The Duke's Governess Bride (11 page)

‘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 master 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

I
t 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.

But as he stood here in the moonlight with her in his arms on this wedding cake of a bridge, he felt himself tripped by his own amusing snare, and it wasn’t just the fault of all that excellent Italian wine he’d drunk, either. Damnation, if this wasn’t the most romantic place he’d ever seen, with Jane herself the centrepiece.

‘You have pleased me,’ she said softly, ‘by insisting we come here. I’d never have come here by myself, you know. Have you ever seen anything more beautiful in all your days?’

‘Or nights,’ he said. ‘I suspect it’s something better viewed in company, eh?’

‘Oh, yes,’ she said. ‘Especially if the company is so—so agreeable.’

She turned in his arms so she was facing him, her expression becoming oddly solemn as she leaned back into the crook of his arm. With great daring she rested her hands on his chest with her fingers fanned apart.

‘Now,’ she said, her voice a breathy whisper, ‘now I suppose you shall try to kiss me.’

He smiled. ‘Would that please you, too, Jane?’

‘Yes,’ she said slowly, thoughtfully. ‘Yes, I believe it would.’

‘I could kiss you,’ he said, lowering his mouth over hers, the fragrance of her skin mingling with the saltiness of the air around them. ‘I can.’

‘No,’ she said suddenly, ducking her head away at the last moment. ‘No, Richard, please.’

Disappointment welled up within him. ‘If you’re going to bring up some damned nonsense about you having been my daughters’ governess, and therefore can’t—’

‘No!’ She shook her head fiercely, slipping her hands around his shoulders to draw his face down to hers. ‘No nonsense. I only wished to kiss you before you kissed me.’

Instinctively her mouth found his, turning the exact distance for their lips to meet and meld, and for Richard to forget any idea whatsoever of protesting how she’d foxed him. He forgot, and instead realised everything that was fine about kissing her: how eagerly she sighed as her lips parted for him, how warm her mouth could be, how she seemed to melt against him, as if making her body touch his in as many ways as she could, how she tasted and smelled and felt and kissed him in return.

It was as if he were a young man again, stealing away with his first lass. They kissed, and everything in life seemed once again possible, as long as she was there to share it with him. He’d forgotten the magic of kissing a woman, of discovering how sweet and soft and welcoming her mouth could be. He curled his arm around her waist, lifting her up more tightly against him. She seemed small, as light as a will-o’-the-wisp, and as warm to hold as a kitten. With a little moan of startled pleasure, her lips slipped apart for him, and hungrily he deepened the kiss, desire drumming deep in his belly with the taste of her. Her response was rarer for being unexpected and eager, and he could feel the bliss vibrate through them both like a live spark.

He kissed her long and hard, her hands pressed flat against his chest in confused delight. He liked that, for it meant he was the first man to draw this response from her, the first to kiss her with such urgency. He could taste her surprise in the way she fluttered beneath him, yet he could also tell the exact moment when that surprise gave way to eagerness and to pleasure all her own, when her lips began to respond to his, when the resistance in her body lessened and her hands curled round his back, and when, most of all, he realised he’d forgotten everything and everyone else except the woman in his arms.

‘Ah, Jane, Jane,’ he murmured, threading his fingers into her hair to hold her face before him. Lightly he feathered kisses over her cheeks, along the curve of her jaw and throat that he knew would be most sensitive. ‘My own sweet Jane.’

With a shuddering sigh, she gently twisted her face away from his lips, drawing far enough away from him to study his face. Her lips were wet and parted, her breathing rapid, leaving no doubt in his mind that she’d relished their kiss as much as he. Yet in the moonlight her eyes were enormous with uncertainty, their confusion punctuated by the spiky shadows of her lashes falling across her cheeks.

‘What next, Richard?’ she asked softly. ‘What next?’

‘Next?’ he repeated. ‘Why, I suppose we shall go back and rouse the
signora’
s cook for an early breakfast. Unless, that is, you wish to kiss me again.’

She smiled, her pale face full of a sadness he didn’t understand. ‘The
signora’
s cook will be happy to oblige you, I am sure. He’ll even brew that dreadful coffee of yours.’

‘No more, Jane,’ he said gruffly. ‘It was only a kiss, a single kiss. If you never wish to kiss me again, well, then, you needn’t. But considering how there’s only two weeks before—’

‘Don’t plan, I beg you!’ she cried plaintively. ‘All my life I’ve planned, and prepared, and arranged, trying to make a tidy order of everything. For now, for this once, I wished to live upon my impulse, my whims, alone, without any arrangements or planning. For once, here in Venice where there’d be no consequences, I wanted to be free.’

‘Oh, Jane,’ he said softly, stroking her cheek with thumb. ‘There are always consequences in life, even in Venice.’

‘As soon as I kissed you, I realised that,’ she said. ‘I wanted to kiss you as if it didn’t matter, but it did. It
does.
’

She pulled free of him and turned towards the rail of the bridge. The hood of her cloak had fallen back and she’d lost her customary linen cap, leaving her hair loose and beguilingly unruly. He wondered if she’d turned to hide a tear from him. He’d understand if she had. He knew all too well the melancholy of loneliness.

‘Moonlight changes everything, doesn’t it?’ She gazed out over the water as if seeing everything for the first time. ‘Everything’s different. Nothing’s the same.’

He came to stand behind her, his hands on her shoulders. The moon was setting and the stars disappearing with it, and to the east the first glow of dawn was beginning to show in the fading night sky.

‘The world never does stand still, Jane, whether we wish it to or not,’ he said, his voice more poignant than he’d intended. ‘Sometimes that can be for the best.’

He’d not intended to think of Anne now, of all times, but he had. Yet it wasn’t with the old grief, the old sorrow. Instead he had the oddest sensation of letting go, not of Anne’s memory, but of the hard grief that had kept his heart a prisoner for so long.

Could a single kiss have done that? he marveled. Could Jane truly have worked such a miracle without even realising it?

Now Jane nodded without looking back at him, then tipped her head to one side to rub her cheek against the back of his hand.

‘Everything does change,’ she said softly. ‘We’ll have at least a fortnight here before the young ladies and their husbands join us.’

‘Two weeks.’ He kissed her cheek, whispering close to her ear. ‘I’ll treasure every minute, Jane, and squander not a single one.’

She touched her fingers to where he’d kissed her cheek, as if to hold the kiss there.

‘Every minute, one by one by one,’ she said softly, and at last turned back to face Richard. ‘For truth to tell, what else do we have?’

She stretched up on her toes and kissed his cheek as he had kissed hers, then brushed her lips across his, sweetly, in a way that made Richard long for more. He was relieved to see that if there had been an unshed tear or two glistening in her eyes, they were gone now.

But instead of another kiss, a Venetian rooster in some nearby courtyard seized the silent opportunity to crow and announce the coming day. Jane laughed, and Richard couldn’t help but laugh with her.

‘I promise to cherish even that moment,’ she said, ‘and that particular cock’s crow, however inopportune they may be.’

‘Then we’ll agree together on that,’ he said, his spirits rising again. He took her hand and tucked it into the crook of his arm. ‘Now come. I do believe that rooster was calling us to breakfast, eh?’