Page 3 of The Lady's Guide to Well-Endowed Dukes
Her heart pounded.
He could not get away!
Reaching the hall, she made herself walk sedately, though it barely mattered anymore. She would be away in her gondola within a minute of reaching the outer door.
The footman who’d taken her cloak called after her, but she did not look back, skittering down the final steps to the lower level.
There was no one upon the platform. All was well. He could not be far ahead.
Giving a low whistle, she summoned her vessel and climbed aboard. The boat pitched as she hopped on, but she was too frantic to care.
She glanced along the canal in both directions. The moon had ducked behind a cloud, but it was not entirely dark. Illumination suffused from the palazzo, casting a glow on the water beneath.
Yet she saw no retreating gondola, carrying the man who’d stolen what she’d come for.
“Where is he?” she asked of the gondolier. “The man who left, just now.”
“Scusami.” The gondolier shrugged. “There is no one. Only us.”
Impossible!
And yet where was he?
She beat her fist upon her lap.
Returning inside, she scoured the ballroom for her devious ‘hunchback’ but he was nowhere to be found. The man had vanished into thin air.
CHAPTER 1
Aboard the Maria Cecilie, departing for Southampton, from il Porto di Venezia
Estela Bongorge cast an appraisingeye over the young steward placing her baggage within the cabin and reached up to remove her hat pins—all the better to emphasize her well-leveraged bosom.
“Such an exertion!” With one hand resting above the curve of her hip, Estela laughed breathily. She fanned herself with the large blue disc of a hat, topped effusively with feathers. “All those steps!”
Her Italian was far from perfect, and her accent liable to drift, but she was familiar enough to make herself understood. In any case, the message she wished to convey did not require great facilitation with the language.
In any case, the steward answered in faltering English. “The signora wishes for tea? Darjeeling, oolong or lapsang souchong? I carry to you straight away, with thetorte alla crema.Deliziose. All very fresh.”
He looked exceedingly pleased to have made the speech, and to be offering his service, which was just as Estela intended.
“A tempting offer. There is nothing like Italian cream, and I confess I can be quite greedy.” A dip of the chin enabled her to look up through her lashes. “But there’s no need for tea; champagne, I think.”
“Only the best. I go now and fetch for you.” He set off swiftly, allowing Estela a brief view of his tight rear through the starched white of his uniform.
With the click of the closing door, she cast aside the hat and flopped full-length onto the bed. He would do, she supposed, although he’d likely have scant idea of how to conduct himself. Only in maturity did men garner the skills to truly satisfy a woman. She would make the best of it. In her current mood, a tumbling was the only thing that would take the edge off her irritation.
With any luck, the champagne would arrive chilled to the correct temperature. Her young steward could manage that, if not much else, she had to hope.
Testing the mattress with a gentle bounce, she was pleased to find it firm, and without too much creaking of the springs. The room itself was decorated quite pleasingly—the wallpaper a delicate oyster silk with matching swagged curtains. Light voiles ensured a degree of privacy, since the window was of the regular sort, offering a wide view onto the upper promenading deck.
The furniture—a dressing table and stool, a small dining arrangement, a good-sized wardrobe, and a plush velvet chaise—was a little over-gilded. Nevertheless, it was of a better standard than she’d been expecting.
She’d been fortunate in acquiring passage, given the short notice and her insistence on having one of the more superior cabins. The extra expense was justified. If she was going to spend more than a week at sea, with uncertain weather, narrowcompany, and even more limited entertainment, she intended to be comfortable.
Not that she’d ever suffered withmal de mer. She’d twice crossed the Atlantic and had been a guest on various private yachts visiting the ports of the Mediterranean.
Arguably, it would have been quicker to travel by rail to Calais, before crossing the Channel. She was procrastinating—putting off the time when she’d have to admit to Mathilde that she’d failed.
