A maid showed Becky to her bedchamber on the next floor of the palazzo. As the double doors were flung open, she was about to say that there must have been some mistake, before remembering just in time that she was supposed to be Luca’s well-born cousin. She supposed the servants had been informed of this, and wondered what on earth they’d make of the shabby wardrobe of clothes she’d brought with her. Lucky for her that she spoke no Italian. It was best not to know.
‘Signorina?’
She followed the maid into the room, abandoning any pretence of being at home amid such grandeur as she gazed around her, almost dancing with delight. The vast bedchamber was painted turquoise blue, the same colour seemingly everywhere, making her feel as if she was underwater. Pale blue silk rugs. Blue hangings at the huge windows. They were drawn shut, but Becky guessed they must look out on to the canal. The view would be spectacular in the morning. For now, the room was lit by another of those massive glittering chandeliers. The bed was a four-poster, and bigger than the room in the rookeries she called home. It was so high, so thick with blankets and luxurious quilts, that she reckoned she’d need a step to climb into it. The bed hangings matched the curtains. She couldn’t resist smoothing her hand over them. Damask, embroidered with silk. Would there be silk sheets? She was willing to wager that there would be. Never mind playing Luca’s cousin, this room was worthy of a princess.
What wasn’t blue was gold—no, gilt, that was the word. Little chairs that looked too dainty to be sat upon. A marble-topped washstand. And a mirror. Catching sight of her reflection brought Becky crashing back to earth. She’d bought her dress in a London street market, second-hand but barely worn, using a chunk of the sum The Procurer had given her to cover her expenses. She’d thought it a good buy, but now even the chambermaid looked better dressed. What must Luca have thought? And what on earth did Luca expect her to change into for dinner, which now she thought about it, was bound to be an ordeal. The opportunities to embarrass herself when it came to etiquette were endless. She owned one evening gown, but it had been bought with the gaming hells of St James’s in mind. Her card sharp’s costume, revealing far more than it concealed, was designed to divert players’ attention from her hands. It was totally inappropriate for dinner with Luca. His demure, innocent English cousin would not own, far less wear, such a provocative garment. Thank the stars she hadn’t packed it.
There was a copper bath placed in front of a roaring fire. The maid was erecting screens around it, laying out towels to warm. Becky hadn’t expected to be living in the lap of luxury like this. Mind you, it was a double-edged sword, for even as she was relishing her surroundings, she was on tenterhooks, terrified she’d make some terrible gaffe that would give her away. If only she could dismiss the maid, she could explore properly, throw herself down on to that huge bed and see if it was as soft as it looked, take off her boots and her stockings and curl her toes into the rugs. There would be time enough, she supposed, when everyone was in bed. Her stay here was going to be short-lived, so she should make the most of it while she could. Though she was definitely not about to permit the woman to undress her. Let her think it was an English peculiarity. She was more than capable of undoing her own stays and garters.
‘No, grazie,’ she said, shaking her head decidedly, slipping behind the screens. Now she could enjoy some privacy, and she wouldn’t have to watch the maid’s face as she surveyed Becky’s meagre wardrobe, searching in vain for evening wear. Quickly ridding herself of her travelling clothes, she sank into the steaming water with a contented sigh. Were these rose petals? And on the little table, beside another jug of hot water, perfumed soap and some sort of oil.
She closed her eyes, allowing the heat to relax her tense limbs and soothe her jangling nerves. She tried to imagine herself playing the lady, all simpering blushes and saucer-eyed wonder. It would be much more of a challenge than the other part she was to play. The Queen of Coins. ‘Regina di Denari,’ she mouthed silently. It sounded much better in Italian. Imperious. Seductive. Like this city. And like Luca, a handsome devil, with a smile that ought to be outlawed.
It wasn’t like her to be having such thoughts. Perhaps she had become infected by Venice’s mystique, the magic in the misty air. She had never been free with her favours—quite the contrary—until Jack came along and stole her heart. It made her cringe now, remembering the way her heart fluttered when he smiled at her, the way she’d gaze at him all starry-eyed, only happy when he was happy, miserable when he was not. She’d loved him, there was no denying it. Their kisses had been lovers’ kisses—or so she’d thought. At any rate, they were the only kisses she had shared in all of her twenty-two years, and the only ones she’d been interested in, until now. Luca’s kisses, she was willing to bet, would be very different.
Becky’s eyes opened with a snap. She was not interested in kissing Luca. She was going to stop wallowing in this bath, indulging in idle speculation and slowly turning into a prune. Panicking that she would be late for dinner, she sat up, sending water splashing on to the surrounding mats, and picked up the soap.
‘Signorina Wickes, Conte del Pietro.’
Luca, who had been carefully twisting the cork to open a bottle of Prosecco, turned as the library doors closed on the servant.
‘Must they announce me every time?’ Becky asked, hovering in the doorway.
‘I’m afraid formality is the order of the day in palace life. Though I must admit that every time they call me Conte del Pietro, I look over my shoulder expecting to see my father. Are you coming in, or do you plan to have your dinner delivered to you in the doorway?’
‘It’s just that you’re all dressed up and I’m not.’ Becky held out the skirts of her gown. ‘I don’t have any evening clothes. Sorry.’
She was smiling and glowering at the same time. Embarrassed. Luca cursed his own stupidity for having donned the knee breeches and coat that was the custom for dinner at the palazzo. ‘It is I who should apologise. This,’ he said, indicating his apparel, ‘is what my father would have considered appropriate, and my mother still does. Neither are here, for very different reasons. Please, come in. To me you look perfectly lovely.’
‘It’s the servants’ opinions I’m more concerned about,’ Becky muttered. ‘I didn’t know I’d be living in a palace.’
‘Venice is a city of many palaces.’ Which was true, but hardly the point, Becky was clearly thinking, though she refrained from saying so. As the cork popped from the bottle with a sigh, Luca set it down, torn. The Procurer’s terms forbade him from asking any questions. Cursing her strict rules of engagement, he poured two crystal flutes of the cold sparkling wine and held one out to Becky. ‘Prosecco,’ he said. ‘Our Italian version of champagne. Personally, I consider it to be superior. Salute,’ he added, clinking glasses. ‘Here is to your arrival in Venice.’
‘Salute,’ Becky repeated in a perfect imitation of his Venetian accent, taking a cautious sip, screwing up her face in surprise as the bubbles burst on her tongue.
‘You’ve never tasted champagne, I take it?’ Luca asked.
‘No.’ She took another sip. ‘But I like this. Have you told the servants that I am your cousin?’
‘Yes, of course.’
‘What were you going to tell them if you’d decided I wouldn’t suit?’
Luca grimaced. ‘I have no idea, I preferred not to consider such an outcome. A sudden family illness back in England forcing you to return, I suppose. But you do suit, so fortunately I don’t have to tell them anything.’
‘Except maybe explain why the cousin of one of the richest families in Venice