Читать книгу The Venetian Playboy's Bride - Lucy Gordon, Lucy Gordon - Страница 8

‘YOU must forgive me if I talk too much about Venice,’ he said. ‘I forget that everyone must feel the same about their own home town.’

‘I don’t know,’ she said thoughtfully. ‘I can’t imagine feeling like that about London.’

‘That’s where you live?’

‘It is now, but I was raised on my father’s estate—’

‘Ah yes, Poppa the earl. And he has huge ancestral acres, yes?’

‘Huge,’ she agreed, mentally editing out the mortgages.

‘So you were raised in the country?’ he encouraged her.

‘Yes, and I remember how peaceful it was there too. I used to sit by my bedroom window at dawn and watch the trees creeping out of the mist. I’d pretend they were friendly giants who could only visit me in the half-light, and I’d write stories in my head about the things they did—’ she stopped and shrugged, embarrassed to have been lured into self-revelation.

But he was looking at her with interest. ‘Go on,’ he said.

She began to talk about her home, the childhood she’d spent there, and the imaginary friends she’d created, for her only sibling was a brother too much older than herself to be any fun. Soon she forgot all else except the pleasure of talking to someone who appeared absorbed in what she had to say. None of her family had the remotest sympathy with her ‘dreaming’, and at last she’d given it up in favour of good sense. Or so she’d told herself. Now she began to wonder if this side of herself had merely gone underground, to be brought back to life with the perfect listener on the perfect evening.

At some point he paid for the ice cream and took her arm to lead her out, murmuring about eating the next part of the meal elsewhere. But he did it without taking his attention from her, or interrupting the flow, and when she found herself crossing a bridge a few minutes later she wasn’t quite sure how she’d arrived there.

He found another restaurant and ordered without asking her. That was how she discovered ‘Venetian oysters’, the shells stuffed with caviar with pepper and lemon juice, served on ice with brown bread and butter. It was ten times as good as the splendid meal served in Roscoe’s house, prepared by his expensive chef. Her companion read her face, and grinned.

‘We do the best cooking in the world,’ he asserted without a trace of modesty.

‘I believe you, I believe you,’ she said fervently. ‘This is pure heaven.’

‘You don’t mind my ordering for you?’

She shook her head. ‘I wouldn’t know what to ask for anyway.’

‘Then you place yourself totally in my hands. Bene!’

‘I didn’t exactly say that,’ she protested. ‘I said you could choose the food.’

‘Since we’re eating, that’s the same thing.’

‘Well, I’m on my guard. I’ve heard about gondoliers,’ she teased.

‘And what exactly have you heard?’ he was teasing her back.

‘That you’re a bunch of Romeos—’

‘Not Romeos, Casanovas,’ he corrected her seriously.

‘Does it make a difference?’ she asked, wondering if it was ever possible to disconcert this madman.

‘Of course. This is Casanova’s city. In the Piazza San Marco you can still see Florian’s, the coffee-house where he used to go. Also he was imprisoned in Venice. So, you were saying—’

‘You mean I can finish now?’

He placed a finger over his mouth. ‘Not another word.’

‘I don’t believe you. Where was I?’

‘We’re all Casanovas—’

‘Who count the girls as they come off the planes.’

‘But of course we do,’ he agreed shamelessly. ‘Because we’re always looking for the one perfect one.’

‘Phooey! Who cares about perfection if it’s only for a few days?’

‘I always care about perfection. It matters.’

He wasn’t joking any more and she was impelled to reply seriously. ‘But everything can’t be perfect. The world is full of imperfection.’

‘Of course. That’s why perfection matters. But you must know how to seek it in the little things as well as the great. Look out there.’

He pointed through the window to where the sun was setting exactly between two high buildings, looking like a stream of gold descending into the earth.

‘Do you think the architect knew he was achieving exactly that perfect effect when he created those buildings?’ he asked her. ‘It seems fantastic, but I like to believe that he did. Perfection is where you find it.’

‘Or where you think you’ve found it. Sometimes you must discover that you’re wrong.’

‘Yes,’ he said after a moment. ‘And then nothing looks quite the same again.’ Then his laughter broke out again. ‘Why are we being so serious? That comes later.’

‘Oh, really? You’ve got our conversation all mapped out then?’

‘I think we’re travelling a well-worn path, you and I.’

‘I’m not going to ask you which path. It might mean getting too serious again, and I’m here for fun.’

He regarded her quizzically. ‘Are you saying that’s why you came to Venice—looking for a holiday romance?’

‘No, I—’ Absurdly, the question caught her off-guard. ‘No, that’s not why.’

‘What’s the matter?’ he asked at once. ‘Have I said something to hurt you?

‘No, of course not.’

It was hard because this man was shrewder and subtler than she had allowed for. His eyes were warm and concerned, studying her anxiously, but she needed to evade them, lest they looked too deep.

‘That was lovely,’ she said, indicating her empty plate. ‘What have you decided on now?’

‘Polastri Pini e Boni,’ he declared at once.

‘And that is—?’ She was searching the menu for enlightenment. ‘I can’t find it.’

‘It’s chicken, stuffed with herbs, cheese and almonds. You won’t find it on the menu. They don’t do it here.’

‘Then—?’

‘I’m going to take you to a place where they do serve it.’

‘Are we going to have every course in a different place?’ she asked, slightly giddy at the thought.

‘Of course. It’s the ideal way to eat. Come on.’

As soon as they were outside she became completely lost. Now they were far off the tourist track, plunging into narrow, flagstoned streets that she knew were called calle. High overhead the last of the daylight was almost blocked out by washing strung between buildings, across the street.

‘I thought all the streets were water,’ she observed as they strolled along, not hurrying.

‘No, there are plenty of places where it’s possible to walk, but sooner or later one always comes to water.’

‘But why build it like this in the first place?’

‘Many centuries ago, my ancestors were running from their enemies. They fled the mainland, out into the lagoon where there were a mass of tiny islands, and they settled there. They drove stakes deep into the water to create foundations, built bridges between the islands, and so created a unity that became a city.’

‘You mean this canal beneath us—’ they were crossing a small bridge ‘—was the seaway between two separate islands? It’s only about twelve feet wide.’

‘They were miracle workers. And a miracle is what they created.’

‘But how? It just—just defies all the laws of architecture, of science, of common sense—’

‘Oh, common sense—’ he said dismissively.

‘I believe in it,’ she said defiantly.

‘Then heaven help you! It means nothing. It creates nothing, it’s the opposite of a miracle. Look about you. As you say, Venice defies common sense, and yet it exists.’

‘I can’t deny that.’

‘So much for common sense! Never resort to it again. It’s the root of all the troubles in the world.’

‘I’m afraid I can’t help it,’ she confessed. ‘I grew up sensible, reliable, practical—’

He put his hands over his ears. ‘Stop, stop!’ he begged. ‘I can’t bear any more of these dreadful words. I must feed you quickly and make you well again.’

He hustled her down some steps and into a door that was almost hidden in shadows. Behind it was a tiny restaurant which was almost full despite the fact that it seemed to be in hiding. One taste of the chicken was enough to explain this contradiction. If the last course had brought her to the gates of heaven, this one ushered her through.

Guido watched her with pleasure, intent on weaving a spell around her. He wanted her securely in his magic net before he was ready to reveal certain things about himself. He was an honest man, with a high regard for the truth, but he knew that truth wasn’t always reached by sticking too rigidly to the facts.

Then, as if making his very thoughts tangible, a hand clapped him on the shoulder and a cheerful voice said, ‘Hey, Guido! Fancy seeing you here!’

It was Alberto, a friend and employee, who managed his glass factory, more than slightly tipsy, full of good cheer, and about to blow his cover.

Guido tensed and his glance flew to Dulcie who was mercifully absorbed in feeding a kitten that had appeared under their table. She hadn’t heard Alberto call him Guido but disaster was approaching fast. The one ray of hope was that Alberto was speaking in Venetian. Grabbing his friend’s wrist Guido muttered in the same language.

‘Hello, old friend. Do me a favour. Get lost.’

‘That’s not very friendly Gui—’

‘I’m not feeling friendly. Now be a good fellow and take yourself off.’

Alberto stared, then he caught sight of Dulcie and his expression cleared. ‘Aha! A beautiful lady. You devil. Let me make her acquaintance.’

‘You’ll make the acquaintance of the canal in a minute.’ Guido’s smile never wavered as he uttered this half-serious threat.

‘Hey, all right!’ Alberto became placating, backing off. ‘If it’s like that—’

‘I’m warning you—another word—’

‘Fine, I’m going.’

Guido watched him depart, feeling as if he’d aged ten years. He should have taken Dulcie to some place where nobody knew him, but where, in Venice, was he to find such a place?

Problems crowded in on him. Soon he must tell her of his innocent deception, but how to do it needed a lot of thought. Never mind. He would ‘tap-dance’ his way out of that problem when the time came. He was good at that because to a warm-hearted man with a tangled personal life tap-dancing was a necessary skill.

‘If you’ve finished, let’s walk again,’ he said. ‘Venice will have changed.’

She saw what he meant as they stepped outside. Night had created a different city. Little alleys that had led to mysterious corners now vanished into total darkness, and lights glittered like jewels reflected in the black water. He led her onto a small bridge and stood back, letting her drink in the beauty in her own way, in peace.

Already there were a thousand things he wanted to say to her, but he held back, fearful of breaking the spell by going too fast. He could wait, and let Venice do its work for him.

Dulcie watched and listened, entranced. Faintly, in the distance, she could hear the sound of mandolins, and occasionally a strange, soft, eerie yodel.

‘Whatever is that sound?’

‘It’s the cry a gondolier gives as he approaches a corner,’ he said. ‘With twenty-two feet of boat in front of him he has to warn any traffic crossing his path, otherwise they’d be colliding all the time.’

As he spoke there was another yodel close by, and the prow of a gondola appeared around the corner, turning into the canal and heading for them. Dulcie leaned over the bridge, watching the boat with its young lovers clasped in an embrace. Slowly they drew apart, their faces illuminated by the lights from the bridge.

Dulcie felt a cold hand clutch her stomach. The man—it couldn’t be—she was imagining things. As the gondola glided beneath she rushed to the other side of the bridge in a vain attempt to see better. But that was worse. There was only the back of his head. Perversely this only increased her conviction that she’d seen Simon.

A rich bride, a honeymoon in Venice, these were the things he’d wanted. But it was only four months since they’d parted. Could he have replaced one bride with another so fast? Suddenly she’d moved back in time to a turmoil of pain, disillusion, rejection, mistrust.

‘Dulcie, what is it?’

She felt strong hands seize her, turn her. His face was dark.

‘Tell me what’s the matter.’

‘Nothing.’

‘That man—you knew him—’

‘No—I thought I did, but it couldn’t have been him, not so soon—not here of all places—I don’t know, I don’t want to talk about it.’

‘I see,’ he said slowly. ‘It’s like that.’

‘You don’t know what it’s like,’ she cried angrily. ‘You don’t know anything.’

‘You loved him, and you thought you would be here with him. That much is obvious. And it wasn’t so very long ago. So perhaps you love him still?’

‘It wasn’t him,’ she said, trying to sound firm. ‘Just someone else who looked a bit like him.’

‘But you’re avoiding my question. Do you still love him? Or don’t you know?’

‘Yes—no—I don’t know. I don’t know anything.’

‘Were you coming to Venice for your honeymoon?’

‘Yes,’ she sighed.

‘And now you come here alone—to think of what might have been?’

That did it.

‘Rubbish!’ she said trenchantly. ‘Absolute codswallop! How dare you suggest that I’m some sort of—of—I don’t know, some sort of forlorn maiden trailing in the shadow of a dead love. Of all the sentimental drivel I ever heard—I’ve a good mind to—’

How he laughed. ‘Brava! Brava! I knew you were stronger than that. Whatever he did to you, you won’t be crushed. Don’t get mad, get even! Shall we follow and tip him into the water?’

‘Don’t be idiotic,’ she said, joining in his laughter unwillingly. ‘I don’t even know that it’s him.’

‘Let’s tip him in the water anyway,’ he suggested hopefully.

‘You clown. Whatever for?’

‘As a warning to all men to be careful how they treat women in future.’

‘Let’s forget him,’ she said hastily. She didn’t know what wicked imp had made him voice the very idea that had brought her here, but it was something she couldn’t afford to think of just now.

‘Yes, let’s forget him and plan what we shall do tomorrow. There’s so much I want to show you—’

‘What about your gondola? It’s your living.’

‘Not tomorrow. Tomorrow I forget work and think only of you.’

‘Oh, really,’ she teased. ‘Suppose I have other ideas?’

He looked crestfallen. ‘There’s another man you’d rather spend the day with?’

‘No, I—’ she bit back the rest, realising that she’d walked into a trap.

‘You’d rather spend the day with me than any other man?’ he said at once. ‘Bene! That’s what I hoped.’

‘You’re twisting my words. Maybe I want to spend the day alone.’

‘Do you?’

He wasn’t teasing any more, and neither was she.

‘No,’ she said quietly.

‘We could go to the seaside, if you like?’

‘Does it have a really sandy beach?’ she asked longingly.

‘I promise you a really sandy beach. Venice doesn’t just have the best cooking in the world, it also has the best beach in the world.’

‘Anything else?’

‘The best swimming, and the best company. Me.’

He was laughing again, playing the jester, inviting her to mock him. Then suddenly he drew her into his arms, holding her close, but not kissing her, content just to embrace. He drew back a little and touched her face with his hands, brushing back stray tendrils of hair, and studying her intently.

‘Dulcie,’ he whispered. ‘There’s so much—but not now—this isn’t the right time.’

A tremor of alarm went through her. This was too sweet, too delightful. What was she thinking of?

‘I can’t,’ she said. ‘I can’t see you tomorrow.’

‘Then the next day—’

‘No, I can’t see you again,’ she said desperately. ‘I’m going home. I should never have come here. Please let me go.’

He made no attempt to hold onto her as she broke free and began to run down the nearest calle. She simply had to get away from what was happening here. It shocked and confused her. Nothing was going according to plan.