His Rags-To-Riches Contessa. Marguerite Kaye

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СКАЧАТЬ you, since she is not the one paying your fee.’ He regretted it immediately, as Becky’s expression stiffened.

      ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean...’

      ‘No, you were right to remind me that it’s none of my business.’

      She took her time finishing her Prosecco and setting the glass back down on the silver tray before making for one of the bookcases, running her finger over Italian titles which she couldn’t possibly understand. Irked by his own arrogance, Luca poured them both another glass of Prosecco and joined her. ‘I’m afraid I don’t react particularly well to being questioned,’ he said. ‘But I am capable of admitting to being wrong.’

      She took the glass he offered her, touching it to his before taking a sip. ‘Not that it happens often, I imagine.’

      He laughed reluctantly. ‘More often than I’d like. I have always been—headstrong? I think that is the word. Acting before thinking, you know?’

      ‘Not a wise move in my game.’

      What was her game, precisely? Where had she come from? What had she left behind? He longed to ask. He hadn’t thought that the terms of their contract would be so constraining. He hadn’t expected to be so curious. But perhaps if he was a little more honest with her, she would come to trust him. ‘My mother does not approve of my plans,’ Luca said, ‘you were right about that. My father’s death was such a terrible shock, she wants to draw a line under the whole ghastly business.’

      ‘When did it happen?’

      ‘In April this year. I was in Scotland, and did not make it back to Venice in time for the funeral.’

      ‘I’m so sorry.’

       ‘Grazie.’

      ‘Was there an enquiry? If he had been murdered, there must have been—I don’t know how the law works here. Do you have the equivalent of Bow Street Runners?’

      ‘There was no enquiry, my father’s death was deemed to be a tragic accident.’ Luca drained his glass, glancing at the clock which was chiming the hour, and on cue Brunetti appeared to announce that dinner was served.

      ‘We can discuss it in the morning, every detail, I promise you,’ he said, offering Becky his arm, ‘and then I’ll introduce you to my mother. She should be home by midday. For tonight, let’s take the opportunity to get to know each other a little better.’

      The major-domo led them in a stately procession to the room next door. The dining room was another huge chamber, grand to the point of being overwhelming, with a woodland scene painted on the ceiling. Becky made out strange beasts which were half-man and half-wolf or goat, with naked torsos, horned heads, leering down at her, drinking from flagons of wine or playing the pipes. It was enough to put anyone off their dinner, so she decided not to look again.

      The table looked as if it could accommodate at least thirty diners. Two places were set at the far end of the polished expanse of mahogany. Torn between awe and amusement, Becky knew enough to allow Luca to help her into her seat, but one look at the array of silverware and glasses in front of her wiped the smile from her face. She watched with growing dismay as Luca sipped and swirled the wine presented to him before his nod of approval prompted the major-domo to fill her glass. Two servants arrived, carrying a silver platter between them. She presumed the major-domo was reciting the contents of the platter. Completely intimidated, Becky simply stared, first at the platter, where she recognised not a single dish, then at the major-domo and then finally at Luca.

      Whatever it was he’d noted in her expression, he rapped out a command to the servants. The platter was placed on the table. The major-domo and his consorts trod haughtily out, and Becky heaved a huge sigh of relief. ‘What did you tell them?’

      ‘That my English cousin is quite ignorant of our splendid Venetian cuisine, and so I would take it upon myself to make a selection for you. Thus educating your vastly inferior English palate.’

      ‘Thank you.’ She was blushing, she could feel the heat spreading up her throat to her cheeks, but there was no point in pretending, it was far too important that she learn while she could. ‘You’ll need to educate my poor English manners as well as my palate I’m afraid,’ Becky said, keeping her eyes on the delicate porcelain plate in front of her. ‘I not only have no idea what’s on that platter, but I couldn’t hazard a guess at what implement I’m supposed to use to eat it.’

      ‘It is the same for all the English who visit Italy you know,’ Luca said, getting to his feet. ‘Our food, it confuses them. It will be my pleasure to introduce you to it.’

      He was being kind, Becky knew that, but she was grateful for it all the same, and extremely grateful that he’d dismissed all the witnesses to her ignorance. As he presented the platter to her, she managed a smile. ‘It does look lovely.’

      ‘But of course. The first step to enjoying food is to find it pleasing to the eye. Now, these are carciofe alla romana, which is to say braised artichokes prepared in the Roman style—because, just between us, though Venetian cooking is obviously far superior to anything served in England, in Italy, I regret to say that we Venetians are considered to be culinary peasants.’ He set a strange off-white chunk of something that looked nothing like the big blowsy green artichokes they sold at the Covent Garden fruit market on her plate.

      ‘Grazie,’ Becky said dubiously.

      ‘Now, these are ambretti all’olio e limone, which is simply prawns and lemon. Would you like some?’

      ‘They smell delicious. Yes, please.’

       ‘Ostriche alla tarantina.’

      ‘Oysters. I recognise these, though I’ve never had them hot like this.’

      ‘You’ll like them. This is octopus. Try it. And these are biancheti.’

      ‘Whitebait,’ Becky exclaimed triumphantly after a brief study of the little fish. ‘I’ll have some of those too, please, unless—Am I supposed to try only one dish?’

      ‘No. This is antipasti, the whole point is to sample a little of everything.’ Luca sat back down, filling his own plate. ‘Use your fingers, then rinse them when you’re done. That’s what the bowl at the side of your plate is for, see, with the slice of lemon floating in it.’

      ‘Well, I’m glad you told me that or I might have drunk it, thinking it lemon soup!’

      ‘You mustn’t worry, Becky. People will expect you to be confused by our customs here. They’re very different.’

      ‘Were you the same, when you first went to England? When was that?’ She rolled her eyes. ‘Sorry, I forgot. No questions.’

      ‘I’m willing to waive that rule if you are.’

      Becky examined the chunk of octopus on her plate, then popped it into her mouth. She’d expected it to be chewy, fishy, but it was neither, melting on her tongue, tasting of wine and lemon and parsley. Luca was waiting on an answer, but he could wait. She took a sip of wine. Also delicious. It wasn’t that she was ashamed of her humble background, but it was like night and day to all this. Would Luca think less of her for it? In one way it didn’t matter, since he’d already committed to her staying.

      She СКАЧАТЬ