Page 18

Bianca was blushing – one would scarcely have imagined her still capable of it – as she said, with a certain amount of confusion, ‘Lady Deborah, Lord Fairmount, Lord Dawbney, may I present you to my sisters, the Duchess of Ventris and Mrs Da Costa?’ The Duchess was the one in crimson, apparently, and Mrs Da Costa the one in dark blue. His aunt – and it certainly served her right – was curtseying appropriately, knees creaking, to the Duchess, who was at least five and twenty years her junior but took precedence over everyone else in the room, and always would unless royalty should be present. How did the girl who’d wandered freely around Venice with a scarf tied round her head, accompanied only by a hideous and probably flea-ridden street urchin, come to have a sister who was a duchess?

Adrian must be thinking along similar lines. He had bowed with perfect correctness, but then said, frowning, entirely serious, ‘I’ve never met a duchess before. It’s very interesting. I thought you’d be older, I suppose, ma’am, and more… How does it come about that you are a duchess, would you mind if I ask? I know they are not to be found everywhere, and I did not know that Miss Constantine had such an… an exalted person as a sister.’

Xan realised he should reprove his son for incivility – though it was a perfectly reasonable question, to his mind – and clearly Aunt Deborah felt the same, and opened her mouth to speak. But Her Grace merely smiled sweetly and said, apparently not in the least offended, ‘Well, Lord Dawbney, I married Lord Ventris as my second husband. He was a baron at that time, but the Regent was good enough to raise him to the dukedom in honour of his long service in the late conflict with France. He is, on his mother’s side, from an old northern family who were once very prominent on the Borders, at the time of the wars with Scotland, and the Prince, who is a great romantic about the medieval past, thought they should be restored to their old dignities.’

Adrian nodded, seeming to accept that as reasonable. ‘Was Lord Ventris a notable general, then, like His Grace of Wellington? I suppose he must have been, but I confess I have not heard of him.’

‘No, he was a spy.’ The Challenders must have been gaping at the lady, thinking they had misheard, because she went on in the tone of one who was speaking of something quite ordinary and everyday, ‘He devoted many years of his life to bringing down Bonaparte’s most extensive and dangerous spy ring in England, working unseen, in secret, to the severe detriment of his own reputation, and the Regent was most taken with the idea when he learned of it.’

‘I should think so!’ breathed Adrian, sounding much more like an ordinary little boy than he normally did.

The lady’s dark eyes, so much like Bianca’s, drifted to Xan’s face, and she said with perfect composure, but then he could not imagine what it might take to discompose this formidable woman, ‘My husband has had to be ruthless in the course of his life, as you might imagine. He is an ordinary gentleman now, looking after his estates, taking his place in the House of Lords and working for much-needed change in our society, but one can never forget that he would be prepared to do quite extraordinary things in defence of our family, if it became necessary. All our family.’

He could only consider himself to have been warned; this must be the significance of her suddenly intent gaze. And he had not the least idea what he had done to deserve it. If anyone had behaved badly, it was this woman’s precious little sister. Though he might easily be accused of immorality – but then, so could Miss Bianca Constantine with equal justice – in other respects he was blameless. Wasn’t he?

27

‘Well,’ Bianca told her sisters an hour or so later, ‘at least that’s over.’ She felt quite weak, and she would much rather have gone to bed and pulled the covers over her head than sit discussing the party in exhaustive detail.

‘I thought it was most kind of Lady Deborah to invite all those people to see the portrait and to meet you,’ Sabrina reproved her. ‘I’ve never seen you so shy in company before; I suppose it was all the compliments they paid you on your work that made you self-conscious. Didn’t several of them speak about offering you commissions to paint their own families, and seem to mean it? I thought that was what you wanted from your stay in London. And also, it seemed to me that Lord Fairmount was quite taken with you, though admittedly he did not converse with you very much. Perhaps he is shy too, and you shall suit admirably, and sit wordless together for hours like a pair of bookends. Certainly he could not take his eyes off you, and he must be admitted to be excessively handsome. I had not realised, for you had never mentioned such a thing, which is most unlike you. Goodness, he is quite brooding and intense, it makes one shiver. Don’t you think I’m right, Vee?’

‘You always are, because you’re the eldest,’ Viola said, smiling rather ironically at Bianca as she spoke. ‘But no, I cannot disagree with anything you say. I did think that he was rather noticeably struck by you, Littlest, and of course there is no reason why he should not be. But do you realise that you sound horribly like Mama, Sabrina? Except she wouldn’t care if he was handsome or not, or quite young instead of old as Methuselah, only that he’s an earl with a fortune, a good reputation, and a large estate.’ There was an edge of remembered bitterness in Viola’s voice.

‘I have a fortune too,’ replied Bianca mulishly. ‘And an estate, or a share of one. I don’t need to marry anybody, old or young, to get either of those things. Those bad days are behind us, thank God. Stop it, both of you. You are as bad as Mama. A man has only to look at me once in passing and you are instantly building silly fantasies on it.’

‘Oh,’ said Sabrina, unruffled, ‘but I assure you, it was not only once, or in passing. He was transfixed by you; I could not possibly be mistaken. His regard was burning in its intensity. I would even venture to describe him as a man obsessed. Perhaps you should paint his portrait next, and take your sweet time over it, batting your eyelids all the while and not wearing a dirty old apron, or very much at all if you can contrive it, then matters will arrange themselves quite easily.’

This was so far from being true that she could not find a way to counter it. ‘I’m going to bed,’ Bianca stated flatly. ‘I am in no mood for this nonsense.’ She rose promptly, and was out of the room before Sabrina, who was naturally indolent, had so much as reacted properly to her ill-tempered statement.

Viola followed her, and stopped her at the foot of the stairs. ‘She’s right, you know,’ she said urgently. ‘I of all people must be agreed to be something of an expert on such matters – passionate affairs, and their conclusion. And Sabrina did not speak of the manner in which you looked at him; perhaps she did not notice, but I did. Whatever was really between you, and you must know that best, it is not nearly over. Don’t deceive yourself for a second that it is.’

‘It must be,’ she shot back. ‘Don’t be ridiculous. It’s over if I say it’s over.’

28

Xan was in not much better a case, as he sat down to eat dinner with his aunt and those damned annoying cousins, who were, for reasons he couldn’t begin to fathom, still here. Nobody had changed into evening clothes, as a result; how cosy it all was. One of them – Jessica? Melissa? Clara-bloody-belle? – was chattering away about how agreeable all the sisters appeared to be, the Duchess showing not the least sign of hauteur. ‘And she is twice a duchess, you know, because she was previously married to Winterflood, and is the mother of the present Duke.’

‘It’s quite true,’ Aunt Deborah agreed, ‘though it is most unusual in these modern times. A shame young Winterflood, the son, is not ten years older, or he might have done for one of you girls. If he resembles his mother at all, as boys generally do, he will grow to be a well-looking man, and who could be more eligible in terms of birth, breeding and fortune?’

Quite possibly the last thing in the world Xan wished to do was talk at such exhaustive length about Bianca Constantine and her family, but apparently he was a cipher in his own home and could not find a way to prevent it. They were asking him now if he was acquainted with the Duchess’s husband, His Grace the Duke of Ventris, but luckily he was able to tell them repressively that he was not; Xan had not yet taken his seat in the House of Lords, though he meant to soon, when he had thoroughly prepared his maiden speech, and he had never encountered the ex-spy anywhere else, which was hardly surprising.

They were not discouraged, his gossiping relatives, and were speaking now of another Constantine sister and her husband, who was apparently a rising Member of Parliament, and likely to take some high office if a progressive government should ever be elected. It was being borne forcibly in upon him – and he didn’t know why he hadn’t thought about it before during the last few days – that the woman who had been his lover came from a large and rather prominent family. It wasn’t just her name and marital status she’d lied about; it was everything else too. What in the name of heaven had she been doing alone and unchaperoned in Venice?

Unchaperoned… The thought he’d been trying so hard not to have was forcing itself upon him with an insistency he could no longer ignore. He rose hastily as the ladies left the dining-table and then sank back into his seat again; he was alone now for a short, precious time before he must rejoin them and endure more of their idle, infuriating chatter.

He’d spent all this time yearning for Bianca – for her body, her touch, all the things they’d done together and all the things they might have done if she’d stayed with him. This torture had redoubled when he’d set eyes on her again so unexpectedly in this very house. He knew she was a liar. But if she wasn’t married, had never been married, was instead a supposedly respectable young single lady from a good family – as today he’d seen that she was – had he in fact seduced her and ruined her, though indeed he had not been aware of it? This must be the import of the Duchess’s strange and threatening words to him. They must all know of the affair, the whole pack of them, and think that he was nothing more than an unconscionable libertine who’d taken advantage of their sister. Their innocent little sister.

Thank God his father and his brother were dead and not here to witness this fresh disaster. He could imagine only too well what they would have had to say about his ignorance, his lack of experience. Could he really not tell…? he imagined Philip jeering at him. What an excellent jest to spread around London. He’d be a laughing-stock, or more of a laughing-stock than he’d already been.

And there was more.

Xan did not and could not trust Bianca Constantine. He might obsess over her, but he hated her for how she’d deceived him and should have nothing more to do with her, for the sake of his own sanity, if nothing else. But was it not also true that if he had taken her virginity – which he was beginning to think he must have done, certain powerful memories of Venice arranging themselves rather differently in his mind now – he was obliged in honour to marry her?

29

VENICE

Bianca closed her eyes as Xan obeyed her command and slipped his hand up under the hem of her gown. The sun was deliciously warm on her eyelids, and it was very quiet, here on this uninhabited island out in the lagoon. The sand and blanket were soft beneath her back, and there was nothing to distract her from this moment. ‘Just let me touch you,’ he whispered. ‘Lie back and let me see how much pleasure I can give you. You know I do not have a great deal of experience, but I will make up for it by my enormous willingness to learn.’ This, of course, was all the more true of her, though he did not know it, and she did not intend that he ever should.