Bronwyn Scott - Regency Surrender - Ruthless Rakes

The dressmaker smiled knowingly. Gianna knew what the woman was thinking: here was a rich Englishman outfitting his Italian mistress, and she bristled at the implication. It was hard to hold on to one’s dignity dressed in a man’s shirt, no matter how good it smelled. ‘ Signor , I know exactly what to do,’ she assured Nolan.

‘I know you do.’ He swept her a bow and then made one to Gianna. ‘I leave you in Signora Montefiori’s capable hands. If I have left anything off the list, please order it. I will see you tonight for supper.’

It took Gianna a moment to register what was happening. He was leaving her here, in this room, to be fitted for clothes while he went off and did who knew what with who knew whom. She was in no position to protest. What woman turned down new clothes? Certainly not the woman who literally hadn’t a thing to wear.

Besides, she had no claim on him. She could not make him stay nor, in reality, would she want him to stay. Right? On a practical level, being fitted for clothing was a rather intimate experience. Did she want him to be present while she stood in nothing but undergarments—assuming the dressmaker had brought some temporary ones—to be measured and draped, those grey eyes fixed on her for hours?

The thought made her hot. She was a wicked girl not rejecting the notion out of hand. But she needn’t worry about that particular event coming to pass. Nolan was gone, the door shutting behind him and his promises to return for dinner.

‘ Signorina , if you will stand here?’ Signora Montefiori brought forward a small dais. ‘ Allora! We will get started. We have a lot to accomplish this afternoon. We have a man to please, no?’ She clapped her hands, and her two assistants sprang into action; taking out measuring tapes and notepads from their baskets, opening the trunks and pulling out bolts of cloth. In a matter of minutes, the room could have passed for a dressmaker’s shop.

Signora Montefiori walked the perimeter of the dais, a finger tapping against her lips, murmuring indistinct sounds every so often. ‘Mmm-hmm, mmm... Ah, sì .’ Then, she stepped back and went to work, issuing commands to Gianna this time. ‘Raise your arms, straighten your shoulders...’

Gianna followed the instructions automatically, her mind disengaging from the process. Her mind was more interested in contemplating what had just happened with Nolan than it was in pins and fabric. Apparently, an accord had been reached: his help in exchange for her promise to leave so they could both get on with their lives. It was precisely what she wanted, except for one small catch. She wondered how he would feel once he discovered there wasn’t just one thing she needed to retrieve from the count, there were three.

She would have felt guilty about not fully disclosing that titbit if not for the fact that he’d done a little misleading of his own in an attempt to bilk information from her. He’d made his mind up to help her before they’d sat down to breakfast, before he’d been asking questions about the count. She’d not needed to persuade him. He’d already decided, yet he’d opted to play with her, to see what she would give up, what she would be willing to bargain with in order to get what he’d already decided to give.

The dressmaker was proof of it. He’d known down to the minute when she’d be outside his door, evidence that he’d arranged for her in advance; some time between getting drunk last night and getting dressed this morning. She’d got what she wanted. She should be ecstatic.

Gianna turned on the dais and held out her arms for another measurement. But the victory was hollow. He’d decided to help her and yet he’d still left, turning her over to strangers; proof that the help he offered was offered begrudgingly. His departure this afternoon made it clear assisting her wasn’t a priority, merely a means to an end. When that end was achieved, he’d wash his hands of her. Unless...unless she could entice him to keep her longer. He would have to want her more than he wanted his plans, whatever those might be.

That should be for the good. She didn’t want a lingering attachment any more than he did. When she had her things, she would pack up her new clothes, her pearls, and she would move on to a new life just as he would move on with his. It was what had been decided. By him . Maybe that was what galled her. She’d got what she wanted, because he’d decided to give it to her. Somehow, in spite of her best efforts to maintain control of the situation, the decision hadn’t been hers.

Chapter Eight

He’d made the decision to help her when he’d seen the little puddle of drool drying on her cheek that morning. It was the best conclusion Nolan could come up with as he lingered over coffee in Piazza San Marco, reviewing the last fourteen hours and his rather surprising capitulation this morning. It was slightly past four o’clock and the piazza was busy with late-afternoon strollers taking in the day before winter darkness fell.

In Venice, this had become his favourite time of day. He’d made a habit of sitting in the piazza, bundled up in his greatcoat and muffler, watching people, guessing their stories. He’d helped one young man a few weeks ago find the right words to mend a quarrel with his sweetheart. Words were simple enough things when you knew which ones you needed. Unfortunately, most people didn’t.

Usually, he had company; one of the many friends he’d made in Venice—novelists and artists, people like himself who made a living from understanding others, or the Austrian Countess Louisa von Haas, who was wintering here for Carnevale. She was an elegant, worldly woman who understood the physical pleasures available in such a setting. Nolan had availed himself of those pleasures on occasion. He was by no means the only man in Venice who had. But today, he sat alone—no artists, no writers, no temporary mistresses—and preferably so. Today, he wasn’t watching people as much as listening to his own thoughts.

Common sense dictated that if he’d truly wanted to be rid of her, he should have taken Gianna back to the count, returned her immediately to the security of her home. Only, there was no security to return to, something her reaction to his knife in the bathing room had confirmed long before she more explicitly confirmed it over breakfast. Of course, he hadn’t needed such confirmation. He’d known from the start. A man who wagered his stepdaughter was no protector at all.

Such a situation had found purchase with him. There’d been no security in his own home life growing up. Once he’d decided to leave his family, he’d had no desire to be returned there either. He certainly wasn’t going to inflict on her a fate he would not have wished for himself. He knew what it was like to be alone in the world, entirely reliant on one’s own resources. Frankly, it was scary, but the thought of going back was even more frightening.

He took comfort in knowing there was a basic explanation behind his motives for helping Gianna: his decision had merely been influenced by the experiences of his own past. Those experiences had been helped along by emotions such as the elation he’d felt when he’d realised she hadn’t stolen from him. The drool had been the pièce de résistance . She’d looked vulnerable and young asleep on his bed, hardly a femme fatale to be feared and thrown out into the world to fend for herself, but a person in need of some luck.

He’d decided he could be her luck as long as that luck didn’t extend beyond giving her a place to stay for a few days, buying her some clothes and offering her some money. Those items wouldn’t interrupt his plans and at present he had the funds to spare. Venice at Carnevale had proven very lucrative. That was as far as he was willing to go and that was the plan he’d had in place before breakfast. Anything more would have to be refused. But that’s not what had happened.