick, disgruntled jerks, and sniffed while trying still to look unhappy at being crossed. He couldn’t deny that the rich assortment of fragrances that had first drawn him were tempting, or that his empty stomach was rumbling with anticipation. But likewise he liked his habits, his routines, and a breakfast that lacked eggs, strawberry preserves and well-roasted black coffee was not part of his habit.
‘Miss Wood,’ he began, determined to steer things between them more to his liking at once, before they’d escaped too far beyond his control. ‘I know you mean well, Miss Wood, but I am afraid that—’
‘Oh, your Grace!’ She was staring down at his bare feet with the same horror that most women reserved for rats and toads. ‘Oh, your Grace, your poor feet! These stone floors are so chill on a winter morning. Come, sit here beside the kachelofen and warm them at once while I prepare your chocolate.’
She bustled forwards, taking him gently by the elbow to guide him to the chair with such concern and efficiency that he could not shake her off without being rude.
‘Here now, I’m not some greybeard to be settled in the chimney corner,’ he grumbled, even as he let her do very nearly that. ‘And what the devil’s a kachelofen?’
‘This,’ she said, pointing to an ornate object behind the table. He’d thought it was a tall cabinet or chest, but now that he was closer, he could see that it was made not of painted wood, but of sections of porcelain, fantastically moulded and glazed with curlicues and flowers. He also realised that the thing was giving off heat most pleasantly, far more than the grate in his bedchamber had, and automatically he shifted closer to warm himself.
‘A kachelofen’s a kind of stove, much beloved by Venetians,’ she explained, holding her palm over the nearest surface to feel the heat for herself. ‘They claim a good kachelofen will warm a room better than an open fire, require less wood and be safer as well.’
‘Safe, you say?’ he asked, not because he really wished to know, but because it seemed rude to her not to make an enquiry or two.
‘Oh, yes,’ she said eagerly. ‘For a city surrounded by water, the Venetians are powerfully afraid of fire. Only the glassmakers are permitted to keep furnaces, because it is necessary for their trade and therefore necessary for the economy of the city.’
‘You’re full of useless information for so early an hour, Miss Wood,’ he said, though the pleasing warmth from the whatever-it-was-called was easing his temper.
Nor was she offended. ‘There is no such thing as useless information, your Grace. Only information whose usefulness is yet to be revealed. Consider how useful a kachelofen would be in the north corner of your library at Aston Hall. You could set the fashion in the county.’
‘What, for foreign k
ickshaws and foolishness?’
‘For efficiency, your Grace, and being clever and forward-thinking,’ she suggested. ‘The people here do understand how to make their lives more agreeable, and there would be no sin in borrowing the best of their notions. But then I would imagine your Grace has already considered it, yes?’
‘Ahh—yes, yes, of course.’ He studied her with fresh surprise. His recollection of Miss Wood with his daughters was of her being reticent, speaking only when first addressed. He’d never heard her be quite so…loquacious before. More surprising still, he realised that he rather liked it.
In fact, he liked sitting here, wearing his nightclothes in cosy domesticity with his daughters’ governess, in a room too lurid for most London bagnios. He suspected he was called many things about the county at home, but ‘clever’ wasn’t a word he’d heard often, and to his surprise, he rather liked that, too.
‘Perhaps one of these would be of use,’ he said, regarding the kachelofen now as an ally. ‘It does keep off the cold better than a grate.’
‘Indeed it does, your Grace.’ She returned to her own chair, and began to busy herself with the chocolate-mill. ‘Now that you’re warming yourself from the outside in, we must see to warming you from the inside out as well. This, your Grace, is how every proper Venetian gentleman begins his day, and likely the improper ones as well.’
He watched her briskly twisting the rod back and forth between her palms to mix a froth into the dark mixture, her little hands moving with confident dexterity. He wished she hadn’t mentioned those improper gentlemen, considering how improper his own thoughts were at the moment.
‘Chocolate’s well enough for those fellows,’ he said finally. ‘But I’d as soon have Wilson fetch me my usual coffee.’
She paused, and glanced up at him without raising her chin. ‘You could, your Grace. You could. But if you did, it would be disappointing.’
It was the evenness of her voice that stopped him. No fuss, no excess of emotion, only that quietly stated disappointment.
‘Would you be disappointed, Miss Wood?’ he asked softly. Now with the idle pleasantries of the kachelofen done, he found he cared more about her answer than he’d wish to admit. ‘If I chose my old ways, would you be disappointed?’
But instead of answering, she lowered her gaze back to the mill. ‘I ask only that you try it, your Grace. This chocolate is far different from that served in London. Cocoa, sugar, cinnamon, vanilla. You will taste the difference at once.’
‘How did you come by all this knowledge of yours, eh?’ he asked, still sceptical. ‘You’ve not been here so long yourself.’
‘I listen to whomever will speak to me, your Grace, and I learn wherever I might,’ she said, carefully filling a second cup for him. ‘Signora della Battista and her cook. The gondoliers who pilot the gondolas and the old monks who show me the paintings in the churches. Here now, take care, and do not burn your tongue.’
She set the little cup before him, and Richard looked down at it so glumly that she laughed.
‘Faith, your Grace, I’ve no wish to poison you,’ she said. ‘You look like a small boy faced with a foul-smelling physick.’
He sighed dolefully. ‘If I drink it, will you let me have my coffee afterwards?’
‘An entire pot of Wilson’s best, if you wish it,’ she said. ‘But you must make an honest effort, else I won’t take you anywhere today.’
‘I suppose there’s no help for it,’ he said, manfully taking up the cup with fingers too large for the dainty porcelain handle. ‘Must obey the governess.’
Though he tipped the cup to drink, the chocolate was almost too thick to do so, not quite a pudding, nor a drink, either. What it was for certain was wonderful, redolent of spices and flavour, warm and rich, and exactly sweet enough to satisfy. It delighted his tongue and his stomach, the pleasurable sensation of contented well-being spreading through his limbs as well. She was right: he’d never tasted anything like it, and he tipped the cup again, wanting more.
‘Should I send for Wilson’s coffee now, your Grace?’ While her expression was studiously impassive, her eyes shone bright with amusement in the grey winter sunlight. ‘Or would you care for another dish of chocolate?’
He held his cup out to be refilled. ‘You tell me, ma’am.’
She laughed and poured the chocolate. As he drank again, she took a two-tined fork and plucked up a piece of the ham. The meat was sliced so finely that she could twist it into a rosette on the tines of the fork, offering it to him.
‘That looks as thin as the sorry ham they serve at Vauxhall Gardens,’ he said, turning suspicious again. ‘Flimsy, tasteless rubbish, unfit for any man.’
‘It’s not the same, I assure you,’ she said. ‘It’s far, far more delectable than that, and not at all like that thick, fatty bacon you devour at home. Prosciutto, it’s called. Try it now, while the chocolate lingers on your tongue, and let the flavors mingle.’
This time he trusted her, taking the entire twirled rosette of ham from the fork into his mouth. Magically, the saltiness of the meat melded with the fading sweetness of the chocolate to make something entirely different. It seemed that beyond the spices of the chocolate and the spices of the ham’s curing, he could also taste the dark mystery of the cocoa along with the sweet summer grasses that the pig had eaten. He’d never tasted anything like it, especially not for breakfast. It was not only beyond his experience, but beyond his powers to describe as well.
She knew it, too, her mouth curving up in a mischievous, knowing grin as she twisted the fork into the ham once again. ‘That is how Venice tastes, your Grace, or rather, how it tastes so early in the day. We can have another lesson at each meal, if you please.’
‘Oh, it pleases me,’ he said. He took another sip of the chocolate, but instead of reaching for the fork with the ham, he leaned forwards and opened his mouth. She hesitated only a moment before her smile blossomed into a grin, and she fed the ham to him. He made a rumbling sound of happiness as he chewed, and finally winked at her by way of thanks.
Startled, she sat back in her chair, the fork still in her hand, but then she laughed softly, too, as much at her own surprise as with him. Best of all, she blushed, her cheeks turning nearly as rosy as the cloth on the table.
If this was his breakfast lesson, why, he could scarce wait for dinner.
‘Who taught you this?’ he asked, intrigued by the notion of his prim English governess indulging in something as sensuous as this unexpected combination of ham and chocolate. Or rather, a governess he’d mistakenly judged to be prim. Clearly there was far more to her than he’d ever realised before. ‘Where did you learn it?’
‘It’s scarcely a secret, your Grace,’ she said, so deftly dodging his question that at first he didn’t realise she’d done it. ‘The Venetians do relish their chocolate. Why, two hundred years ago, cocoa beans were of as much value as gold coins.’
‘More fool them, I say.’ He reached for another fork to finish the ham. He’d had the rare pleasure of her feeding him before, but he didn’t wish to test her—or himself—too far by expecting her to do it again. There were limits, limits he’d already come close to crossing, and besides, he was hungry. ‘Chocolate for gold!’
‘For other things, too, your Grace.’ She lowered her voice to a conspirator’s whisper. ‘They say there was a time when a slave could be bought for the sum of a hundred cocoa beans.’
‘A man’s life for beans?’ he asked as he ate. ‘That doesn’t seem a fair price.’
‘But ’tis true,’ she said. ‘I had it on the best authority. And more—that a dozen cocoa beans would buy the luscious favours of the most wanton courtesan in all the city for a night.’
Richard choked on the ham.
‘Do you need help, your Grace?’ she asked frantically as she rushed to stand behind his chair and began thumping him on the back. ‘Wilson! Wilson, come at once! His Grace is in distress!’
‘Hush, hush, I’m fine,’ Rich
ard sputtered, gasping for breath. ‘Now sit, and be still.’
She sat, barely, on the edge of the chair with her hands clasped tightly in her lap and her face screwed up with concern. ‘You are certain you are recovered, your Grace? You are sure?’
‘Of course I am,’ he said, taking a deep, heaving breath. ‘You took me by surprise, that was all.’
‘I, your Grace?’
Damnation, what right did she have to look so astonished? ‘Yes, you, Miss Wood. To hear you speak, ah, to speak with such freedom—’
‘Of the courtesans?’ she helpfully supplied. ‘Venice is famous for them. Or should I say infamous? You may not be aware of this, your Grace, but it is a historical fact that at one time there were more courtesans in Venice than in any other city in Italy.’
‘In the past, you say?’ The historical past meaning yesterday, he supposed, when he’d not even disembarked before the whores had come rowing right up to the boat. Either Miss Wood was a complete innocent, or she must have the blinders of all polite women in place to have missed them.
‘Yes, your Grace, the past,’ she continued charmingly, falling back into her schoolroom manner. ‘The courtesans then were like the great ladies of other places, living as high as queens. They must have been very beautiful and accomplished, for all that they were—were not very nice women.’
‘Oh, no, not at all.’ Deliberately he helped himself to a bun. A round bun, about the size of his fist, bristling with plump raisins and glazed with white sugar icing. Exactly. If he concentrated on the bun, on each and every infernal raisin, then perhaps he could not be thinking the thoughts he was thinking about his daughters’ governess.
‘But then history is often like that, your Grace, isn’t it?’ she continued, blithely unaware. ‘Our own British history’s not always as honourable as it should be, though I don’t believe even wicked old Henry Tudor tried to barter cocoa beans for courtesans.’
‘Who told you of the, ah, value of cocoa beans?’ he asked. ‘I trust it wasn’t the bear-leader hired in my name.’
The Duke's Governess Bride Page 6