"An excellent idea. I'll have Marcello keep an eye on her, make sure she doesn't bolt."
Their voices were fading away, but she was scarcely aware of them. The eventual silence was so blessed she almost wept.
Alistair Rohan. Why hadn't she known him immediately? She'd never seen eyes that captivating color on anyone but her brother's friend.
She'd been fifteen, he'd been twenty, sent down from Oxford with her brother Jack for some prank involving chickens and the dean's office, much to her father's annoyance.
She'd taken one look at him and fallen madly, desperately in love, as only a fifteen-year-old can love. Of course Rohan had barely noticed Jack's gawky little sister, though he lightly flirted with her when they'd been thrown together.
He left, and she'd never seen him again. Jack had served in India and, like so many before him, died there. Mary had died in childbirth, and their parents were already gone. She was alone, and she'd had no qualms about becoming a governess, and proved to be an extremely good one. She'd leapt at the chance to travel to Venice with the Brandon family, and then disaster fell.
Leaving her destitute, and now a whore, facing her childhood crush. She pushed herself out of the chair and went to survey the littered table, hoping there might be a scrap of food left behind. Apparently the members of the Saving Grace or the Heaven Host or whatever they were calling themselves were only interested in drink, and that one glass of wine had been a very bad idea.
Death before dishonor. It was a lovely sentiment, but she didn't want to die. If she had the chance to go back to England then she didn't fancy a grave as an alternative. They buried the dead on a separate island here--she didn't want her body dumped on a barge and carried over there with the other paupers.
An hour or two in exchange for getting out of this country. She had no sure idea what would await her in England, whether Mrs. Brandon's slander would follow her there, but she had good enough references from other families. And no one would ever need know of this.
She would think of it as a medical procedure, close her eyes and endure. At least no one would cut her open, and the pain would be marginal and quick, or so her sister had told her.
She moved over to the window seat, curling up against the bolted shutters. If Marcello showed up she'd ask him for food, which he'd probably refuse, but starvation had its own compensations. She was already so muzzy-headed she'd probably barely notice what they did to her.
She had drifted off to sleep when the door opened and Alistair Rohan came in, heading purposefully toward the table. His head was wet, and clearly he'd just bathed. She would have killed for a bath.
She sank back into the alcove. A mistake, because her movement caught his attention and he turned to stare at her for a long moment, clearly surprised.
"What are you still doing here?" he asked in that lazy voice she remembered so well.
Somehow she found she was able to answer. "They were afraid they might misplace me."
He gave a short, sharp laugh. "You look like you're starving," he said abruptly. "Can I offer you some food, or will you throw that back in my face?"
"Food...would be very nice," she said in a faint voice.
He nodded, more to himself than to her. "Come with me."
She followed, determined not to fall over, trailing behind the straight, tall back that she'd once sighed over. The room he brought her to was small and cozy, with a blazing fire to fight off the damp Venetian chill. She stood there, uncertain what to do.
"Go. Sit by the fire," he said irritably, and disappeared.
She did as she was bid. The chair was cushioned, the fire so hot that her hands and feet finally began to warm, and she could see steam rising from her sodden garments. She ought to be embarrassed, but it was nothing compared to what was coming later that night.
She didn't know how long he was gone. She had probably drifted off to sleep again, because when he appeared, the supercilious Marcello was with him, carrying a heavy tray.
She almost cried then. But she swallowed back the tears as Marcello set the tray down on the table beside her, then moved it in front of her. Soup, baked eels, cold chicken, hard cheese, bread, sweet confections. She couldn't believe the food there, and she didn't know where to start.
"If you think I'm going to hand-feed you you're wrong," Alistair said, throwing himself down in the chair opposite her.
"Don't...don't you want any?" She'd stab him if he did.
He shook his head. "I've been eating regular meals. Clearly you haven't."
It was all she could do not to fall on the food like a ravenous savage. She forced herself to eat slowly, knowing she'd make herself sick if she shoved it all in her mouth, knowing he was watching her out of those heavy-lidded honey-gold eyes. She was past feeling self-conscious. When she finally finished she sat back, her stomach pleasantly full for the first time in weeks.
She had no choice--she'd been brought up with manners. "Thank you."
He raised an eyebrow. "No longer wanting me dead? Though I can't imagine what I've done to earn your enmity. I was trying to save you from the worst folly imaginable."
"Why? Oh, I remember. I'm just so damned pathetic," she said.
He grinned at that. "I can tell you're feeling better already. I've had Marcello prepare a room for you and a bath. You look as if you haven't had a good night's sleep in weeks, and you're going to need your strength if you expect to get through tonight's festivities."
"A bath?" she echoed. "I've changed my mind--you can have me after all." It was meant to be a joke, but it was a poor choice of words.
His eyebrow lifted again. "Kind of you," he murmured, "but I think I'll decline the sacrifice."
She could feel her face redden. "I was being facetious," she said stiffly. "But the thought of a warm bath is quite...wonderful. Thank you."
"My pleasure," he said. "Or not, as the case may be."
"When...when do things start tonight?" He was wrong. The better she felt the more difficult it was going to be. An hour ago she'd been numb. She was coming back to life now, and the thought of what lay ahead of her was daunting.
"Late. I believe your part involves the thrust of midnight, so to speak." He ran a careless hand through his thick brown hair, frowning at her. "You know they won't let you change your mind. They'll hold you down if you tell them no."
"I won't change my mind." She had no choice. Back out to wander the streets of Venice like a lost soul? She'd end up raped or dead.
He shrugged. "So be it. Marcello is waiting for you. Don't let him give you any trouble. He's a surly bastard."
She was being dismissed. She rose, no longer as shaky as she had been, and he stayed where he was, watching her. She'd already gotten used to the fact that gentlemen didn't rise when she did. As a governess she was only slightly higher than a servant, but it still felt strange to have him lounge there insolently.
He was no longer the same man, she reminded herself, moving past him. But then his hand caught her wrist, halting her, and heat ran through her entire body, like an electric shock. She looked down at him, schooling her expression.
"You really don't know what you're doing, Miss Strong."
"No, I don't. If I had experience of all this I'd be of no use to you and your degenerate friends."
He released her, and she resisted the impulse to rub her wrist. It had been a light touch, and it burned. "Get some rest, Miss Strong," he said. And turned away from her to stare into the fire.
Marcello was beyond surly. He was more like a guard than a servant, and when he ushered her into the dark dressing room he was clearly impatient. But the copper bath was there, steam rising from the water, and she didn't care, barely noticing that he locked the door behind her.
There was a bright fire blazing in the fireplace, and the room was positively warm. She pulled off her clothes, her fingers clumsy in her hair, dumping them on the floor. Everything, including her chemise, when she usually kept that one for bathing. It wasn't until she slid into the hot water that she put her face in her hands and wept.
She stopped as quickly as she could, stiffening her shoulders. She didn't want to waste the warm water with foolish regrets. There was rose-scented soap, and she ducked her head under the water then scrubbed her hair with the soap. She washed every inch of her body twice over, until the water was growing cool, and then she lay back, resting her head on the edge of the tub and closing her eyes. She wanted to stay there forever.
She heard the lock in the door, but she was too sated with pleasure to pay attention, until the door opened. She started to sit up in panic, then realized that her breasts would be exposed if she did, so she sank lower in the tub, glaring as Alistair Rohan strolled into the room, closing the door behind him.
"I thought you would have been done by now," he murmured.
"If you'll go away then I'll finish," she snapped.
He leaned back against the door, surveying her lazily. "Oh, don't mind me. It's nothing I won't be seeing in full in about twelve hours."
"Go away."
"No," he said in a sweet voice. "But I'll give you a towel."
She put out her hand, trying to keep the rest of her under the rose-clouded water. He pushed away from the door and came to stand over her, and she suddenly felt hot, so hot she wondered if the water would start to heat up around her once more. She took the towel and waited for him to move back.
He didn't. She glared up at him. "Go away," she said again.
"Don't waste your breath, my love. I'm not going anywhere. Here, I'll hold the towel for you."
Even in the shadowy light he could see her glare, and he laughed. "Very well, I'll back off. A few feet. But we're going to have to talk, sooner or later."
He really would stay there until she gave in. It was difficult, holding the towel in front of her as some kind of blanket, then trying to angle herself out of the tub without getting her hair wet all over again.