A Most Unconventional Courtship

Chapter Six

The morning sun was warm, the sky was blue, she had no visitors for medical attention that morning, and no pile of dirty laundry waiting either. Alessa sighed happily at the prospect of an almost lazy day. There was some marketing to be done, certainly, and the basket on her arm was for that. But there was no hurry. She could stroll, chat, or find a bench in the shade of the young lime trees the French had planted to fringe the Spianadha. From that vantage point one could find endless, idle, amusement, watching the English residents as they went about their business or drank coffee in the Italian coffee shop under the arcades of the Liston.

She narrowed her eyes against the brightness as she looked at the dazzling white of the line of apartments and shops that the French had newly built. No sooner had they completed them then they had to abandon the island. There were jewellers in the shade of the arcades, a silk shop, another shop selling luxurious little trifles of no purpose at all other than to amuse the wealthy and to enchant little girls, whose noses would be pressed up against the window if they were allowed. Dora loved it, but she understood that these shops were not for people like them, people who dwelt in the back streets.

Alessa knew Signor Luigi, who kept the coffee shop. He came to her with his sore knee sometimes. He had set up shop under the French and found no problem in continuing business under the English. ‘They all drink coffee, they all pay me,’ he would observe with a shrug.

A number of people were already seated at the tables, men mostly, singly or in pairs, reading the newspaper or talking. Alessa kept her eyes on the road as she passed, unwilling to be ogled.

‘Signora! Signora Alessa! Mi scuzi…’ It was one of the waiters, running down the steps. Puzzled, Alessa turned, and the man stopped. ‘Scuzi, signora, ma il signore…’

‘Questo signore?’ But she knew. Alessa looked and saw Chance half-rising from his seat, his wide-brimmed straw hat politely doffed.

She could turn her back and walk on. Or return a stiff bow and still walk away. He could hardly hobble after her down the street. But the waiter would probably give chase in the hope of a good tip, and that would create a scene.

Conscious that she was the focus of several pairs of interested male eyes, Alessa walked back to the table. ‘Good morning, my lord. Is there something I can do for you?’

‘Good morning, Kyria Alessa. I would be glad it if you will take coffee with me.’He put the hat down on the chair beside him and waited, head slightly on one side, watching her. Alessa swallowed. There was nothing she would like more, just at this moment, than to sit and talk to Chance, she realised. And nothing could be more indiscreet than to be seen talking to one of the English gentlemen in public like this.

‘I can’t sit down until you do.’ His smile was charming, although she suspected mischief behind it. ‘I am sure it is not good for my leg, standing about,’ he added, with a faint implication of pain bravely borne. Yes, definitely mischief.

Alessa perched on the edge of the chair, then, suddenly defiant, sat right back and pushed her basket under the table. ‘Un succo di arancia, per favore.’ That disposed of the hovering waiter. She folded her hands in her lap and watched Chance warily from under the brim of her wide hat while he sat down again.

He looked well. He was still moving with caution, but the pain was obviously much improved and the faint lines of strain had gone from around his eyes. The autumn-leaves hair had been neatly trimmed, but the slight breeze from the sea was catching it, ruffling it out of perfect order.

‘Do I pass muster, or do you think I require a tonic?’

Alessa blushed, conscious that she had been staring. ‘Eat more oranges and drink less coffee and brandy,’ she said tartly to cover her confusion.

‘Is that all?’ Chance glanced up to nod acknowledgement to the waiter bringing Alessa’s orange juice, then brought his gaze back to her face. For a man with such warm brown eyes, he had the most penetrating stare. Alessa made a conscious effort not to wriggle under it. ‘I had hoped I might be in need of my ankle massaging.’

Alessa narrowed her eyes at him, but did not rise to the bait. ‘I should not be here—was there something in particular you wanted to talk to me about, my lord?’

He ignored the question, frowning instead at the statement. ‘Why not? This is a respectable place for a lady to be seen, is it not? And we are out in the open. Surely you do not require a chaperon here? I did not mean to put you to the blush.’

He sounded so concerned that Alessa laughed. ‘It is a perfectly respectable place. That is entirely the problem—I am not a lady, so I should not be sitting here.’

‘Nonsense!’It was said so sharply that she jumped. ‘I beg your pardon, but you are quite obviously a lady. You are an officer’s daughter.’

In answer Alessa swept a hand down her embroidered bodice and kicked the marketing basket under the table. ‘I do not dress like a lady, I have no pretensions to being a lady, and I work for my living. The men watching us will have come to their own conclusions about what we are discussing, and wondering about the price,’ she added, slyly reminding him of his earlier error.

‘Hell.’ He swore softly and swept an inimical eye around the arcade. They were sitting at one end and she had her back to the rest of the tables, so Alessa could not see without turning round. Chance raised his voice, fractionally above conversational level. It had a carrying quality. ‘If anyone here is foolish enough to be taking an interest in my business, then I am sure it will be a pleasure to discuss the matter further with them, in private.’

There was the sound of chair legs scraping and paper rustling. Alessa had a mental picture of a number of gentlemen hastily turning their chairs away or raising their newspapers protectively.

‘I do not think the English have had a duel on Corfu yet,’ she remarked objectively. ‘They have not been here long enough. I do feel you were little harsh—after all, it is a very easy conclusion to jump to, is it not?’

‘I have not apologised for that yet, have I?’ His smile was rueful.

I wish it were true, I wish we could…The shocking thought jolted through her, almost wrecking her hard-won poise. ‘You did not believe it, in the face of all the evidence—that was apology enough. And I should have thought how it would appear, taking those men into my bedroom. The trouble is, I am too much used to being independent, to relying on myself alone. I do not have to explain myself to anyone.’

‘Nor do you have to apologise for supporting yourself. But you should not have to do so.’

‘Just because I am English, just because my father was an officer, should I then give myself airs and sit around, reading novels? We would pretty soon starve, my lord!’

‘Chance. No, of course I do not mean you should starve out of pride. But neither should you have to work to support yourself if we can locate your family.’ He was sounding exasperated, like a teacher confronted with a pupil who was wilfully failing to understand a simple addition.

Alessa found herself frowning back. We must look a pretty couple, glowering at each other, she thought, with a flicker of humour. ‘Why should they have the slightest interest in me, let alone wish to support me? By all accounts Papa was wild to a fault, Mama was a foreign widow two years older than him and from a country with which we were at war, and they have never set eyes on me in their lives. And I have two children from whom I will not be parted,’ she added defiantly.

‘Why should you be? Alessa, however unknown, they are your family. It is their duty, and I am sure will be their pleasure, to welcome you and look after you. It is not as though you would be imposing on some humble folks who must put money before family. Of course, you would not understand it so clearly, but the English aristocracy would not see a relative fall on had times.’ Chance was obviously in deepest earnest. For some reason he felt strongly about this. Then something he had said penetrated.

‘Aristocracy? What makes you think my family is noble? What do you know about them?’ How could he know anything? I never told him my last name. ‘And why should you care, anyway?’

‘I assumed,’ Chance said awkwardly. He looked uncomfortable, perhaps feeling he had been tactless. ‘And I care because I am an English gentleman and it is my duty to care about Englishwomen in distress.’

‘Do I appear to be in distress?’ Alessa bristled.

‘No.’ Chance quirked an eyebrow and the simmering tension between them suddenly vanished like a soap bubble in the sun. ‘But you look capable of inflicting considerable distress on presumptuous men.’

Alessa bit the inside of her cheek to stop from laughing—Chance did not need encouragement—and took a sip of orange juice. It felt very strange to be sitting here, waited upon, in company with a gentleman. ‘I do not wish to discuss my English relatives, assuming I have any,’ she said mildly.

‘Very well.’ Chance gestured to the waiter for more drinks. ‘May I ask you a personal question?’

‘Yes.’ Warily. ‘I may not answer it.’

‘I would hate to do business with you,’ Chance said appreciatively. ‘All I was going to ask was, do you always wear the traditional costume?’

Alessa nodded. ‘Ever since we started travelling in the islands. The French, and now the English, immediately discount you if they think you are just a peasant, and it is much easier to work in.’

‘Really?’ Chance put one elbow on the table and cupped his chin on his palm. ‘Why?’

‘There’s plenty of movement in the skirt and the bodice,’ Alessa rolled her shoulders to demonstrate. ‘And no corsets…oh!’ Think before you speak!

Chance was gazing appreciatively at the minor disturbance caused by her shoulder-rolling. ‘Mmm. I see.’He lifted his eyes back to her face. ‘You blush so charmingly.’

‘Thank you.’ Her attempt at dignity only made his eyes sparkle and a dimple appear at the corner of his mouth. It should have made him look less uncompromisingly male, but if anything, it made his lips seem even more kissable. Alessa shut her eyes for a moment while she got her unruly imagination under control and thought of something repressive to say. ‘Of course, I do not wear the full, traditional, costume, which includes the cows’ horns.’

‘Cows’ horns? Now you are teasing me.’

‘No, truthfully. The country women braid up their hair and fix a pair of horns into it, then they drape a headscarf over the top.’

Chance reached forward and took her hand. ‘Promise me something?’

‘What? Not to wear horns?’ She should free her hand, of course, that was only prudent and proper. Only his fingers were warm and gentle, their hold compelling, and the faint movement of the tips over her pulse was mesmerising.

‘Yes—hell!’ Chance dropped her hand as though it had stung him and sat back. ‘Lady Trevick and her daughters!’

Sure enough, the Residency ladies were making their way along the Liston followed by a footman carrying parcels. Alessa had never met any of them, although she knew them all by sight, and, if so minded, could have described what they were wearing down to their skins. After all, she laundered all their fine linen.

‘So it is.’ She frowned at Chance, who was looking decidedly uncomfortable. ‘Whatever is the matter?’

‘Tip your hat so they can’t see your face,’ he hissed, leaning forward and batting the edge of the wide brim so it dipped down on the roadward side.

‘What? Why?’ Then it dawned on her—Chance did not want to be seen by the ladies from the Residency hob-nobbing with some laundry maid. And why would that be? Sheer snobbery? Or perhaps he was courting one of the Misses Trevick. Whatever his motives, it made his protestations about wanting to aid her complete hypocrisy.

She sat stiffly, her hands clasped together on the tabletop, willing the ladies to walk past. Chance was gazing fixedly into his coffee cup, obviously trying not to catch their eyes. A minute passed and Chance relaxed. ‘Gone, thank goodness.’

‘Really? And why are you so thankful for that?’ Alessa jammed her hat back square on her head and got to her feet, making the metal chair legs judder noisily back on the stone terrace. ‘Ashamed of being seen with a local woman? Afraid someone might jump to the wrong conclusion?’ A sudden, horrible thought struck her. If it is the wrong conclusion—can he possibly be that devious? ‘Afraid Lady Trevick would be shocked? You, my lord, are a hypocritical bastard.’

Alessa snatched up her basket and was down the steps into the roadway before Chance could stand. The other patrons stared without pretence at the interesting scene; Alessa swept them a haughty glare and whisked round the corner. Then she took to her heels, dodging through the crowd, down a side street, away.

Chance stood in the street, craning to see a glimpse of one wide-brimmed hat amongst so many. She had gone. Hell and damnation.

‘Signore?’ It was the waiter, black eyes sparkling with interest, obviously torn between his enjoyment of the little drama and worry that the customer might disappear without paying.

‘Here.’ Chance dug into his breeches pocket and dropped coins on the table, picked up his cane and hat and hobbled, with as much dignity as he could muster, back down the steps and into the street Alessa had vanished down.

He had acted to shield her face without thinking beyond the fact that Lady Trevick would surely notice the resemblance between his companion and her new house guests. Alessa’s reaction was completely understandable: one minute he had been assuring her that she could take her place amidst any company, that her working status was nothing to be ashamed of, and the next he had virtually bundled her under the table to hide her from his hostess.

He would have to find her and explain why—which would mean revealing his suspicions about her relationship to Lady Blackstone before he had properly thought through how he was going to manage the reconciliation. Or before he had done some very basic checking. What if Lady Blackstone’s younger brother proved to be alive and well and living in England and Alessa was a far more distant connection?

Chance flattened himself against a wall to make room for a minute donkey laden with what appeared to be a pair of doors, so large that only its head and hooves were visible. He was lost already, although he supposed he had not gone so far that he could not retrace his steps. The alleyway opened into a tiny square with a church on one side and a handsome Venetian wellhead in the centre. He leaned against it to take the weight off his leg and contemplated his options.

Getting back to the Residency seemed an obvious first step—and, if it was possible, to do so without having to walk back along the Liston under the interested gaze of the coffee-shop patrons. Coward, he told himself, and grinned in self-mockery.

Then he could write and apologise. No, that would be cowardice. He would have to get Roberts to guide him and go and make his peace in person, although he suspected that this time she really would lob the geraniums at him.

Chance raised his head and scanned the rooftops, finding the domed campanile of the church of Ayios Spyridhon. He could orientate himself on that and find his way back. He walked slowly through the maze of streets, pausing now and then to examine a fragment of glorious carving set into a shop front, or another Venetian wellhead with its inevitable lions of St Mark on guard. His instinct told him to hurry, but he controlled it. Straining his partly healed ankle would be foolish and Alessa would be in no mood to speak to him now.

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