Читать книгу A Notorious Woman - Amanda McCabe - Страница 13

“Madonna!”

Bianca’s voice, echoing amid the crates and boxes of the store-room, startled Julietta, nearly causing her to bash her head on the case she was unpacking. As it was, she stumbled backwards, a jar of oil clutched in each hand. She had been counting the new arrivals, completing the shop’s inventory, but really, her thoughts were far away, drifting inexorably to the experiment that bubbled and fermented quietly in the secret room.

And trying not to drift to Il leone.

“Yes, Bianca, what is it?” she said, placing the jars carefully back into the padded case. “Do you need my help in the shop?”

Bianca closed the door behind her and leaned back against it, covering her mouth with her handkerchief amid a flood of giggles. “He is here.”

Julietta knew immediately the he that Bianca meant. She turned away from the maid to hide her suddenly warm cheeks, busying her hands with tidying the inventory ledgers on the floor beside her. She had to compose herself, to stop this absurdity immediately, or she would soon find herself giggling away, just like her silly maidservant!

This was business. That was all.

“Signor Velazquez?” she said.

“Sì. And looking even more lovely than before.”

“Well, then, Bianca, the perfume he ordered is behind the counter, in the purple glass bottle. You can package it up for the ‘lovely’ gentleman.” Yes, that was it—send the man on his way without even seeing him.

But life could never be so simple. “Oh, no, madonna. He is asking to see you especially.”

Asking to see her, was he? Why should that be? If she had time to puzzle it over now she would, but that would have to wait for later, when he was gone and she was alone in her room. Right now, though, she had a business to run, and he was a very important customer.

An important customer who wished to see her. Especially.

Julietta pushed herself to her feet, removing her apron and brushing the dust of the store-room from her black skirts. A strange, cold apprehension fluttered in her stomach, but she ignored it and strode past Bianca, opening the door to the shop. Bianca slammed the door back into place as soon as Julietta was past her, leaving her alone in the shop.

Or rather, not quite alone.

They had been busy in the morning; so many people wanted their new scents for Carnival, and customers had crowded the shop to claim their purchases and hear the latest gossip of the Landucci death and the doings of Il leone. Now there was an early afternoon lull, and Marc Antonio Velazquez was the only person in the room.

He was half turned away from her, examining a display of the new French oil burners, which gave her a moment to examine him. She had begun to think that surely her mind had exaggerated his charms, painted him as taller than he was, stronger, darker, a figure of poetic fantasy. But, no—he was everything she remembered. He wore green today, dark forest-green velvet as subtle and rich as his red garb of two days ago, trimmed only with silver-edged slashings on the sleeves and a pale silver fox lining to his short cloak. He held his green velvet cap in one hand, turning it lazily in his long fingers, and the fall of his glossy dark hair gleamed in the sunlight.

The pearl still dangled from his earlobe, emphasising the strong, clean line of his jaw. A small frown creased his brow as he stared at the burners, yet she sensed that he did not see them at all, that his mind was very far away.

Just as hers had been these past two days.

She wondered what he thought of, what dwelled behind the façade of the elegant hero, the brave sea captain all Venice lauded. No, not just wondered— longed to know. Her chest ached with the need, a need she had thought long dead and buried, a need to understand another human, to know she was not alone.

Yet why should that be, with this man, this stranger? For that was all he was, a stranger she had glimpsed only briefly and now fancied such dramas over. She was surely blinded by his beauty, as every woman in Venice was these days. She heard little else in her shop except the doings of Il leone, the ladies he danced with at balls, the honours the Doge showered on him. Julietta would have thought herself sick of him—if she had not so eagerly listened to every scrap of gossip.

Yes, that was all it was, a fantasy, built of sleepless nights and the growing excitement of Carnival. He was merely a man, as any other.

“Buona sera, signor,” she said, stepping out of the shadows. “Welcome back to our shop.”

He spun towards her, his thoughtful frown lightening into the charming smile she remembered. His eyes seemed somehow darker today, blue-green as deep seawater, not as turquoise. He took her hand in his and raised it to his lips for a quick salute. Quick—yet not unaffecting. Gentlemen usually merely brushed the air above a lady’s knuckles, yet he actually touched his mouth to the skin of her fingers, soft as a cloud, warm as summer. His breath, sharply indrawn, swept across her wrist, then he released her, stepping away with a suddenly solemn expression etched on his face.

Julietta stepped away, startled. “I—your perfume is ready, signor. I bottled it in purple Murano glass, the colour of violets.” She ducked behind the counter to retrieve the vial, taking a bit longer than was necessary to fetch it in order to find her serene centre again. She had felt something when he touched her hand so intimately. Not merely sexual attraction, though, of course, that was there, but something more. A quick swirl of something dark, hidden and vast.

It had been such a long time since her mother’s gift visited her. Could it be coming back now, of all times and with this man? What could it mean?

Julietta rose from behind the counter, holding the bottle carefully in hands that longed to tremble. She wanted to run from the shop, to flee into the fresh, cold air and keep going until she left Venice altogether and found herself all alone in a country field. Yet she could not. Not yet. Not now.

He moved to the other side of the counter, his head bent to examine the gift. His hair fell forward in a shining curtain, hiding his face from her view for a moment, and she felt so very foolish. Had she not just told herself that he was merely a man? There was surely no magic here, no hidden darkness waiting to suck her down to its depths.

“It is beautiful,” he said quietly.

Julietta turned the glass, the light from the windows catching at its perfect facets. It was beautiful, one of the finest pieces from her favourite Murano glass blower. It was the deepest of purples, set with tiny amethysts and stoppered in gold filigree. A fitting tribute for a hero. “I hope your mother will like it.”

“She will love it, just as she would love all of Venice, if I could but show it to her.”

“The city does, indeed, have many beauties, especially at this time of year,” Julietta said. “The Piazza San Marco, the Doge’s Palace, the glorious bridges…”

“The beautiful women?”

Julietta gave a startled laugh. “Those, too. The ladies of Venice are well known for their beauty and grace.”

His gaze moved from the bottle to her face, watching her steadily with blue-green intensity. “One in particular, I would say. Lovely beyond any other.”

The words were flirtatious, yet no light grin touched his lips. What lady could he mean? Julietta wondered with a sharp pang. “Ah, signor, have you now found a lady to accept your tokens of affection, as you said you had not when we first met?”

“Not yet,” he answered, leaning against the counter with a smooth, catlike grace. She saw so clearly where he had earned his pseudonym. He was like a lion, indeed, sleek, beautiful, dangerous. “But soon, I hope.”

“If you seek gifts for her…”

“I would, if I knew how to best please her.” In one quick, gentle movement he caught her hand in his, running the rough pad of his thumb over the simple silver ring she wore. “She does not appear to care for jewels.” His gaze slid over the plain black cloak hung on a hook by the store-room door. “Or rich furs.”

Her? He meant to impress her? When every woman in the city vied to strew flowers beneath his feet, join him in his bed? Julietta nearly laughed with disbelief, but his gaze remained steady, serious, never wavering from her face.

What was happening here? Surely she was no gullible girl to believe he desired her, no matter what guilty, secret hopes lurked deep in her heart. She remembered that brief swirl of darkness she had felt when he touched her hand. Something was happening between them, something she wanted so desperately to explain, to know.

Julietta drew her hand from beneath his, but leaned closer, until she could smell the clean ocean scent of him. “Carnival is a special time. Some say it is even—magic,” she whispered. “Masks can set people free, can make them see the truth behind the disguises we all bear. Desire can come to reality then. Perhaps you will find what you seek in the nights of secrets, signor. Perhaps you can find what you always wanted.”

They stared at each other in charged silence, not touching, yet close, so very close. Julietta did not know where her words came from. Her mother had always said that Julietta held herself inside too much, always thinking, planning. Sometimes, my daughter, she had told her, you must simply say what is in your heart.

Easier said than done, of course. And look where speaking her heart had got Julietta’s mother. Yet Julietta knew that what she said was true. Carnival was a time out of time, a time when the truths of her life—the hidden room, Count Ermano, her past in Milan, everything—could vanish for a night. Behind a mask, anything was possible.

“Do you verily speak truth, madonna?” Marc said roughly.

Julietta nodded. Follow what is in your heart, a voice whispered in her mind.

“Then will you do me the honour of accompanying me to a ball in the Piazza San Marco tomorrow night, after the Marriage of the Sea?” He watched her very closely, his gaze unreadable.

Your heart! “Yes, signor. I will go with you to the ball.”