Regency Surrender: Ruthless Rakes. Bronwyn Scott
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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.
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.
At breakfast, everything had changed. She’d refused his initial position, turned down his money, and then had the audacity to renegotiate with him. Somewhere between his third and fourth piece of toast, he’d found himself straying from his original offer to an offer of actual physical assistance. In return, she would leave after he helped her retrieve something from the count. Goodness knew what that might be and what it might involve. Certainly, it would involve covert action and that meant it would involve risk. He would be ready for it. To that end, he had two more stops to make before dinner. The sooner they could expedite their association the better.
Nolan braced his packages under one arm, pushed open the door and stared in amazement. This was his room? For a moment he thought perhaps he’d gone to the wrong place. In all the weeks he’d lived here, it had never looked like this: candles flickering, the curtains pulled back to reveal the lanterns on the canal, the long, highly polished but little-used dining table set with white cloth, silver and crystal. This was a setting fit for a prince. It carried an elegance far beyond that of an itinerant gambler who had money but not much else in life. If he’d known what was waiting for him, he might have come back sooner. Or, he might be highly suspicious.
Nolan chose to be the latter. This was the same woman, after all, who had tried to suck him and then slapped him for a kiss moments later. This was a woman who was with him because he was her only alternative for the moment, a rather lowering thought for a man who prided himself on the ability to seduce anyone.
Gianna moved from the shadows. Her entrance was masterfully staged. She only drew his attention after he’d had a chance to absorb the scene. And rightly so. Nolan thought he might have missed the table and all its finery if he’d seen her first. She was a queen in the candlelight, dressed in a silver-grey silk gown banded at the waist and trimmed at the hem in bands of black velvet. Her dark hair was piled high, exposing the slender column of her neck, a few curls left loose to tempt a man’s hand. ‘Welcome home.’ She moved forward, a glass in her hand, its cut facets catching the light of the candles. ‘There is chilled champagne and dinner will be here shortly.’ She handed him the glass and took his packages to set aside. Now, he was officially suspicious. She played the hostess far too well. A less-cautious man would be drawn in before he even knew the net had been cast.
‘What is all of this?’ Nolan kept his tone casual.
‘This is thank you and I’m sorry.’ Her hands were at the shoulders of his coat, helping him out of it. ‘I should not have slapped you last night. You have been kind to me none the less.’ She folded his coat and draped it over the sofa. She gave him a sly smile. ‘Don’t worry, it’s all on your bill if that makes you feel better. I can hardly seduce you on your own money.’
‘Is that how it works? Perhaps that explains why my other mistresses failed,’