A Most Unconventional Courtship

by Louise Allen

‘Kyria Agatha speaks only Greek,’ Alessa explained. ‘Would you like some more wine?’

  When they finished the meal she pressed Chance back into his seat again and cleared the table with the help of Kate and the children. They vanished inside, leaving him alone with Agatha. Chance ventured a smile, forcibly reminded of the dowager Lady Lakenheath at her most formidable. He had a sudden weird vision of both old ladies at Almack’s and kept a straight face with an effort.

  The old woman adjusted her head scarf with a flick of one hand, straightened up and regarded him with intelligent, inimical, black eyes. ‘If you hurt my child, I will make you sorry you ever came to Kérkyra, lord.’

  For a moment Chance thought she had spoken in Greek and that by some miracle he had translated it instantly, then he realised that she had addressed him in perfect, if heavily accented, English.

  ‘I would not dream of it,’ he retorted, shaken out of his poise by her attack.

  ‘Pah. You think you love her? It is easy for men to love, to forget and to love again. You are all the same. For women, not so easy. So I warn you, English lord, so you know I watch you.’

  ‘I do not love her,’ Chance denied, wondering even as he said it if it was a lie. ‘And I will not hurt her. I just want to help her find her own people again. And I thought you did not understand English.’

  The only answer he got was a cackle and one wrinkled eyelid dropping in a wink. When Alessa reappeared Agatha was sitting back in her chair, eyes closed, apparently asleep, and Chance was flicking olive pits at the chickens, who chased them hopefully.

  Alessa leaned against the olive tree and watched. The tall man in the sailor’s clothes leaning back at his ease on the bench next to the sleeping old woman—they made an incongruous pair. However he was dressed, however tousled and salt-sticky his hair, Chance looked like the English gentleman he was. Agatha looked as though she had grown out of the rocky soil.

  She was in love with him, there was no denying it, however hard she tried. She had struggled with her feelings, even as she worked with the children and Kate to clear up the meal, telling her friend about some little item of local gossip, daring her with her eyes to say anything about Chance in front of the children.

  At first her startled mind told her this certainty was simply a physical reaction, and the extraordinary way she felt was only her response to her first real sexual experience. But as the minutes passed she knew it was not just that. There was excitement, a strange quivering ache deep inside her, a frightening awareness of her whole body. But there was also a feeling of tenderness and yearning that made her want to go and touch him, hold him, feel his breath against her skin, feel his heart against hers, and never, ever, let him go.

  Alessa folded her hands tightly together and walked up to the table. Chance tipped back his head and smiled lazily up at her and all her doubts vanished. She could have stood there all day, locked in that warm brown gaze. The breeze caught the branches of the olive tree, flicking the leaves and scattering bright sunlight across Chance’s face. He squinted his eyes against it and the trance was broken.

  Time to face reality. ‘Chance—will you tell me about this lady? About my aunt?’ How strange that sounded. Aunt.

  ‘Yes, of course.’ He sat up straight and moved along the bench to make room for her.

  ‘No, not here. In the olive grove, where we will not be disturbed.’ It was too soon to let other people know about this, and certainly too soon for the children. Later would be time enough, if Chance proved to be right and this unknown relative acknowledged her.

  Alessa took his hand without thinking and led him away, round the side of the cottage and up the hillside until they were in the strange greenish-brown shade of the olives. ‘Here.’ It was a favourite spot, a mossy bank that must, in ancient times, have formed a boundary between different owners’ plots of olives. They sat and she wriggled back against a gnarled trunk. ‘You can see the sea—look.’

  She raised her hand to point and realised it was clasped with Chance’s. Both sets of fingers were brown with sun and wind, but hers looked tiny against his. Chance let his hand rise with her gesture, then, instead of opening his fingers, he raised her hand to his lips and let them touch the back of it.

  ‘No.’ Alessa jerked her hand away. It was like the strange pricking sensation you got when you rubbed silk against glass. Papa had used to do that to make paper dolls dance for her and she used to giggle and shriek if her fingers touched the magic tingle. Now, she had no inclination to do either. ‘No,’ she repeated, this time more moderately, disentangling herself. ‘We have been imprudent enough for one day.’

  ‘Is that a promise for another day?’ he asked softly.

  She shot him a reproving look, but he was leaning back against the tree, not looking at her any more.

  ‘These olives are odd; different from the ones I have seen in Italy and France. Bigger, and the trunks look as though they are made out of ropes and net, all tangled together.’

  ‘I know.’ Alessa snatched at the neutral topic gratefully. ‘It is Venetian, I believe: nowhere else are there olives pruned like these.’

  Chance was silent for a moment, twirling a twig between his fingers. ‘We did not come here to flirt, nor to discuss olives. I wish I had handled this better, made sure of my facts before I told you anything.’

  ‘Tell me what you believe.’

  ‘Your eyes and eyebrows are very distinctive; I would guess from what I know now that you inherited them from your father.’

  Alessa nodded. ‘Papa had always referred to them as the Meredith witch-eyes. Legend has it that one of our ancestors seduced a witch and then left her. She deposited her son on his doorstep nine months later. Personally I think any self-respecting witch would have left a curse, not a baby.’

  ‘Perhaps she loved him,’ Chance speculated, suddenly turning his head and fixing her with a direct look. ‘It does happen.

  ‘Anyway, I was in the courtyard at the Residency. You had just run away and left me, and Lady Trevick arrived home with her new houseguests: Lady Blackstone and her daughter Frances. For a moment, when I saw the daughter, I thought she was you—you could be sisters. There is no mistaking the resemblance, nor yours to Lady Blackstone.

  ‘I checked the Peerage. Lady Blackstone was Honoria Meredith, the sister of the fourth Earl Hambledon—Edward Charles Meredith. And the Peerage mentions one other brother, the Honourable Alexander William Langley Meredith. There is nothing else about him—no marriage, no death. Nothing. But I remembered you told me your real name was Alexandra. On the beach you told me your father’s name—it cannot be a coincidence.’

  ‘No.’ How strange I should feel like this—numb. Not afraid, not happy, just numb. ‘No, it cannot be coincidence. Chance, she will not want to acknowledge me.’

  ‘I think she may be here to look for you. She is travelling to meet her husband in Venice, but this is by no means the logical route for her to take. In fact, it is positively perverse. When I probed she became evasive, but Lady Trevick let drop that she thinks Lady Blackstone has family connections with the island.’

  ‘Why should she search for me?’ Alessa heard the bitterness in her voice and suppressed it. ‘After Mama died Papa wrote to his family, to ask for their help for me; but the letter was returned by my grandfather’s lawyers.’

  ‘Did they know where you were at that time?’

  ‘No, only that we were in the Mediterranean. But now the war is over, I suppose it would be possible to find out where my father was based.’

  ‘Could it be that your grandfather never forgave your father for whatever had caused the breach between them, and for your father’s marriage, but now he is dead his children wish to make amends?’He swivelled on the bank to face her. ‘Lady Blackstone is going to make the journey to Venice, so she plans this detour in the hope of finding you.’

  It was logical, and it held out the hope that her aunt—if she thought the word often enough it would begin to sound less impr
obable—her aunt would want to acknowledge her.

  ‘Has she made any enquiries about me, I wonder?’ She bit her lip, frowning down into the bay below them. ‘But no one here knows my true name.’

  ‘I will find out what she is about, as tactfully as I can. Do not frown so, Alessa, you will develop wrinkles.’

  She ignored his teasing tone, a new worry building. ‘I cannot just impose myself upon them. Why should they support me?’

  ‘Because you are their niece and it is their duty. But your father, even if only a younger son, must have had some assets—some land, some investments sitting there earning interest. There will be back pay owed by the army.’

  ‘But if his family thought he was dead…’

  ‘They have to wait seven years to presume that. The War Office would have given them the date of his death if they had enquired and they would have no reason to suppose you too had died. That money and land will be in trust somewhere and it is yours by right.’

  She had never thought of that. Money for Demetri’s education, for a dowry for Dora, modest independence that depended on no one, least of all the family who had turned their back on Papa. ‘If I do not have to be dependent on them,’ she began hesitantly, ‘then perhaps…’

  ‘I will sound out Lady Blackstone as tactfully as I can, and let you know. There is no need for you to confront her before you are both fully prepared.’

  ‘I do not remember England, not really. It was cold and grey and damp and Papa was not in a good mood, that much I do recall. Does the sun shine in England?’

  ‘Occasionally.’ He was amused by her doubt, she could tell. ‘But the rain has its advantages. The grass is green and lush all year, the rivers run full and the English umbrella industry flourishes.’

  ‘That is very gratifying,’ she retorted tartly. ‘Will you return to England?’

  She wished the question back as soon as the words were out of her mouth, but Chance did not appear to take them as some sort of flirtation. He was getting to his feet, careless of the moss and twigs clinging to the loose cotton trousers and belted shirt. ‘Home? Yes, I expect to travel on from here to Venice, then back overland. I haven’t decided on the exact itinerary yet, but home for Christmas, then I shall be at my mother’s mercy for the Season.’

  ‘Will she expect you to squire her around to all the balls?’

  ‘That, and to escort my sisters. But her main intention is to find me a wife.’He said it so carelessly, jumping down into the hollow track that ran down to the village, that for a moment she missed his meaning.

  So, why are you surprised? Of course he is going to be looking for a wife. And, of course, he expects to find her among the eligible young ladies of London. What do you expect, that he would turn and take you in his arms and say, ‘But I have no need to search, she is here’?

  Without waiting for Chance to turn and offer her his hand, Alessa jumped down beside him and took the lead as the track turned downhill, curving under the spreading shade. By the time they regained the cottage she would have her emotions under control and a serene smile back on her lips to ward off the speculation in all those watching eyes.

  Chapter Ten

  Chance steered the fishing boat into the bay under the looming monastery where Odysseus had once been washed ashore, to be received by the Princess Nausicaa. He hoped it was an omen. Alessa had shown no reaction to his remark about seeking a wife. Had she not understood his hint? Probably not. More and more the feeling was growing within him that she was the only woman he wanted in his life. But to court her now, marry her out of hand before her status was confirmed and her place in English society established, would always brand her as ‘that Greek girl Blakeney picked up on his travels.’

  No, Alessa was going back as Miss Meredith, the eminently respectable daughter of a war hero and the niece of an earl. Could he explain that to her? He had started to frame the words in his head half a dozen times, only to realise that, however he put it, she was going to be deeply offended. Her independence, her work, her adopted country were all sources of pride to Alessa. Back in England it would come into perspective and his courtship of her would appear the honourable thing he intended it would be.

  As it was, if he made any declaration now…

  ‘Are you going to sit in that boat all night, Benedict my friend?’ Zagrede was standing on the sand regarding him. He cut an exotic figure in the evening light with loose trousers, a flowing silk shirt and a scarlet sash into which was thrust the long dagger he never seemed to leave the house without.

  ‘No. Here, take the rope.’ Chance threw it, admiring the nonchalant, one-handed catch. The Count stooped to flip the rope around the metal stanchion protruding out of the sand and Chance vaulted over the side into the few inches of water. ‘You look fit to repel pirates with that sword.’

  ‘This? This is merely a thika, a knife. This is not a sword.’ He turned and began to walk companionably back up the beach at Chance’s shoulder. ‘I have come out to escape the young ladies; I do not feel capable of managing them all by myself.’

  ‘You amaze me, Voltar.’ It seemed odd to be using first names, but the Count appeared to expect it. ‘Surely a man of your address should have no trouble with three young ladies.’

  ‘But I do not want three,’ the Albanian said plaintively. ‘I only want one.’

  Ah. That explained it, although Chance was not anxious to find himself in the position of distracting two susceptible damsels while the Count carried out his courtship of the chosen one. ‘Which is the lady with whom you wish to…dally?’

  ‘Oh, any of them would do.’ He seemed impervious to Chance’s stare. ‘They are all handsome, all well bred and all, no doubt, well monied. Is that the word?’

  ‘Well dowered?’ Chance suggested, fascinated by this cold-bloodied approach.

  ‘Yes, that is it. A wife would be desirable at this stage of my affairs. Mistresses I have, many of them, and children, but legitimate sons I do not have. A man has to think of these things.’

  ‘Indeed, yes.’ Chance was beginning to think of little else but marriage and heirs. Or, if he was to be honest, the getting of heirs with Alessa. ‘But an English wife for an Albanian Count?’

  ‘The English have much power now in these seas. It would be a good—what is the word?—tactic.’

  They reached the roughly cobbled street. Chance kicked the worst of the sand off his feet and pushed them into the shoes he had carried off the boat. Just how powerful in his own country was Zagrede? He seemed to be thinking like a princeling, not a minor aristocrat. And yet, he mastered his own ships, which argued more the merchant than the prince.

  ‘Well, you tell me which one your fancy alights upon,’ he said with good humour. ‘I’ll do my best to flirt with the other two.’ Just so long as that does not involve getting on the wrong side of Lady Blackstone.

  There was no sigh of any of the other guests as they regained the villa. Chance climbed the gleaming chestnut wood stairs to his rooms and threw himself with gratitude into the waiting bath of cool water that Alfred had standing ready. He waved aside the valet’s suggestion that ‘my lord might wish to have his back scrubbed’ and slid down until his head was submerged, surfacing only when his breath ran out. He lay back against the high curve of the tub while the salt sluiced from his skin.

  How did Alessa wash in that little cottage? No deep marble bathtub for her. No respectful servants tapping on the door to offer steaming jugs of fresh water, no heap of soft linen towels. The image of her standing naked at a wash stand had its inevitable effect and he grabbed the long-handled brush and scrubbed his back mercilessly as a distraction while he rehearsed his tactics for approaching Lady Blackstone. ‘In-directly,’ he murmured, ‘that’s the way.’

  Later, as the house party gathered on the terrace overlooking the bay before dinner, he found himself beside his hostess. Lady Trevick was fanning herself while keeping a wary eye on the Count’s flirtation with the young ladies.

&nbs
p; ‘A charming gentleman,’ Chance observed.

  ‘Yes. Yes, certainly. Perhaps a little too charming.’ Lady Trevick frowned as both her daughters succumbed to blushing giggles at some sally.

  ‘But then, who can blame him, surrounded by such delightful young ladies? Has Lady Blackstone made any progress with her search for her family connection on Corfu?’ Lady Trevick glanced at him and he added smoothly, ‘You mentioned it the other night.’ She had hardly alluded to it, in fact, but now, with any luck, she would imagine he knew far more than he did.

  ‘I believe not.’ She glanced round, lowering her voice. ‘A tragic case, I understand—her younger brother, estranged from the family, an unsuitable match and, I very much fear, a child of the union adrift somewhere in the Mediterranean.’

  ‘Frightful! I presume Lady Blackstone has only just become aware of the child’s existence?’

  ‘Ye…es.’ Lady Trevick looked a little doubtful. ‘That must be the case, I am sure.’ She brightened. ‘Lady Blackstone has been discussing it with my brother’s secretary, Mr Harrison.’

  ‘Indeed.’

  Lady Blackstone came out on to the terrace, sized up the little group around the Count at a glance and skilfully cut her daughter out of it, steering her towards Chance and their hostess.

  ‘If you will excuse me…’ Lady Trevick cast a slightly hunted look at her own daughters ‘…I must go and have a word with the butler. Perhaps you will keep an eye on the girls, Lady Blackstone?’

  Miss Blackstone drifted a little apart to turn her back on the terrace and affect an interest in the view. Perfect. He was alone with his quarry.

  ‘I do hope you will pardon a personal observation, ma’am, but what very striking and lovely eyes Miss Blackstone has. It is quite obvious that she has them from her mama.’

  The older woman inclined her head graciously, a smug smile tugging at her lips. ‘You are most kind, my lord. Of course, Frances is much admired, but I have to admit that I, in my youth, was complimented upon those features.’