The Duke's Governess Bride. Miranda Jarrett

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ my brew?’

      ‘There’s none, your Grace,’ Wilson said, his expression sour, ‘not that I’ll be bringing you, anyways. If it were my deciding, I would, but it’s not, so’s I won’t, and there’s no help for the change from where I can see it.’

      ‘No riddles, Wilson. It’s far too early for that.’ Exasperated, Richard swung his legs over the side of the bed. This made no sense. He was always most particular about beginning his day with the same breakfast. Wilson knew his ways better than anyone, and had personally made certain that Richard had had his customary breakfast even on the long voyage from Portsmouth, when his shirred eggs had required the presence and supervision of three miserable laying-hens. ‘Where the devil is my coffee, you lazy sot? And where’s the tray with the rest of my breakfast?’

      Wilson groaned, and held up Richard’s dressing gown. ‘I told you, your Grace, it’s not for me to decide,’ he said almost primly. ‘It’s that Miss Wood who’s doing all the deciding this morning.’

      ‘Miss Wood?’ Richard thrust his arms into the waiting sleeves. ‘What does Miss Wood have to do with this?’

      ‘Everything, your Grace.’ Wilson’s wounded pride finally gave way in a torrent of outrage. ‘On account of her telling me it was wrongful for you to eat an English breakfast in your chambers while you was in Venice, she told me you had to come down to her and eat what they eat here, foreign-like, no matter that you never do and never would. That was what I told her, your Grace, that you liked what you liked for your breakfast, but she’d hear none of it, and told me you’d already agreed to do as she said. As she said, your Grace, and you a duke and a peer and she a governess and daughter of a two-penny preacher from Northumberland!’

      ‘Her antecedents matter little to me, Wilson.’ Richard whipped the sash twice around his waist, tying it snugly with the determination of a warrior readying his sword belt for battle. ‘But as for interfering in my breakfast—that is another thing entirely.’

      He threw open the door and marched down the stairs to the floor with the more public rooms. Halfway down he wished he’d stopped long enough to find his slippers—the polished treads of the carved marble staircase were infernally cold beneath his feet—but he wasn’t about to retreat until he’d settled this with Miss Wood.

      Following his nose and the pleasant scent of cooked food, he found her in a small parlour to the back of the house. The room was taller than it was wide, with narrow arched windows and a domed, gilded ceiling that made Richard feel like he stood at the bottom of some eastern gypsy’s jewel box. Two squat chairs covered in red were set before the little round table, likewise covered with a red cloth, only added to the sensation that he’d blundered into someone else’s exotic nightmare.

      Except that sitting at the red-covered table was Miss Wood, as unexotically English as any woman could be.

      ‘Good morning, your Grace,’ she said cheerfully, rising to curtsy. ‘I’m glad you chose to join me for breakfast.’

      Glowering, he chose not to sit. ‘There was no choice involved. You bullied my manservant, and refused to let him do his duty towards me.’

      ‘What, Wilson?’ She raised her delicate dark brows with bemusement. ‘Your Grace, you grant me supreme powers if you believe I ever could bully Wilson into doing—or not doing—anything against his will.’

      Richard’s scowl deepened. She was right, of course. ‘Are you saying that he chose to disobey me?’

      ‘Oh, no.’ Her smile became beatific. ‘Rather I should say that I am most honoured that you have chosen to join me for breakfast in the Venetian manner.’

      ‘This is not as I wished, Miss Wood,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘Not at all.’

      ‘Oh, but it is, your Grace,’ she said. ‘Last night you hired me to act as your guide while you were visiting this city, and to teach you what I’d learned myself of Venice. This is our first lesson, you see, to experience how a Venetian gentleman begins his day.’

      Richard looked down at the array of dishes laid out on the table before her. There was a plate with paper-thin slices of ham arranged to overlap like the petals of a flower, and an assortment of fancifully shaped bread-stuffs. Beside her cup was a chocolate-mill and a smaller pot of hot milk.

      ‘Please, your Grace,’ she coaxed, turning the armchair beside her invitingly towards him. ‘As you see, everything is in readiness for you.’

      Everything, hah. He retied the sash on his dressing gown more tightly with quick, disgruntled jerks, and sniffed while trying still to look unhappy at being crossed. He couldn’t deny that the rich assortment of fragrances that had first drawn him were tempting, or that his empty stomach was rumbling with anticipation. But likewise he liked his habits, his routines, and a breakfast that lacked eggs, strawberry preserves and well-roasted black coffee was not part of his habit.

      ‘Miss Wood,’ he began, determined to steer things between them more to his liking at once, before they’d escaped too far beyond his control. ‘I know you mean well, Miss Wood, but I am afraid that—’

      ‘Oh, your Grace!’ She was staring down at his bare feet with the same horror that most women reserved for rats and toads. ‘Oh, your Grace, your poor feet! These stone floors are so chill on a winter morning. Come, sit here beside the kachelofen and warm them at once while I prepare your chocolate.’

      She bustled forwards, taking him gently by the elbow to guide him to the chair with such concern and efficiency that he could not shake her off without being rude.

      ‘Here now, I’m not some greybeard to be settled in the chimney corner,’ he grumbled, even as he let her do very nearly that. ‘And what the devil’s a kachelofen?’

      ‘This,’ she said, pointing to an ornate object behind the table. He’d thought it was a tall cabinet or chest, but now that he was closer, he could see that it was made not of painted wood, but of sections of porcelain, fantastically moulded and glazed with curlicues and flowers. He also realised that the thing was giving off heat most pleasantly, far more than the grate in his bedchamber had, and automatically he shifted closer to warm himself.

      ‘A kachelofen’s a kind of stove, much beloved by Venetians,’ she explained, holding her palm over the nearest surface to feel the heat for herself. ‘They claim a good kachelofen will warm a room better than an open fire, require less wood and be safer as well.’

      ‘Safe, you say?’ he asked, not because he really wished to know, but because it seemed rude to her not to make an enquiry or two.

      ‘Oh, yes,’ she said eagerly. ‘For a city surrounded by water, the Venetians are powerfully afraid of fire. Only the glassmakers are permitted to keep furnaces, because it is necessary for their trade and therefore necessary for the economy of the city.’

      ‘You’re full of useless information for so early an hour, Miss Wood,’ he said, though the pleasing warmth from the whatever-it-was-called was easing his temper.

      Nor was she offended. ‘There is no such thing as useless information, your Grace. Only information whose usefulness is yet to be revealed. Consider how useful a kachelofen would be in the north corner of your library at Aston Hall. You could set the fashion in the county.’

      ‘What, for foreign kickshaws and foolishness?’

      ‘For СКАЧАТЬ