The Defiant Mistress. Claire Thornton
Ambassador joined him on the balcony. Gabriel was mildly surprised, Sir Walter was not known for being an early riser.
‘Morning, your lordship!’ the Ambassador greeted him. ‘Looks like it’s going to be a fine day, doesn’t it?’ He peered hopefully at the sky.
‘I believe so.’ Gabriel glanced over the balustrade. The floating market had dispersed until the following morning. The first rays of sunlight were beginning to give a hint of warmth to the air.
‘You missed a deal of excitement last night!’ the Ambassador exclaimed.
‘So I heard,’ Gabriel said.
‘Of course. Of course.’ Sir Walter nodded vigorously. ‘No need to tell you old news. But I wonder if I might ask a favour of your lordship—on behalf of young Beresford and myself?’
‘A favour?’ Gabriel raised his eyebrows in surprise. ‘For your…undersecretary, is he not? Of course, if it is within my power—but what is your request?’
‘Shouldn’t cause you any inconvenience,’ the Ambassador assured him. ‘You’ll be returning to England in a week or so, will you not? I believe you told me you’d travel to Livorno and then take one of your own ships back to London?’
‘Yes.’
‘Excellent. Then I wonder if you would be kind enough to provide safe passage back to England for Mrs Quenell and her maid?’
‘Mrs Quenell?’ The name was completely unknown to Gabriel.
‘The gentlewoman who was kind enough to act as Mrs Beresford’s companion between Bruges and Venice,’ Sir Walter explained. ‘Mrs Beresford is full of praise for Mrs Quenell. She is sure she would not have managed the journey without her help. Mrs Quenell’s only request is that I might find her a safe escort back to England. It seems the least I can do. Young Beresford is almost beside himself with joy at having his wife with him once more. So, what do you say, your lordship? Mrs Quenell is a very quiet, modest woman. I’ll warrant she’ll be no inconvenience to you at all.’
‘Why does a Flanders nun want to go to England?’ Gabriel asked, puzzled by the request.
Sir Walter stared at him in surprise. ‘She’s not a nun,’ he replied. ‘She was a guest at the convent….’
Gabriel heard a soft rustle of skirts. He turned his head to see a woman being shown on to the balcony by a page. For a moment her face was hidden in shadows, then she stepped into the light.
Gabriel was standing still, but the shock of what he saw had the same impact as slamming into a stone wall. His lungs froze. He couldn’t breathe. Disbelief rang in his ears, blocking out all other sounds. His vision narrowed until he saw nothing and no one but the woman in front of him.
Frances?
It couldn’t be Frances, here in Venice. Surely the resemblance was just a trick of the morning light. Talk of Beresford’s devoted young wife had raised the ghost of another, less than devoted bride in his mind. Memories he’d tried to forget had disturbed his sleep. Somehow he’d now superimposed Frances’s face on to that of another blonde woman.
He deliberately closed his eyes for a few seconds. Remembered to breathe. Rubbed his temple. Opened his eyes. Stared at the woman.
She stared back, shock in her blue eyes. Her lips slightly parted. Colour drained from her face. There was recognition in her stunned expression.
It was Frances.
His blood began to pound sluggishly through his veins once more. The tempo of his heartbeat began to increase. He didn’t hear a word of Sir Walter’s introduction or explanation. He forgot the Ambassador was even on the balcony. His attention was locked on the woman who had betrayed him so badly.
She’d changed her hairstyle, but a single blonde curl had escaped to lie against her cheek, just as he remembered it. Her skin was soft and smooth, unlined by the passing of time. Her eyes were still an entrancing blue. The colour of cornflowers, he’d once claimed in a foolish poem. Her lips were full, her mouth a little wider than true beauty required. But there had been a time when he’s sworn her lips had been created for laughter—and for his worshipful kisses.
His gaze was drawn irresistibly lower. He’d once thought she was the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen. Her waist was still as trim as he recalled. How he’d longed for the moment when he would remove her boned bodice and touch her warm, yielding flesh. Today she wore a simple blue gown with an elegance few other women could match. The full silk sleeves of her bodice ended at her elbows, but the soft white cambric sleeves of her chemise extended an inch or two further and were trimmed with a graceful fall of lace that reached almost to her wrists. Matching lace decorated the neckline of her bodice and the hem of her skirt.
He could see the merest hint of the soft swell of her creamy breasts above her bodice. His eyes locked on to that small part of her anatomy. The place he had seen another man kiss her on the very day planned for their own wedding.
For a few seconds he was back in the bawdy house, watching in agonised disbelief as she turned willingly into her lover’s arms. His hands clenched into fists at his sides. He heard again her mocking laughter as he sank into the painful oblivion of unconsciousness.
The slow chug of shock exploded into boiling rage. His lip curled into a snarl. Every muscle in his body tensed. Coiled to spring.
‘…and please allow me to introduce you to Lord Halross.’ Gabriel heard the Ambassador’s voice as if it came from a great distance. ‘As I mentioned to you last night, he intends to return to England in one of his own ships. I’m sure he can provide you with a safe passage home.’
Frances opened her mouth, but no words emerged. It was clear she had not expected to see him. Her lips were pinched and pale. Gabriel wondered if she was about to faint and thought savagely that it would be poor justice compared to his own humiliating fate eight years ago. He’d woken in darkness to find he’d been left lying in a stinking ditch outside the City walls. It was only by luck and God’s good grace he hadn’t been stripped of his clothes, and perhaps even his life, while he was unconscious.
And Frances had given the order for his degradation. She had laughed at the prospect of it.
His muscles twitched. Power surged through his body, but he didn’t move an inch. He had made a fool of himself once over this woman. He would not do so again. He drew in a deep breath. His lungs burned. It felt like the first breath he’d ever taken. He took another breath. Air seared through his throat like fire, but when he spoke his voice was harsh and cold as hoar frost. ‘Is it my protection you crave, madam? Or my indulgence? I—’
‘Neither!’ Frances’s chin snapped up. Hot colour suddenly burned in her pale cheeks. ‘I ask nothing of you, my lord. I am sorry to have intruded upon you.’
She whirled about in an angry swish of skirts, clearly intending to leave the balcony.
Fury speared through Gabriel when he saw the disdainful way in which she turned her back upon him. He would not allow her to dismiss him so lightly a second time. He took two long strides towards her, then reached out to seize her arm—
But he was thwarted in his intentions by the sudden appearance on the balcony of the Ambassador’s secretary. Roger Minshull stepped between Gabriel and Frances. He uttered appropriate greetings to Gabriel and Sir Walter but, to Gabriel’s disgust, it was Frances who occupied his attention.
‘Mrs Quenell, if you have rested sufficiently from your journey, I would be honoured to show you the sights of Venice,’ Minshull said, bowing ingratiatingly.
Athena hardly noticed when the secretary took her hand. She saw only Gabriel. Heard only Gabriel. Even when she turned her back on him, every fibre of her body was attuned to every movement he made.
Gabriel.
Lord Halross, the Ambassador had told her yesterday. She’d been prepared to encounter Gabriel’s brother this morning. She’d fretted over