The Duke's Governess Bride. Miranda Jarrett

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СКАЧАТЬ of Miss Wood with his daughters was of her being reticent, speaking only when first addressed. He’d never heard her be quite so…loquacious before. More surprising still, he realised that he rather liked it.

      In fact, he liked sitting here, wearing his nightclothes in cosy domesticity with his daughters’ governess, in a room too lurid for most London bagnios. He suspected he was called many things about the county at home, but ‘clever’ wasn’t a word he’d heard often, and to his surprise, he rather liked that, too.

      ‘Perhaps one of these would be of use,’ he said, regarding the kachelofen now as an ally. ‘It does keep off the cold better than a grate.’

      ‘Indeed it does, your Grace.’ She returned to her own chair, and began to busy herself with the chocolate-mill. ‘Now that you’re warming yourself from the outside in, we must see to warming you from the inside out as well. This, your Grace, is how every proper Venetian gentleman begins his day, and likely the improper ones as well.’

      He watched her briskly twisting the rod back and forth between her palms to mix a froth into the dark mixture, her little hands moving with confident dexterity. He wished she hadn’t mentioned those improper gentleman, considering how improper his own thoughts were at the moment.

      ‘Chocolate’s well enough for those fellows,’ he said finally. ‘But I’d as soon have Wilson fetch me my usual coffee.’

      She paused, and glanced up at him without raising her chin. ‘You could, your Grace. You could. But if you did, it would be disappointing.’

      It was the evenness of her voice that stopped him. No fuss, no excess of emotion, only that quietly stated disappointment.

      ‘Would you be disappointed, Miss Wood?’ he asked softly. Now with the idle pleasantries of the kachelofen done, he found he cared more about her answer than he’d wish to admit. ‘If I chose my old ways, would you be disappointed?’

      But instead of answering, she lowered her gaze back to the mill. ‘I ask only that you try it, your Grace. This chocolate is far different from that served in London. Cocoa, sugar, cinnamon, vanilla. You will taste the difference at once.’

      ‘How did you come by all this knowledge of yours, eh?’ he asked, still sceptical. ‘You’ve not been here so long yourself.’

      ‘I listen to whomever will speak to me, your Grace, and I learn wherever I might,’ she said, carefully filling a second cup for him. ‘Signora della Battista and her cook. The gondoliers who pilot the gondolas and the old monks who show me the paintings in the churches. Here now, take care, and do not burn your tongue.’

      She set the little cup before him, and Richard looked down at it so glumly that she laughed.

      ‘Faith, your Grace, I’ve no wish to poison you,’ she said. ‘You look like a small boy faced with a foul-smelling physick.’

      He sighed dolefully. ‘If I drink it, will you let me have my coffee afterwards?’

      ‘An entire pot of Wilson’s best, if you wish it,’ she said. ‘But you must make an honest effort, else I won’t take you anywhere today.’

      ‘I suppose there’s no help for it,’ he said, manfully taking up the cup with fingers too large for the dainty porcelain handle. ‘Must obey the governess.’

      Though he tipped the cup to drink, the chocolate was almost too thick to do so, not quite a pudding, nor a drink, either. What it was for certain was wonderful, redolent of spices and flavour, warm and rich, and exactly sweet enough to satisfy. It delighted his tongue and his stomach, the pleasurable sensation of contented well-being spreading through his limbs as well. She was right: he’d never tasted anything like it, and he tipped the cup again, wanting more.

      ‘Should I send for Wilson’s coffee now, your Grace?’ While her expression was studiously impassive, her eyes shone bright with amusement in the grey winter sunlight. ‘Or would you care for another dish of chocolate?’

      He held his cup out to be refilled. ‘You tell me, ma’ am.’

      She laughed and poured the chocolate. As he drank again, she took a two-tined fork and plucked up a piece of the ham. The meat was sliced so finely that she could twist it into a rosette on the tines of the fork, offering it to him.

      ‘That looks as thin as the sorry ham they serve at Vauxhall Gardens,’ he said, turning suspicious again. ‘Flimsy, tasteless rubbish, unfit for any man.’

      ‘It’s not the same, I assure you,’ she said. ‘It’s far, far more delectable than that, and not at all like that thick, fatty bacon you devour at home. Prosciutto, it’s called. Try it now, while the chocolate lingers on your tongue, and let the flavors mingle.’

      This time he trusted her, taking the entire twirled rosette of ham from the fork into his mouth. Magically, the saltiness of the meat melded with the fading sweetness of the chocolate to make something entirely different. It seemed that beyond the spices of the chocolate and the spices of the ham’s curing, he could also taste the dark mystery of the cocoa along with the sweet summer grasses that the pig had eaten. He’d never tasted anything like it, especially not for breakfast. It was not only beyond his experience, but beyond his powers to describe as well.

      She knew it, too, her mouth curving up in a mischievous, knowing grin as she twisted the fork into the ham once again. ‘That is how Venice tastes, your Grace, or rather, how it tastes so early in the day. We can have another lesson at each meal, if you please.’

      ‘Oh, it pleases me,’ he said. He took another sip of the chocolate, but instead of reaching for the fork with the ham, he leaned forwards and opened his mouth. She hesitated only a moment before her smile blossomed into a grin, and she fed the ham to him. He made a rumbling sound of happiness as he chewed, and finally winked at her by way of thanks.

      Startled, she sat back in her chair, the fork still in her hand, but then she laughed softly, too, as much at her own surprise as with him. Best of all, she blushed, her cheeks turning nearly as rosy as the cloth on the table.

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