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
