His Rags-to-Riches Contessa

by Marguerite Kaye

  They sank to the rug. He eased her on to her back and he kissed her, her mouth, her throat and then her breasts, making her writhe and beg, making her moan and arch under him, his mouth tugging at one nipple, his fingers tugging at the other until she thought she could take no more and told him so. And he laughed, telling her that she could, and kissed her again. The valley between her breasts. Her belly.

  They were both breathing heavily now. She could see the beguiling rise and fall of his chest in the firelight. His cheeks were slashed with colour, his eyes dark pinpoints. He sat up to remove his boots and pantaloons. She stared unashamedly, hungrily, at the sleek lines of his body, the muscled buttocks, thighs, and as he turned, the thick curve of his erection. She wanted him so much. She ached for him to enter her, was twisted so tight with desire that she needed him inside her before she unravelled. When he knelt between her legs, covering her body with his, his erection pressing between her legs she moaned, their kiss a deep, passionate prelude of what was to come next.

  Save it did not. Luca smiled at her, a wicked smile which made her heart bump, and began to press kisses down the length of her body again, and this time he did not stop at her belly. The strings of her drawers were undone. Her undergarments were tugged down her legs, and Luca’s kisses began again. The backs of her knees. The inside of her thigh, and only then did she realise his intention, crying out a startled protest which instantly became a moan of delight as his mouth covered her sex, and he licked into her.

  She clutched at his shoulders. She bucked under him. She clenched her teeth in an effort not to fall immediately over the edge, for his tongue worked such delicious, delightful magic, making her feel as if she were being turned inside out, licking and kissing and stroking, making her so tight she could not bear it. She clenched her fists. Tight, tight, tight, so sweetly aching she was inside, and then he sent her over the edge with one last flick of his tongue. Becky spiralled out of control into a climax so intense she was senseless, pulsing, throbbing, tugging mindlessly at him, begging him equally mindlessly, ‘Now, now, now.’

  ‘You are sure,’ he panted, his voice rough, and she could only nod, urgent for him to be inside her, needing him to be inside her.

  ‘Sure,’ she said.

  He kissed her mouth. She could feel him shaking. And then shuddering. Bracing himself. And then shuddering again. And with an agonised groan, he lost control, collapsing on top of her as his climax shook him.

  * * *

  Luca was mortified. Sitting up, he found his handkerchief and mopped up the evidence of his shame, cursing under his breath. ‘I am sorry,’ he said, forcing himself to meet Becky’s eyes. ‘That has never happened to me before.’

  To his utter astonishment, Becky laughed. ‘That is one compliment I’m more than happy for you to pay.’ Sitting up, she wrapped her arms around him, nestling her breasts against his back. ‘That has never happened to me before,’ she whispered, nuzzling his ear. ‘What you did to me, I had no idea it could feel like that.’

  ‘So I pleased you?’ he asked, already feeling considerably better.

  She laughed again, and her breasts shook delightfully. ‘Pleased is not a remotely strong enough word to describe how you made me feel.’

  ‘I am sorry,’ he said again. ‘Witnessing you achieving satisfaction, well, it was too much for me.’

  ‘Luca, just kissing you was almost too much for me. All this waiting,’ she said, nipping his earlobe, ‘it was too much for both of us.’

  ‘But I wanted it to be perfect.’

  She chuckled. ‘It will be. We agreed to one night, not one act.’

  And then she kissed his neck, fluttering kisses with her lips and her tongue, tasting the hollow at his shoulders, and Luca felt, to his astonished delight, that it would not be long at all before he was ready to remedy matters. She slid her arms around him, stroking his nipples, tugging at them, mimicking what he had done to her, and his shaft stirred into life. She slid out from under him, laying him on his back and rolled on top of him, her smile playfully wicked, a smile she had never bestowed on him before, and the blood surged to his groin.

  Becky’s eyes widened. ‘An encore, so soon?’ Then she kissed him, and Luca forgot all about his untimely release and felt only the most aching of wanting, wanting such as he had never felt before. He was urgent to be inside her, but once again she took her cue from him, slowing their kisses, sliding down his body to kiss his neck and his chest, to kiss his nipples, down his belly, wriggling further down until she was between his legs and her breasts were grazing his skin making him writhe beneath her, and then he felt her hand on his shaft.

  She stroked him, watching him, and he groaned. She stroked him again and felt him getting harder in her hand, and so did he. She dropped her gaze from his eyes to his shaft, watching the effects of her touch with a fascination that aroused him even more. And then she dipped her head, and her tongue touched his tip, and Luca cried out. She stopped. Studied his face. A slow smile dawned on hers. She licked him again and then again. Sweet torture. Luca clenched his fists. He curled his toes as she licked again and again, and then she took him into her mouth and he knew it would not be long before she sent him over the edge, and he was determined that that was not going to happen again.

  When she released him, he took her by surprise, rolling her on to her back, wrapping his legs around her. His shaft nudged at the heat between her legs. She shuddered. They kissed. He thrust his tongue into her mouth, and he entered her, just enough to make her cry out, to arch her back, and he pushed higher. She was so hot and so wet and so tight, he was almost overwhelmed. He waited, bracing himself on his arms, and they kissed again. Slow kisses, slow thrusts, each one making her tighten around him, making him throb, and then harder thrusts, and she wrapped her legs around him, her heels digging into his buttocks and he could thrust higher, and their kisses became frantic as she opened up to him and tightened around him, until he felt her shudder and heard her cry out, and her climax shook her and he felt his own gathering, tightening, pulling himself free with a cry as it shook him, from the depths of his being, and he held her tightly against him, skin against skin. He had the absurd notion of wanting to climb inside her, felt as if they could never, ever be close enough.

  * * *

  Becky watched the dawn arrive, huddled in her dressing gown. The snow had melted. The Grand Canal was grey, the sky iron, but she was still glowing from their lovemaking. And it had been true lovemaking, on her part at least. She was in love with Luca. She loved him with her heart and her soul. Hugging her precious secret tightly to herself, she couldn’t help smiling. She loved him so much, she thought she might burst with it.

  Leaning her forehead on the cool glass, she closed her eyes, remembering last night. It was like nothing she had ever experienced before, beyond anything she could have imagined. Such passion. Such intensity. Such complete closeness. There were times when she felt as if they truly were one. No need for words. Only afterwards—lying in his arms, sated—she had struggled not to say those particular words. She loved him so very much.

  I have never lost myself so completely before, Luca had said, looking embarrassed, with no idea just how much his words meant to her. He didn’t love her, but she was like no other woman, unique to him. It was more than she had allowed herself to wish for. Besides, she would not truly wish for him to love her, for they must part and she couldn’t bear to hurt him.

  This sobering thought forced her eyes open, sent a chill running down her spine which the draught seeping through the tall windows never did. Shivering, Becky stoked the embers of the fire and curled up on the chair by the hearth, for once heedless of what Chiara would think when she arrived with her morning tea. Luca didn’t love her, but after last night, knowing her as he did, there was a danger that he would realise that she had fallen in love with him. He must not know how deep her feelings ran. He would feel sorry for her. He would worry a
bout hurting her. Those were complications they could not afford.

  She groaned. Had it been wrong to surrender to her feelings last night? But yesterday had been so perfect and so magical, and it truly had been their one and only chance. She’d been fooling herself for so long that she didn’t care for him, telling herself that it couldn’t be love because it wasn’t what she’d felt for Jack. Though she hadn’t known it at the time, she’d been playing a part with Jack, imagining herself in love, acting her heart out in an effort to make reality fit her idea of what love should be, seeing Jack himself through her misty-eyed vision. He’d lied to her, yes, he had, and he’d used her too, but as to breaking her heart—no, she’d done that herself, by trying to mould him into her idea of a perfect man.

  While Luca was anything but perfect. There were aspects of Luca’s character she didn’t agree with—this thirst of his for vengeance, for example, and his misguided belief that doing his duty would make him happy. No, Luca was far from perfect, but she loved him, every bit of him, exactly as he was. How long had she loved him? For ever. At least from the moment she met him, it seemed now. It didn’t matter. She loved him, and when he kissed her in the snow yesterday, her heart had, ironically, simply melted along with her resistance. She loved him. She had made love to him.

  And now it was over. Time to stop dreaming, Becky told herself sternly. In a sense, nothing at all had changed. She loved Luca, but it was a love with no future. There was no need to recite the many facts which made her an impossible bride for him, because even if she truly was his virginal, well-born cousin Rebecca, it would make no difference. This stifling life was not for her.

  It was time to face reality. No more distractions. And no more questions either. She might not like his plan, but it was what she’d signed up to see through. Don Sarti’s family was, as Luca repeatedly said, his own concern and none of hers. Vengeance in Venice, she thought with a twisted smile. It sounded like a play. If that was all she could do for Luca, then she’d better make sure she did it properly because it was her future she was gambling with too.

  * * *

  It had been a very successful night at the ridotto, Luca thought to himself as he rowed the gondola back to the palazzo. The second time Don Sarti had sought out the Queen of Coins, the second time she had beaten him. Sarti’s losses were bigger tonight, for the stakes Luca had agreed had been higher. So why was he not more elated? His satisfaction was muted, his thoughts far from the card tables of the ridotto and centred on Becky.

  He had not allowed himself to dwell on the previous night. Not with this night looming. But now it was over, he could hardly believe it had happened. Their lovemaking had been even more passionate than he had imagined. His loss of control was no longer embarrassing but part of what made the entire night unique. It frightened him now, looking at Becky, head back on the seat, clutching her mask, exhausted, the feelings she roused in him. He wanted her even more, his body craved her, but there had been moments, in the aftermath of their lovemaking, when he’d wanted to cradle her close, to keep her safe, to keep her with him and never to let her go. Those moments scared the hell out of him. He had known from the instant he met her that Becky was unique. He had nothing to compare his feelings for her with. But he knew, in his gut, that he had to put a stop to them before they got any stronger. On both their parts. Because he knew, knowing Becky, that she would not have made love to him unless she cared a great deal for him. And if she cared deeply, it would pain her to leave him. He didn’t want to hurt her. She was his path to the future but she couldn’t be part of it.

  He knew this, but it made him sick to his stomach all the same, making him lose his hold on the oar. The gondola bumped against the side of a bridge, startling them both, and Luca caught the oar just before it fell into the canal.

  Becky sat up, blinking staring around her. ‘I fell asleep.’

  Hardly surprising, he thought but did not say, for they had agreed, in the hour before dawn when they finally parted, that they would not mention what had happened. ‘We’ll be back at the palazzo soon.’

  Becky nodded.

  ‘You played Don Sarti perfectly tonight,’ Luca said.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Four more weeks and Carnevale will be over. More than enough time for us to take back what he stole,’ Luca said, because he needed to say it aloud.

  ‘I would prefer it if that were sooner rather than later.’

  ‘Are you anxious to be on your way, Becky?’ he asked, thinking only that it meant she wanted to leave sooner.

  ‘Oh, Luca.’ She shook her head, her mouth trembling. ‘You know what I think. I agree Don Sarti must pay, but do we have to bleed him dry?’

  ‘Don Sarti!’ he exclaimed, realising that they were at cross purposes, annoyed at himself for his contrariness. It would probably be better for both of them if Becky left as soon as possible. ‘I thought you understood why I must aim so high,’ he said.

  ‘I do understand.’

  They had arrived back at the palazzo. He tied up the gondola, but when Becky made no move to get out, he sat down opposite her. ‘What is it?’

  ‘You thought I meant that I wanted to leave, didn’t you?’

  He sighed, smiling ruefully. Trust Becky to say what anyone else would have left unsaid. ‘Yes. I have waited so long to see justice done for my father, if you had asked me when you first arrived, I would have said the sooner the better. But now—now I will speak the plain truth to you, and prove once again that I am not the true Venetian I thought I was. It is inevitable that you leave, but...’

  ‘We have so little time to accustom ourselves to it,’ Becky finished for him, ‘that we would feel cheated if we deliberately cut it short.’

  ‘Yes.’ He covered her hands. ‘Though if you feel differently...’

  ‘No.’ Her fingers tightened on his. ‘If this is all we can have—and I know it is—then I want it all.’

  Which ought to set alarm bells ringing in his head, but which instead made him giddy with some other feeling he did not care to scrutinise. ‘When you do leave, what will you do? Clearly you cannot return to England.’

  ‘Oh, maybe some day I will, when the dust has long settled on my indiscretion.’ She extricated her fingers from his. ‘The truth is, Luca, I’m someone who wants to be settled. It’s what most women like me yearn for. To have a roof over my head, to be safe and warm and not hungry. When Mum died, it was the workhouse or the streets. For a while, it was the streets. Eventually I scraped enough from my acting to rent a room in the rookeries but many other less fortunate urchins slept rough under the stars. They deserve better, and now I might be in a position to help.’

  ‘The world you describe, it’s beyond my comprehension,’ Luca said, both appalled and touched.

  ‘Exactly, while I understand it all too well. Which is why I’m thinking of doing something about it. I don’t know what, precisely, but I’d like to give people a place to go when they need a roof over their heads. Do you see?’

  Luca was beginning to, and he was beginning to think himself very ignorant. ‘I think that you would make a far better fist of spending Venice’s money than I ever will.’

  ‘You’re doing yourself a disservice. Hospitals, schools, fountains supplying fresh water, the things you’re contemplating, they aren’t high-minded, Luca. They’re very much needed and they’ll cost a lot more money than I have. I’m thinking smaller. Refuges, I suppose you could call them. Safe havens where women and children can go without fear they’ll be separated, without being judged for not being able to make ends meet. Rooms that are home until they’re on their feet again or fit to fend for themselves.’

  ‘Where will you found such places?’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know. Wherever I lay my hat, as the saying goes. I don’t suppose London is any different from other cities. You could probably do with a few here in Venice.’

  ‘An
d you, Becky? What will you do once you have established these places?’

  ‘Sit by my fire and eat sweetmeats,’ she said flippantly, getting to her feet. ‘I won’t be doing any of it if I don’t earn it.’

  She jumped on to the jetty, and he followed her. She made her way swiftly up the stairs to the secret room. He hesitated. He wanted to kiss her. But it would be wrong. Utterly wrong. And Becky—honourable, admirable, fearless Becky—deserved to be treated with the utmost respect.

  * * *

  Bidding her goodnight, knowing he would be unable to sleep, Luca returned briefly to his own bedchamber to change, then quit the palazzo once more, this time by the front door, taking the night porter by surprise. He headed along the wide banks of the Grand Canal all the way to the lagoon, past the Doge’s Palace and on to the Arsenal, the district known as the machine, once the greatest shipbuilding concern in the world. It had been dubbed the eighth wonder of the world in its heyday, the engine that made Venice a world power. Now, in the grey light of the early winter’s morning, it looked exactly what it was: outmoded, run-down, a ghostly reminder of past glory, the few ships still constructed here like dinosaurs of ancient times. The proud arsenalotti who built the ships lived in poverty now, in an enclave set apart from the city, struggling to survive without work or any prospect of it.

  The ships Luca would build, modelled on the sleek, modern Clyde clippers, would require very different skills. He’d have to remodel the whole dockyard, buy and assemble new, modern equipment. The arsenalotti notoriously resisted change. His father had been disparaging of them, urging Luca to import Scottish labour, certain that the Venetians would refuse non-traditional work. What basis had his father had for such sweeping assumptions? Luca had not thought to question him. Wandering morosely around the crumbling extent of the Arsenal, he saw that he’d been more concerned with building his ships than with who would build them. Ships would make Venice great again, his father had said. Luca had sailed in the finest vessels of their day, fought some of the greatest battles. Ships were his life, but oughtn’t he be more concerned, as Becky would be, with the power in his gift to grant new life to the people who would build them?