Claire Thornton - The Defiant Mistress

He ripped off a piece of cake-bread and chewed thoughtfully as he planned the day’s business. When he’d eaten his fill he tossed the crumbs on to the balcony for the pigeons and turned to go inside.

Most Venetian palazzi had been built to a standard pattern, even though some dated back two or three hundred years and others were of more recent origin. The Ambassador’s residence was no exception. The first floor, known to the Venetians as the piano nobile consisted of a great chamber that stretched the full length of the palazzo with a series of smaller chambers opening off from it on either side. The large hall, which could be utilised for many purposes, was called the portego. The balcony overlooking the grand canal on which Gabriel currently stood was reached from the portego.

The Ambassador, Sir Walter Cracknell, had his own quarters on the piano nobile. Gabriel, as the Ambassador’s honoured guest, also had his quarters on the same floor. The second floor followed a similar layout and here less important guests and the Ambassador’s gentlemen staff were housed.

Just as Gabriel was about to re-enter the portego, the Ambassador joined him on the balcony. Gabriel was mildly surprised, Sir Walter was not known for being an early riser.

‘Morning, your lordship!’ the Ambassador greeted him. ‘Looks like it’s going to be a fine day, doesn’t it?’ He peered hopefully at the sky.

‘I believe so.’ Gabriel glanced over the balustrade. The floating market had dispersed until the following morning. The first rays of sunlight were beginning to give a hint of warmth to the air.

‘You missed a deal of excitement last night!’ the Ambassador exclaimed.

‘So I heard,’ Gabriel said.

‘Of course. Of course.’ Sir Walter nodded vigorously. ‘No need to tell you old news. But I wonder if I might ask a favour of your lordship—on behalf of young Beresford and myself?’

‘A favour?’ Gabriel raised his eyebrows in surprise. ‘For your…undersecretary, is he not? Of course, if it is within my power—but what is your request?’

‘Shouldn’t cause you any inconvenience,’ the Ambassador assured him. ‘You’ll be returning to England in a week or so, will you not? I believe you told me you’d travel to Livorno and then take one of your own ships back to London?’

‘Yes.’

‘Excellent. Then I wonder if you would be kind enough to provide safe passage back to England for Mrs Quenell and her maid?’

‘Mrs Quenell?’ The name was completely unknown to Gabriel.

‘The gentlewoman who was kind enough to act as Mrs Beresford’s companion between Bruges and Venice,’ Sir Walter explained. ‘Mrs Beresford is full of praise for Mrs Quenell. She is sure she would not have managed the journey without her help. Mrs Quenell’s only request is that I might find her a safe escort back to England. It seems the least I can do. Young Beresford is almost beside himself with joy at having his wife with him once more. So, what do you say, your lordship? Mrs Quenell is a very quiet, modest woman. I’ll warrant she’ll be no inconvenience to you at all.’

‘Why does a Flanders nun want to go to England?’ Gabriel asked, puzzled by the request.

Sir Walter stared at him in surprise. ‘She’s not a nun,’ he replied. ‘She was a guest at the convent….’

Gabriel heard a soft rustle of skirts. He turned his head to see a woman being shown on to the balcony by a page. For a moment her face was hidden in shadows, then she stepped into the light.

Gabriel was standing still, but the shock of what he saw had the same impact as slamming into a stone wall. His lungs froze. He couldn’t breathe. Disbelief rang in his ears, blocking out all other sounds. His vision narrowed until he saw nothing and no one but the woman in front of him.

Frances?

It couldn’t be Frances, here in Venice. Surely the resemblance was just a trick of the morning light. Talk of Beresford’s devoted young wife had raised the ghost of another, less than devoted bride in his mind. Memories he’d tried to forget had disturbed his sleep. Somehow he’d now superimposed Frances’s face on to that of another blonde woman.

He deliberately closed his eyes for a few seconds. Remembered to breathe. Rubbed his temple. Opened his eyes. Stared at the woman.

She stared back, shock in her blue eyes. Her lips slightly parted. Colour drained from her face. There was recognition in her stunned expression.

It was Frances.

His blood began to pound sluggishly through his veins once more. The tempo of his heartbeat began to increase. He didn’t hear a word of Sir Walter’s introduction or explanation. He forgot the Ambassador was even on the balcony. His attention was locked on the woman who had betrayed him so badly.

She’d changed her hairstyle, but a single blonde curl had escaped to lie against her cheek, just as he remembered it. Her skin was soft and smooth, unlined by the passing of time. Her eyes were still an entrancing blue. The colour of cornflowers, he’d once claimed in a foolish poem. Her lips were full, her mouth a little wider than true beauty required. But there had been a time when he’s sworn her lips had been created for laughter—and for his worshipful kisses.

His gaze was drawn irresistibly lower. He’d once thought she was the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen. Her waist was still as trim as he recalled. How he’d longed for the moment when he would remove her boned bodice and touch her warm, yielding flesh. Today she wore a simple blue gown with an elegance few other women could match. The full silk sleeves of her bodice ended at her elbows, but the soft white cambric sleeves of her chemise extended an inch or two further and were trimmed with a graceful fall of lace that reached almost to her wrists. Matching lace decorated the neckline of her bodice and the hem of her skirt.

He could see the merest hint of the soft swell of her creamy breasts above her bodice. His eyes locked on to that small part of her anatomy. The place he had seen another man kiss her on the very day planned for their own wedding.

For a few seconds he was back in the bawdy house, watching in agonised disbelief as she turned willingly into her lover’s arms. His hands clenched into fists at his sides. He heard again her mocking laughter as he sank into the painful oblivion of unconsciousness.

The slow chug of shock exploded into boiling rage. His lip curled into a snarl. Every muscle in his body tensed. Coiled to spring.

‘…and please allow me to introduce you to Lord Halross.’ Gabriel heard the Ambassador’s voice as if it came from a great distance. ‘As I mentioned to you last night, he intends to return to England in one of his own ships. I’m sure he can provide you with a safe passage home.’

Frances opened her mouth, but no words emerged. It was clear she had not expected to see him. Her lips were pinched and pale. Gabriel wondered if she was about to faint and thought savagely that it would be poor justice compared to his own humiliating fate eight years ago. He’d woken in darkness to find he’d been left lying in a stinking ditch outside the City walls. It was only by luck and God’s good grace he hadn’t been stripped of his clothes, and perhaps even his life, while he was unconscious.

And Frances had given the order for his degradation. She had laughed at the prospect of it.

His muscles twitched. Power surged through his body, but he didn’t move an inch. He had made a fool of himself once over this woman. He would not do so again. He drew in a deep breath. His lungs burned. It felt like the first breath he’d ever taken. He took another breath. Air seared through his throat like fire, but when he spoke his voice was harsh and cold as hoar frost. ‘Is it my protection you crave, madam? Or my indulgence? I—’