A Most Unconventional Courtship

‘I recall nothing of it at all, and I am sure I would remember you.’He would have to be dead not to, he thought, studying the tall, slender figure standing in front of him, hands on her hips and an expression of exasperated disapproval on her oval, golden-skinned face.

A veritable Greek beauty, he thought hazily, seeing how the weight of black hair at her nape balanced the imperious carriage of her head and how the traditional island costume with its flaring black skirt and embroidered bodice showed off curves that a fashionable gown would have hidden.

Then the impact of her eyes, her quite extraordinary eyes, struck him. Greek? Surely not, not with those clear green cat’s eyes, slanting under angled brows. And her accent was clear and pure. ‘You are English.’

She did not answer him, but the expression that passed over her face, fleetingly, was one of barely suppressed anger. ‘Children, introduce yourselves, then leave the gentleman in peace.’

‘I am Dora and this is Demetri.’ The little girl nudged her brother with a sharp elbow. ‘Stop staring, Demi. He said he can speak like the heroes, not that he is one.’ She followed this comprehensive feminine put-down with a sweet smile and skipped off, pulling the boy behind her.

‘Stir the pot, Dora, please,’ the tall woman called after her. ‘And, Demetri, more wood. I do not think you brought much up last night, óhi?’

The cool green eyes turned back to regard Chance. ‘You may call me Kyria Alessa.’ He was left with the distinct feeling that, whatever his chores might have been on the previous evening, he had failed in them also. ‘You were attacked in the courtyard below last night by two men, wrenched your ankle in the drain, fell against the fountain base and were hit on the head. Do you remember nothing of it?’

Chance levered himself up his elbows again and she pushed the pillow down behind his back, stepping back sharply the moment she had done so, as though he had an infectious disease. ‘I can recall playing cards at the Residency—the Lord High Commissioner’s residence,’ he explained. From the impatience on her face she knew what he was talking about. ‘It was my first night on the island, Sir Thomas had introduced me to various gentlemen, his usher had found me lodgings. I discovered I was more tired than I thought, so I made my excuses and started back—’ He broke off, trying to recall. ‘I think they offered me a footman with a torch, but the night was clear, there seemed to be lights everywhere, so I refused.’

‘A foolish decision, in a strange town,’ she observed crisply. ‘Where are you lodging?’

‘In the fort—the Paleó Frourio.’

‘Then what on earth were you doing here, in the middle of the town, at almost midnight?’

The chilly criticism was beginning to penetrate both his headache and the general sense of dislocation. Chance began to feel an answering anger, and some other emotion he was too irritated to analyse, tightening inside him. ‘The night air woke me up, I thought I would explore—what is there in that to displease you?’

Any other woman of his acquaintance would have blushed and backed down in the face of a firm masculine reproof. Not this one. Her eyebrows slanted up and she smiled as though humouring a rather backward child. ‘Other than the fact that you were set upon by a pair of murderous no-goods on my doorstep? That you blunder about a strange town flashing your silver-headed cane and your shiny fobs and your pockets full of coin to attract them? That this happens under my children’s window and I have to deal with the consequences?’

Chance could feel the heat over his cheekbones. ‘I gather I have your husband to thank for my rescue, Kyria.’

‘I have no husband.’

A widow then, and a very young one. What was she? Twenty-four? ‘I am sorry for your loss. Who, then, rescued me from these two assassins?’

‘No loss.’ She said it so baldly that he was shocked. It probably showed—he was still too dazed to manage much finesse. ‘And I dealt with them.’

‘You?’ He felt incredulous and made no effort to hide it.

In answer the widow stooped and drew a knife from her boot. She held it as though she knew exactly how to use it.

Chance eyed it with horrified fascination. ‘You knifed them?’

‘Of course not, I am not a murderer. I suggested to one that it would be better if I did not tell the Lord High Commissioner about his smuggling, and I hit the other one.’ She reversed the knife in her hand, displaying the rounded knob of the pommel. ‘He left when he regained consciousness. I thought about having you taken back to the Residency, but it was late, I did not know how badly you were hurt, I was tired and it was inconvenient. Demetri will take a message on his way to school.’

‘Thank you.’ There did not seem to be much else to say, given the turmoil of emotions that were churning around in his aching head. He felt humiliated that he had had to be rescued by a woman, angered at her attitude, physically in pain and, regrettably and damnably inconveniently, thoroughly aroused.

Angry, green-eyed witches were not within his experience; if he had been asked, he would not have thought it likely that he would find one attractive. This one, this Alessa, was reaching him at a level he did not understand. It was not just her looks, which were remarkable. There was some quality in her that made him want to say mine, drag her into his arms and wipe that cold, disdainful look off her face with his passion.

Which was impossible to contemplate. Chance had a strict code when dealing with women: professionals or experienced society ladies only, and this young widow with her children was quite obviously neither.

‘Breakfast is ready.’ It was little Dora, working away in the far reaches of the room behind him where he could not see. Chance tried again to twist round and was brought up short by the pain in his hip.

‘Is anything broken?’He kept the anxiety out of his voice, but it struck cold in his belly. What were the doctors like on this island? How likely was he to end up with a limp for life, or something worse?

‘Nothing.’ She turned away with a swish of black skirts that gave him a glimpse of petticoats and of white stockings over the cuffs of the short leather boots. The costume was exotic and alluring, yet at the same time practical.

There was a brisk discussion in Greek going on. He gave up trying to follow it and made himself relax back against the hard pillow. Then the boy reappeared, dragging a screen, which he arranged around the couch. ‘This is mine, but you can borrow it,’ he announced importantly, stomping off, only to reappear with a bowl of water, towel and soap, which he set down on a chair by Chance. ‘You must wash your face and hands before breakfast. Oh, yes, I almost forgot.’ He thrust an earthenware vessel with a cloth over it into Chance’s hands and grinned. ‘You are to push it under the couch when you have finished with it.’

So, her anger with him did not extend to humiliating him by making him ask about basic needs. That was something to be thankful for. Flipping back the blanket, Chance made the discovery that perhaps he was not so grateful after all. The shirt he was wearing was not his. All his own clothes had gone, down to, and including, his drawers, and someone had bandaged his hip very professionally. Somehow he doubted that this was Demetri’s work.

He made himself decent again and waited, expecting the boy to come back with some food. Instead, Alessa pushed aside the screen and put down a beaker and plate on the chair, shifting the basin on to the floor.

‘Did you undress me and bandage my wounds?’

‘Yes.’ She smiled, laughter glimmering in her eyes. He must be showing his embarrassment. How damnably unsophisticated. ‘Mrs Street, my neighbour, helped me. An unconscious man is not easy to handle.’

I will wager I was not—and aren’t you finding this amusing? ‘Thank you, Kyria Alessa. You must allow me to recompense you for your trouble,’ he said smoothly. He saw from the flash of her eyes that he had succeeded in angering her. She regained her poise with the agility of a cat.

‘That is not necessary. Greeks regard it as a sacred duty to care for strangers.’ She stood there calmly, her hands with their long, slender fingers folded demurely across the front of her apron.

‘But then…you are not Greek, are you?’

Again, she dealt with the direct question by ignoring it. ‘You should tell me your name so Demetri can tell Mr Harrison where you are.’

‘Harrison?’ The name was vaguely familiar, then he remembered. The events of the previous twenty-four hours were beginning to come back in hazy detail. ‘Oh, yes, Sir Thomas’s secretary. How do you know him?’

‘I know everyone at the Residency,’ she replied, without explanation. ‘Your name, sir? Or have you forgotten it?’

‘Benedict Casper Chancellor. My friends call me Chance.’

Alessa ignored the implied invitation. ‘And your title?’

‘What makes you think I have one?’ And what makes her ask it as though she is suggesting I have a social disease?

‘Your clothes, your style, the way you move. You have money, you have been educated in these things. You have been bred to it in a way that simply shouts English aristocrat.’

‘Shouts?’ He was affronted, then amused, despite himself, at his own reaction.

‘I should have said whispers. Shouting would, of course, be ungentlemanly and vulgar. So unEnglish,’ she corrected herself with spurious meekness ‘Am I right?’

‘I am the Earl of Blakeney.’

‘Well, my lord, I suggest you eat your breakfast and then rest. Demetri will ask Mr Harrison to send a carrying chair for you this afternoon.’

‘I can leave on my own two feet just as soon as I have eaten and got dressed, I thank you.’

‘You can try to see if you can stand, let alone walk, of course,’ Alessa conceded with infuriating politeness. ‘And if you can, you can hobble through the streets in satin knee breeches, a sergeant at arm’s third-best shirt and no stockings and neckcloth. But I imagine Sir Thomas will have something to say about the impression of their English masters that would create with the local populace.’ She picked up the washing bowl and tidied the screen away. ‘I will be back when I have taken Dora to the nuns.’

There was a skirmish over a missing slate pencil, the whereabouts of Demetri’s jacket, the finding of Dora’s bag, and then the room was silent. The absence of all that vibrancy left an almost tangible gap.

Chance tossed back the blanket again, reached out to grip the back of the chair, and tried to get up. The effort brought the sweat out on his brow and a stream of highly coloured language from his lips. He hauled himself to his feet and found he could hop, very painfully. But that little witch was quite right; he could not get back to the Residency, nor to the Old Fort, under his own power.

He could see his evening suit neatly arrayed on a chair, the shoes tucked underneath. Sweating and swearing, he hopped across the room in search of his stockings, using the sparse pieces of furniture as crutches. She was right about that as well—he might get away with this worn old shirt, but he would be a laughing stock with bare legs under satin knee breeches.

Wooden pails were ranked against the wall, each full of water and white cloth. He fished in one, hoping to find his stockings; he could dry them at the fire. The garment he came up with was unidentifiable, but certainly not his. He hastily dropped the confection of fine lawn and thread-lace back into the water and fished in the next pail, coming up with a delightful chemise. It reminded him forcibly of a garment he had seen on his last mistress the night he had said goodbye to her.

Now there was a proper woman, he thought wistfully. Feminine, attentive, sweetly yielding to his every desire, and flatteringly regretful to be paid off before he set out on his Mediterranean journey. Why, then, he brooded as he straightened up painfully and scanned the rest of the room with narrowed eyes, why did this one arouse him far more than the very explicit memory of Jenny did?

The drip of cold water on his bare foot reminded him that he was standing, as near naked as made no difference, clutching intimate feminine apparel, in the middle of some Corfiot tenement and at the mercy of an icy and mysterious widow who might be back at any moment. Chance dropped the chemise into the pail and groped his way back to his bed. It chafed to admit it, but she was probably correct—he should rest if he wanted to escape from this nightmare.

Alessa climbed the stairs, noting gratefully that Kate had already been and scrubbed the bloodstains off the whitened wood. They took it in turns to look after the communal areas, long resigned to the feckless family on the ground floor ignoring their own obligations.

There were the muffled sounds of an altercation from behind the ground floor door. Sandro was no doubt being taken to task for lying abed instead of taking his boat out. Amid the hard-working fishermen he was a notable exception. There was silence from Kate’s rooms: she would doubtless be out marketing.

Alessa counted the chimes from the church bell as she climbed. Nine o’clock. So, his lordship had not put her behind so very much. Two hours to deal with the laundry and set it to dry, then there would be her usual visitors before the town settled down to its afternoon somnolence. His lordship would probably have to contain himself in patience until three o’clock when the Residency would send servants to collect him. It often took the visiting English a while to accustom themselves to the sensible Mediterranean practise of a rest in the heat of the day, although Sir Thomas, with his experience on Malta, and in the even greater heat of Ceylon, accepted it without question.

Alessa stopped outside her own door, conscious of her heart beating faster than the climb should account for. What was she apprehensive about? He was only a man, when all was said and done. However careless he had been the night before, he had behaved with remarkable forbearance on waking up to find himself in a strange place, in considerable pain and confronted by a hostile woman and two children.

She had overreacted, she admitted to herself painfully, and she supposed she had better apologise. She laid her hand on the catch and reviewed her excuses. He had brought violence and two unsavoury characters to her front door, she had been very tired, he was an outstandingly attractive man. Yes, well, Alessa my girl, that is not something you are going to explain to him, even if you could explain to yourself why that should discompose you so much. She took a deep breath and pushed open the door.

Chapter Three

Lord Blakeney was sitting up, only now the pillows were at the other end of the couch from the way she had left him. Now he faced the body of the room. ‘Have you been out of bed?’ Alessa asked sharply, good intentions forgotten, her eyes skimming round the room to see what else he had been up to.

‘Of course,’ he drawled, watching her face. ‘I read your diary, I found your money hidden behind the loose brick in the hearth and I left dirty fingerprints all over the pretty bits of nonsense in the soaking pails.’

Ignoring the first part of his sarcastic retort—she kept no diary and her savings were woven into strings of garlic hanging from the ceiling beams—Alessa latched on to the final remark. ‘And what were you doing with the laundry?’ she demanded.

‘Looking for my stockings.’

‘You can have them when they are clean and not before,’ she said briskly, in much the same tone as she would use to Demetri when he tried to wheedle something from her. ‘And how did you get as far as that across the room?’

‘I hopped.’

It must have hurt. Alessa felt a grudging flicker of admiration at his single-mindedness. ‘Is there anything you need?’ She set down her marketing basket and remembered she should be making her peace with him, not lecturing. ‘I am sorry if I was…short this morning, my lord. I was angry that you had led such men to my doorstep.’

‘I am sorry too. You were quite correct to scold me for it. I should have known better, as you said. My only excuse is tiredness, the pleasure of being on land again after several days at sea and, ridiculous as it probably seems, the warmth of the evening.’

‘Warmth, my lord?’ Alessa untied her flat straw hat and hung it behind the door before reaching for her apron.

‘I wish you would call me Chance.’ Dark brown eyes watched her, a smile lurking behind apparent seriousness.

You, my lord, are a charmer and you know it. I should refuse. ‘Very well, Chance.’ She reached behind her to tie the apron strings and saw his glance flick to her breasts as the movement strained them against her embroidered lawn shirt. The glance was momentary and not accompanied by the knowing leer that she had come to expect from so many of the Englishmen who had passed through the town in the wake of the French retreat. She poured a little of the heavily resinated red wine from the north of the island into two beakers, watered both generously, then passed him one. ‘You were explaining how the warm evening made you careless?’

He took the beaker with a murmur of thanks and sipped. To her secret amusement his eyebrows shot up as he tasted it, but he made no comment. His second sip was far more circumspect. ‘I was behaving like a tourist,’he admitted. ‘A picturesque scene, friendly, smiling faces, intriguing little streets, a balmy evening made for strolling, the stars like diamonds on black velvet. Who could have expected danger?’

Alessa raised a quizzical eyebrow and was rewarded by a self-mocking grin.

‘Any idiot, of course, as you are obviously too polite to remind me. If it had been Marseilles or Naples, I would have been on my guard. As it was, I took a risk and paid for it, but not as much as I deserved, thanks to you.’

Alessa hefted the cauldron on to the fire and poured in water. Then she began to lift the individual items from the soaking pails, checking each for marks that would require further treatment. ‘Is your nickname because you take risks? Or gamble, perhaps?’

‘Chance?’ He smiled. ‘No, just a convenient shortening from when I was a child. I am really quite painfully respectable and sensible.’

Alessa felt her eyebrows rising again and hastily straightened her face. He was too good to be true: handsome, nice to children and respectable to boot.

‘I can see you do not believe me.’

‘If that is so, you most certainly do not fit into the mould of most of the English gentlemen of my experience.’ Alessa reached down a bottle of liquefied soap and measured some out into the cauldron. He was very easy to talk to. ‘No gambling?’

‘Well, merely to be sociable.’ That sounded almost convincing.

‘No carousing late into the night?’

‘I do not carouse, merely enjoy fine wines and spirits in moderation.’ That was positively sanctimonious, if difficult to believe.

‘No ladies of the night, glamorous mistresses, orgies?’ Aha, that had produced a faint flush of colour on Chance’s admirably sculpted cheekbones.

‘Absolutely no orgies.’

Alessa shot him a slanting look, but did not comment. After all, one did not expect a man to be a saint—or one would be severely disappointed for most, if not all, of the time, in her opinion. A gentleman who did not squander all his money at play, drink himself into a stupor and pursue the female servants with lecherous intent was, as Chance said, positively respectable.

Was he also very conventional? He was standing up surprisingly well to her frank interrogation. What would he make of her story, if she were rash enough to tell him? She took a paring knife and began to flake off slivers from a block of greenish-grey olive oil soap; the last bottle she had prepared was almost empty.

‘Is there nothing useful I can do? I cannot feel comfortable lying here while you are working so hard.’

Alessa shook her head, then realised that he might as well carry on with the soap so that she could be dealing with the more soiled items while the water heated. ‘Thank you. Perhaps you can do this.’ She perched on the edge of the couch and handed Chance a bowl, the knife and the soap. ‘I need fine slivers so it will dissolve well in water, then I bottle it up concentrated and use it with the washing. It is better with the fine fabrics than scrubbing the soap directly into them.’ She realised she was explaining, as though to the children. ‘I am sorry, you could not possibly want to know all that. I get into the habit of teaching.’

He took the knife and began to whittle at the block. ‘Like this?’

‘Perfect.’ She smiled stiffly at him, suddenly self-conscious at their close proximity. She could feel the firm length of his thigh against her hip and made rather a business of standing up and twitching the cover straight. It did not help that she knew precisely what lay under that blanket.

He was so approachable that it was almost like chatting with Fred Court, or Spiro the baker, and she had fallen into the Greek habit of openly expressed curiosity about strangers. Her neighbours would think nothing of a close interrogation about family, occupation, views, interests and wealth, but she must not allow herself to fall into the trap of undue familiarity with someone from the Lord High Commissioner’s circles.

As she massaged soap directly into the dirty marks on Chance’s stockings, Alessa reflected that she had allowed herself to swing from irritable suspicion to liking, and, if she was honest, attraction, in the space of barely twelve hours. And all because of a handsome profile, a pair of thoughtful brown eyes and an open manner. Careful, she admonished herself, tossing the stockings into the cauldron, this man is serious temptation.

It did not matter in the least that a man in his position was obviously not going to be interested in a laundress for anything other than dalliance. Her instincts told her he would not take advantage of her in that way; she was quite safe from Lord Blakeney. But was she safe from herself? She needed to guard her heart as carefully as she hoarded her money, if she were to remain strong and single-minded for herself and the children.

They worked in companionable silence. As the bowl of shavings grew fuller and the items of clothing followed each other into the hot water, Alessa pushed the damp hair back from her forehead and forgot to worry about her involuntary guest.

The church clock striking eleven brought her back to herself. She straightened up and looked across at Chance. There was a full bowl of soap shavings on the floor beside him and he was intently whittling the remains of the soap into some kind of animal. He looked up, caught her eye and grinned. ‘Pathetic, is it not?’

Alessa scrutinised the stunted creature, called on all her tact learned from praising juvenile attempts at art, and said encouragingly, ‘It is a very nice pig.’ Probably it should have one more leg, but one should not be over-critical.

‘Thank you. Honesty, however, leads me to confess it is supposed to be a horse.’

‘Oh, dear!’ His rueful laughter was infectious and Alessa was still chuckling as she pulled out the screen from the wall and arranged it around the couch. ‘I am expecting…clients. Your presence might embarrass them. Would you mind…?’

‘Pretending I am not here? No, not at all.’

Alessa smiled her gratitude and hurried to set the bedroom to rights. It had only just occurred to her that, as the couch which she normally used was occupied, she would have to retreat to the rather more intimate setting of the bedroom. All her visitors would be known to her, but even so, it felt like an intrusion, and she wanted to make certain no personal items were visible.

Chance lay back against the pillows, tried to get comfortable and contemplated taking a nap. That felt like a good idea—unless he snored, which would most certainly draw attention to his presence. Presumably Alessa was expecting ladies with intimate items of apparel for laundering, or perhaps she did dressmaking alterations. A strange man would most definitely not be welcome in the midst of that feminine activity.