Kitabı oku: «The Duke's Governess Bride», sayfa 4

She groaned, and hurled the stocking into the open trunk. What if he’d guessed her thoughts? She’d come to his bedchamber door last night shamelessly in her night-shift. She’d told him this morning that she couldn’t take his wages without earning them, and of course he’d seen no reason to her objection. The duke was a man in his prime, and bound to make conclusions. And what if his Grace had the same wanton notions towards her that she’d felt towards him? Considering it—considering him—was enough to make her flush all over again. No, she’d no choice. She had to leave this house now, now, before she was thoroughly disgraced by her own wicked self.

She slammed the lid shut on her trunk. She would go to the Scottish widow, and put aside for ever the pleasure of viewing pictures on the arm of Signor di Rossi. She would live as chaste a life as she could until she found a new place. She’d drink no more wine, nor view inflammatory pictures. She would again be the model of English propriety. She would be lonely, too, but she’d been lonely before, it would be nothing new to her. The consequences if she chose otherwise would be far more grievous.

She heard the rap at her door—doubtless the porter come to collect her things.

‘Uno momento, per favore,’ she called, hurrying to gather up her cloak. She paused in the doorway between her little servant’s bedchamber and the more extravagant one meant for a lady, gazing for the last time at the unforgettable view of blue sky, shimmering canal and tiled rooftops framed by the window’s curving arches. It was unforgettable, too; she’d carry it in her memory for ever, and she lingered to savour the sight a moment longer.

‘Miss Wood.’

She jerked around. His Grace stood in the open door, his hand resting on the latch, surprising her just as she had done to him earlier.

‘You left before we could finish,’ he said, coming to join her. ‘We weren’t done.’

‘I believed we were, your Grace.’ She wasn’t exactly frightened of him, but she was wary: of him, and of herself.

‘We weren’t,’ he said, folding his arms over his chest. ‘You say you won’t remain with me and be paid for being idle.’

‘Yes,’ she agreed. ‘That is what I said.’

‘Then what if you remain as my guest? You’ll receive no wages, no money. There’s no sin to that, is there?’

She raised her chin, more determined than ever. ‘Idle tongues would still see sin, your Grace, whether I were paid a thousand pounds or none at all. It would be so with any woman beneath your roof.’

‘Damnation, it’s not as if we’re alone,’ he said. ‘The house is full of servants.’

She didn’t answer. She didn’t have to, not with her resolve so evident in every inch of her posture.

He grumbled, a sound she knew was his way of masking an oath in the company of ladies. He began to walk slowly around her, not exactly pacing, but thinking, considering. She recognised that about him as well.

‘You speak Italian, don’t you?’ he asked at last. ‘You can manage the lingo here?’

‘A bit, your Grace,’ she admitted. ‘I am not precisely fluent in the language, but I have learned enough to make my wishes understood.’

‘Well, then, there’s the solution,’ he said as if that explained everything. ‘You can remain here as my translator. You can take me about the city and show me the sights.’

‘But I—you—already have a bear leader hired for that purpose,’ she protested, naming the professional guide who had presented himself with a flourish the morning she’d arrived, ‘a native Venetian named—’

‘I do not care what the fellow is named,’ he said grandly. ‘I would rather have you, Miss Wood, to guide me, and teach me what I should know of Venice.’

‘Oh, your Grace, I am hardly qualified—’

‘You know more than I,’ he said, smiling proudly at his solution. ‘That’s qualification enough. You are a governess, a teacher by trade.’

‘Your Grace, please—’

‘I do please,’ he said, and stopped his walking. By accident he stood framed by the arch of the window, his dark blond hair turned gold by the sun, as much a halo as any English peer would ever have. Yet he also stood beside the bed, that extravagant, opulent, sinful bed, and there was nothing angelic about that whatsoever.

‘In those letters you gave me to read from my girls,’ he continued, ‘they said they’d be here in a fortnight. They’re expecting to see you then, and they’ll have my head if you’re not here to greet them.’

‘Was that all you gleaned from those letters, your Grace?’ she asked, appalled. She had given him the letters so that he’d learn of the love his girls had found with their new husbands, and the happiness as well, but now it seemed he’d read them and learned nothing. ‘An itinerary?’

‘Two weeks, two short weeks,’ he said, ignoring her question. ‘Surely you can tolerate my company for that time, until they arrive, and then—then you may go as you wish.’

‘Why does my presence matter so much to you?’ she demanded. ‘Surely you can tell me that, your Grace. Why should you care at all?’

‘Why?’ He turned slightly, just enough so that he caught the reflections from the water, ripples of light across his face that robbed it of all his certainty, his confidence.

‘Why?’ He repeated the single word again as if mystified by how exactly to reply. His smile turned crooked, too, or maybe it was only another trick of the shifting light. ‘Why? Because my girls, my finest little joys, have grown and left me. Because you, Miss Wood, are my last link here on the other side of the world to them, and to the past that I’d always judged to be happy enough.’

‘Oh, your Grace,’ she said softly, bewildered by such an unexpected confession. She took a step towards him, her hand outstretched on impulse to offer comfort. ‘Oh, I am sorry, I did not intend to—’

‘Damnation, because I do not wish to be entirely abandoned here alone,’ he said gruffly, the truth clearly so painful to him that he could scarce speak it aloud. ‘Is that reason enough for you, Miss Wood? Is it?’

Now when she looked at him, she saw neither the overbearing master she’d always known, nor the lusty male she’d encountered last night. What remained was sorrow, loss and resignation, all the proof she needed that what he’d said was true: that he did not want to be left alone.

And neither, truly, did she.

‘I’ll stay, your Grace,’ she said softly, daring to rest her hand on his arm. ‘Until your daughters arrive, I’ll stay.’

Chapter Six

The following morning, Richard woke slowly, letting himself drift into wakefulness from the pleasing depth of unconsciousness. He’d slept much more soundly the second night in the Ca’ Battista, and he wasn’t entirely sure why. The bed was every bit as uncomfortable the second night as the first, the sheets still smelled of the damp, the fireplace still smoked with every stray gust of wind, and the peculiar little plaster cupids that surrounded the painting in the ceiling still seemed to be watching him with their sightless plaster eyes.

He smiled drowsily up at them, rolled over and buried his face once again in the musty pillow-bier. Cupids, hah. Miss Wood surely would have something to tell him about small, fat, naked boys with wings who hovered, laughing, over a gentleman’s bedstead when he—

Miss Wood. That, or rather she, must be the reason he’d slept so much better. Having an Englishwoman like Miss Wood here in Venice with him made all the difference, and knowing she’d stay would put any man’s mind at ease. She’d help him learn all the little things he’d somehow missed about his daughters, and explain to him what he didn’t know about their lives, just as she’d once kept him abreast of their progress in the schoolroom. It had all made perfect sense, and he’d never been in any real doubt that she’d agree to remain. Now he’d have to thank her for a good night’s sleep, too.

Or perhaps not. She was prickly about such things, and she might take such a compliment the wrong way, and say it was too scandalous. He grinned, and rubbed his palm over his unshaven jaw. He could show her real scandal, if she were agreeable—he was a man, after all, still in his prime. Not that he’d test any woman with so little respect, of course. Ever since his wife had died, he’d prided himself on being in control of his passions for the sake of her memory, limiting himself only to the occasional visit to a discreet house in London.

Yet there was something about this new side of Miss Wood that he found peculiarly tempting, a spark behind her prim control that hinted at more. How he’d like to kiss that severity from her mouth, and muss those tidy petticoats of hers a bit!

He chuckled, imagining how she’d react, how indignant she’d be, how shocked. Lord, what possessed him to think such thoughts of a governess? Chuckling still, he pushed himself up against the pillows. High time he rose, anyway. His manservant Wilson would be here soon with his breakfast.

Exactly on cue, Richard heard the chamber door open and shut and saw the flash of sunlight behind the bed curtains that announced Wilson’s arrival. The curtains of the bed opened, the rings scraping on the metal rod overhead, and there was Wilson’s gloomy face to greet Richard’s day, the same as it had been for years.

But on this morning, there seemed to be a change in the never-changing routine. Wilson glared, as usual, but his gnarled hands were empty, without Richard’s customary cup of steaming coffee.

‘What’s this, Wilson?’ Richard asked. ‘Where’s my brew?’

‘There’s none, your Grace,’ Wilson said, his expression sour, ‘not that I’ll be bringing you, anyways. If it were my deciding, I would, but it’s not, so’s I won’t, and there’s no help for the change from where I can see it.’

‘No riddles, Wilson. It’s far too early for that.’ Exasperated, Richard swung his legs over the side of the bed. This made no sense. He was always most particular about beginning his day with the same breakfast. Wilson knew his ways better than anyone, and had personally made certain that Richard had had his customary breakfast even on the long voyage from Portsmouth, when his shirred eggs had required the presence and supervision of three miserable laying-hens. ‘Where the devil is my coffee, you lazy sot? And where’s the tray with the rest of my breakfast?’

Wilson groaned, and held up Richard’s dressing gown. ‘I told you, your Grace, it’s not for me to decide,’ he said almost primly. ‘It’s that Miss Wood who’s doing all the deciding this morning.’

‘Miss Wood?’ Richard thrust his arms into the waiting sleeves. ‘What does Miss Wood have to do with this?’

‘Everything, your Grace.’ Wilson’s wounded pride finally gave way in a torrent of outrage. ‘On account of her telling me it was wrongful for you to eat an English breakfast in your chambers while you was in Venice, she told me you had to come down to her and eat what they eat here, foreign-like, no matter that you never do and never would. That was what I told her, your Grace, that you liked what you liked for your breakfast, but she’d hear none of it, and told me you’d already agreed to do as she said. As she said, your Grace, and you a duke and a peer and she a governess and daughter of a two-penny preacher from Northumberland!’

‘Her antecedents matter little to me, Wilson.’ Richard whipped the sash twice around his waist, tying it snugly with the determination of a warrior readying his sword belt for battle. ‘But as for interfering in my breakfast—that is another thing entirely.’

He threw open the door and marched down the stairs to the floor with the more public rooms. Halfway down he wished he’d stopped long enough to find his slippers—the polished treads of the carved marble staircase were infernally cold beneath his feet—but he wasn’t about to retreat until he’d settled this with Miss Wood.

Following his nose and the pleasant scent of cooked food, he found her in a small parlour to the back of the house. The room was taller than it was wide, with narrow arched windows and a domed, gilded ceiling that made Richard feel like he stood at the bottom of some eastern gypsy’s jewel box. Two squat chairs covered in red were set before the little round table, likewise covered with a red cloth, only added to the sensation that he’d blundered into someone else’s exotic nightmare.

Except that sitting at the red-covered table was Miss Wood, as unexotically English as any woman could be.

‘Good morning, your Grace,’ she said cheerfully, rising to curtsy. ‘I’m glad you chose to join me for breakfast.’

Glowering, he chose not to sit. ‘There was no choice involved. You bullied my manservant, and refused to let him do his duty towards me.’

‘What, Wilson?’ She raised her delicate dark brows with bemusement. ‘Your Grace, you grant me supreme powers if you believe I ever could bully Wilson into doing—or not doing—anything against his will.’

Richard’s scowl deepened. She was right, of course. ‘Are you saying that he chose to disobey me?’

‘Oh, no.’ Her smile became beatific. ‘Rather I should say that I am most honoured that you have chosen to join me for breakfast in the Venetian manner.’

‘This is not as I wished, Miss Wood,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘Not at all.’

‘Oh, but it is, your Grace,’ she said. ‘Last night you hired me to act as your guide while you were visiting this city, and to teach you what I’d learned myself of Venice. This is our first lesson, you see, to experience how a Venetian gentleman begins his day.’

Richard looked down at the array of dishes laid out on the table before her. There was a plate with paper-thin slices of ham arranged to overlap like the petals of a flower, and an assortment of fancifully shaped bread-stuffs. Beside her cup was a chocolate-mill and a smaller pot of hot milk.

‘Please, your Grace,’ she coaxed, turning the armchair beside her invitingly towards him. ‘As you see, everything is in readiness for you.’

Everything, hah. He retied the sash on his dressing gown more tightly with quick, disgruntled jerks, and sniffed while trying still to look unhappy at being crossed. He couldn’t deny that the rich assortment of fragrances that had first drawn him were tempting, or that his empty stomach was rumbling with anticipation. But likewise he liked his habits, his routines, and a breakfast that lacked eggs, strawberry preserves and well-roasted black coffee was not part of his habit.

‘Miss Wood,’ he began, determined to steer things between them more to his liking at once, before they’d escaped too far beyond his control. ‘I know you mean well, Miss Wood, but I am afraid that—’

‘Oh, your Grace!’ She was staring down at his bare feet with the same horror that most women reserved for rats and toads. ‘Oh, your Grace, your poor feet! These stone floors are so chill on a winter morning. Come, sit here beside the kachelofen and warm them at once while I prepare your chocolate.’

She bustled forwards, taking him gently by the elbow to guide him to the chair with such concern and efficiency that he could not shake her off without being rude.

‘Here now, I’m not some greybeard to be settled in the chimney corner,’ he grumbled, even as he let her do very nearly that. ‘And what the devil’s a kachelofen?’

‘This,’ she said, pointing to an ornate object behind the table. He’d thought it was a tall cabinet or chest, but now that he was closer, he could see that it was made not of painted wood, but of sections of porcelain, fantastically moulded and glazed with curlicues and flowers. He also realised that the thing was giving off heat most pleasantly, far more than the grate in his bedchamber had, and automatically he shifted closer to warm himself.

‘A kachelofen’s a kind of stove, much beloved by Venetians,’ she explained, holding her palm over the nearest surface to feel the heat for herself. ‘They claim a good kachelofen will warm a room better than an open fire, require less wood and be safer as well.’

‘Safe, you say?’ he asked, not because he really wished to know, but because it seemed rude to her not to make an enquiry or two.

‘Oh, yes,’ she said eagerly. ‘For a city surrounded by water, the Venetians are powerfully afraid of fire. Only the glassmakers are permitted to keep furnaces, because it is necessary for their trade and therefore necessary for the economy of the city.’

‘You’re full of useless information for so early an hour, Miss Wood,’ he said, though the pleasing warmth from the whatever-it-was-called was easing his temper.

Nor was she offended. ‘There is no such thing as useless information, your Grace. Only information whose usefulness is yet to be revealed. Consider how useful a kachelofen would be in the north corner of your library at Aston Hall. You could set the fashion in the county.’

‘What, for foreign kickshaws and foolishness?’

‘For efficiency, your Grace, and being clever and forward-thinking,’ she suggested. ‘The people here do understand how to make their lives more agreeable, and there would be no sin in borrowing the best of their notions. But then I would imagine your Grace has already considered it, yes?’

‘Ahh—yes, yes, of course.’ He studied her with fresh surprise. His recollection of Miss Wood with his daughters was of her being reticent, speaking only when first addressed. He’d never heard her be quite so…loquacious before. More surprising still, he realised that he rather liked it.

In fact, he liked sitting here, wearing his nightclothes in cosy domesticity with his daughters’ governess, in a room too lurid for most London bagnios. He suspected he was called many things about the county at home, but ‘clever’ wasn’t a word he’d heard often, and to his surprise, he rather liked that, too.

‘Perhaps one of these would be of use,’ he said, regarding the kachelofen now as an ally. ‘It does keep off the cold better than a grate.’

‘Indeed it does, your Grace.’ She returned to her own chair, and began to busy herself with the chocolate-mill. ‘Now that you’re warming yourself from the outside in, we must see to warming you from the inside out as well. This, your Grace, is how every proper Venetian gentleman begins his day, and likely the improper ones as well.’

He watched her briskly twisting the rod back and forth between her palms to mix a froth into the dark mixture, her little hands moving with confident dexterity. He wished she hadn’t mentioned those improper gentleman, considering how improper his own thoughts were at the moment.

‘Chocolate’s well enough for those fellows,’ he said finally. ‘But I’d as soon have Wilson fetch me my usual coffee.’

She paused, and glanced up at him without raising her chin. ‘You could, your Grace. You could. But if you did, it would be disappointing.’

It was the evenness of her voice that stopped him. No fuss, no excess of emotion, only that quietly stated disappointment.

‘Would you be disappointed, Miss Wood?’ he asked softly. Now with the idle pleasantries of the kachelofen done, he found he cared more about her answer than he’d wish to admit. ‘If I chose my old ways, would you be disappointed?’

But instead of answering, she lowered her gaze back to the mill. ‘I ask only that you try it, your Grace. This chocolate is far different from that served in London. Cocoa, sugar, cinnamon, vanilla. You will taste the difference at once.’

‘How did you come by all this knowledge of yours, eh?’ he asked, still sceptical. ‘You’ve not been here so long yourself.’

‘I listen to whomever will speak to me, your Grace, and I learn wherever I might,’ she said, carefully filling a second cup for him. ‘Signora della Battista and her cook. The gondoliers who pilot the gondolas and the old monks who show me the paintings in the churches. Here now, take care, and do not burn your tongue.’

She set the little cup before him, and Richard looked down at it so glumly that she laughed.

‘Faith, your Grace, I’ve no wish to poison you,’ she said. ‘You look like a small boy faced with a foul-smelling physick.’

He sighed dolefully. ‘If I drink it, will you let me have my coffee afterwards?’

‘An entire pot of Wilson’s best, if you wish it,’ she said. ‘But you must make an honest effort, else I won’t take you anywhere today.’

‘I suppose there’s no help for it,’ he said, manfully taking up the cup with fingers too large for the dainty porcelain handle. ‘Must obey the governess.’

Though he tipped the cup to drink, the chocolate was almost too thick to do so, not quite a pudding, nor a drink, either. What it was for certain was wonderful, redolent of spices and flavour, warm and rich, and exactly sweet enough to satisfy. It delighted his tongue and his stomach, the pleasurable sensation of contented well-being spreading through his limbs as well. She was right: he’d never tasted anything like it, and he tipped the cup again, wanting more.

‘Should I send for Wilson’s coffee now, your Grace?’ While her expression was studiously impassive, her eyes shone bright with amusement in the grey winter sunlight. ‘Or would you care for another dish of chocolate?’

He held his cup out to be refilled. ‘You tell me, ma’ am.’

She laughed and poured the chocolate. As he drank again, she took a two-tined fork and plucked up a piece of the ham. The meat was sliced so finely that she could twist it into a rosette on the tines of the fork, offering it to him.

‘That looks as thin as the sorry ham they serve at Vauxhall Gardens,’ he said, turning suspicious again. ‘Flimsy, tasteless rubbish, unfit for any man.’

‘It’s not the same, I assure you,’ she said. ‘It’s far, far more delectable than that, and not at all like that thick, fatty bacon you devour at home. Prosciutto, it’s called. Try it now, while the chocolate lingers on your tongue, and let the flavors mingle.’

This time he trusted her, taking the entire twirled rosette of ham from the fork into his mouth. Magically, the saltiness of the meat melded with the fading sweetness of the chocolate to make something entirely different. It seemed that beyond the spices of the chocolate and the spices of the ham’s curing, he could also taste the dark mystery of the cocoa along with the sweet summer grasses that the pig had eaten. He’d never tasted anything like it, especially not for breakfast. It was not only beyond his experience, but beyond his powers to describe as well.

She knew it, too, her mouth curving up in a mischievous, knowing grin as she twisted the fork into the ham once again. ‘That is how Venice tastes, your Grace, or rather, how it tastes so early in the day. We can have another lesson at each meal, if you please.’

‘Oh, it pleases me,’ he said. He took another sip of the chocolate, but instead of reaching for the fork with the ham, he leaned forwards and opened his mouth. She hesitated only a moment before her smile blossomed into a grin, and she fed the ham to him. He made a rumbling sound of happiness as he chewed, and finally winked at her by way of thanks.

Startled, she sat back in her chair, the fork still in her hand, but then she laughed softly, too, as much at her own surprise as with him. Best of all, she blushed, her cheeks turning nearly as rosy as the cloth on the table.

If this was his breakfast lesson, why, he could scarce wait for dinner.

‘Who taught you this?’ he asked, intrigued by the notion of his prim English governess indulging in something as sensuous as this unexpected combination of ham and chocolate. Or rather, a governess he’d mistakenly judged to be prim. Clearly there was far more to her than he’d ever realised before. ‘Where did you learn it?’

‘It’s scarcely a secret, your Grace,’ she said, so deftly dodging his question that at first he didn’t realise she’d done it. ‘The Venetians do relish their chocolate. Why, two hundred years ago, cocoa beans were of as much value as gold coins.’

‘More fool them, I say.’ He reached for another fork to finish the ham. He’d had the rare pleasure of her feeding him before, but he didn’t wish to test her—or himself—too far by expecting her to do it again. There were limits, limits he’d already come close to crossing, and besides, he was hungry. ‘Chocolate for gold!’

‘For other things, too, your Grace.’ She lowered her voice to a conspirator’s whisper. ‘They say there was a time when a slave could be bought for the sum of a hundred cocoa beans.’

‘A man’s life for beans?’ he asked as he ate. ‘That doesn’t seem a fair price.’

‘But ‘tis true,’ she said. ‘I had it on the best authority. And more—that a dozen cocoa beans would buy the luscious favours of the most wanton courtesan in all the city for a night.’

Richard choked on the ham.

‘Do you need help, your Grace?’ she asked frantically as she rushed to stand behind his chair and began thumping him on the back. ‘Wilson! Wilson, come at once! His Grace is in distress!’

‘Hush, hush, I’m fine,’ Richard sputtered, gasping for breath. ‘Now sit, and be still.’

She sat, barely, on the edge of the chair with her hands clasped tightly in her lap and her face screwed up with concern. ‘You are certain you are recovered, your Grace? You are sure?’

‘Of course I am,’ he said, taking a deep, heaving breath. ‘You took me by surprise, that was all.’

‘I, your Grace?’

Damnation, what right did she have to look so astonished? ‘Yes, you, Miss Wood. To hear you speak, ah, to speak with such freedom—’

‘Of the courtesans?’ she helpfully supplied. ‘Venice is famous for them. Or should I say infamous? You may not be aware of this, your Grace, but it is a historical fact that at one time there were more courtesans in Venice than in any other city in Italy.’

‘In the past, you say?’ The historical past meaning yesterday, he supposed, when he’d not even disembarked before the whores had come rowing right up to the boat. Either Miss Wood was a complete innocent, or she must have the blinders of all polite women in place to have missed them.

‘Yes, your Grace, the past,’ she continued charmingly, falling back into her schoolroom manner. ‘The courtesans then were like the great ladies of other places, living as high as queens. They must have been very beautiful and accomplished, for all that they were—were not very nice women.’

‘Oh, no, not at all.’ Deliberately he helped himself to a bun. A round bun, about the size of his fist, bristling with plump raisins and glazed with white sugar icing. Exactly. If he concentrated on the bun, on each and every infernal raisin, then perhaps he could not be thinking the thoughts he was thinking about his daughters’ governess.

‘But then history is often like that, your Grace, isn’t it?’ she continued, blithely unaware. ‘Our own British history’s not always as honourable as it should be, though I don’t believe even wicked old Henry Tudor tried to barter cocoa beans for courtesans.’

‘Who told you of the, ah, value of cocoa beans?’ he asked. ‘I trust it wasn’t the bear-leader hired in my name.’

‘Signor Gaspari?’ She smiled at the notion, a chink in her schoolroom manner. ‘Oh, no, your Grace, he is the very soul of decorum. No, I heard it from another, though I cannot recall exactly where.’

In those few moments, Richard sensed more than she was telling. Could she have met someone here during the few weeks she’d been here alone, someone who’d taught her how to taste chocolate and ham together and to speak so easily of courtesans? Could that be the reason that she seemed so different from how he remembered her?

Could the ever-respectable Miss Wood have had an intrigue?

He studied her with new thoughtfulness. She might not be a young girl any longer, but there was an intelligence and animation to her, an eagerness, that gave beauty to her features in a way that he’d never noticed before. In the silvery winter light of Venice, she looked more delicate than he’d remembered from the bright country sunshine of Kent. Here she returned his gaze levelly, without hesitation or fading deference, and that was different, too. She was beautiful, really, with her round little face and luminous blue eyes.

‘Do you be needing me, your Grace?’ Wilson stood in the doorway, clearly peeved at having been called down for what he perceived as a fool’s errand. Behind him hovered Signora della Battista and one of her footman, her expression filled with more curiosity than concern. ‘We heard Miss Wood shouting, your Grace, loud enough to raise the very dead, and—’

‘No one’s dead, Wilson,’ Richard said curtly, pushing his chair back from the table without looking at Miss Wood. He felt foolish now, almost guilty, for no reason at all. ‘And no one’s in any need of help, either.’

Wilson glanced pointedly at the chocolate pot. ‘None of your coffee, your Grace?’

‘No.’ Likely he looked a great fool, too, sipping hot chocolate with a governess in his nightclothes. ‘I am finished with breakfast, and I’ll be dressing now for a day out of doors.’

‘Out of doors, your Grace?’ Wilson asked. ‘On the water?’

‘Out of doors, Wilson, and on the water, and into the very sky if it pleases me to do so.’ Richard nodded, striving for nonchalance as he walked past them, or at least as nonchalant as he could be in his bare feet and dressing gown. ‘In addition to the proper clothes, I’ll ask you to arrange what is necessary for keeping warm while in the open. Miss Wood will be my guide, and I will be going wherever she suggests.’