Louise Allen - A Most Unconventional Courtship

Chance shifted without thinking, swore at the pain, and forced himself to confront the problem. Alessa was a mystery, and, whoever she was, she was certainly not simply a Corfiot widow running a couple of business ventures to support her children. She was English. Put her into a fashionable gown, suppress her independence of speech and she could pass, very convincingly, in society. However, she had ended up in the back streets of this town, she did not belong here and something ought to be done about it.

He shifted position again, almost welcoming the warning stab from his ankle as an antidote to the almost equally uncomfortable stab of lust that thinking about Alessa provoked. Lust and liking. The soft pad of footsteps approaching the courtyard came as a timely distraction, then he saw the sway of black skirts in the shade of the arcade opposite the one under which he was sitting, the crisp white of a full-sleeved blouse catching the sunlight, the tall, graceful figure carrying a laden basket. ‘Alessa.’

He spoke as she vanished through a door without glancing in his direction, and he realised he had pitched his voice as though speaking to himself, as though she was a dream.

Alessa found the steward without difficulty. As usual at this time of day he was in his cool office facing into the courtyard. ‘Good morning, Kyria Alessa. I have your money here for last month’s laundry. Are the children well?’ He counted out the coins, the familiar muddle of Venetian and French currencies, and handed her his quill with a smile. As always, Alessa made the point of producing a careful squiggle, which could be taken as a signature or a mark.

‘Very well, thank you, Mr Williams. Shall I leave the salve that Dr Pyke ordered with you?’

‘Certainly.’ He helped her unpack the pots from under the piles of ironed laundry. ‘Would you care to leave that washing with me as well?’

‘Thank you, but I will take it up to the housekeeper. There are one or two things I would like to draw to her attention.’

She left him with a smile, hefting the basket that was considerably lighter now the jars had been removed. The household was quiet, only the subdued bustle of servants going about their business disturbing the calm that Sir Thomas insisted upon when he was working in his study. He did not always get it, of course, not when his widowed relative, Lady Trevick, and her two daughters were entertaining.

They must all be out, she mused. They had probably taken their new guest with them in the landau to show him the sights, and to allow him to admire the Misses Trevick to their best advantage under pretty new sunbonnets. As she rounded one corner of the cloister, making for the stairs to the housekeeper’s room, she was congratulating herself upon taking such a detached, ironic, view of his lordship.

‘Alessa.’ It could not be anyone else. Even the one word was distinctive in that pleasant, lazily deep voice that seemed to her fancy to be the same brown as his eyes. She dropped the basket. By some miracle it landed squarely on its base and none of the pristine items fell out.

Chance was half-sitting, half-leaning, on the low inner wall that separated the shaded cloister walk from the open garden in the centre. ‘I am sorry, I did not mean to startle you.’

‘My lord.’ He stood up, taking all the weight on his uninjured leg, and she realised he was dressed like the sailors on the English ships that crowded the harbour under the walls of the Paleó Frourio. Only none of the sailors would be dressed in loose cotton trousers and linen shirt of quite such fine cloth and pristine white finish. He was hatless, that intriguing tortoiseshell hair glinting in the sunlight.

‘No harm done, my lord.’ To pick up the basket and bolt, as her nerves were screaming at her to do, seemed gauche, so she left it and stood waiting, feeling at a disadvantage. Who would he be today? The man who talked so easily with her while he whittled ridiculous animals out of soap? The intense, almost angry man who had spoken of jealousy? Or was he, on his own ground, going to prove to be one of those English aristocrats she had learned to despise—cool, remote, arrogant? ‘Are your injuries less painful today?’

Her eyes were regaining their focus. He did look better. The lines of strain around his eyes had gone and his colour was healthier. ‘They are much improved. The hip joint is much more comfortable, although the bruise is spectacular. My ankle is still painful, but Dr Pyke promises me rapid improvement if I will only rest it.’

‘Good, I am sure he is right.’ His feet were bare, she realised with a shock—long-boned and elegant like his hands. It was the most sensible thing, of course, with one ankle bandaged, but somehow it seemed shockingly intimate. Alessa dragged her eyes away, trying to forget the feel of his unconscious, naked body under her hands. The look of his body…Then, until Kate had commented, she had thought of nothing but his injuries, now she could no longer maintain that indifference.

She began to back away.

‘No, please do not go. Have you brought me my clothes back?’

‘Yes.’ Alessa nodded to the basket. ‘They are in there. I should—’

‘Please sit down.’ He patted the wall beside him. ‘Have a glass of lemonade, if you would be so kind as to fetch it.’

‘It would not be proper.’

‘Why ever not? I am not inviting you back to my bedroom, for goodness’ sake.’ His shirt was open at the neck, showing just a hint of dark hair. His trousers were belted tight, emphasising narrow hips and taut waist. Alessa was certain she was blushing.

‘Because of my position here,’ she said stiffly. Any minute now Mr Williams might come out of his office.

‘You are not a servant. Why act like one?’ The deep brown eyes were amused. It was all very well for him—he did not have to tread a careful line between familiarity and subservience in the most important household on the island.

‘I provide a service here. I am expected to know my place.’ She said it without rancour; she did not envy them their lives, their position.

‘And I am asking you to sit down, drink lemonade with me and keep me company for a few minutes. That too would be a service. If you wish, I will pay for your time. You are not in your own home, so I can offer remuneration without risking your wrath, can I not?’

Defeated, Alessa went to fetch the tray, set it on the wall and sat down. Beside her an orange tree in a pot gave out its sweet fragrance and she bent her head to inhale.

‘They flower at the same time as they fruit—I had not realised that.’ Chance was twisting to reach the jug of lemonade. Alessa jumped to her feet and stretched across him to take it before he hurt his hip, realising too late that it brought them almost face to face.

She could smell the tang of limes, not from any tree, but from the cologne he was using. Seizing the jug in both hands, she moved round to pour it at a safe distance. ‘Limes are the same,’ she blurted out. ‘And lemons. Grapefruit as well, I believe.’ I’m prattling. She stopped talking and handed Chance his glass carefully by the base so there was no opportunity for their fingers to touch.

Back on her perch, she raised her glass to her lips. The sweet-sharp shock of the drink jerked her back from the turmoil that his closeness and the scent of him had stirred up. It was ridiculous. She was among men every day. With some of them she massaged their naked shoulders, or dressed injuries on their bare limbs. None of them made her feel like this, as though one word would tumble her into his arms…

‘Alessa, what is your real name?’ He said it in so conversational a tone that she responded before she could think.

‘Alexandra—’ She caught herself just in time.