‘Oh, bah.’ He swept his hand through the air, dismissing every one of her twenty-eight years. ‘Look at me. I’m—well, let us say that I am sufficiently advanced to have two wedded daughters, with a grandchild breeding. A grandchild, Miss Wood! Lord preserve me, if that doesn’t make me a greybeard, fit only for a stool in the chimney corner, I don’t know what does.’
‘A greybeard!’ scoffed Jane, chuckling at such a preposterous notion. To see the duke here before her, more robustly virile than any man half his years—who would ever dare call him a greybeard grandfather? ‘Oh, your Grace, you wrong yourself!’
‘Then I’ve made my point, my dear Miss Wood,’ he said, pausing to wave for more wine. ‘If you cannot consider me old, than I can scarce feel the same of you, who are much younger than I. At least you are wise beyond your years, while I am foolishly beneath mine, and don’t try to counter me on that, either.’
‘Hush, your Grace, please!’ she said, shocked by his familiarity, but also laughing so that she pressed her napkin to her cheek. She’d never imagined the stern Duke of Aston could speak so amusingly of himself, or that she would laugh with him, as if they were the oldest of friends.
‘You laugh, Miss Wood,’ he said, brandishing his fork for emphasis. ‘But I did a wise thing in choosing you to guide my girls, perhaps the wisest I’ve ever done. I gambled, aye, but I won.’
‘But why did you choose me from those hoards you claim were at your gate, your Grace?’ she asked, for once giving in to curiosity. ‘Why me, from so many others?’
‘Because you’d written your letter of application in a neat, tidy hand,’ he said evenly, sitting back as the footmen changed courses. ‘Because I thought your name, “Jane Wood”, sounded proper, as a good governess should.’
‘Truly, your Grace?’ She tried to keep the disappointment from her voice. ‘My name?’
‘Exactly.’ He paused, looking down at the plate before him with scowling disappointment. ‘Fish again!’
‘Sardines, your Grace,’ she said promptly. ‘You’ll find the sauce over them is very refined.’
‘I hate fish,’ he declared mournfully, still staring down at the neat row of sautéed sardines in their golden sauce on his plate. ‘You’d think these Italians would sprout fins and gills themselves, for all the wretched fish they eat. What I’d give for a thick slice of roast beef and trimmings!’
‘But you must grant it did appear a most delicious fish, your Grace,’ Jane said quickly, raising her voice for the signora’s benefit, ‘and the sauce was most cleverly wrought, unlike any to be found in all of London.’
‘There you are, Miss Wood, tidying up after me again.’ He winked, well aware of what she’d done. ‘But that’s the main reason I chose you for my girls. You wrote that you’d lost your own mother as a young lass, and you could understand their grief. I knew then you had a tender heart, full of kindness, and that was worth more than all the French lessons and other rubbish combined. A tender heart—aye, that was what I wished for, and you never did disappoint my daughters, or me.’
Startled tears sprung to Jane’s eyes. ‘Oh, your Grace, forgive me, pray, but that is most—most kind.’
He smiled warmly, and laid down his fork and knife. ‘It’s not empty kindness, my dear,’ he said, covering her hand with his own. ‘It’s the truth.’
Overcome with emotion, Jane could only shake her head in disbelief, and gaze down at his hand over hers. His fingers were strong and thick and capable, nicked and lightly scarred from innumerable small accidents over time, the hands of a countryman rather than a gentlemen and more than a little at odds with the elegant Holland linen of his shirt’s cuff. Her own smaller fingers were swallowed beneath, and yet she found his touch far from smothering.
She’d never realised he’d felt this way about her and how she’d taught and nurtured his daughters. She’d always thought she was beneath his notice, and here it seemed he’d been regarding her with approval before she’d arrived. She’d never known she’d been so appreciated. She’d never guessed.
But what had he guessed of her in return? Did he somehow know how she’d been struck by his sheer physical presence and confidence from the very first time she’d stood in his presence? Had he caught her watching him whenever he’d paid his daily visit to the schoolroom, interrupting her lessons to laugh and play with his girls, his dogs jumping and barking gleefully along with him? Had he ever spied her high up at her window, watching him ride out on the huge bay gelding that only he could control?
He wasn’t perfect, of course. Not even a duke was that. He blustered and stomped about, and behaved like any other man accustomed to having his own way. There’d been times when he’d disagreed with Jane, when they’d both grown angry with the other over something one of his girls had said or done or wished to do. But in the end they’d usually come to some manner of understanding, and not just because he was the father, either. Instead there had always been an unspoken agreement between his Grace and Jane that everything was for the sake of the girls, an agreement that both of them had tacitly respected and honoured. The young women the girls had become was proof enough that they’d succeeded.
Yet it was unbelievably, achingly strange for Jane to realise that those days were over for good, and that as soon as the duke returned to England, she’d shift her belongings to another house and another family. Most likely after that she’d never see him again. Did he ever guess how often she’d dreamed of him, the golden duke so far above her? Yet not once did she ever dream this: that she would sit beside his Grace in the glow of his smile.
‘There, I didn’t mean to make you sad.’ He reached up with his thumb and swept away a single tear from her cheek. ‘Was your fish even more wretched than mine?’
She sniffed, and tried to smile through the after-effects of that single wayward tear.
He saw it for the miserable attempt that it was, and gently turned her hand over in his, threading his fingers into hers. ‘If you must be too shy to speak of yourself, then we’ll talk of something I know we’ve in common—the girls. Now I’ve read their letters as well as yours, but I’d rather hear the tale of your journey told by you. Play the part of a bard for me, Miss Wood, and spin me the story of the odyssey you three took across the Continent.’
She caught a tremulous breath. ‘Oh, your Grace, we’ve been travelling for months and months. I can’t conceive of how long the telling would take!’
‘I’ve time.’ His voice rumbled low and encouraging, enough to send a shiver of pleasure down her spine. ‘I want to learn everything, as if I’d gone with you. Begin at the beginning, on that gloomy day you sailed on the packet from England for Calais.’
‘It was a gloomy day, your Grace,’ Jane agreed, remembering. ‘The rain kept off, but the wind was stiff, and the Channel so rough that the packet was pitching even at her moorings. The young ladies were both in a foul humour, too, and distraught over having to say farewell to you, though they’d no wish to admit it.’
‘I was scarcely better,’ the duke admitted. ‘I’d never intended to send both of them abroad—recall the tour was first to be for Mary alone—but then I’d lost my temper with Diana, and as much as forced her to go, too. There was no turning back from that. To lose them both—’
‘But you didn’t lose them, your Grace,’ Jane protested. ‘They’re both thriving and happy.’
‘I’ve lost them to other men, which to a foolish old father is a sorrowful day indeed.’ He sighed, and smiled wistfully. ‘How I fussed and feared for the three of you! Do you know I remained on the dock even after the packet’s sails and pennant were gone from my sight, as if I could have willed you safely to the other shore?’
‘Not so foolish, not at all.’ She curled her fingers into his, seeking to comfort him as he’d comforted her. She liked how their hands fit improbably together, large against small, their palms pressed one to the other in unexpected intimacy. ‘The weather made our crossing a miserable one, but the packet’s mast
er assured us we were never in any real danger. The real peril came once we’d landed, your Grace, when the French officials swept down upon us like vultures ready to prey upon our sickly English personages.’
He shifted his chair closer to hers. ‘Go on, Miss Wood. Tell me everything.’
‘Yes, your Grace.’ She took another sip of her wine and a deep breath, and launched into recounting the tour of France and Italy that she’d made with his two daughters. It had been a journey filled with adventures and experiences, wondrous sights seen and mishaps barely avoided. The duke had been wise to ask Jane to speak of this rather than herself, for once she’d begun, the story seemed to tell itself. Without Jane quite knowing how or when, the duke had begun calling her by her given name, and when she’d shyly noticed, he’d given her leave to put aside his title, and call him Richard.
Before they’d realised the time, it was well past midnight and into the hours of earliest morning. Jane had finished her single glass of red Valpolicella, and at the signora’s suggestion, they’d proceeded to a sparkling white wine that sent bubbles up Jane’s nose, but had made her story-telling all the easier. Not that she’d needed such help. Her words had flowed of their own volition, and the warm laughter she had shared with Richard had been so full of magic that she could scarce believe it.
‘But Lady Diana always preferred to view historical sites by moonlight,’ she was saying. Because of Richard’s frequent interruptions, she’d only finished telling of the first fortnight of their journey, yet she was secretly pleased. The more untold stories that remained would only mean more nights like this one. ‘She claimed they were more romantic that way, and therefore more interesting and tolerable to her.’
‘Did you agree?’ Richard asked. ‘Did the moonlight improve the old churches and such?’
She frowned a fraction. ‘What, by making it more interesting and tolerable to Diana?’
‘More romantic,’ he said. ‘Were those old ruins more romantic to you?’
‘To Diana, they certainly were. She was born with a romantic, sentimental temperament,’ Jane said. ‘But to me, it seemed more of an inconvenience, traipsing about in the dark when good Christian folk should more properly be asleep in their beds.’
‘Moonlight an inconvenience?’ teased Richard. ‘Jane, Jane, Jane! What a wicked governess thing to say!’
‘Well, it was inconvenient,’ she protested, though laughing as she spoke. It was impossible to remain stern and proper with him resting his chin on his hand to study her more closely. ‘The guides expected to be paid double for their pains. We needed extra wraps against the damp and chill, and boys to carry lanterns to light our way so we wouldn’t stumble or fall, and—’
‘Enough of this.’ He caught her hand and pulled her to her feet, pulling her after him across the room. ‘You’re coming with me.’
‘What are you doing?’ she exclaimed, instinctively pulling back and trying to break away. ‘Where are we going? Richard, please, please!’
He was much larger and stronger, and no matter how hard she tried to stop, he still pulled her along, into the hall. The single footman who remained to tend to them was caught dozing on the bench, and he stumbled to his feet, clumsy with sleep.
‘Fetch Miss Wood’s cloak, and my coat,’ Richard ordered. ‘My man will know which ones. Go on now, move your feet.’
‘What are you plotting?’ Jane demanded. ‘We can’t go out of doors now. It’s the middle of the night. No respectable people will be about at this hour!’
‘So I’ve heard,’ Richard said. ‘I suppose that will make us either heartily disrespectable, or merely English—equal sins, I’d wager.’
‘Richard, we can’t—’
‘We can, and we will,’ he said, grinning down at her. ‘There are precious few times when I have the chance to prove the scholarly Miss Wood is wrong, and now that I have one, I’m not about to abandon it. Ah, here are our things. On with your cloak. I don’t want you complaining of the cold.’
‘I don’t complain,’ she said, reluctantly letting the duke settle her cloak on her shoulders. ‘I never have, nor will I begin tonight. Or I won’t unless you tell me what manner of preposterous nonsense you are—’
‘This is the way to the back garden, isn’t it? I’ve seen it from my windows.’
‘The steps are there, through that door,’ she said. ‘But I still don’t see how—’
‘You will.’ He pushed open the garden door, and led her outside. The air was cold and sharp, the night still as the city around them slept. ‘Where’s the nearest bridge?’
In the quiet, Jane automatically lowered her voice to a whisper. ‘There’s a small one over the next rio, on the other side of that courtyard.’
‘Show me,’ he said, letting her lead him. ‘Take me there. This town’s the very devil of a place to learn for an outsider. One wrong turn and you’re bobbing like a cork.’
That was true enough, and even with the wrought-iron lanterns that every house kept lit outside the doorway, Jane chose her path carefully, leading Richard through the courtyards and narrow passages that she’d learned since she’d been here.
It wasn’t far to her favourite bridge. Fashioned of white stone that seemed almost luminous in the moonlight, this bridge was arched in the centre to permit gondolas to glide beneath, with steps that followed the curve of the crest. As Venetian bridges went, this wasn’t a particularly noteworthy one, being only a hundred or so years old. It wasn’t sought after by visiting tourists, or documented in paintings by Canaletto. But for Richard, it was apparently exactly the bridge he wished most to see.
‘This will do most splendidly,’ he said with satisfaction as he guided Jane up the steps to the centre of the bridge. With his hand on the small of Jane’s back, he gently turned her around so she faced towards the mouth of the rio, where it emptied in the Grand Canal. Unruffled by any traffic at this hour, the waters were so calm that both the moon and the stars reflected on the glassy surface.
Jane breathed deeply of the salty air that came straight from the sea, mingled with the oddly exotic, spicy scent that always seemed to linger in the air here, like a carry-over from the glorious old days of trade with Turkey and China. Behind her she felt Richard’s hand move from her back to settle at her waist, holding her lightly, gently, almost as if he feared she would topple over the rail.
None of it seemed real to Jane, not the moonlight, or the water lapping at this spun-sugar bridge, or Richard’s hand at her waist. It was all magic, the sweet, heady spell of Venice, full of temptation she knew she should resist.
Yet for once in her life, she’d no wish to be good, and do what she should. As inexperienced as she was, she could guess what was coming. The duke had made that clear enough, and she, just as clearly, had not rebuffed him as perhaps she should. But this once, she wanted to follow temptation, not reason.
And this once, in Venice, she’d let herself be tempted by love.
Chapter Eleven
It had been a long time since Richard Farren had held a woman in his arms like this. To be sure, there was little similarity between holding his long-lost wife Anne and Jane Wood. Anne had been tall and lissome with a dancer’s grace, while Jane was small and slight and restrained.
For more than ten years, he’d believed that there could never be another woman who could rival Anne in his heart and in the faces of their two daughters, and he believed it still. He’d long ago reconciled himself to having no son of his own. His brother Peter had sired sons as readily as he had done daughters, and Richard knew the title and estate would remain in the family, and in excellent hands, too. Peter would see to that. No matter that a widowed peer in his prime was regarded as an abomination to unmarried ladies and a waste to their mothers. Richard had held firm against their attacks, and was sure he’d missed nothing.
But now, here in Venice, Jane Wood had come creeping into his affection, too, in a way he’d never sought and certainly hadn’t expected. He’d wager she hadn’t
, either. She hadn’t the guile for that, which was much of her charm for him. There was even more charm in how devoted she remained to his daughters, speaking of them with more unabashed love and regard than many women showed to their own children.
But there was much more to Jane than that, of course. She was thoughtful, almost solemn, and he’d always liked that about her. Straightforward and direct, that was Jane’s way, yet when she looked up at him and blushed, she became the loveliest woman imaginable. Strange how he’d never seen it at Aston Hall. Strange how it had taken the damp air of this place to clear his head where she was concerned. She’d never replace his wife in his heart, no. But he was beginning to realise that his heart might be big enough to include a place for Jane, too.
He tightened his arm around her waist, drawing her closer. He felt the soft curve between her waist and hips beneath the rough wool of her cloak, and felt, too, how neatly she fit against him. She must have felt it as well, for she slipped her hands lightly over his, almost as if she feared he’d take his away.
‘Your hands are cold, Jane,’ he said. ‘Like ice.’
‘I’m sorry,’ she said, quickly lifting her hands away. ‘But they didn’t bring my gloves with my cloak.’
‘I’ll warm them.’ He covered her hands in his own, and as he did, he couldn’t miss the unconscious small shiver of pleasure that rippled through her. ‘That’s better, isn’t it?’
‘It is.’ She smiled, tipping her head to look back over her shoulder at him. ‘You make a most excellent handwarmer.’
‘I only want to please you, sweet.’ He gazed past her, at the houses and canal before him. He’d brought Jane here meaning to tease her more about not finding Venice romantic by moonlight, the way he was certain his daughter Diana would. If Jane had even tried to be her usual practical self in the face of this, then he’d intended to make a jest of it.
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