The Duke's Governess Bride

by Miranda Jarrett

  ‘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

  As 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 a
s 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.

  ‘Why, Miss Wood,’ he teased. ‘whatever has come over you?’

  ‘You, Richard,’ she whispered shyly, slanting her face as she tipped her mouth to his. ‘Only you.’

  There was nothing shy about how she kissed him then, or how he kissed her back. Richard felt as if he spent most of his nights alone and just as much of his days remembering how much he enjoyed kissing Jane, yet in all that remembering, he’d never come close to getting it right, not by half. The reality of her in his arms was that far beyond his imagining.

  Her small, round body was soft and yielding, filling his hands with the vibrancy of her flesh beneath that grey wool in a way he’d never thought possible in a woman. He eased his hand from her waist higher, along her ribs to the curving swell of her breast. She caught her breath but did not flinch, and he took that as permission to push aside her white linen kerchief and slip his hand within. Her skin was warm and impossibly soft, and as he filled his palm with her breast, she trembled, and sighed her contentment.

  Was there any better way to choose life over a fading memory of lost love, or to be reminded of the boundless joys of one over the sorrowful finality of the other?

  Her lips were eager, her mouth wet and hot, and, when she shifted on his lap, her bottom pressed so enticingly against him that he groaned and could quite happily forget everything else except having her in his arms.

 
Well, not precisely all. She’d called him a wicked rogue to tease him. Had she any notion of how apt that description was? His body was reminding him of what exactly he wanted to do with her, of how this was Venice and a darkened theatre box and no one would notice or care if he were to unfasten the fall of his breeches and shove aside her petticoats and—

  ‘Per favore, signor!’ The porter rapped on the door of the box with a furious intensity. ‘Your Grace, if you please, at once, at once!’

  ‘What the devil?’ muttered Richard, unwilling to be interrupted by anything short of out-and-out disaster. ‘That fellow can go straight to blazes for all I—’

  ‘But it must be important,’ Jane said, already slipping from his lap to smooth her gown. ‘They wouldn’t disturb us otherwise. What if something serious has occurred?’

  ‘Very well.’ With a grunt of resignation, he rose and unlatched the box’s door. ‘What is it, sirrah? Speak, you impudent rascal, spit it out!’

  The porter puffed out his chest with indignant self-importance. ‘Your servant waits below with a message of great importance.’

  Richard scowled. ‘Which servant? What’s his name? By God, if it’s—’

  ‘Oh, Richard,’ Jane said anxiously beside him. ‘What if it’s word from the young ladies? What if something grievous has happened?’

  He couldn’t ignore the possibility. ‘Very well, then,’ he said. ‘Send the man up.’

  The porter bowed. ‘I am sorry, signor, but your servant has no ticket, and cannot be admitted.’

  ‘Damanation, I can’t see—’

  ‘We’ll go, Richard,’ Jane said, reaching for her cloak and muff. ‘There’s no use in lingering if it’s important.’

  ‘I’m not sure it is.’ Richard sighed impatiently. ‘You wait here, Jane, and I’ll be back directly, once I’ve settled this.’

  ‘Are you sure, Richard?’ she asked, resting her hand on his arm.

  Her eyes were full of beseeching concern for his welfare, yet also trust that he’d resolve whatever nonsense this interruption was. Could there be anything more guaranteed to swell his affection for her?