‘I did,’ he said. ‘They deserved it. Now up you go.’
With both hands he caught her around the waist and lifted her up to second step in a nearby doorway. She yelped with surprise, and instinctively grabbed his shoulders, her muff sliding down her arm.
‘What are you doing?’ she demanded breathlessly. It was an odd feeling, standing here on the step where for once she’d look down on him. ‘Let me go free, Richard, this isn’t—’
‘I love you,’ he said. ‘There, I’ve spoken it plain. I love you.’
She gasped, all words gone, and her thoughts as well.
He smiled crookedly, his hair tossing beneath the brim of his hat, and to Jane he’d never looked more handsome.
‘It’s been a long time since I’ve said that,’ he said, ‘but I haven’t forgotten how. I only had to find the right woman to say it to. I love you, Jane.’
Still she was too overwhelmed to reply, tears of joy smarting her eyes.
‘You kissed me, and I knew for certain,’ he said. ‘I knew this was right. For us, Jane, yes?’
‘Yes,’ she whispered, and pulled him close. ‘Oh, Richard, I love you, too!’
She kissed him again, and pledged her love again to him that way, for that was in fact what she’d been doing when she’d kissed him in the window of the malvasie shop. She just hadn’t dared to speak the words aloud.
But now—now she didn’t care who knew, because Richard felt the same for her. I love you—could there be any more joyful words to hear, or to speak?
‘I love you,’ she whispered again, unable to resist the magic words. ‘Oh, Richard, you cannot know how much!’
‘I can, because I feel the same.’ He chuckled, turning her gently in his arms so she faced the malvasie shop they’d just left. ‘And so, I’m guessing, do they.’
The men had spilled out of the shop to watch them, along the steps and into the street. Some still had the glasses that Richard had paid for in their hands, and as soon as they saw that Richard and Jane had noticed them, they raised those glasses and tossed their hats in raucous salute.
She should have been shamed, even mortified, by so public a tribute. Surely the Jane from the old days of Aston would have felt that way. But this was Venice, and because of Richard, she’d never be the same again.
She laughed with giddy delight, and boldly pulled Richard’s hat from his head and stuffed it jauntily on her own.
‘I love you, Richard!’ she crowed. ‘I love you, oh, more than anything, and I don’t care who in the world knows it!’
The longer Richard was in Venice with Jane, the more he appreciated gondolas as a form of transportation. They were fast and they were quiet, so long as one didn’t get a gondolier who wished to test his English in conversation. But best of all, in Richard’s opinion, was how the narrow bench of a gondola made for such cosy proximity for the passengers. He liked having Jane snug beneath the robe beside him, having her small, curvy body pressed next to his in an unavoidable intimacy that was at once public, yet private, too and he smiled down at her now, nestled beside him with her head against his shoulder as they glided back to the Ca’ Battista.
He loved her, but infinitely better, she loved him.
How wonderfully perfect that sounded! When Anne had died, he’d been certain he’d never love again, or that there wasn’t another woman in the world who could rival his wife’s memory. For years Jane had been right beneath his nose, and he’d not noticed her. It had taken the gaudy spell of this place and the chance to be alone with her that had made him realise how special she was, and would always be. If Anne had been his youthful first love, then Jane must have been destined to be the love that would last him the rest of his days.
He wasn’t a perfect man, not by half, and he didn’t know what he’d done to deserve such a reward. Jane understood him. It was as simple, and as complicated, as that. She was brave and fair and passionate and, best of all, she could make him laugh, and what more, really, could a man ever want?
The gondola nudged the landing and the gondolier pulled the boat steady. With agile grace, Jane stepped out, holding her skirts to one side the way the Venetian ladies did. She was practical, his Jane, and if a new skill was necessary, she was quick to learn it, easily and without fuss: a rare and charming quality in any woman.
She skipped up the steps to the house, and turned to grin at him. He clambered from the gondola and in two steps was at her side. Before she could protest, he’d settled his hat back on to her head where she’d put it earlier. When she looked up at him, the oversized crown slid low over her eyes, and as she pushed it up, she laughed, and he laughed with her, and so much for the practical, capable governess.
It was nothing, really, a bit of foolish play between the two of them, and yet that single moment seemed to show exactly why he’d come to love her so much in so short a time. He wasn’t yet sure what would happen next between them—he was still letting the notion of being in love, new as it was, settle on to them both—but he was confident that the most difficult challenge was now behind them, and only the brightest of shared futures lay before.
Or would, at least, once he’d caught her again.
Dancing beyond his reach and laughing still, she fled through the door that the porter held open. Richard followed, into the hall and across the polished marble floor. Her laughter echoed against the painted columns as she grabbed her skirts and tried to escape, running up the staircase two steps at a time and squarely into the chest of Richard’s secretary Potter. Potter fell backwards and sat hard on the step with Jane atop him, the letters and papers he’d been carrying scattering around him like startled hens.
‘Oh, Mr Potter, forgive me!’ Jane exclaimed, clearly mortified as she rose and helped the startled secretary back to his feet. ‘I am so very sorry, sir, I didn’t intend—’
‘No matter, Miss Wood, no matter.’ He glanced pointedly at Richard’s hat on her head, then bowed to Richard as Jane began to collect the letters scattered over the steps.
‘Your Grace,’ Potter began, ‘you’ve returned at a most opportune time. We have just received a large parcel of letters, your Grace, from England and elsewhere, that will require your attention.’
‘More correctly my drudgery and toil,’ Richard said with a resigned sigh. Of course he’d have to set aside time to tend to all those letters and queries with Potter. If these letters had followed him clear to Italy, then they must indeed contain matters of importance that could not be ignored, either to his finances, his properties or his seat in the House of Lords. No wonder Potter was beaming in anticipation. ‘Very well, Potter, bring on the righteous affairs of business.’
‘It’s not all business, Richard,’ Jane said as she slipped her finger through the seal of one of the letters. ‘This one’s addressed to me, writ in Lady Mary’s hand.’
‘Mary?’ At once Richard forgot Potter and his business. ‘How is she? How fares Diana? Is there any word on her health, her babe?’
Swiftly Jane scanned the page. The cocked hat slipped unnoticed from her head, and still she read, turning the page over to read the reverse as well.
‘What is it, Jane?’ Richard demanded, his concern growing by the second. Here he and Jane had been frolicking about Venice without a care, while any manner of disaster could have befallen his girls. ‘What has happened?’
‘They are well, both of them, and their husbands, too.’ Finally Jane looked up, her expression impossible to read. ‘They will be joining us here in Venice by the end of this week.’
Chapter Eighteen
Jane woke early the next morning, dressed and read beside the window while she waited to hear Richard come thumping down the stairs from his quarters to breakfast. Since the first morning when she’d taught him the delights of starting the day with steamed chocolate and ham, breakfasting together had become a pleasing habit for them. They’d sit close in the tiny, opulent room to the back of the house, enjoying both the warmth from the kachelofen and each o
ther’s company as they planned the day ahead.
But this morning she waited for his familiar footsteps, and waited more. Again and again she checked her little travelling watch, unclipping it from the chain at her waist to hold it to her ear and make certain it was running properly. It was nearly eleven now. Richard was by habit an early riser, and this wasn’t like him to stay abed so late. She hoped he hadn’t been taken ill during the night; he’d seemed positively boisterous last evening at supper, thrilled by the prospect of seeing his girls once again.
Finally her growling, empty stomach could bear no more. She closed her book, and climbed the stairs to Richard’s quarters. She’d not ventured there since that first night, when she’d gone in her nightclothes to give Richard his daughters’ letters to read. Strange to realise how that one impulsive gesture, born as it had been of desperation, had led to so much more between them. Certainly now when she tapped on the door, she did so with much more confidence, and far less trepidation.
‘Richard?’ she called softly, not wanting to wake him if by some chance he slept still. ‘Are you risen yet?’
‘Jane!’ He threw open the door himself, just as he’d done on that earlier night. ‘Good morning, my dear.’
But now he was completely dressed, a cup of black coffee in his hand, and there was nothing at all sleepy about him. Beyond his shoulder she could see Mr Potter and another man, some sort of local clerk from his sombre dress, clearly waiting for Richard to return to his now-empty armchair. They sat at a large table covered with Mr Potter’s letters and it was obvious that the three men had been deep in their labours. Likewise, too, from the plates scattered across the sideboard, they’d already eaten their breakfast some time before, with Richard still lingering over his beloved coffee when she’d interrupted.
‘Forgive me, your Grace,’ she murmured self-consciously, reverting to the old formality before the others. ‘I didn’t realise you were occupied. I won’t bother you further.’
‘But you’re not bothering me, not in the least.’ He glanced back at the other men, then stepped into the hall with Jane, closing the door part way to give them more privacy. ‘I’ve a thousand things to tend to, Janie. I’ve let matters slide a bit while I’ve been here, and now old Potter’s determined to sit on my back today until I’m done. I let you sleep.’
She tried to smile and make a jest of it. ‘You know I never sleep late. Farmer’s hours, that’s what I keep, the same as you do.’
‘Ah, true, true.’ He was smiling, too, but Jane still had the uncomfortable feeling that his thoughts were more with the men and the letters on the other side of the door than with her.
‘Will you be occupied the entire day?’ she asked. ‘Should I make my own plans?’
Relief swept over his face. ‘That would likely be for the best, yes. I’m sorry, Jane, but—’
‘Don’t concern yourself, Richard,’ Jane said swiftly, though of course she’d rather wished he had. ‘I amused myself perfectly well before you arrived.’
‘You did indeed.’ He sighed, preoccupied, and looked back into the room. ‘I’d left so much undone after that infernal long voyage, you see, and now it’s past time I settled it all. What’s the way the sailors say it? “Clear the decks for action.” That’s it. With the girls coming, I need to clear my own decks, so I can give myself over to them with a clear conscience.’
She nodded wistfully, understanding more than he realised. The time he’d spent with her this week had been charming, yes, but now it had faded into a pleasing interlude that had kept him from his ducal responsibilities. And of course the arrival of his daughters must take precedence. He hadn’t seen them since last summer, and they’d always been at the centre of his life.
But Jane understood. She’d been the one who’d heard of love, and opened her heart. It wasn’t his fault. He hadn’t promised anything more to her. He’d a life beyond her, and obligations that didn’t include her. Together it made him the honourable gentleman that he was, the one that she loved, that she’d always loved.
Oh, yes, she understood it all.
‘Very well, then,’ she said as briskly as she could. If he’d once again become the Duke of Aston, then she’d again be Miss Wood. ‘You clear your decks, and I’ll look after myself. Perhaps I’ll return to San Marco, to view the mosaics again.’
‘That’s it,’ he said heartily. ‘You go about as if I weren’t even here.’
‘That I will,’ she said. ‘Good day to you, Richard.’
Then she turned away towards the stairs before he could see the disappointment in her face, and before he’d a chance to bid her farewell without a kiss.
She understood everything.
‘Hah, that was close, wasn’t it?’ Richard said, his smile broad and gleeful as he closed the door. ‘I’d never thought she’d come here to beard me in my den. But I’ll have the last surprise, won’t I? Where’s that confounded hen-tailor?’
‘Here, your Grace.’ His manservant Wilson ushered the wide-eyed mantua-maker and her two assistants out from the bedchamber where they’d been hidden away. ‘Fearing for their lives, they were, though, your Grace. They thought you’d taken ’em prisoner.’
‘That’s preposterous,’ Richard said. ‘No one’s made a prisoner in a bedchamber. Leastwise not my bedchamber. Does she have the goods with her?’
‘Oh, aye, she brought it,’ Wilson said. ‘And a sight it is, too.’
After a bit of arm-waving pantomime, the mantua-maker nodded vigorously and clapped her hands together for her assistants to obey. The older one darted back into the bedchamber, and returned with a stunningly elaborate Carnevale costume draped over her arm, while the second assistant followed with the matching headdress and cloak.
‘Dear me,’ Potter said faintly. ‘I know it’s your intention to surprise Miss Wood, your Grace, but I’ve never imagined the lady in any garb so—so—’
‘Gaudy,’ Wilson said with relish. ‘It do be gaudy, don’t it?’
‘It is.’ Richard’s grin widened. ‘But won’t she look fine in it?’
‘Indeed, your Grace,’ Potter said carefully. ‘I didn’t intend to find fault with your choice, if you please.’
‘No, what you intended to say was that you can’t conceive of Miss Wood dressed in all those ribbons and spangles,’ Richard said with unabashed pleasure. ‘Likely she wouldn’t conceive of it, either. But this gown’s special, and she’ll see it at once. This is Venice in the proverbial nutshell, done up with silver ribbons.’
‘It is, your Grace?’ asked Potter, ever doubtful.
‘It is,’ Richard said with approval, running his hand lightly over the pink satin skirts. He couldn’t wait to see Jane rigged out like this, in bright silk that fit her instead of those wretched drab gowns she always wore. ‘You see, Potter, Miss Wood’s enchanted with the “spirit” of Venice, all the pictures and fripperies and customs of this place. Loves them, she does, and who am I to argue with that?’
Potter shook his head, unconvinced. ‘But if the gown were more in keeping with her usual quiet tastes, then perhaps she’d find more use to it than this one.’
‘Hang the use, Potter,’ Richard said. ‘Miss Wood’s spent her whole life thinking like that, and it’s high time she had her share of frivolity. She’d refuse a sensible gown outright, as not being proper or she being unworthy, or some other rubbish. But this one—this she’ll have to accept. I’m giving her the chance to be part of Venice, at least for a night.’
‘Miss Wood will be grateful, I am sure,’ Potter said finally. ‘Not many masters are as thoughtful as you are, your Grace.’
Richard grunted. Of course Potter thought he was daft, and why shouldn’t he? Potter was his secretary, not a conjurer. He’d no notion of how much Jane meant to him, or how much he loved her, or, for that matter, that she loved him in return. To Potter Jane was still simply Miss Wood, governess to his Grace’s daughters, and nothing beyond that. That the Duke of Aston would fall in love with a govern
ess would be inconceivable to a man like Potter, just as it would be inconceivable to most every other person in Richard’s acquaintance. The only ones sure to share his joy would be Mary and Diana.
As for the others, Richard didn’t care. Jane had made him happy in a way he thought he’d never be happy again, and he wasn’t going to give that up now. Instead he’d do whatever he could to make her equally happy, beginning with this extravagant Carnivale costume.
He flicked one of the tiny silver bells stitched to the sleeves and chuckled. Jane was the best woman in the world for surprising, for she never seemed to expect anything for herself. He’d wager her reaction would be even better than when he’d given her the fur muff, and when she actually wore the entire costume with the mask and cloak tonight, when he would take her to the Ridotto—why, he couldn’t wait.
Jane, his Janie. For what more, really, could he want?
Jane trudged over the last bridge, returning to the Ca’ Battista through the back way rather than by the canal. She’d told herself that she’d walk as much as possible today because the weather had been so fine, warm and bright and almost with the softness of spring in the air, and Jane prided herself on having learned Venice well enough to do so. Yet with every step, she’d known the truth: she’d avoided the canals because the gondolas reminded her of Richard, of sitting side by side, snug and cosy beneath a robe as they’d glided along the water.
The whole day she’d done her best to forget Richard. She’d gone to places she hadn’t gone with him and she’d resolutely sought to entertain only herself. It should have been easy, for she’d had a lifetime of being on her own, and less than a fortnight with Richard Farren. But everything in Venice seemed to betray her best intentions, for everything was now inexorably linked with him.
She walked past the shops and remembered how much he’d enjoyed surprising her with the fur muff.
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