The Duke's Governess Bride

by Miranda Jarrett

  ‘I’ve never seen so many fine things gathered in so many shops, and I can’t begin to guess at what the keeps will ask,’ Jane warned.

  ‘Then it’s past time we entered one of them and found out for ourselves,’ Richard said heartily. ‘Besides, I can feel how cold your little fingers are inside those pitiful gloves of yours. Best I take you inside before you turn into an icicle yourself.’

  ‘Oh, Richard, please,’ she scoffed, wrinkling her cold-reddened nose. ‘You worry entirely too much about how cold I am.’

  ‘Why shouldn’t I?’ he said, guiding her towards the nearest shop, where a bowing clerk was already holding the door open for them. ‘Considering how agreeably you warm us both, I’d be a fool not to.’

  ‘You’re a wicked gentleman, your Grace,’ she scolded with mock sternness as she slipped back her hood. ‘Possibly the wickedest gentleman I’ve ever had the honour to, ah, to warm.’

  He laughed with her, and was laughing still when the shop’s owner stepped forwards, bowing so low over his bent leg that the tail of his beribboned queue flipped forwards over his head. Clearly the man must have overhead Jane use his title, thought Richard with wry amusement. No matter how much the Venetians pretended to scorn nobility for the sake of their dear republic, they still flocked to scrape over foreign titles like ravens in a cornfield after harvest.

  ‘We are deeply honoured by your custom, your Grace,’ the man said in careful, accented English. ‘We are the humble servants to the desires of your Grace and her Grace.’

  Beside Richard, Jane caught her breath. ‘Thank you, signor,’ she said swiftly in Italian, determined not to let the man’s error stand, or to take advantage of it. ‘But I am only his Grace’s friend, not wife.’

  ‘A thousand apologies!’ the owner stammered and flushed a mortified purple. ‘I did not know, signora, I did not understand, I did not—’

  ‘Please, it’s of no consequence,’ Jane said, her kindness intended to ease the man’s shame. ‘I’d rather you tell me more of this lady’s pocket-glass.’

  She pointed to an arrangement of engraved sterling and tortoise-shell combs, brushes and other pieces for an elegant dressing-table, and at once the relieved owner launched into a torrent of description of the mirror’s virtues.

  ‘What all is the fellow saying?’ Richard whispered in English, uneasy with a conversation that he could barely follow. ‘You haven’t bartered your soul away for some bauble, have you?’

  ‘Oh, no,’ she answered, nodding encouragingly at the owner as he brought out more combs from behind the counter. ‘I offered him yours in return for that hairbrush.’

  ‘Indeed.’ He studied the brush, running his fingers lightly over the polished silver oval on the handle left plain for the new owner’s monogram to be engraved. ‘Diana would like this, I think. Ever since she learned her letters, she’s fancied things with her initials on them.’

  He remembered how, as a golden-haired little girl, Diana would climb on his knee to reach his desk, and with the greatest concentration and a wobbling pen spell out her name.

  ‘Yes,’ he said softly. ‘This for Diana. Engraved with her mark, of course.’

  ‘That’s a lovely, thoughtful gift, Richard,’ Jane said, and from the look in her eyes he was sure she understood its significance to him. ‘Each time she brushes her hair, she’ll think of you.’

  With a touch of the old melancholy, he smiled at how transparent his thoughts must be to her. ‘Tell the fellow that I’ll take the entire lot if he can have it ready by next week.’

  ‘All of it?’ Jane asked with surprise. Hoping to tempt them to a larger purchase, the shop’s owner had been arranging other pieces that matched the brush across a length of black velvet spread over the counter, at least a dozen pieces to the full ensemble. ‘It’s very dear, you know, even for your generous spirit. It could well cost you your soul by the time the final reckoning’s done.’

  ‘Not too dear for my daughter,’ he said firmly. ‘Make sure he has the proper letters engraved—DF for Diana Farren. Then we’ll find something for Mary, too— perhaps those cameos we saw in the other window.’

  ‘Oh, Richard.’ She lay her hand over his. ‘Remember Diana’s wed now, and you must make the gift proper for a new bride. It’s her new initials that should be engraved—DFR, with the R for Randolph.’

  ‘I hadn’t forgotten,’ he said automatically, but the truth was that he had forgotten, or more precisely, he’d chosen to forget. He felt like a doddering fool before Jane. ‘Damnation, Jane. Have the whole blasted alphabet engraved on the thing for all I care.’

  ‘But you do care, Richard, and so will Diana,’ Jane said. ‘It worried her greatly that you would be angry and refuse to accept his lordship as her husband. But in the end she trusted that you loved her enough to forgive her, and in time would come to respect and to love Lord Anthony as a son.’

  ‘I’ve never met the man, Jane,’ Richard grumbled, admitting only the least troubling of his concerns. ‘How can I respect the rascal after he seduced my daughter?’

  ‘You will meet him soon enough,’ Jane said, the pressure of her hand over his increasing for emphasis. ‘And you’ll like him, too, I am sure.’

  ‘You’re always sure of everything, Jane,’ he said gruffly. She knew his girls so well, better, really, than he did himself.

  ‘Oh, hardly,’ she said, and smiled. ‘They say that girls will give their hearts to men who in some fashion remind them of their fathers, and I do believe both the young ladies found men with a share of your best qualities. Not all of them, mind you, but a share.’

  The owner hovered over the counter, waiting to learn the fate of the dressing set. Richard sighed, and glanced down at all the silver and tortoise shell.

  ‘Tell him I’ll take the whole set,’ Richard said, ‘and that he should mark it with my daughter’s new monogram. That’s a fit gift for a new bride, eh?’

  ‘Yes.’ Jane reached up and kissed his cheek, quickly, so that he’d know how she’d felt, but so that it wouldn’t cause a fuss in the shop. ‘And thank you.’

  ‘Thank you, my dear,’ he said, and, throwing restraint to the winds, kissed her in return. Not on the cheek, but on the mouth, and he didn’t care who saw it.

  ‘Richard!’ she exclaimed afterwards, her voice squeaking upwards. Her cheeks were flushed, but from the pleasure of kissing him rather than embarrassment, and he decided she’d never looked more charming to him. ‘You surprise me!’

  ‘Then we’re even,’ he said, ‘considering how often you do the same to me. Now let’s find something for my Mary, and then, if you’ll guide me, a few small things for those young rogues they wed.’

  Chapter Fourteen

  It took them the rest of the afternoon and visits to a half-dozen more shops before they were done, yet Richard couldn’t recall having enjoyed himself more thoroughly. It was all due to Jane, and he’d give her full credit for it. Jane’s company, Jane’s humour, Jane’s taste, Jane’s thoughtfulness when it came to helping him choose gifts for his daughters, and his new sons-in-law as well.

  For Mary, who loved old things and the antique world as much as Jane did herself, they found a gold necklace and earrings set with classical cameos. For Mary’s husband John, who was a collector and connoisseur of fine paintings and art, a small bronze statue of a plunging horse. And for Diana’s Anthony, who liked to ride and hunt, an elegant fowling piece with a stock of curly maple, inlaid with a pattern of brass-wire flourishes.

  By the time they were done, the short winter day had faded into early twilight. The shopkeepers had lit the lanterns outside their doors, and the bow windows themselves, lit from within, seemed to glow like larger lanterns themselves. Unlike in England, where most shops closed in the late afternoon, the narrow streets of the Mercerie remained crowded, the patrons merry and laughing, the way it seemed Venetians did most everything.

  ‘We should return home soon,’ Jane said, looking up beyond the overhanging rooftops to the
narrow slip of starlit night beyond. ‘Signora della Battista will wonder what’s become of us.’

  ‘Let her wonder,’ Richard said. ‘We’ve one more stop to make.’

  He’d purposefully saved the best for last, or so he hoped it would be for Jane. It certainly would be for him.

  The furrier’s shop offered countless suggestions for a wealthy lady to keep away the damp chill of the canals, from squirrel-trimmed slippers to a magnificent gold-embroidered cloak lined completely in sable, worthy of the Doge himself.

  ‘I hope the young ladies have one of these as they travel,’ Jane said as she stroked the soft fur lining a rich carriage blanket. ‘This, and a box of coals at their feet and their husbands beside them. What a luxurious way to keep oneself warm!’

  But Richard had happily found a clerk who spoke enough English to make himself understood. The woman had nodded and disappeared into the back room to hunt for his request.

  ‘What now, Richard?’ Jane asked as she joined him. ‘Surely even you have reached the limit of your generosity for one day.’

  ‘Not quite,’ he said as the clerk retuned with a flat box, draped over with a linen cloth. She set the box on the counter and lifted the cloth with a theatrical flair.

  ‘That’s it,’ Richard said, smiling with approval as the woman lifted a barrel-shaped muff from the box. ‘That’s it exactly. What do you think, Jane?’

  ‘I think it’s very beautiful,’ she said, her voice full of admiration and a bit of awe.

  All the better for his surprise, thought Richard, his anticipation growing. ‘Go ahead and slip your hands inside,’ he urged. ‘Try it.’

  She hesitated only an instant before taking the muff from the clerk and putting her own hands inside. It wasn’t as outrageously oversize as some of the muffs he’d seen on fashionable ladies strolling in the London parks. Instead this one was exactly the right size to cover a lady’s hands and forearms, and made of a dark, elegant, silky fur that put velvet to shame. It was quietly luxurious and in exquisite, elegant taste, the perfect choice for a woman who was herself quietly elegant.

  Her hands buried deep inside the muff, Jane grinned, and rubbed her cheek against the soft fur with such unabashed pleasure that Richard couldn’t help but smile in return.

  ‘What fur is it?’ he asked the clerk, but without looking away from Jane’s delighted face. ‘What beast, eh?’

  ‘Castoro della Nuova Francia, your Grace,’ the woman said. ‘Very fine, very elegant. Bellissima!’

  ‘That’s beaver,’ Jane said, ever helpful. ‘From the wilderness of New France.’

  ‘But doesn’t it sound better in their lingo?’ Richard said, teasing. ‘Castoro della Nuova Francia! Rather like that calamari of theirs. Sounds delicious, until you learn they’re trying to feed you some infernal squid.’

  She narrowed his eyes, now recognising his jesting. ‘You ate it, Richard, and enjoyed every morsel, so please don’t pretend you didn’t.’

  He laughed. ‘You still haven’t told me if you like the muff.’

  ‘I do.’ She sighed, reluctantly pulling her hands free of the muff to return it to the shop clerk. ‘Whichever of the young ladies receives it will be pleased indeed.’

  ‘It’s not for either of my girls,’ he said softly. ‘It’s for you, Jane. To keep you warm.’

  She gasped, and stared down at the muff. ‘But—but—oh, Richard, this is too much!’

  ‘Not for you,’ he said, taking her into his arms. ‘Never too much for my own dear Jane.’

  Overwhelmed with emotion, she buried her face against Richard’s shoulder, the muff still clutched tightly in one hand. Yet without a word from her, he knew he’d never in his life made anyone happier with a gift, nor himself so happy in return.

  ‘The lady’s satisfied,’ he said over Jane’s quaking shoulders to the clerk. ‘We’ll take it.’

  It was late, very late, by the time Jane and Richard finished their supper and returned to the Ca’ Batistta, with Richard’s arm around Jane’s waist and her own arms cradling the lovely new muff. It had instantly become her most precious possession, and not because of its intrinsic value, either. Though Jane appreciated things of beauty and artistry, she didn’t value them for their cost.

  No, for her the little muff was worth treasuring because it had come from Richard, his first gift to her, and one chosen with much care and significance special to her. No matter what else happened between them, she knew she’d always have this token from him. Each time she slipped her hands into the silky interior, she’d remember how they jested about keeping one another warm, and how, too, they’d acted upon those jests. But most of all she’d remember Richard, and how, for these handful of bright winter days in Venice, he’d made her feel like the most special woman under heaven.

  ‘Damnation, but it’s as cold in here as it is on the water,’ Richard was saying as the porter shut the door behind them. ‘Don’t know why the good signora doesn’t have one of those kachelofens here in her front hall, just to be more welcoming.’

  Jane smiled, not because the notion of kachelofens here at the foot of the stairs was so preposterous, but because she was so happy. She pressed more closely into Richard’s arm, relishing the warmth of his body against hers.

  Belatedly one of the signora’s footmen came hurrying down the steps to greet them. The man’s livery coat was buttoned crookedly and his wig askew, proof enough that she and Richard had once again been out late enough to disturb the house’s routine.

  ‘Good evening, your Grace, Miss Wood,’ he said in stiff, newly learned English. ‘Please to dine now, yes? To table, yes?’

  ‘No, no, we’re still stuffed as peahens from supper,’ Richard said, patting the front of his waistcoat by way of demonstration. ‘Please, Jane, help me. Tell the poor fellow we’ve no need of anything more this night, and that he should pack off to his bed.’

  Quickly Jane did exactly that in Italian, adding her own apology for keeping the staff awake. Relieved, the footman nodded, stifling a yawn.

  ‘The signora had us bank the fires for the night in your rooms, miss,’ he said. ‘If you wish me to build the fire in his Grace’s bedchamber, I would be happy to—’

  ‘Thank you, no,’ said Jane, her cheeks flaming. She told herself that the man was merely being practical, especially as a Venetian, and acting on what he saw without judging her, yet she couldn’t help but feel shamed by his offer. Building the fire back to life for them in Richard’s bedchamber could only mean one thing. As much as she was coming to care for Richard, she wasn’t ready to share his bed. She thought of it, thought of it often; she couldn’t deny it. But she still wasn’t sure she’d take such a momentous step, no matter how dear Richard was to her. Two weeks—oh, two weeks couldn’t possibly be enough time to make that decision.

  ‘Thank you, that won’t be necessary,’ she said, nodding to the footman to dismiss him. ‘You may go.’

  ‘What’s the fellow about, Jane?’ Richard asked suspiciously. ‘‘Camera da letto’ means bedchamber. What is he asking you?’

  ‘Only if we wished to have the fires fanned in our rooms before we went to sleep,’ she said, very nearly the truth, but far enough from it that she flushed again with guilty misery. She glanced at the footman again. ‘Thank you, you may go.’

  ‘This came for you, Miss Wood, while you were out.’ The footman handed her a sealed letter on a small charger, bowed. ‘Good night, Your Grace, Miss Wood.’

  ‘What the devil is that, Jane?’ Richard asked jovially as the footman left them. ‘You’re not receiving billets-doux from another, are you?’

  ‘It’s from Signor Rinaldini di Rossi,’ she said, ‘and it most assuredly will not be a billet-doux. He is a worthy gentleman of this place, much respected for his collection of pictures and his knowledge of Old Master painters. You should recognise his name. We brought a letter of introduction to him.’

  ‘Potter assembled those letters, not I,’ Richard admitted. ‘He made all the
arrangements for your tour. I wouldn’t know di Rossi from Adam himself. A collector of pictures—a dry old stick, then?’

  ‘He’s a model Venetian gentleman, full of charm and grace,’ Jane said absently, scanning the signor’s impeccably composed letter. ‘Oh, how kind of him! He’s inviting me to come to the theatre as his guest.’

  ‘I’ve a better notion,’ Richard said easily. ‘Come to the theatre with me as my guest, and then you can introduce this charming gentleman to me in between acts.’

  She looked up, startled. His expression hadn’t outwardly changed, his half-smile still reflecting his enjoyment in their day together. But there was a new resolve to his eyes that she hadn’t seen before, a hint of steely forcefulness that was new to her. It took her only a moment to realise what it meant, but when she did, she grinned with giddy wonder in return.

  ‘You’re jealous,’ she said softly. ‘You, Richard, are jealous of a man you never so much as guessed existed not five minutes ago.’

  ‘I am jealous, yes,’ he said, circling her waist with his arm.

  ‘You’ve no reason to be,’ she said, delighting in the novelty of her situation. This was an entirely new experience for her. No other gentleman in her life had ever cared enough for her to be jealous, yet it wasn’t the power of it that she enjoyed, but the caring. ‘Signor di Rossi has been an excellent guide and friend to me while I have been here, alone in a foreign city.’

  ‘And no more?’ asked Richard, exaggerating his question to soften his concern, but Jane wasn’t fooled. He cared, cared desperately.