Miranda Jarrett – The Duke's Governess Bride (страница 3)

But she’d always expected to be delivering that explanation in the duke’s sunny library at Aston Hall, in Kent, once she herself was safely returned to England, and long after he would have read his daughters’ letters. She never imagined he would have come charging clear across the Mediterranean like a mad bull to corner her here on the staircase of the Ca’Battista.

‘Permit me to summon the watch, Miss Wood,’ said Signora Battista in indignant Italian, standing beside her. ‘Or at least let me call the footmen from the kitchen to send this man away. There is no need for you to tolerate the ravings of this lunatic!’

‘But there is, signora,’ Jane murmured swiftly, also in Italian, ‘because he is my master. I am employed in his household, and rely upon him for my livelihood.’

‘Livelihood!’ The signora made a sharp click of disdain. ‘What manner of life can there be with an intemperate male creature such as this one?’

Swiftly Jane shook her head, appalled by such disrespect. She was most fortunate that the duke was proud, as only an English peer could be, of speaking no other language than English, and hadn’t understood the other woman’s comments. Hurriedly she shifted back to English herself.

‘Your Grace,’ she began, ‘if you please, may I present Signora Isabella della Battista, the owner of this fine house? Signora, his Grace the Duke of Aston.’

To Jane’s dismay, the signora’s nod of acknowledgement was also calcuated at the precise angle to signify exactly where a parvenu English duke of only two or three hundred years’ nobility stood in relationship to her, a member of one of the most ancient families of the Republic of Venice who was at present so unfortunately impoverished that she was in need of rich travelling foreigners as lodgers.

‘Madam,’ the duke said curtly to the signora, too caught up in his own anger to perceive her slight. ‘Damnation, Miss Wood, come down here where I can see you properly.’

Jane grabbed her skirts to one side so she wouldn’t trip, and hurried down to stand before him.

Or, rather, beneath him. In the half-year since she’d last seen him at Aston Hall, she’d forgotten how much taller he was than she, and how much larger, too. The duke had a presence that few men could match, a physical energy that seemed to vibrate from him like the rays from the sun. While most men of his rank and age masked their emotions behind a show of genteel boredom, he let them run galloping free. The results could make him either the very best of men, a paragon of charming good nature and generous spirit, or the very worst of devils, when his temper triumphed. Everyone acquainted with the duke knew this to be so, from his daughters to his servants, his neighbours, even his pack of hunting dogs.

As, of course, did Jane. And there was absolutely no doubt as to which side of the duke now held sway.

‘Explain, Miss Wood,’ he ordered curtly. ‘Now.’

‘Yes, your Grace.’ She took another deep breath, and forced herself to meet his gaze. ‘Your daughters have both wed most excellent gentlemen, your Grace, gentlemen of whom I dare to believe you yourself will approve upon acquaintance.’

‘Then why the devil didn’t they wait to ask me properly?’ the duke demanded. ‘Gentlemen, hah. Only the lowest rascal steals away a lady from her family like that.’

‘In ordinary circumstances, they would have, your Grace,’ Jane agreed, blushing at what she must next say. ‘But once your daughters had…ah…become their lovers, it seemed best that they wed at once before—’

‘My girls were ruined?’ the duke asked, sputtering with horror.

‘Not ruined, your Grace,’ Jane said. ‘They were—they are—in love, and love will not be denied.’

‘It would have if I’d been here,’ he said grimly. ‘Their names, Miss Wood, their names.’

‘Lady Mary wed Lord John Fitzgerald in Paris—’

‘An Irishman? My Mary let herself be seduced and wed to an Irishman?’

‘A gentleman of Irish birth, your Grace,’ Jane said firmly, determined to defend the choices that both her charges had made. ‘His lordship is a younger son, true, but his brother is a marquis.’

‘An Irish peerage is as worthless as muck in a stable!’ the duke cried with disgust. ‘At least if the thing was done in Paris with a Romish priest, then I can have it dissolved as—’

‘Forgive me, your Grace, but they were wed properly, before an Anglican cleric,’ Jane said. ‘Lady Mary herself was most conscious of that.’

Pained, the duke closed his eyes. ‘If Mary’s thrown herself away on an Irishman, then what kind of scoundrel has ruined Diana?’

‘Lady Diana’s husband is Lord Anthony Randolph, your Grace, brother to the Earl of Markham.’

‘Another younger son, when with her beauty and breeding, she could have had a prince!’ He shook his head with despair. ‘At least he’s an Englishmen, yes?’

‘His father was, yes. His mother was from an ancient Roman family of great nobility, which is why his lordship has resided in that city all his life.’

‘A Roman by birth, and by blood,’ he said, bitterness welling over his words. ‘An Italian, draped with an English title. An Italian, and an Irishman. My God.’

‘I beg you, your Grace,’ Jane said softly. She loved his daughters, and because of that love, she owed it to them to try to make their father understand. ‘These are good and honourable gentlemen, worthy of—’

‘Miss Wood.’ He cut her off as surely as if the words had been wrought of the steel. ‘I trusted you with my dearest possessions on this earth, and you—you have carelessly let them slip away.’

‘But, your Grace, if I might explain—’

‘No.’ Pointedly he turned away from her. ‘Signora, pray show me to my rooms. I will dine there, alone, as soon as your kitchen can arrange it.’

Signora della Battista knew when to put aside her animosity, especially towards the gentleman who had leased her entire house in the winter, a season of few travellers. The Venetian republic was famous for its mercenaries, and the signora was no different.

‘This house is honoured beyond measure, most excellent sir,’ she said in English. ‘My finest chamber shall be at your disposal, and my cook will prepare his very best to tempt you. This way, if you please.’

As Jane watched the duke follow the signora up the stairs, she saw how his usually squared shoulders sagged with weariness and discouragement, how the jagged white salt-stains from the sea worn into his once-elegant dark cloak seemed to illustrate just how long and arduous his journey here had been. She deeply regretted disappointing him, and though she knew better, she impulsively hurried up the stairs after him.

‘Your Grace, if you please,’ she said softly. ‘If I might speak to you further, to explain and—’

‘You’ve explained more than enough for tonight, Miss Wood,’ he said, brushing her away. ‘If you’ve any sense left at all, you should prefer to wait until tomorrow to hear what else I shall say to you.’

This time, Jane did not follow. Instead she remained behind, alone on the staircase, listening as the voices and footsteps of the duke and the signora grew fainter before they finally faded away.

It couldn’t have gone any worse with his Grace, short of him tossing her into the Grand Canal. Perhaps, Jane thought with growing despair, his Grace was saving that for tomorrow. In any event, she should prepare herself for the worst. Lady Mary and Lady Diana had assured her that their father would understand, and that he couldn’t possibly blame Jane for their choices. Yet already she’d seen that he could, and he would.

She had failed in her duty, failed in a way that in her entire life she’d never failed before. She had put the wishes of her charges ahead of their parent, an unforgivable sin in any governess. Yet still she believed she’d acted in the interests of both sisters. Wasn’t that the first order of her responsibilities? To put the welfare of her charges before everything else? But because of it, she was sure she’d now be turned out here in a foreign country, without references, or worse, with damning ones from the duke.

Slowly she climbed the rest of the stairs and headed down the long hallway to her room. She’d already dined earlier with the signora; there was nothing left for her to do this evening beyond preparing for her seemingly inevitable departure in the morning.

Like all the lesser rooms in grand Venetian houses, hers lay between the elegant bedchambers that were to have been occupied by the duke’s two daughters. One of these faced the front of the house, with tall windows and a balcony that overlooked the Grand Canal, while the other faced the house’s rear courtyard and private garden. Although comfortable enough, Jane’s chamber was undeniably intended for a servant, with a lesser view of the Rio della Madonnetta. Depending on the hour and the cast of the sun, candles were necessary, and the tiny stove for heat did little to relieve the winter damp either.

Always frugal, Jane lit only the single candlestick beside the small bed. She set her two trunks on the coverlet, and briskly set about emptying the clothes-press and chest of her belongings. Given the humble nature of her wardrobe, packing her clothes into the trunks took no time at all, and only her letters now remained to be sorted. She changed from her gown into her nightshift, brushed out her hair from its customary tightly pinned knot and wrapped an oversized wool shawl around her shoulders against the chill. Then, with fresh determination, she scooped the bundled papers into her arms and headed for the front bedchamber.