Enough water had blown from the sea that wooden duckboards had been laid across the shuddering puddles, and cautiously Jane picked her way across the unsteady planks towards San Marco. Thanks to his Grace, the day had been humiliating enough already without soaking her boots or the hems of her skirts, and she chose her steps with care, her head bowed to concentrate on the duckboards.
She didn’t see the man coming towards her, didn’t see him at all until he’d grabbed her by the shoulders, and then—then it was too late.
Chapter Eight
‘My dear friend!’ exclaimed the man as he steadied Jane on the wobbling duckboard. ‘I never thought to see you here!’
Startled, she looked up and gasped, nearly losing her footing on the board. ‘Signor di Rossi!’
‘Your servant, Miss Wood.’ He’d caught her easily, lightly, guiding her with his gloved hands on her shoulders as surely as if they were two circus performers dancing on the board together. ‘There are few things more perilous than a quaking duckboard, eh?’
He smiled, his teasing as gentle as his support. His black beaver hat was drawn low over his forehead against the wind, and he paid no attention to how the lace on his neckcloth blew upwards to tickle the underside of his clean-shaven jaw. All he seemed to care for was the delight of finding her here, and saving her from a perilous puddle. It was the second time in the last hour that a man had reached out to steady her, but how differently the signor’s hands felt upon her shoulders than the duke’s possessive grasp!
‘Thank you,’ she said, taking his arm to let him guide her towards the drier side of the piazza. ‘You cannot know how—how grateful I am.’
She hadn’t meant to betray her feelings with that tiny catch in her words, but di Rossi heard it at once, his dark brows drawing together with concern.
‘You are distraught, Miss Wood,’ he said. ‘No, no, do not deny it. From your voice, it is clear to me that you suffer.’
She shook her head, but he’d hear none of it.
‘You’re alone,’ he said, swiftly glancing around her. ‘That is not wise, Miss Wood.’
She tried to smile. ‘You told me yourself that Venice was safe enough for travelling women by day.’
‘When a lady is attentive to her surroundings, yes,’ he said solemnly. ‘Most days I would grant you that, Miss Wood. But not as you are today. No, not today.’
She looked away, ducking behind her cloak’s hood. Long ago she’d learned to hide the private part of herself from others, to be unnoticed even as she stood in a crowded parlour; it was a necessary skill for governesses, as expected as a facility for French or geography. Yet today it seemed as if her practised governess’s mask had vanished, leaving her more transparent and vulnerable than she’d felt in years.
‘I—I wished to be alone,’ she said, raising her chin in a brave if false show. ‘It was by my choice that I came here.’
He raised a sceptical brow. ‘Forgive me if I do not believe you, Miss Wood, and forgive me again if I bear you off to a warmer place so we might discern the truth together, yes?’
For once she didn’t argue for her independence, but let him lead her meekly across the piazza, away from San Marco’s and towards the row of chocolate shops that promised warm comfort. They were carried into the nearest shop on a final gust of wind, and shown at once to one of the intimate little half-rooms that were a feature of Venetian chocolate houses.
The first time Jane had come here with the signor, she’d been wary, not only because of the privacy of their table, hidden away behind a red curtain, but also for the sheer sensuous display: the plush-covered benches, the delicately wrought spoons and forks, the porcelain cups painted with twisting Turkish designs. But by the end of that first cup of chocolate—and the plate of fine-sliced ham that she’d been introduced to by di Rossi—she’d come to realise that dining like this was simply one more way that things were done differently in Venice than in London.
Now she drew off her cold-stiffened gloves and wrapped her fingers around the steaming cup as soon as it was set before her. Not only could she feel the warmth in her hands, but the bitter-sweet fragrance of the chocolate curled enticingly around her nose as well. She closed her eyes to enjoy it further, letting the sensations calm her. This was the kind of peace she’d tried to share with the duke when she’d shown him a Venetian breakfast this morning, and, oh, how wrongly he’d interpreted her offering!
‘It is Aston who has vexed you, hasn’t he?’ di Rossi asked, his voice soft as a cat’s purr. ‘Doubtless he is the cause of your distress.’
Her eyes flew open. His dark eyes were so intent upon her that she almost felt his gaze upon her skin, as palpable as the warm porcelain in her hand.
‘Tell me, cara,’ he said, urging her to find solace in confidence. ‘It will ease your unhappiness. Tell me all.’
She looked down at her cup and shook her head. Since she’d left home to take her first position at eighteen, she’d been on her own, and along the way she’d almost forgotten how to share her thoughts and worries with another. Governesses were supposed to be like that, pillars of well-starched strength to support the woes of their charges and offer endless consolation, but to neither seek nor expect any in return. Governesses weren’t permitted to have inappropriate emotions or sorrows of their own. Even when her father had died, she’d taken only a week away from Aston Hall to tend to his last affairs, and when she’d returned, it had been as if she’d never left.
All of which was likely why his Grace had been able to disrupt her so thoroughly today, asking her about herself. Because his interest was so unexpected, she’d been unprepared to deflect it.
‘You’re silent.’ Di Rossi sighed, and smiled without parting his lips. Their table was away from any windows, and though it was mid-day, the candlesticks were lit, and the pale golden light turned his face to ivory. ‘To keep your suffering locked tight within your heart where it will only grow and fester—ah, that is not good.’
‘I’m not suffering,’ she said quickly, so quickly that the denial sounded false even to her own ears. ‘Not at all. I was…discomfited, yes, but I was not suffering.’
He tipped his head to one side and waved his hand through the air with elegant dismissal. ‘Forgive me if I do not believe you, cara. Philosophers claim that the eyes are the windows to the soul, and through yours I can see your pain.’
‘You are mistaken, signor.’ Swiftly she looked down at the steaming cup before her, fearing that she’d somehow betrayed herself.
‘You need not deny it for my sake,’ he said gently. ‘You know you might confide in me.’
Again she shook her head, overwhelmed by his kindness. How was it that this man, who had only known her a handful of weeks, seemed to be more sensitive, more aware of her feelings, than the duke, in whose house she’d lived for years?
‘Now these are exactly what you need,’ di Rossi said as a waiter set a plate of sugar-dusted biscuits between them. He took one of the wafers and broke it in two, sending a dusting of sugar like snow across the table. ‘There’s nothing like pleasing the palate to help relieve the soul. Open, open that pretty mouth of yours, cara.’
He smiled and held the half-biscuit across the table to her like an offering. She could smell the browned butter of the fresh-baked sweet, so close beneath her nose, and the hint of the anise that flavoured it. She knew he expected her to play her part of the game, just as she had earlier with the duke. Instead she took the biscuit from di Rossi’s fingers and slipped it into her mouth herself.
Surprised by her reaction, he sat back in his chair. ‘So that is how it is to be, eh? As soon as you are again in the company of an Englishman, you are once again the properly suspicious Englishwoman?’
‘The Duke of Aston is no ordinary Englishman,’ Jane said defensively. ‘He is a peer of the realm.’
‘In your England, he is,’ the signor said, giving his shoulders a shrug of indifference. ‘But Venice is a republic, and titles hold no meaning
or worth. Here, this fearsome peer of yours is simply one more gentleman.’
‘That’s not true,’ Jane said swiftly. ‘Not at all. His Grace remains his Grace, no matter what other places he might visit away from England.’
‘So he shall for ever be a duke, a peer, your master, and you likewise are doomed to be no more than a governess in his employ?’
She hesitated. That was in fact what she believed, or rather, what she’d never questioned.
‘It is,’ she said finally. ‘That is proper, the way it should be.’
He sighed, his dark eyes troubled as he studied her. ‘You disappoint me, Miss Wood. I’d thought that Venice had changed you. I thought that you now saw yourself as a woman first, full of the loveliness and grace of a moonstruck Diana, and not some lowly drab of an English servant.’
‘Signor di Rossi!’ she exclaimed, startled. ‘You should not say such things! It is—it’s bold, and it’s not right.’
‘In Venice, it is.’ He leaned forwards, his gaze intent on her face. ‘You cannot chide me over this, cara. In Venice, beauty can be found everywhere one looks, from the flicker of morning light across the canal. Surely you have learned this since you have arrived here. Surely I’ve taught you that much in our rambles, yes?’
‘Yes,’ she admitted, and it was true. She loved to listen to him when he spoke to her like this, his voice as warm and golden as amber and his words flowing over her like poetry. No other man had ever spoken to her like this, describing everyday things as gloriously as if they were the treasures of some Oriental prince.
‘I understand that much,’ she said. ‘But I am not—’
‘Shush, shush, and listen,’ he scolded. ‘Venetian men are different from your English variety. In this city, beauty is a pleasure, to be enjoyed and relished, and we see no value in hiding our admiration, whether it is for a painting, a jewel, or a woman. And I see the beauty in you, Miss Wood.’
Jane flushed. Not again, she thought miserably—to be so thoughtlessly flattered by not one, but two, gentlemen in the span of a single day!
‘Please, signor, I beg of you, no more,’ she said swiftly. ‘To speak of me in the same breath as such rare beauty, to pretend that my humble self belongs—’
‘But you do,’ he insisted, placing his hand over the breast of his waistcoat to swear the truth of his words. ‘I would not say it now if it weren’t so.’
‘But idle flattery—’
‘It is neither base flattery, nor idle,’ he maintained. ‘You may not believe yourself a conventional beauty, yet I see beauty in your face. You possess an inborn grace that few other women can claim, and it gives me pleasure simply to be in your company, so that I might admire you.’
‘Please—please don’t, signor,’ Jane pleaded. ‘It is not right for you to say such things to me. With a handful of careless words, you’ll spoil our friendship.’
‘Only if you insist on being a governess first, and a woman second,’ he said. ‘An English governess, quaking in the shadow of your fearsome duke.’
He leaned across the table towards her, resting his hand beside hers. He was careful to make sure that their fingers did not touch, yet to her the intimacy was unmistakable and unbearable. Quickly she drew back her hand, folding her arms over her chest and tucking that same hand safely away.
‘Your duke has done this to you, hasn’t he?’ he asked, his voice more regretful than angry. ‘He reminded you of your place in England, and that you are his inferior. That is the reason you were alone in the Piazza, wasn’t it?’
‘I am a member of his Grace’s household,’ she said sadly. Di Rossi was right. Having his Grace here in Venice had put an end to the unreal fantasy of Venice. Seeing him was a sharp reminder that no matter how much she might have changed through this glorious experience, she’d now have to change back again. She was a governess first, and a woman second. What other choice did she have?
She bowed her head wearily. She felt more foolish now than wounded, her rational, sensible self once again subduing her sentimental heart. The duke had not meant to hurt her; she could understand that now. He was by nature a direct man, and he’d spoken directly. As dear as the memory of her long-lost sailor was to her, he had been her sweetheart and no more, while the duchess had been a much-loved wife and the mother of his two daughters.
‘Englishmen have no appreciation, no regard, for women,’ di Rossi was saying. ‘This one is not worthy of your confidence, if he would treat you with such disdain.’
‘But he didn’t,’ she said wistfully. His Grace hadn’t treated her with disdain. He’d told her how her eyes were the colour of the lilacs at Aston Hall, as pretty a compliment as she could ever imagine because it was genuine.
Her eyes were a peculiar colour, not quite blue or grey, but something in between. Her father had always likened them to pewter, which had made her feel vaguely ashamed of the colour. Lilacs were much prettier, and the lilacs near the dovecote were the prettiest she’d ever seen. Most likely they were the prettiest that his Grace had seen, too, for he steadfastly believed that everything at Aston Hall was the best to be had anywhere in Creation. He’d smiled when he’d made his observation, and she smiled now as she recalled the interest and the kindness she’d seen in his own eyes as he’d listened to her.
And no disdain, not a morsel, for all that she’d bolted away from him in tears. Now she must be the one to put matters back to rights, and pray he’d forgive her.
‘Forgive me, signor, but I must leave you,’ she said, rising from the table. ‘I thank you for your hospitality, but I must return at once to the Ca’ Battista.’
‘What is this, cara?’ he asked with surprise as he rose with her. ‘If I have misspoken, then I—’
‘You haven’t, signor, not at all,’ she said. ‘Rather, you said exactly what I needed to hear.’
Impulsively she reached for his hand and pressed it lightly, wanting him to understand how much she appreciated his concern. Then, before he could try to stop her, she hurried away, from him and from the sweet-smelling warmth of the chocolate shop, and back into the cold and towards the apology she must make.
‘The lady has gone, signor?’ The waiter frowned, standing expectantly beside the table with the pot of chocolate in his hand. ‘She is finished?’
‘So it would seem.’ Di Rossi could still see Jane as she crossed the Piazza, her small figure bobbing resolutely along. She wouldn’t come back to him, not now. He knew her well enough to realise that once she’d decided her mind, she wouldn’t change it—another unpleasant English trait, really, that stubbornness of hers.
And here he’d been sure he’d had her. He’d been her rescuing knight, and there were few things that could push a virtuous woman towards sin more successfully than gratitude. She’d been poised, ripe for him, with those plump, unpainted lips of hers parted in breathy, innocent expectation as she’d hung on his words, until—
Until he’d said the wrong thing, and lost her.
A thousand saints in Heaven, he couldn’t guess what it had been, though it wouldn’t have any lasting effect on his seduction. This would only be a temporary hindrance in his plans, the kind of delay that a philosopher would say would sweeten the inevitable conquest. He’d send her a small token tomorrow and a prettily worded billet-doux, and she’d return to him.
But the presence of this English duke was a complication he hadn’t counted upon. The man had power over Jane Wood, and clearly the conversation between them earlier in the day had gone far beyond what was customary for a governess and her master to have caused her such pain.
For a moment, di Rossi wondered if Aston had already claimed her maidenhead, and immediately discarded the notion. He was sure his little English dove was still a virgin: her air of innocence was unmistakable. The duke might desire her as well, but he hadn’t taken her.
That, inevitably and most pleasurably, would fall to di Rossi, and with a smile of anticipation, he tossed a handful of coins on to the table, and left
.
Chapter Nine
‘You’re not Miss Wood.’ Richard set down the book he’d been pretending to read with a thump on the desk. ‘Damnation, Wilson, where is she?’
‘Beggin’ pardon, your Grace, but how the devil should I know where’s Miss Wood’s taken herself?’ Wilson set the tray with Richard’s coffee on the desk beside him, managing to convey his cross-tempered indignation with every movement. ‘The foreign lady what keeps this house—that Mrs Battista—says she’ll send Miss Wood up directly when she returns.’
‘When she returns,’ muttered Richard darkly. ‘More likely if she returns. I should never have let her go, not into this ridiculously confusing city. By now she could have drowned, or been ravished, or murdered outright by one of these rascally Venetians—’
‘Beggin’ pardon, your Grace, but Mrs Battista says Venice is safe as can be during the day,’ interrupted Wilson. ‘Mrs Battista says Miss Wood knows her way about same as folks who’ve lived here all their lives, and that Miss Wood’s likely looking about at old churches and such, same as she was with you. Mrs Battista says that she’ll come back here whenever she’s ready and—’
‘No more “Mrs Battista”, Wilson,’ said Richard, turning away to stare out the window with the empty hope that he’d see Jane Wood returning. He didn’t care how familiar she’d become with this city. She was a small, vulnerable Englishwoman alone among strangers, and his imagination was providing every manner of hideous perils for her to tumble into.
‘Not another blessed word, mind?’ he continued, clasping and unclasping his hands behind his back. ‘It’s only Miss Wood I care about, not the opinions of some foreign lady whom I can scarce understand.’
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