Let It Be Me

Eleven

OLIVER was at a bit of a loss for what to say next.

When they had parted three days ago at the steps of the Hotel Cortile, Miss Forrester’s astonishment had been clear. It had obviously never occurred to her that there could be any relation between practical Mr. Merrick and her passionate, demanding teacher, Signor Carpenini, beyond that of a curious friendship—strange bedfellows, if you will. Indeed, his English upbringing had on more than one occasion masked just how similar their features were—they were of a height, their hair the same wickedly dark hue, their skin turned the same gold in just a fraction of sun. Taken at a glance, it was only Oliver’s eyes—their light, hazel hue—that betrayed him as anything other than a native Venetian.

It was one of the reasons why Oliver had spent his youth feeling . . . out of step. With both his family and peers. He was dark, they were fair. He liked to sing and read plays. They liked to hunt and ride. His father’s insistence that he take up boxing might have saved him from more than one beating from some of the older boys at Eton—both because he knew how to defend himself and, coincidentally, because it was a Very English Thing to do—and he put his heart into it because it was one of the few things about Oliver that his father would brag about.

His mother had petted him and loved him, had reveled in her son’s happy talents. But after a certain age, no boy wanted that from his mother. So he tried to be sporting and emulate the more English of his relations.

When Oliver’s mother had died when he had just been fifteen, it had been thinking that her son had turned his back on his Italian nature.

After that, the constant feeling of being out of step with the world around him had ballooned in his gut. Part of it was mourning, part of it was guilt. But part of it was also the queer looks he received from everyone upon introduction, and then their expressions clearing as he addressed them in his natural, cultured British accent. Their hypercriticalness, the inclusivity—that they would open up to him only if they knew he was “one of their own”—mocked him constantly.

Meeting Vincenzo and coming to Venice had been a dream. Here he would have a brother in truth, instead of one separated by a decade and a half and no small degree of superiority, borne of his dislike of having a stepmother and half brother to begin with. He could get to know his mother’s side of the family, her aspirations, her friends from the stage. Here, in Venice, he could indulge in the passions that he had tamped back down into the earth, hoping they would not spring up at inappropriate times. After all, there was nothing worse than bursting into an Italian opera in the dining rooms of Eton, overcome by the need to sing. Not that that ever happened, of course.

Yes, coming to Venice had been a dream.

A dream . . . that had never quite matched up with the reality.

In truth it was Vincenzo who had opened all the doors to him. If he had come to Venice alone, with his ill-remembered Italian and his English eyes, he would have been marked as a tourist and likely found himself headed back home within a month, with the obligatory “souvenereal disease.” Vincenzo introduced him to his friends, to the musicians and artists who populated Venice, and made certain he was included as one of their own.

But it had to be said—it was still there. The look. Even in artisans, in opera dancers, just as there had been in English society. People would look at him, trying to figure out where he fit. Whom he belonged to. If he was truly “one of their own.”

Because of Vincenzo, he had passed that test. Because of Vincenzo, he was tolerated and accepted as part of the Fenice theatre world. Because of Vincenzo, he had gained the knowledge and the belief that he could run his very own theatre.

And it was why Oliver felt he could not leave Vincenzo, especially now that he needed Oliver’s help. Of course he could not go back to England, as he had expressed—perhaps too vehemently—to Bridget.

But when she had said those words—told him that she knew how awkward those few weeks of thinking he was going home was—it had borne in Oliver such a light of hope.

Finally, he thought. Someone who understood. Someone who did not look at him and wonder where he fit.

And while he had no idea what to say next—to Bridget—Oliver found himself eager for any conversation at all.

Indeed, he could not wait until the next day, when he would endeavor to walk Bridget Forrester home again.

But then, the most curious thing began happening: It seemed as if Bridget Forrester was avoiding him.

It happened the very next day. When he reached down to hand her out of the gondola upon her arrival in the morning, she let go of his hand as quickly as possible, glancing back at her maid. Then during lessons, she was too involved in the music to spare him much of a glance—although when she did, it was short and she turned back to the pages immediately.

But it was not until the lesson was drawing to a close that he knew his estimation had been correct. For the moment the clock ticked three, a knock came on the back door.

For a brief second, Oliver feared it would be Lady Forrester and her youngest daughter, and then they would be sunk. Their party had greatly been reduced since yesterday—Oliver had depleted a good portion of his funds on the circus and therefore could not pay Veronica to come and pretend to be his deaf great-aunt on a long-term basis. Considering that, and the fact that Molly the maid had begun to relegate herself to the kitchens and below stairs—where the air was cool and hearing the same music over and over again was muted, and therefore less headache-inducing—there was little more than Frederico, sitting outside the music room doors to guard propriety.

Not that anything inappropriate would happen. Oliver was there to make damn sure of it.

Still, a brief moment of panic did set in when he heard the knock—but then he was quickly reminded that Lady Forrester and Miss Amanda would arrive via the canal, not the back. Thus, when he opened the door, he found a footman in Forrester livery.

“My mother requested that I meet her and my sister at the Campo Sant Angelo today after my lessons, and sent James here to escort us,” Miss Forrester offered by way of explanation, as she gathered up her sheet music and shuffled it into a portfolio. Her tone was quiet, subdued. He hoped for, rather than heard, something apologetic in her voice. Perhaps in truth, she was simply tired.

“Signorina, Rossini’s most famous work is The Barber of Seville, and it may be comic, but it is also fluid. Even staccato, he is fluid! You must play with fluid grace! Think of that for tomorrow!” Vincenzo was saying, as she was on her way out the door.

Tomorrow came, and Bridget’s lessons had consisted of Rossini, Scarlatti, and some reinterpretations of Vivaldi—since the Red Priest composed almost exclusively for strings, his work had to be adapted for pianoforte. Vincenzo had found, after a long morning of inquiry, that Miss Forrester’s repertoire was woefully thin on Italian composers, and he felt the need to build her experience there, considering the nature of the competition they were entering. He was particularly horrified to learn she was not a student of the more intricate, layered style that popularized Italian music of the day . . . and that was Carpenini’s strength in composition.

“Yes, Signore, I will practice fluidity,” Bridget replied.

“No, Signorina, remember! No practicing at the hotel!” Vincenzo admonished before shutting the door to the music room behind them and leaving him to his compositions.

Which left Oliver to escort Miss Forrester, her maid (who had appeared from the kitchens promptly at three), and now, her footman, to the front steps, where he could hail a passing gondola for them.

He opened his mouth to speak to her—but nothing came out. And before he knew it, she was handed into the boat and had cast off from the docks.

By now, Oliver was torturing himself. What had he done—what had he said?—that caused her to shy away? While Oliver had felt a strange connection to Miss Forrester, had she instead found something to fear? What could it have been?

As Oliver ran through everything that had been said and done—where they walked, the actions he took, what she said in reply—on their last walk, he cemented one thing in his mind.

“Tomorrow,” he resolved to himself. He would explain himself tomorrow.

But tomorrow it turned out to be no easier to find a moment alone with Miss Forrester.

Vincenzo, it seemed, was dedicated to giving her as much attention as he could in those short hours that he had her. To inject as much of his knowledge as he could, to wrap her up in the notes and phrases so that she had no room for anything else in her mind. Oliver was very decidedly in the way, even when they took their infrequent breaks. Pianoforte adaptions of Rossini, Marcello and, in particular, Scarlatti made up the day’s practices.

“I am betting on Scarlatti,” Vincenzo had said as an aside to Oliver. “The Marchese adores him, and his compositions are quintessentially Italian. The perfect showpiece to choose for the competition.”

“But Scarlatti worked mostly in Spain. Not strictly Italian.”

But Vincenzo waved him away and turned back to his student.

Oliver kept waiting for Vincenzo to show himself to be impressed with his student’s proficiency, but the man very carefully held back any praise. For his part, Oliver was wholly impressed. Without the crippling fear of stage fright, Miss Forrester proved herself to be incredibly adept. What she knew, she played with energy and grace—and what she didn’t know, she learned quickly. Her sight-reading was top rate; after only a few times through she would know a piece well enough to play it with confidence . . . if not with the style and understanding that came from knowing a piece intimately.

As the day’s lesson drew to a close, Oliver felt certain he would finally be granted an opportunity to speak with Miss Forrester alone—but alas, there again came a knock on the back door.

Again, there was a footman.

“Where are you off to this time, Miss Forrester?” Oliver asked very cordially.

“I’m not certain,” she replied, as she gathered up her sheet music and pulled on her gloves. “James, where are we to meet Mother?”

“At the Rialto Bridge, miss,” James answered succinctly.

“The Rialto Bridge is a mere few minutes by foot,” Oliver said hopefully. “I would be more than happy to escort you.”

“Ah . . .” Miss Forrester looked between her maid, Molly, and the footman, James. Their censure had impact, it seemed. “We would not wish to trouble you. Mother is expecting us by gondola, and it would be best to travel that way. Besides”—the corner of her mouth turned up wryly, filling him with an expected hope—“with your sense of direction, we would likely end up there after my family had already left.”

And with that, again, she was gone.





It was another full week before he got his chance. Oliver had begun to despair of the idea that he would ever manage to explain himself to Miss Forrester—for he was certain that whatever had caused her to pull back was somehow his doing—when another knock on the door afforded him the opportunity.

Although this knock came from the front door, not the back.

“Vincenzo, where have you been hiding?!” Antonia Galetti cried in Italian as she burst into the music room. Frederico had barely had time to announce the bubbly lady before she burst into the lessons.

“I am so sorry, Signore, I know you gave orders to not be disturbed,” Frederico said sullenly, also in Italian, before sulking back to his place in the hall, where he had taken to sitting in a chair and reading periodicals.

“Thank you, Frederico,” Oliver muttered. “Once again, I get to question why I pay you.”

“You do not, Signore,” Frederico muttered back. “At least not enough.”

“Oh la, I am not a disturbance to him!” Antonia tittered, oblivious to any conversation that did not involve her. “In fact, I am something altogether more agreeable, aren’t I, Vincenzo?”

Oliver shot a look to his friend. At that moment, Vincenzo did not look agreeable. In fact, he looked quite disturbed. He had been seated next to Miss Forrester at the pianoforte, and the minute the doors flew open, he had closed the lid, nearly crushing Miss Forrester’s fingers. But Vincenzo’s face cleared almost immediately when he realized who it was. And, possibly, how detrimental rudeness to this particular lady could be.

“Of course, my dear, of course!” Vincenzo cried happily. And then, as she practically launched herself at him, Vincenzo seemed to remember that there was someone else next to him at the piano.

“Oh, Signorina Forrester, this is . . .” But he seemed to be at a loss for words, possibly because he was being strangled by Antonia’s arms around his neck.

“Signora,” Oliver stated, clearing his throat. “Allow me to introduce Miss Bridget Forrester, who is a student of Signor Carpenini.”

“Oh!” Antonia cried as she shuffled herself up to a more respectable position, out of Vincenzo’s lap. “Are you his student?” She addressed Miss Forrester in her well-taught English. “Everyone has been wondering who you are! You’re quite a little thing, aren’t you?”

“Everyone?” Miss Forrester squeaked, her eyes unblinking. In fact, Oliver felt fairly sure she had not blinked since the moment Antonia, with her voluptuous, vulnerable manners, had burst into the room.

“Oh yes!” Antonia replied. “All of Venice is desperate to know who the student is that Carpenini will place against the great Gustav Klein.”

“All of Venice?” Bridget repeated weakly, only to have her voice be lost beneath Vincenzo’s more forceful one.

“‘The ‘great’ Gustav Klein?” he asked, his mouth coming down into a harsh line.

“Now, Vincenzo, do not give attention to that; I have come for a reason. Oh, but Miss Forrester”—she turned her attention to the other lady in the room—“you must be very talented to be Vincenzo’s student. Do you think I might hear you play?”

“No!” Vincenzo cried sharply, earning him a knowing, suspicious look from Antonia.

“But, Vincenzo,” Antonia said, her voice a challenge. “You have been locked up in here with the young lady for over a week. I hear rumors—about acrobats, and circuses, and madness, that it makes me wonder if you are teaching her anything at all.”

The implied question—that if he hadn’t been teaching Miss Forrester for the past week, what had he been doing with her—hung in the air, until Oliver himself stepped in.

“Signora, they have been working very hard,” he said, bending over her hand. “As I can attest. I have listened to scales, drills, repetition of pieces so much my head is a ringing bell.”

He gave her his most charming smile and earned a charmed one back from her. Thus cosseted by a man’s—any man’s—full attention, Antonia practically purred in contentment.

It took only one sharp look to Vincenzo to get that man on board. “Yes!” he cried, elbowing his way in between Oliver and Antonia. “In fact, we have been working so hard, we are just about done for the day. You”—he leaned forward and kissed Antonia’s cheek—“have come at just”—he kissed the other cheek—“the right time.”

Antonia giggled. Vincenzo grinned. And Miss Forrester cleared her throat.

“But Signore, it is not yet three . . .” she offered quietly.

“No matter, we have worked hard enough today—remember, Rossini is fluid grace,” he said, and suddenly the lesson began to break up. Antonia moved to the side to allow Miss Forrester to stand and gather her things—albeit never letting go of Vincenzo’s hand.

“Yes, Signore,” Bridget said quietly, unblinking, shuffling papers, finding her portfolio, stretching her back.

“And no—”

“Practicing at the hotel,” she finished for him.

“Buono!” he cried, and before they realized it, Oliver and Bridget had been pushed from the music room and into the hall. Before the door closed behind them, he could hear Antonia giggle as Vincenzo said in Italian, “Now, cara, you say you came for a reason. I wonder what it could be?”

And suddenly, the thing Oliver had spent these last days wishing for, to be alone with Miss Forrester, had come to fruition.

And yet he still did not know what to say.

They stood in the hall for some moments, until Oliver realized they were not in fact quite alone.

“Frederico”—Oliver turned to his unresponsive valet, who, in his chair, seemed to be overly engrossed in that day’s press—“could you please fetch Molly from the kitchens? Miss Forrester is going home for the day.”

“Oh, but I cannot!” Miss Forrester cried. “That is, James is supposed to collect me at three, and it is not even two o’clock yet.”

But just at that moment, another high-pitched giggle erupted from the music room, filling the awkward echoing silence of the hall.

“Perhaps it would be best if I escorted you back to the hotel, where you could rest before meeting your family,” Oliver replied.

“Oh, but I . . .” The girl looked torn, not knowing what she should do.

“I will not accept no for an answer,” Oliver said, and with the reappearance of Frederico, bearing Molly in his wake, he took Miss Forrester by the elbow and guided her to the door.

As they wandered into the cobbled streets, watchful Molly falling only a step or two behind them, the first question Miss Forrester asked was not the one Oliver expected.

She had been uncommonly silent. Although whether or not it was uncommon, Oliver supposed he shouldn’t really know, as this was only the third time he had managed to walk her home. But it seemed like she was tense, and chewing over something in her mind. And he knew, in his gut, it was censorious of him.

He had begun by trying to engage her in mundane things and work his way up to what he meant to say. After all, if he managed to veer in a random direction, it could take a half hour or longer for them to wend their way back to the Hotel Cortile.

“Tell me, Miss Forrester, when you went to the Rialto Bridge yesterday, did you stop by the San Giacomo di Rialto? The building with the clock? If not, we could go back and see it; it is one of the oldest buildings in all of Venice—”

“Mr. Merrick,” Bridget said abruptly, bringing the small party to a halt. “Can you tell me why the Signore forbids me to practice at the hotel? I have been turning it over in my mind and I cannot fathom it.”

“This is what has been bothering you today?”

“Yes!” she cried, her eyes meeting his for the first time that day. “All I want to do right now is go back to the hotel and practice. To sit at the pianoforte for another few hours, to try to work my way into understanding what he means by fluidness. We’ve been working on it for days. And I think my playing is fluid. What do you think? Is my playing fluid?”

Oliver could only stare at her in shock for some moments.

“Well?” she asked, jarring him out of his stupor.

“No,” he finally said.

“No?” It sounded as if her heart broke on the single, short word. “No, you don’t think my playing is fluid?”

“Yes, I mean, no—I mean, I find your playing very fluid, but then again, I am not the master,” he said in a jumble. Then, clearing his throat, “I meant to say, no, that cannot have been what has kept you in such a twisted state.”

“I assure you it is,” she promised, a small smile painting her mouth. “I’ve been torturing myself for days and days, and my mother has been having James bring us to wherever they happen to be to avoid you, and I cannot even pretend to practice!”

“Your mother has you avoiding me?”

“Actually it’s your fault for kissing my hand, but that still doesn’t answer my original question: Why am I forbidden to practice?”

Oliver felt like he had been spun around three times and knocked upside the head with a mallet. Taking a deep breath, he dove into the fray.

“All right. Let us take this one question at a time,” he said, and began slowly walking, Bridget falling into step beside him. “First of all, Vincenzo does not want you playing at the hotel because he is precautious of conspiracy.”

“Precautious?”

“Yes. And not unjustifiably. Anyone can walk into the hotel and hear you play. If that someone happens to be a spy for the Marchese, or his competition, Klein, then they can report back how well you play, and try to undermine us accordingly.”

Miss Forrester raised a skeptical eyebrow. “That seems a bit extreme.”

“The musical world of Venice can be a treacherous one, that much Vincenzo does know.” Oliver answered darkly. “While we cannot conceal the fact that you are his student, as you come and go from my home on a daily basis, at least there no one can simply barge in and eavesdrop on your practicing.”

“Except for today,” she replied under her breath. Ah, she meant Antonia.

“We will work our way back to Signora Galetti,” Oliver replied, holding up a hand. “But first, you have to tell me what you meant.”

“What I meant by what?” she asked.

“That you’ve been avoiding me because I kissed your hand?”

“It’s not my doing.” She sighed. “In fact, it’s hers.” She nodded to Molly.

“Don’t look at me!” Molly cried indignantly. “I’m not the one that kissed you on the hand—ungloved!—in broad daylight!”

“When you walked me home, you deposited me at the hotel and kissed my hand,” Miss Forrester interjected. “And it was taken by some”—her eye flew to a stiffly uncompromising Molly—“as a bit too . . . European, especially from an English gentleman.”

“Met the girl not a se’nnight ago, and now you’re kissing her hand, without the chaperonage of her mother nearby!” Molly said stiffly. “What’s next? A kiss on both cheeks? How long will it be before you have the girl taking afternoon lie-downs on a settee with you?”

“Molly!” Miss Forrester admonished, blushing. “At any rate, Molly took it upon herself, instead of making the affront known to you, to suggest to my mother that we have an escort to meet her and my sister at whatever tourist spot they have decided upon for that day, thus saving me from your lascivious advances.”

Understanding dawned, and Oliver felt like laughing. So he did. Long and loud. So long and so loud that he drew curious glances, not the least of which was from Miss Forrester and Molly.

“Stark raving mad. I told you, miss,” Molly grumbled under her breath. “This whole scheme. Stark raving mad.”

“Miss Forrester, I mean no offense. To you, either, Molly. Your protective instincts for your charge are to be commended. But I cannot imagine why a simple kiss on the hand would evoke such response.”

“That’s what I said,” Miss Forrester cried happily, turning her attention to her maid. “Everyone kisses everything here. Hands, cheeks—why, Signor Zinni kissed the top of my head once! Although I’m fairly certain he mistook me for his daughter, who works in the hotel’s kitchens; we are of a height . . .” Miss Forrester let that thought trail off, refocusing her argument. “Besides, if you are so worried about my welfare with Mr. Merrick, then why do you go down to the kitchens during lessons? There I am unchaperoned with not one, but two gentlemen—one far more ‘European’ than the other!”

“As long as I can hear you playing, I know you are safe,” Molly replied stiffly. “I come running up quickly enough when the music stops.”

“Well, that is certainly true,” Oliver mused, recalling how, for the past several days, whenever there had been a break in the music, not fifteen seconds had passed before there was a discreet knock at the door, and Molly slipping into the room, usually bearing a tray, unobtrusive but watchful.

“Besides, it is so commonplace,” Miss Forrester continued, “I hardly remember him kissing my hand. And it is such a rote action for gentlemen here, I doubt Mr. Merrick even recalls doing it.”

Well, that was a bit less true. While Oliver did not remember the impulse that led him to take her hand in his and press his lips to its back, he certainly remembered doing so. He remembered more than anything the warmth of her fingers . . . how slender they were, how small and strong and agile.

But Miss Forrester looked up at him, confident, and all he could do was nod with authority. Then, clearing his throat, he turned back to their inquisitor.

“Molly,” he said, as deferentially as he could, “I know you are wary and watchful, and it does you credit. But please know and trust that I have no illicit intentions toward Miss Forrester. Her safety and happiness are my foremost concern as well.”

Molly eyed Oliver suspiciously, her gaze boring into him as if she could read all of his secrets.

He rather hoped she couldn’t.

Instead, he tried to convey a trustworthiness that had been bred into him as an English gentleman, no matter how much he had tried to deny that part of himself over the past five years.

And suddenly . . . he wanted it. He wanted to be trusted by this guard dog of a maid with the welfare of her young lady. He wanted to be worthy of that.

It must have worked, too, because in that moment, the moment something in his body switched over from the feigning to the desire, Molly’s expression cleared. Instead of regarding him as an enemy, he knew in that moment she had decided that he could be an ally.

“Well, if you say as much, I’ll believe it,” Molly admitted, only a little grudgingly.

“So there is no need to fetch us and escort us to Amanda and Mother, wherever they are?” Miss Forrester eyed her maid. “You know I am so tired after the lessons—I can barely keep my eyes open at the churches and cathedrals . . .”

“I suppose not,” Molly admitted. Then with a quick glance beyond them, she added, “In fact, do you mind if I go ahead of you? I would like to head off James before he leaves the hotel.”

Oliver raised his eyebrow in shock, but Miss Forrester gave Molly her consent, and off she went.

“Well,” he drawled, watching the maid’s retreating form as she moved nimbly through the crowd. “When Molly decides to trust someone, she doesn’t waste any time, does she?”

“I suppose not. Although I don’t think she ever did not trust you. She comes from the country, I believe, and her English sensibilities have been shocked into a tizzy by Venice.”

“By a kiss on the hand?”

“That was merely the straw that broke the camel’s back. You should have seen her when we landed in Rome; the ornateness of the churches sent her back to her room with palpitations.” She grinned at him impishly. “In every other regard she is the most practical person I know.”

“Well, if it offends her practicality, I promise to never kiss your hand again, Miss Forrester.”

Although, did he? It was said in jest, but the notion did not sit well with him in the least.

But she just smiled at him. “That would likely make her feel much better. Although my next request will not.”

“Oh?”

“Yes. I implore that you call me Bridget, or Miss Bridget, if you will. I have been the ‘Miss Forrester’ in my family for almost a year now, and yet I still cannot hear it without thinking my sister Sarah looms over my shoulder somewhere.”

“I cannot promise to remember every time.” He shook his head. “Although, if you take to calling me Oliver, I’m sure it will help my memory,” he replied, a strange warmth filling his chest. Could it be that they were, even in their strange circumstances, becoming friends, of a sort?

It could only be pure recklessness that had him testing this theory with his next statement.

“Miss Bridget, I cannot tell you how glad I am to know that it’s Molly’s practical country nature that had you avoiding me for the past few days, and not what I had thought,” he said, steering her down a different street than they had taken before. Her footfalls followed his implicitly. However, her eyebrows flew up in surprise.

“And what had you supposed to be the reason?” she asked.

“You have no idea what I have been thinking!” He shook his head, laughing. “I racked my brain, trying to think of how our last conversation had set you against me—when I had felt the exact opposite. I thought I had somehow offended you by admitting that Carpenini was my illegitimate brother—”

“I did not realize he was illegitimate.” Bridget’s large green eyes went wide. “Although I cannot see how that reflects on you. Or Carpenini.”

Oliver smiled, and continued. “I thought perhaps I took you into the wrong part of town—that your sense of direction was livid over wandering so far . . . I thought the fact that my father and I do not get along, and that I lack a desire to go home to England, raised your ire.”

“My ire?” she replied. “No. Besides, I understand all that.”

“You do?” He could not keep the disbelief from his voice.

“Of course. You and I share the same malady.”

“Malady?”

“Yes,” she replied. “Stage fright.”

He jerked back suddenly, coming to a stop in the middle of the square, or campo, they had wandered into. “You think I have stage fright?”

“At least in part. I am afraid of what people will think of me when I play for them. That I won’t live up to their expectations. You are afraid you will not meet your father’s. That he would not, does not understand. So you stay here and carve out your own existence. Even though in every conversation we have had, you still call England ‘home.’”

Could she be right? Oliver fell silent, stern. Could he have avoided going back to England so long because he feared the judgment of others? Of his father?

But that judgment had already been rendered, in monthly letters and a quarterly allowance. His father’s words might have been kind, but they were also removed. And Oliver knew the money simply said, Stay away.

“But your stage fright is easily managed. After all, I think you need not worry as much about your audience as much as I worry about mine. I have to please all of Venice, not to mention Carpenini.” She grinned ruefully. “You only have one person to humor, and he seems far more reasonable.”

“Really?” Oliver answered, attempting humor. “You met my father only the once. He struck you as a reasonable man?”

She tilted her head to one side. “I was talking about you. You are your audience.”

“Oh,” he breathed shortly, properly chagrined.

“But I don’t know if your father is a reasonable man,” she said quietly. “When I met him, he just seemed . . . well, more sad than anything else, I suppose.”

“Oh,” he said again. Because it was the only thing he could say.

“My father and I . . .” Oliver began after a moment. “In truth I would rather not discuss him.” The future. Yes, it was better to think on the future. Vincenzo would win this competition, he would write a piece for Oliver to stage and the Marchese’s patronage would return, and all would be well. His father aside.

But Bridget blinked at him, then conceded with a nod.

And with nothing else to say, silence fell between them.

Oliver did not know how to feel about what Bridget had said. To distract himself, he did what he often had when his thoughts were getting in the way—he let the scene overtake him. The people in the campo, the cobblestones of the square, the bright afternoon sun.

It was a market day—as was almost every day, excepting Sundays and holidays—and even though it was the afternoon now, there were still a few stalls open, trying to sell that morning’s catch or now somewhat stale bread at a reduced price. There was a woman—a fishwife—singing about her husband’s prowess as a fisherman. She was fairly entertaining, her voice rich and full. Until, that is, she got to the higher notes, and her voice cracked with its limitations.

The sweet breeze of spring—made all the sweeter because the canals had not yet taken on their pungent summer aroma—came up behind them from the south. It wrapped around Oliver’s legs, holding him still in his place. It danced with Bridget’s skirts, pressing them tightly against her well-formed lower half, giving him an excellent idea of how they looked. He could not help but notice it—nor could he help the sensation that sight sent through his own lower limbs.

It seemed as if he would be breaking another promise to Molly that afternoon—Bridget’s safety and comfort were no longer the foremost thoughts in his mind.

“Where are we?” Bridget said at last, a blessed distraction from his overly distracting train of thought.

“Do you mean to tell me that even with your directional acumen, you do not know where we are?” Oliver said, teasingly. She shook her head. “We are at the Campo Sant Angelo. You should recognize it—did you not say that you were meeting your mother here a few days ago?”

Bridget looked around with a scrutinous eye. “I suppose it is familiar . . .”

“Look, over there—that is the famous well. This entire square was raised up so seawater would not get into the well during a flood.”

“Yes, I vaguely remember Amanda quoting something to that effect from her guidebook. She seems to be a great admirer of civil infrastructure.” Bridget smiled wryly up at him.

“And that building there—twenty years ago it was the Teatro San Angelo. Vivaldi was impresario as well as composer there.”

“Really? One would, I think should, remember that,” she grumbled ruefully. “To be honest, though, I was not paying the closest of attentions to my surroundings.”

“I am utterly shocked. This undoes all my preconceived notions about you.”

“Do be serious,” she laughed, belying any seriousness to be had. “Unfortunately I find I simply do not care about wells, and architecture, and other people, when there is music in my head. Even if I cannot practice on the pianoforte at the hotel, I can study the sheet music. I am here to study with Carpenini, not take in the sights!”

He cocked an eyebrow at her. “Perhaps you should.”

“But . . .” she began to argue, but he held up a hand to silence her.

“Hear me out. You wish to learn about music. To study. Well, music is this. It is an expression of life.” He pointed to the singing fishwife. “It is that woman there. Would she not make a perfect character in an opera? And what about our last unconventional walk back to the hotel—what was most memorable about it?”

He could see the wheels turning in her head. “Other than you claiming Carpenini as your brother?”

“Yes, other than that.”

She closed her eyes, let memory wash over her. “The . . . sunlight on the wet cobblestones in the alley.”

He found himself taking an unexpected step closer to her. His voice was warm, low. “And how would you play sunlight on cobblestones on the piano?”

Her eyes remained closed. “I . . . I don’t know.” Her voice came out in a whisper. Her fingers, likely unbeknownst to her, began to twitch at her side, as if finding ivory keys in the ether. “It would be high, and light. Earthy, though—muted pedals. Like waking up.”

Her eyes opened, and they found his smile. “That is something Carpenini cannot teach. Only Venice can.”

She took this in, a serene smile painting her lips. In that moment, he was bewitched. Truly and utterly. She, he, and the spring breeze wrapping around their legs. The impulse to lean forward and catch the little smile with his own, to learn what freckled skin tasted like.

Instead, he indulged the only thing he could do in the middle of a campo in broad daylight. Before he knew what he was doing, he had reached down, grabbed Bridget’s hand, and brought it to his lips.

“Mr. Merrick! Intent on incurring Molly’s wrath, are you?” she admonished, playfully, as he released her hand.

“Only when I can get away with it,” he replied impishly. And then she smiled up at him, and he smiled down at her . . .

And suddenly they were the only two people standing in the Campo Sant Angelo.

And that idea, that impulse to lean forward and take what those wide green eyes seemed to offer, nearly overcame him.

Nearly.

“Ah . . . Mr. Merrick. Oliver,” Bridget said sharply, rushing them out of their haze and back into the real world, singing fishwife and all. “I have to ask you something.”

She bit her lip so charmingly, Oliver could do little but reply with a rush of happiness. “Anything, Miss Bridget.”

Her next words were like a bucket of ice water over his head.

“The Signora Galetti . . .” she began hesitantly. “Is she . . . is she a woman of importance?”

“She is the daughter of a Marchese . . . she is a very wealthy, influential woman in Venice,” he answered slowly.

“No, I mean is she important . . . to Signor Carpenini?”

Oliver felt all of his happy energy drain from his body, out the ends of his fingertips. He could tell her, he supposed, that the Signora and Carpenini were lovers. It would be the truth, after all. He could tell her that Carpenini’s fate might very well lay in her hands and could be crushed if Antonia was not properly placated from time to time. That would also be true. But looking down into Bridget’s face, the vulnerability laid bare, he instead told the central truth he knew about Signora Galetti.

“No,” he replied. “She is not.”





He should have realized.

After those words had left his mouth, the rush of relief from Bridget startled him and seemed to exhaust her. At her request, they walked back in a more direct route to the hotel, so she could rest before enjoying the remainder of the day with her family.

“And learning from Venice,” she promised him.

He spent the walk from the hotel to his own rented house remonstrating himself for his flights of fancy.

She had not felt the same rush of temptation he had. Nor had she stepped into a bubble of their own making, as time slowed down and the temptation of her freckles became almost more than he could bear. No, instead she was more than halfway in love with her instructor, Carpenini, jealous of his relationship with another woman, while Oliver fit very nicely into the role of confidante and, more despised, friend.

He was alone in his feelings. It was something he could rail against, or he could cut the connection and save himself heartache. But he liked Bridget Forrester too much and felt too protective of her, and, strangely, he knew her to be too important to do anything other than survive them.

Carpenini’s actions, on the other had—those he could influence.

“Vincenzo!” he yelled, the door slamming behind him, jolting even lazy Frederico out of his chair in the hallway.

He found him in the music room, sitting at the keys, his hands down at his sides. Signora Galetti had apparently made her exit.

“You,” Oliver said. “I told you, you have to be more careful with Bri—with Miss Forrester. She’s half in love with you already, and young English ladies don’t play by your rules.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Vincenzo replied dully.

“It does matter. If you play with her emotions—well, not only will you find yourself without a student for the competition, you could very well—” But Vincenzo cut him off with a pound of fury on the keyboard.

“It does not matter!” he cried. “We have already lost.”

Oliver took a deep breath. “How?”

“Antonia brought with her the Marchese’s music selection for the competition.” Vincenzo’s voice broke as he continued, showing the truth of his despair. “We are not to play Scarlatti. Or Marcello, or Vivaldi, or any other honest, pure Italian composer.”

Carpenini pounded his hands against the keys again, a thunderstorm in the still room.

“He chose an Austrian. We are to play goddamned Beethoven!”