The Duke's Governess Bride (18 page)

Self-consciously Jane took another step apart from Richard, clasping her hands at her waist. She didn’t know how much Potter and Wilson knew of her attachment to Richard, or what they’d make of these obvious signs of affection between the duke and his daughters’ governess.

For that matter, she wasn’t entirely sure herself of Richard’s intentions towards her.

‘I passed the day visiting the sights, your Grace,’ she said, reverting to the old formality, just to be safe. ‘It was a pleasant day to be about, sunny and mild. If we felt such a day in Kent, we’d call it spring.’

‘I didn’t feel a bit of it, boxed up in here all the day long,’ he said. ‘But you can tell me more over supper.’

She smiled: so they would be dining together after all. ‘When I passed through the kitchen, I saw the cook making—’

‘But we’re not dining here,’ he said. ‘I’ve made other arrangements. And I should warn you, Jane, I’m wicked hungry.’

‘Then I’ll go down to my rooms to dress at once,’ she said happily. ‘It won’t take but a moment for me to ready myself.’

‘There’s no need for you to leave,’ Richard said. ‘There’s a gown laid out for you on the bed in the other chamber.’

‘Oh, your Grace,’ Jane began to protest. ‘Thank you, but no. I told you before that I haven’t a need for fancy dress.’

‘Tonight you do,’ he said, his grin spreading wide. ‘We’re going to the Ridotto, you and I, and I’m told we wouldn’t be admitted unless we come in Carnevale garb.’

‘Masquerade costumes? For us?’ she asked, bewildered.

‘Yes, yes,’ he said triumphantly, taking her by the hand to lead her into the other room. ‘Here you are. A handsome turnout, isn’t it?’

Jane stared at the costume on the bed, once again made speechless by both his gift and his generosity. This was no tawdry, casual costume, meant for one night’s wear and no more. This was an exquisitely fashioned gown of salmon-pink silk satin, pieced with silvery white in a fanciful interpretation of traditional diamond-patterned motley. Bright green ribbons crossed the patches, and each diamond was centred by a shimmering cluster of sequins, and the gown itself was stylishly cut with a narrow pointed waist and a full skirt.

But the gown was only the beginning. With it came matching satin slippers and pink thread stockings, and gloves, as well as the dark, hooded cloak, small black three-cornered hat, white mask and black veil that would provide the complete anonymity that the Ridotto required of its high-bred patrons.

‘Do you like it, Janie?’ Richard asked. ‘You’ll be Columbina, the “little dove”, while I’ll be your rascally partner, Arlecchino. You’ve always wished to do everything as a true Venetian would while you are here, and by God, I can’t think of a better way than this.’

‘You’re right,’ she said softly, reaching out to touch the lavish costume. She’d never had anything half so fine of her own, and if it had been an ordinary gown, she would have had to refuse it, on principle’s sake. But the fact that it was a costume, and a costume meant only for Carnevale at that, was different. ‘I suppose there’s no harm from wearing it this once.’

‘No harm,’ Richard declared, ‘but a great deal of amusement for us both. At least that’s my intent.’

‘To be sure,’ she said, still hesitant. She could already tell just by looking that the costume was going to be shockingly immodest by English standards. ‘But I’ve never worn such attire, not once, and I don’t—’

‘Then we shall be equal,’ he said, ‘for I’ve never rigged myself out in diamond-patterned pantaloons, either. Come now, Jane, be daring. We swore we’d both try different things here in Venice. What could be more different than this?’

‘And we will be wearing masks,’ she said thoughtfully, then grinned, her decision made. ‘Very well, then. This night I shall be Columbina to your Arlecchino, and no one will ever guess who we are.’

‘Swathed in all this, your own father wouldn’t know you.’ He kissed her impulsively before all the others, though no one other than Jane herself seemed surprised. ‘These ladies will help you to dress, and I believe the
signora
has already sent for some fellow to arrange your hair.’

Before Jane quite realised what was happening, she was whisked back to her rooms downstairs and promptly undressed by the mantua-maker and her assistant. Jane had always dressed herself, without the assistance of a lady’s maid or even a sister, and she found having these two women fussing and clucking over her disconcerting, even embarrassing.

Yet before long she realised that where this costume was concerned, she did need their help. Instead of the comfortably raised waist of her usual gowns and the short buckram stays she wore beneath them, Columbina’s costume was old-fashioned, with a long, narrow, pointed waist that required equally old-fashioned stays that Jane couldn’t possibly lace up the back by herself. They tugged and pulled the laces taut, squeezing her waist so tightly with the whalebones that she gasped.

‘Goodness,’ she said breathlessly, holding on to the bedpost to steady herself, as the women had advised, ‘perhaps the size has been misjudged?’

But the women only smiled and nodded, and draped her dressing gown around her shoulders just as the
signora
introduced the man who’d come to dress her hair. Wearing a preposterously high wig that was, in Jane’s estimation, little recommendation for his skills, he briskly set about brushing out her hair and then twisting and pinning it into an arrangement that felt strangely unfamiliar. The
signora
herself produced pots of rouge and other colours, and sat before her with a brush in hand.

‘Thank you, no,’ Jane said firmly. ‘I do not paint.’

The
signora
drew back. ‘In Venice, all women paint, to improve their beauty, especially for the Ridotto.’

At once Jane thought of the courtesans. ‘But I’m not Venetian,
signora.
I’m English.’

‘
That’
s true enough,’ she said with irritation. ‘But his Grace has implored that for tonight you be arrayed as a Venetian lady, and no true Venetian lady would go to the Ridotto with a bare face. It would be as shocking as if she were to appear in her shift alone.’

Jane sighed. ‘Very well, then. But only a little.’

Patiently Jane waited for the
signora
and the hairdresser to finish with her, and at last the two women slipped the pink-and-white satin gown around her and laced it tightly up the back.

‘Bellissima, bellissima!’
exclaimed the
signora,
beaming with approval. ‘Go to the glass, miss, and see how beautiful you are!’

Jane smiled politely, recognising the
signora’
s compliment for the dutiful flattery it was, and went across the bedchamber to the tall looking-glass as she’d been bidden.

And gasped with shock.

She hadn’t need of a mask for disguise tonight, for no one would ever recognise her, not like this. She scarcely recognised herself. Her pale eyes gleamed with bewitching ardour and her cheeks glowed rosy pink, her waist seemed impossibly small, and her breasts—oh, my, she’d never seen her humble bosom presented like this, supported by the stays and bared by the low neckline of the gown. At once her hands moved to cover herself, fluttering over the unfamiliar expanse of skin.

‘Do not be so modest,’ the
signora
scolded gently. ‘You are a beautiful woman, Miss Wood, not a little girl from the schoolroom. You should be proud of the prize of your beauty.’

‘But—but this is not me,’ Jane said, still staring at her reflection with dismay. ‘Not at all.’

‘It is,’ insisted the
signora.
‘We women are not all one thing, you know. We have as many facets to us as a well-cut diamond, yes? In spite of how you choose to hide your beauty, his Grace has fallen in love with you. Now, dressed like this, he will desire you as well.’

Her cheeks blushing nearly as pink as the ribbons on her costume, Jane thought of how Richard seemed to be both loving and desiring her perfectly well without any of this…this
display
—not, of course, that she’d tell that to Signora della Battista. But her words were enough to plant a niggling seed of doubt—what if this was how Richard preferred her?

‘Forgive me,
signora,
but I do not believe it is appropriate dress for me,’ she said, turning away from the looking glass. ‘I cannot—Richard!’

He was standing in the door to the room, already in his long cloak for evening. She could just glimpse his costume beneath, a full shirt and loose-fitting trousers like a sailor’s, only patterned with black-and-white diamonds. His face was so full of open admiration that that first seed of doubt grew.

‘Why, Janie,’ he said softly, ‘look at you.’

She wasn’t looking at herself, but how he was looking at
her
, full of unabashed desire, just as the
signora
had predicted. No man had ever regarded her like this, and she wasn’t at all sure what to make of it.

The
signora
smiled, and bowed, and ushered the others from the room, closing the door gently behind her.

‘What is wrong, Jane?’ Richard asked as soon as they were alone. ‘What’s upset you?’

Jane tried to smile, not wishing to spoil the evening. ‘Nothing is wrong.’

‘Oh, nothing at all,’ he said, ‘which is why you look as if you’re going to weep at any moment. I know you better than that, Jane. What’s amiss? Is it the costume?’

She turned away from him, her bell-shaped skirts swinging around her ankles in an unfamiliar fashion, and unhappily looked again towards her reflection in the glass.

‘You have been most generous to provide such a costly costume for me,’ she began, ‘and I will grant that it’s very beautiful, but I do not—that is, I cannot—oh, Richard, is this how you wish me always to appear? Is that why you gave me this gown? Because it pleases you to see me dressed like this?’

‘Like Columbina?’ he asked, mystified.

‘No, no, like
this,
’ she said, helplessly spreading her hands on either side of her tight-laced body. ‘I don’t feel like myself at all, Richard, all pink and white like an iced confection, and so
uncovered.
’

‘Not at all, Jane,’ he said gruffly, coming to stand behind her. ‘You would be beautiful to me in the plainest gown imaginable. What I’d hoped was that these fripperies would make you see for yourself how beautiful you are.’

What Jane saw was her nose redden and her eyes grow too bright as he slipped his arms around her waist.

‘But I’m not beautiful, Richard,’ she protested. ‘I never have been.’

‘I say you are,’ he insisted, holding her close with her back to his chest. ‘It’s my turn to play the tutor now, sweet. Look at yourself as you are. Forget whatever notion you have of what you should be. See yourself as I see you.’

‘I do not believe that—’

‘Hush,’ he said softly, ‘and look.
Look.
You’ve a mouth that’s made for smiling, and for kissing, too, ripe and full the way I like. Your skin puts me to mind of peaches in the summer, rosy gold and like velvet to my touch. You’re not some haughty beauty, Jane, but a kind one, full of warmth and gentleness.’

She studied herself as he’d bidden, and tried to see herself as he described. She’d grant that she did look different here in Venice to what she had in Aston, though she’d assumed that was Venice’s magic, not her own. Haughty she’d never be, but she’d never thought of being a warm and gentle beauty, either, and as for having a mouth that was ripe for kissing…

‘Look, Jane,’ he continued, settling his hands around her waist. ‘You don’t need this lacing, not for me, because I know already how small and sweet your body is, and how when I hold you, I don’t want ever to let you go.’

He drew her back against his chest, her small satin-clad figure in sharp, shocking contrast against his black cloak. He kissed the side of her throat, and she tipped her head wantonly back against his shoulder, reaching up to touch his jaw.

‘You’re in love, Jane,’ he whispered fiercely, turning his head to kiss her palm. ‘Look, and see for yourself. You’re in love with me, and I’m in love with you. That’s the truth, and nothing in the world is more beautiful than that, eh?’

‘Oh, Richard,’ she whispered, still staring at their reflection. The desire she’d seen in his eyes earlier was still there, every bit as potent as before, and matched now by the desire she saw in her own eyes, too. But there was more to their joined image, much more, because that heady desire was matched by love. She couldn’t miss it in the way he was kissing her, or in the tenderness with which he held her, or even in his voice. He wanted her not because of how she was dressed, but because he loved her, and she loved him.

And he was right: in some unfathomable way, love
had
made her beautiful.

Overwhelmed, she twisted around in his embrace to face him. How could he keep doing this to her, this great gruff gentleman, surprising her when she least expected it? How did he always know exactly what to do and say to make her love him all the more?