The Duke's Governess Bride (14 page)

‘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

I
t 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.

‘No,’ she said, and she meant it. There had been times when di Rossi’s interest had seemed more intense than was perhaps necessary, enough that she had felt discomfited by it. But now, reconsidering, she believed it had been nothing more than the difference between the customs of their two nations, the difference between what was proper address for a Venetian gentleman and what was expected by an English gentlewoman. Truly, she doubted di Rossi meant any more than that, and never the way that Richard so clearly did now.

‘No,’ she repeated with more emphasis, wanting to reassure him. She rested her hands on his shoulders, loving the strength she felt in his broad muscles and bones. ‘This invitation is no more than a cordial offer between acquaintances.’

‘Good.’ He relaxed, and smiled, the tension easing in him beneath her palms. ‘Can you fault me for wanting to keep you all to myself, Jane?’

‘No,’ she whispered, daring for the first time to speak the truth of her heart, ‘because that is how I wish to keep you as well.’

‘Then you’ll have your wish,’ he said, and when he kissed her, she knew that he meant every word.

Chapter Fifteen

A
s was usual at the Teatro San Samuele, the orchestra began dolefully playing the first overtures to a half-empty house. It didn’t matter that nearly every ticket had been sold, as was also usual as well. No one of any importance ever arrived before the first act was done, and some not until the second.

Which made di Rossi’s appearance, sitting alone in his box, all the more painful for him to bear.

He sat to the back of the box, away from the bright chandeliers that were meant to light the ladies and their jewels, more important than anything that might happen on the stage. He had not yet shed his dark cloak, and, as was customary for Venetian gentlemen who preferred fashionable anonymity for evening, he’d kept his black cocked hat and his white half-mask tied over his face, too. He’d look no different from scores of others, always the point of such dress, even if there were anyone here to see him in the first place. But here di Rossi was, and here he was determined to stay, waiting for the appearance of his little English governess.

Idly he watched the boxes around him slowly begin to fill. He’d come early because he’d suspected that Jane Wood, too, would arrive then. Promptness, however unnecessary, struck him as an English trait, especially for an oafish English duke.

He sighed, more resigned than impatient. He would wait here as long as was necessary, until Miss Wood and her noble master deigned to show themselves in the box across from his. He had never expected this duke to debase himself to this extent, choosing to appear so publicly with his daughters’ governess. For a nobleman to be seen at the theatre with a mistress or other famous beauty would be one thing, but to go about with one of his own household on his arm was unfathomable. Female servants could provide a certain amusement, but they were no more than a passing novelty, to be soon replaced and forgotten, not honoured with public favour and regard. Perhaps such arrangements were common in England, but here in Venice, it was simply ridiculous.

Of course, di Rossi realised the irony of such a judgement, when he himself had been hoping to accompany the governess himself to this same play. But the sweet-faced governess was not a member of
his
household, and therefore fair game—a nicety, yes, but a one of the ways in which he differed from the duke. He trusted there were a good many more.

Di Rossi had yet to view the Englishman, let alone make his acquaintance, but he was already certain he’d find him wanting. While the poor tender creature must be dazzled, even besotted, by her master’s attention, di Rossi was quite sure he could make her see every one of the duke’s imperfections, especially when compared to di Rossi himself. Truly, what better way than this for her to observe the two of them side by side, here at the theatre?

With a weary sigh, di Rossi brushed an infinitesimal speck of lint from his sleeve. This intrusion by the duke had presented an unexpected delay in his seduction, but that was all it was: a delay. The first fury he’d felt when he’d received her rejection to his invitation earlier today had passed. He smiled, considering all the delicious possibilities ahead, much like a gourmet pausing at the doorway of a sumptuous feast. Philosophers claimed that anticipation, coupled with perseverance, only served to crown the ultimate achievement. If that were true, then the sensual rapture he’d find when at last he claimed the maidenhead of the virtuous Miss Wood would make for a rare conquest indeed.

Ahh, then—then the waiting would be worth every minute.

‘Our box must be along here, Richard,’ Jane said eagerly as the usher led them along the curving row of panelled doors. ‘Oh, I hope we’re not too late!’

‘It’s a playhouse, sweet,’ Richard said. ‘Plays and players never begin on time. You know that.’

‘How could I, when this is the first play I’ve ever attended?’ she asked. ‘That is, the first in a proper theatre. I’d hoped to go in Paris with the young ladies, but we were there in the wrong season. In Rome, we attended the opera, but never the theatre. I’ve seen the travelling companies when they put on a play in the ballroom at the inn in Aston, but I’ve never attended one like this.’

‘None?’ he asked, surprised. ‘Surely in London—’

‘But I’ve only been to London twice in my life,’ she said, ‘and even then not for play-going, but to attend to my father’s business affairs.’

‘Not after that?’ he asked. ‘Not once for pleasure?’

She shrugged shyly, and rubbed her new muff against her cheek.

‘I’ve always stayed at Aston with the young ladies,’ she said. ‘You were quite firm in your determination that they remain in the country until they were ready to be presented. Not that I’m complaining, mind—for I do believe the young ladies were much better served by remaining at home—only explaining why this truly is my first play.’

‘Then I hope this night will meet your expectations.’ He squeezed her hand gently. She might not have been complaining, but he none the less felt guilty for all the amusements she’d missed in London because of her loyalty to his wishes. He knew he didn’t owe her anything for any of the past necessities of her life; to be honest, compared to the lives of many women left without means, Jane had provided well for herself. Yet he couldn’t help but want to make things better for her, and show her whatever she’d missed, even spoil her. ‘No, I’ll hope this exceeds them, and proves better than whatever you’ve imagined.’

‘Oh, I am certain of that,’ she said fervently. ‘How could it not?’

Richard laughed. ‘I suppose that will depend on what exactly you’ve imagined.’

The usher finally stopped before a door, unlocked it and, with a flourishing bow, opened it for them to enter. She hurried inside while Richard pressed a coin into the usher’s hand. When he joined her, she was standing at the very front of the box with her hands pressed together in wonder.

‘Look, Richard,’ she whispered over the music.
‘Look.’

He didn’t know how exactly she had imagined the theatre would be, but even he would grant that this one was a fine sight to see, a fine sight indeed. All the boxes of the Teatro San Samuele were so elaborately carved and decorated that they appeared to undulate around the inside of the theatre. The woodwork was painted a creamy white with painted garlands of flowers, and picked out with gold. More gold covered the arches that supported the ceiling, which in turn was painted a midnight blue, and spangled with glittering stars like the sky overhead. Everything was lit by long tapers, perhaps four feet high, held out from the boxes by curving wrought-iron supports.

‘Isn’t it the most beautiful place?’ Jane sighed, her eyes as wide as a child’s. ‘Truly you can see the exuberance of the Venetian spirit evident in the basilica, here transformed into secular display.’

‘Jane, Jane,’ he said softly. ‘Can’t you just say it looks like a fairy bower or some such?’

She turned back to him and grinned. ‘Very well, then. It’s as pretty as the queen of the fairies on midsummer night. Will that do?’

‘Scamp,’ he said. ‘Here now, Miss Fairy Queen, come light on your throne beside me.’

She laughed and sat in the chair he’d offered, perching on the very edge so she could still lean forwards to watch everything on the stage, and in the theatre around them.

‘I’ve always heard that the most interesting performers are to be found in the audience, not the actors or actresses,’ she said, ‘and surely here in Venice that would seem true. Oh, goodness, I’ve never seen such jewels and gowns!’

But Richard was admiring the neat line of her back and the curve of her hips as she leaned forwards. Among so many peacocks, her untrimmed dark-blue worsted gown seemed like the plainest of serviceable plumage. It suited her, though, just as the neatly twisted coil of her hair suited her, too, and yet he couldn’t help but imagine her beauty displayed to a better advantage in a gown that flattered her figure, rather than shrouding it away.

‘We should have bought you some finery, too, Jane,’ he said. ‘You could have chosen whatever you pleased from the shops yesterday, you know.’

She twisted around to look at him. ‘That would be generous of you, Richard, as you always are,’ she said slowly. ‘But what would be the purpose?’

‘Why, to please you,’ he said, for to him it seemed an obvious answer. ‘I’m not ashamed of you as you are, so don’t go thinking of that. I thought you’d like a bit of finery of your own. Every female likes a new gown, at least all the ones in my family do.’

She shook her head. ‘For the young ladies, yes, that is true, but not for me. Not for a governess.’

‘But you’re no longer my daughters’ governess,’ he protested. ‘Tonight you’re with me, as my friend.’

‘That I am,’ she agreed. Her smile was gentle and bitter-sweet, as if she understood what he never would. ‘Goodness, look at that lady with the small dog in her lap! I vow I’ve never seen so small a dog with such outsized ears.’

Purposefully she turned her back to him, and on his offer of new clothes. So much for day by day, he thought glumly, at least by his lights. If this was her version of it, then he’d no choice but to agree.

‘Who sees the dog, when the lady’s hiding behind one of those infernal masks,’ he grumbled, venting his disappointment on the unknown lady three boxes away. ‘God only knows why anyone wears those ridiculous things.’

‘It’s the custom of Venice,’ Jane said, ‘to play at masquerade every night and hide one’s true identity. And, of course, it’s the beginning of Carnevale, and then everyone wears fanciful costumes and no one is who they seem.’

Richard grunted, still unhappy. ‘Queer sort of custom.’

‘But one that’s said to be most useful for conducting intrigues,’ Jane said earnestly. ‘Those, too, are much the custom here.’

‘Most likely you’re right,’ Richard said. He slipped his arm around her shoulders to draw her closer against him; she could hardly protest about that. ‘Though you and I aren’t husband and wife, we’re not hiding ourselves behind long-nosed masks.’

‘No,’ Jane admitted. ‘But then, we’re English, as everyone has most likely guessed as well.’

‘A good thing, too.’ He pulled her closer still, and with a contented sigh, she nestled her head against his shoulder. ‘Rule Britannia.’

‘And God save the King,’ she said, laughing softly, her hand curling around his arm. ‘Huzzah, huzzah.’

As if arranged, the orchestra began a loud trumpet fanfare, and a handsome actor in a purple cape appeared, bowing grandly, and began to speak the prologue of the play. The rest of the audience, who naturally could understand him with ease, laughed appreciatively at his jests, and applauded when he was joined on the stage by two actresses, one a fair young maiden, and an older one clearly meant to stand in the way of young love.

Richard sighed. Although he didn’t understand more than a word or two, he’d no doubt it was all exactly the same nonsense that Drury Lane trotted out every Season. Yet for Jane’s sake, he’d manfully suffer through far worse than this, and take his own private enjoyment from simply having her beside him. After all, where else could he be and have her head resting on his shoulder and his arm around her waist?

‘Richard,’ she whispered at the end of the scene, ‘tell me true. This play makes no sense to you, does it?’

‘None at all,’ he confessed. ‘But so long as you’re finding pleasure in it, why then—’

‘I cannot decipher any of it, either,’ she confessed. ‘Oh, Richard, I feel so foolish after begging to come tonight, but the accents are far beyond me.’

‘You didn’t beg, sweet,’ he said. ‘I offered to bring you. But there’s no need to feel foolish. There are, you know, other ways to entertain ourselves here at a playhouse, ways that are common enough.’

She tipped her head warily to one side. ‘I won’t throw fruit at the poor players, if that’s what you’ll suggest.’

He laughed, and took her hand as he led her to the last row of chairs. ‘Here, come with me to the back of the box.’

‘But we can’t see anything from back there,’ she protested, even as she willingly joined him.

‘No, and no one will be able to see us, either,’ he said. ‘Consider the other boxes around us, and how few of those gentlemen and ladies you were regarding a few moments ago remain in their places to the front.’

‘Where have they gone, I wonder?’ she asked innocently. ‘Surely they would not have left, given that the play’s scarce begun.’

‘They’ve not come to the playhouse for the play, Jane,’ he said. ‘They’re here to make agreeable use of these pleasing shadows here to the back of their boxes.’

She realised the truth and her eyes widened, and to his relief, she laughed, gleefully covering her mouth with her hand. ‘All those erring wives and husbands! Oh, Richard, how wicked of them!’

‘Wicked of us, too,’ he said, ‘if you wish it.’

He smiled slowly, challenging her. Over these last days, he’d learned exactly how brave Miss Jane Wood could be, and how, for all her outward primness, she didn’t like to back down. He was counting on that now.

‘Day by day, Janie,’ he said, his voice a rough whisper of enticement. ‘But only if you wish it that way.’

She lowered her eyes, an unexpectedly seductive glance.

‘I wish it,’ she said. ‘And you do, too, you wicked rogue.’

To his delight, she bunched her skirts in her hands and clambered on to his lap, finally looping her arms around his shoulders.