Scandalous Brides: In Scandal in Venice\The Spanish Bride (13 page)

After Spain, after Carmen, he had wanted only the green sweetness of home, the sound of his sister’s laughter.

He had somehow thought she could make him whole and pure again, but instead he had come back to England to find that she looked so ... Spanish. So like Carmen. And she had not been the sweet girl of his memory; she had been independent, defiant. He had been overcome by the crazy thought that she
was
Carmen, that she was there to torment him.

But now she was gone, and he had spent two long years resting, recovering, and most of all regretting what had passed between them.

“Oh, Lizzie,” he whispered. “How can I ever make you understand if you are not here? How can I make you see the truth?”

He, who had always sworn to protect her, had driven her to murder and life in exile.
Elizabeth,
his sister, whom he had taught to ride a pony and danced with at country assemblies. His dear, talented Lizzie. He had driven her away.

He wanted so much to tell her the truth, to restore the easy affection, the trust that had been between them so long ago.

It was becoming increasingly obvious that Nicholas, the greatest hope he had had in these two years, was not about his job properly.

Peter would simply have to travel to Italy himself.

“I was so very happy to receive your note, Miss Cheswood!” Lady Evelyn Deake practically glowed with sweetness and light as she welcomed Elizabeth into the vast marble foyer of her Ca Donati. “I do so want to become better acquainted with you.”

Elizabeth somehow doubted that. She was a mere hired artist, a servant. Surely not someone Lady Deake would wish to be bosom bows with. But Evelyn’s artificial amity suited Elizabeth’s purposes very well indeed, so she allowed her arm to be taken as Evelyn led her into a sumptuous green-and-gold morning room.

“I am happy it was not an inconvenient time to view your frescoes, Lady Deake,” Elizabeth said, as she seated herself on a satin slipper chair by the fire and arranged the pink skirts of her walking dress.

“Not at all, not at all. Venice is so very
dead
in the afternoon. No teas or card parties at all.” With an airy wave of her diamond-bedecked hand Evelyn dismissed the crowded canal of afternoon revelers outside her window. “Before I show you the ever-so-adorable paintings, we must have some tea.”

Elizabeth opened her mouth to reply, but Evelyn quickly interrupted.

“No, I insist! I get so few chances to talk with another Englishwoman these days.”

Elizabeth watched as Evelyn fussed with a gilt tea service, and speculated on exactly how to bring the conversation about to the topic of Nicholas. She did not want to arouse Lady Deake’s suspicions, after all. Finally she said, “You must miss your life in England very much, Lady Deake.”

Evelyn sighed dramatically. “Oh, indeed! I have a great many friends in London, and they are ever so much more agreeable than most of the people I have encountered here thus far. But then, London is quite dull at this time of year, and I absolutely abhor the country. So I decided to come abroad. So stylish now, to be on the Continent. And Italy
does
have its charms.”

“To be sure,” Elizabeth agreed.

“Has it been very long since
you
were in England, Miss Cheswood?”

Not long enough,
Elizabeth thought. “Oh, yes. I hardly remember it. Yet I feel I know it very well. My new secretary has such vivid stories of English life.”

“Ah, yes. The beauteous Nicholas. He would have fascinating things to tell, I’m sure.” Evelyn’s smile had turned distinctly feline.

Elizabeth nodded calmly and sipped her tea, concealing her anticipation behind a conspiratorial giggle. Lady Deake must surely have known Nicholas before! “Were you possibly acquainted with Mr. Carter in England, Lady Deake?”

“With Mr. Carter?” Evelyn visibly started, as if she had suddenly recalled something, and she stared down into her cup. “No, no. I have never seen him before the night at the opera, ever. He just... I just ... well, I am rather a connoisseur, you know. Of handsome gentlemen. Like your Mr.... Carter.” Evelyn laughed nervously. “Would you care for more tea, Miss Cheswood?”

“Yes, thank you.” Elizabeth watched Evelyn with a thoughtful frown. Something was definitely in the air. Lady Deake was a very silly woman, but she was a very poor liar. She
had
known Nicholas before that night at the opera, it was quite obvious. It was also obvious that she was concealing something very interesting indeed.

“Perhaps, Lady Deake, you could show me the Veronese now?” Elizabeth said, with her warmest smile.

He was going to have to tell her. Yes. This very moment, he would go to her and tell her the truth, before she could hear it from the mouth of someone like Lady Deake.

Elizabeth would very likely hate him. She would cast him out of her life, out of her golden circle. But perhaps, just perhaps, she would first listen to him, and would come to understand at least a bit of what he was about.

Perhaps she would even consider agreeing to see Peter again.

But perhaps he should wait just one day more, until Carnivale was over. Then he would have one last ball at her side, a time to dance with her and be next to her.

Nicholas groaned and rolled over on his narrow bed, lying on his bare stomach to watch the shadows lengthen across the floor. His dilemma seemed perpetual, never-ending. Peter and his promise stood for the honor that was all that he could truly call his own. Elizabeth was all the things he had scoffed at, claimed could not exist—things such as pure talent and unselfish friendship.

Growing up in his mother’s house, cold and dark, and then at a succession of schools noted for their strict modes of discipline, his life had been distinctly devoid of such things as laughter and art. He had always been in the shadow of his father, the illustrious Duke of Ainsley, who was forever attempting to control his bastard son’s life—despite his abandonment of that son’s mother so long ago.

Nicholas had suffered under his father’s dictates, under the scorn of his stepmother and his proper half sisters, until he had gone to war to escape them—to escape himself.

In Spain he had found a certain rough camaraderie, a shallow sort of friendship based on shared danger and determined debauchery. It had been different with Peter Everdean. They had talked together a great deal, of hopes for the future, memories of England, and of women. Yet Peter had never been much for laughter, except for the brief reign in his life of a dark-eyed senorita named Carmen.

It had taken Elizabeth to bring Nicholas all he had missed in life. She gave freely of her affection, her laughter; she had let him into the charmed circle of her life. She never asked about his past, his fortune and connections—she had no need of such things. She was concerned only with
him.

He would tell her the truth. She deserved that. Tonight. Or perhaps tommorow morning....

A country villa!

Elizabeth stared down at Georgina’s hastily scrawled note, sent off from an estate agent’s office before she dashed away to a sitting. A country villa, dreaming in the sun, sounded like Paradise after the social wildness of the past weeks. She could truly work there, complete the Bruni commission—and the sketches of Nicholas she had been working on secretly late at night. Rather naughty sketches, if she did say so herself, of a heavy-eyed Nicholas, half dressed, and clearly in love....

She giggled then at her own folly, and fell back onto the bed without even removing her bonnet or shoes. She watched the patterns of the sun move lazily across the ceiling.

Of course he was not in love with her! As much as she did wish it, with a force that almost frightened her, men as handsome as Greek gods did not fall in love with small, dark women with paint beneath their fingernails.

No, they fell in love with blond, angelic, proper misses who painted polite watercolors and never, ever drank too much champagne at balls. Nicholas might laugh and even flirt with her, but then he laughed and flirted with everyone. Even Georgina and Bianca, and Katerina Bruni, who flashed her green eyes at him during sittings.

Elizabeth sighed and rolled over, reaching beneath the mattress to retrieve the sketches that were hidden there. She leafed through them, smiling. He
was
lovely, especially when he smiled at her, his head bent toward hers as they spoke together. It was very difficult to remember why she had sworn off men when she was near him—he melted away the walls of ice around her soul when he smiled.

He was not like any man she had ever known. He was intelligent, though he tried so hard to hide it behind silly grins, and he respected intelligence in her. He listened to her, appreciated what she was trying to do with her work.

And he was a divine kisser. Absolutely top of the trees!

Once, frightened and cold, she had vowed never to believe what any man said to her. Yet here she was, beginning to trust, to
love
a man as dashing and mysterious as Nicholas.

Perhaps in the country, far away from the distractions of sittings and social gatherings, she would discover the true man behind Nicholas’s façade. She would draw him out, about the past and the future.

Perhaps she could even tell him a little, a very little, of her own life.

Filled with the rosy glow of hope, Elizabeth pushed the sketches back into their hiding place, and went to tell Nicholas of their travel plans.

Chapter Twelve

“C
an you see it yet, Lizzie? What is it like?”

Elizabeth leaned further out of the carriage window, one gloved hand clapped firmly onto her bonnet to prevent it from flying away. “I cannot see it yet, Georgie,” she called back over her shoulder.

“Well, what
do
you see?”

Elizabeth looked about her. The narrow road they were traveling hugged a precarious cliff that looked out over an impossibly blue sea. White breakers crashed and roiled on the rocks below.

“Only sea,” she answered. “Oh, it is glorious! It’s as if we were flying above the water on bird’s wings. You should look, Georgie!”

Georgina waved a handkerchief in front of her green-tinged face. “No, I thank you! It is certainly bad enough to be riding in here without
seeing
what is outside. Can the driver not go slower?”

“You asked him to hurry.” Elizabeth sat back in the carriage, and pushed the tendrils of loose hair back beneath her bonnet. “Perhaps some fresh air is what you require, Georgie. If you would lean your head out of the window—”

“No! I shall be well by the time we arrive, I vow. Perhaps some cool water would help, though.”

“Let me get it for you.” Elizabeth pulled their hamper from beneath her seat and rummaged about for the flask of water and a cup. Poor Georgina—it was ever thus when they traveled, she reflected. It seemed her friend’s only weakness.

Georgina gratefully accepted the water and sipped at it carefully. Soon her color seemed a bit more pink than green. She even smiled a little. “I
am
glad Nicholas has gone ahead to be certain the villa has been properly aired. I vow I shall go directly to bed, and eat only custard and clear broth for a week.”

“We are supposed to do
some
work at least, Georgie, while we are here.”

“Oh, yes, yes. Work. There will be more than enough time for that, with no balls or routs to attend. But I daresay we will have
some
fun.”

“No models, I beg of you!”

“Certainly not! Nicholas will be the only man we will see. And as I am sure you will not share him, the rest of us will be quite nunlike.” Georgina sighed dramatically.

Elizabeth laughed. “He is not mine to share!”

“Is he not? Then why were you such a mooncalf these three days he has been gone?”

“I was not! I have been far too occupied in packing our trunks to concern myself overmuch with his absence.”

“Um-hm.” Georgina just smiled. “Would you hand me those biscuits, dear? You have so diverted me that I no longer feel even a twinge of illness.”

Elizabeth passed Georgina the tin of biscuits, hoping for silence. It was not to be.

Georgina nibbled a bit at the biscuit; even her eyes seemed to sparkle now with some of her usual vitality. “You have missed him, have you not, Lizzie? Just a bit?”

“Perhaps, just a bit,” Elizabeth replied, with a small sigh. “Venice seemed so very much ... quieter without him there.”

“Hmm. That may be due in a very small way to the fact that Carnivale is at an end, and we have had no parties to go to.”

“That is only a small part of it!” Elizabeth laughed. “Our own house has been quieter, as well. It is nice to have someone about to give a male opinion every once in a while. Yes, I missed him.”

“Lizzie.” Georgina frowned a bit, suddenly serious. She reached out and touched Elizabeth’s hand. “Are you in love with Nicholas?”

Elizabeth laughed again, nervously. She drew her hand away, and patted at a strand of hair that had strayed to her neck. “Love? Oh, Georgie, what a thing to ask!”

“Yes, I know. Are you?”

“I ... I hardly know. I have only known him a few weeks.”

“Sometimes only a few hours will suffice,” Georgina murmured. “I know you are fond of him; that is obvious. But are your feelings deeper than that, dear?”

Elizabeth stared down at her folded hands for a long moment, a realization slowly growing in her mind. She could scarce admit it, even to herself, but... “Yes. I suppose I am falling in love with Nicholas.”

“Oh.” Georgina turned to look out of the window.

“Georgie, what is it?” Elizabeth cried. “You like Nicholas, do you not? You have urged me to spend time with him.”

“Yes, dear, I have, and I do not feel I have been wrong in that. I feel he is a good man, as well as a handsome and charming one.”

“Then what is wrong?” Elizabeth caught her lower lip between her teeth. “Is it ... is it that you fear he does not return my regard?”

“No, Lizzie! Quite the opposite. But I sense ...” Georgina paused.