A Most Unconventional Courtship

‘You saved his life, so I hear. And when you do not think he is looking, you watch him, and when he thinks you are not looking, he watches you. It is obvious he desires you—which is quite natural. He is a man, after all, and you are a beautiful woman. And now you are so well chaperoned by your new aunt, what can he do about it? Why, nothing at all. It is very amusing.’

‘It may be amusing to you,’ Alessa snapped, too startled to be diplomatic, ‘but you are making a story up out of nothing. It is complete nonsense and I would be most embarrassed if you repeated it to anyone else.’

‘Oh, ho! A raw nerve. But of course, a sensible girl like you would never give her virtue to some passing English aristocrat, however attractive she finds him. After all, however well bred the lady, no Earl is going to want to marry someone whose past, even if it is spotless, is so unconventional. I admire your discretion and your restraint—I imagine Benedict can exert considerable charm. No, no…’he held up his hands as Alessa turned indignantly to confront him ‘…it is our little secret. We are beginning to have several, are we not?’

He was a rogue and a tease, and possibly something much more dangerous, but he was also very charming, even if alarmingly frank. Alessa eyed the Count, eyes narrowed, and made herself stand up to him. She would worry about his insinuations about Chance later. ‘You think you have two secrets of mine, I know I have none of yours. I hardly think that is a fair exchange.’

‘What can I confess?’ he wondered aloud. ‘I know, I will open my heart and perhaps you will help me. I am looking for an English wife.’

‘Goodness.’ Alessa turned to look at him and began to walk backwards uphill, the better to study his face. ‘Do you mean it?’

‘But of course. And here I am, surrounded by four lovely young Englishwomen of good family—and what do I learn? Two of them are about to be whisked off to Venice before I have the chance to fix my affections with either.’

‘Lady Trevick is taking her daughters to Venice?’ Over the Count’s shoulder she could see Chance, walking at her cousin’s side, but looking up the hill at the leading pair. She skipped round to walk beside the Count again; the sight of Chance, after Zagrede’s insinuations, made her uncomfortable.

‘But, no, Lady Blackstone is taking her daughter and you with her when she travels on to join her husband in Venice.’ He must have realised he had given her a shock, for he added, ‘You did not know?’

‘No, I did not.’ Now, what did that mean? She had no objection to visiting Venice, it sounded fascinating, but it took her no nearer establishing herself and the children in England, nor to claiming her small inheritance. And by how long would it lengthen the journey? She did not want the children unsettled and without a fixed home for any longer than she could help it. And it made her the pensioner of her aunt for an even greater period.

‘You will love Venice, and I will visit you there.’

Alessa pulled herself together. She must speak to her aunt when they were back at the villa and discover the truth of the matter, but meanwhile to brood on it was rude. ‘I am sure I will. I have read so much about it. Do you visit the city often?’

‘But of course, I trade there, as I do through all of the Adriatic and the Ionian islands. I will call upon you and Miss Blackstone and I will bring you silks and pearls and you will both fall in love with me.’

He was impossible. Alessa laughed, linking her arm through his as the track suddenly steepened. ‘You have not fixed your affections, then, Count?’

‘But no, although I suspect that in the case of one young lady it is already a lost cause.’ He gave her a very speaking look and Alessa found she was blushing.

‘Oh, look, fennel in flower. I must pick some. I have none fresh.’

‘It grows everywhere.’ The Count held out his hand to steady her as she scrambled up the bank.

‘Yes, I know, but it is a very good variety here—see how large the flower heads are,’ she improvised. She picked one and held it out and the Count cuppe

d her hand to look at the floret just as Chance and Frances caught up with them.

‘Are you all right?’ Chance demanded, looking furious.

‘Of course.’ Alessa returned his glare with a haughty look of her own, then caught the Count’s eye. She could read the message he was sending as plainly as though he had spoke aloud: jealous. ‘Of course,’ she repeated with a smile that hid gritted teeth. ‘I am very used to this terrain, my lord.’

Could Zagrede be correct? Was Chance truly jealous because he lusted after her or was the Count wrong and he entertained some deeper feeling, despite her shady past? Surely neither was correct—this was dog-in-the-manger behaviour, two virile men sparing over the womenfolk.

Instead of irritating her—which of course it should, as an independent woman—she realised she found it rather endearing. ‘Something is amusing you, Miss Meredith?’ Chance enquired politely. He had edged closer to the side of the track so that she had an equal choice of whose hand to take if she wanted to be helped down.

‘For some reason something reminded me of Demetri,’ she observed, reaching out to take Frances’s hand instead and jumping down beside her. ‘I cannot imagine why.’ She tossed the bunch of fennel heads into the basket with a smile of thanks to the Count and linked her arm through her cousin’s. ‘He is my young ward,’ she explained to Zagrede.

She had half-expected Chance to catch her meaning, and the darkling look he shot her told he that shaft had gone home, but she had not expected the Count to take her up. ‘Oh, ho!’he chuckled, turning away. ‘The lady has a sharp tongue, my friend, let us walk on and nurse our wounds in private.’

Alessa let them get well ahead before strolling on with Frances, who appeared to notice nothing amiss with the by-play. It was dawning on Alessa that her cousin was both very young and very sheltered.

‘He is so handsome.’ Frances sighed.

‘The Count? I agree, such a romantic figure,’ Alessa teased, straight-faced, knowing her cousin meant Chance. She had no real worries about the state of Frances’s heart; this was calf-love, she was certain. In a way, her own lack of concern at the girl’s wide-eyed adoration was proof of it. She really loved the man, and she felt not a twinge of anxiety about Frances’s admiration for him.

Whereas you should be concerned about how he feels about you, she told herself and this time a stab of fear found the pit of her stomach. He might be bristling at the Count, but he seemed not to be a man in love, nor even attracted, just one feeling defensive because he had seen a woman first. What do I want? What can I hope for? How could I have let myself be so carried away as to let him kiss me the second time?

The first time, that encounter in the sea, was so outrageous as to be beyond explanation or defence. The only thing to do about it was to ignore it and hope Chance would do the same. But if he was bent on seduction, could she resist him? Oh, the wretched Count! She had thought she was ready to try to set things right between herself and Chance; now she had no idea how she felt, let alone what his intentions were.