Miss Weston's Masquerade

‘Cassie, my mother would thoroughly approve of your influence on me.’ He ignored her puzzled frown and got to his feet, ruefully rubbing a bruised knee. ‘Hurry up and get dressed, dinner will be ready. And,’ he paused in the doorway, ‘what the blazes was that chair doing there?’

‘I, er, I couldn’t find the key.’

‘For future reference, Cassie, that trick only works when the door opens towards you. Although, if you wish to cripple your would-be ravisher, this method is quite effective.’

‘But Nicholas, what about the ceiling?’

‘Ask my mother. It is a godmother’s duty to explain such matters to a young lady. I am certainly unequal to the task!’

The servants had left clean linen set out on the chair and Cassie dressed swiftly. Nicholas’s sudden eruption into her room had driven everything from her head, even the impropriety of finding herself scarcely-clad in his arms. Now everything she had felt while she sat under the olive tree in Nice and thought of Nicholas came back to her. She felt again the touch of his caressing fingers on her bare skin and a shiver ran through her, bringing with it, inexplicably, a vision of the woman in the green robe. Nicholas might anger and irritate her, make fun of her, but she was still in love with him and she still yearned for his touch.

And it was so improper to feel like this, she scolded herself, as she tied her neckcloth. A well-bred young lady should admire and respect a man she believed she loved, and the warmth of affection was all that should animate her. Surely this desire to be in his arms, to taste his skin again with her lips, to feel his strong body against hers, was shameful and sinful?

She was feeling somewhat shaken when she knocked on the door of his chamber, but outwardly she was composed as Nicholas opened the door to her.

The marble-floored dining salon was even more ornate than the bedchambers. The long table had been laid with two places at one end and candles cast pale shadows on the polished wood. The shutters were still half-closed against the early evening light and the air was warm and heavy.

‘Nicholas,’ she whispered, as servants began to carry in dishes. ‘Is it the Venetian custom for master and valet to dine together like this? And why has the major domo given me such a magnificent bedchamber?’

He waited until the servants had withdrawn to their station against the wall before replying, and even then seemed strangely reluctant to look her in the eye. ‘I suspect that Antonio, the major domo, has penetrated your disguise.’

‘Oh.’ Cassandra was surprised at the man’s perception, but even more puzzled by Nicholas’s diffidence. He was fiddling with the long stem of his wine glass, uncharacteristically ill at ease. ‘Then he knows I’m a… That I am female? Doesn’t he think that’s odd?’

‘I believe he has jumped to the obvious conclusion. Have some turbot.’

‘The obvious conclusion?’ Her brow furrowed in puzzlement, then she dropped the serving forks with a clang onto the silver platter. ‘You mean he believes we’re… that I’m your… But that’s absurd. You must tell him, Nicholas, at once, that I am no such t

hing.’

‘And how do I explain you to him what you are if you are not my mistress?’ he asked drily, finally looking her in the eye. ‘An Englishman with a mistress in Venice is so common-place as to be beyond remark.’

‘Dressed as a boy?’ Cassandra interjected in amazement.

‘Dressed as anything. In fact if you really were a boy he would probably come to a similar conclusion.’ He ignored her shocked gasp and sipped his wine thoughtfully. ‘But a runaway, especially a well-bred female runaway, will be a cause for gossip and rumour. Remember where we are. This is Venice, the home of intrigue. There are many English residents and tourists in the city who would relish the gossip.’

‘But what about my reputation?’ she demanded, then realised how ridiculous she was being. She had abandoned that the moment she had donned breeches and escaped from her home. Too late now to quibble over the precise cause of her disgrace.

The same reasoning had obviously occurred to Nicholas. He said nothing, but gave her a hard stare and continued to eat his fish. Finally, after the servants had served a platter of quail, he remarked, ‘And I am not certain what the penalty for abduction is in Venice: breaking on the wheel, probably. They have clung to positively medieval methods of execution.’

Put like that, masquerading as his mistress seemed the lesser of two evils. They finished the meal in virtual silence. both lost in their own thoughts. When at last Nicholas pushed back his chair and stood up, Cassandra asked, ‘What are we going to do now? It’s a lovely evening, can we go to St Mark’s Square?’

‘You are going to bed and I am going out,’ Nicholas said firmly.

‘Where to?’

‘Really, Cassie, you are beginning to sound like a nagging wife. You need a good night’s sleep.’ He sounded out of patience with her. ‘I need a game of cards, some company and perhaps some dancing.’

‘Dancing? Painted women, more like.’

‘What a good idea,’ he said smoothly. ‘Why didn’t I think of that? Some grown up company for a change.’

He was gone before she could think of a suitable retort. Back in her room, she kicked angrily at the flounced drapes around the bed, then threw herself down among the cushions. She complained bitterly out loud about being left behind, suppressing the small voice inside that told her she was being very unfair and that after two weeks of playing the duenna, Nicholas deserved some entertainment.

Her eyes focused on the painted ceiling again. Did gods and goddesses really do that sort of thing? Did anybody do that sort of thing? Was that what the courtesan across the square spent her time doing? Did Nicholas like..? Her hectic thoughts were interrupted by a soft tap at the door.

‘Come in.’ She sat up.

‘Good evening, ma donna. Do you have any commands for the household?’ The major domo seemed quite unperturbed to be addressing a young lady in valet’s clothing as if she were mistress of the household.