Let It Be Me

Seventeen

THE consequences from Lady Forrester’s timely visit to her daughter’s lessons were threefold. First, she did not, as feared, feel the need to swipe her precious daughters away from the twisting streets of Venice and the exposure of the Marchese’s musical competition. Indeed, once she was convinced of the competition’s prestige, her reaction was quite the opposite.

“My daughter! Playing for the Marchese! Oh, what an honor, what a coup!” Lady Forrester was overheard saying at every available opportunity, and to every possible person they met, whether traveling British or Venetians they met on the street. “Of course, she has always been quite talented, but she has blossomed underneath Signor Carpenini’s instruction, simply blossomed!”

However, Lady Forrester’s enthusiasm for her daughter’s newfound honor also had the effect of making her far more interested in her daughter’s lessons. She and Amanda began to “pop in” unexpectedly on the lessons so frequently that it was deemed prudent to rehire Veronica to take up her role as the doddering great-aunt again, happily darning things with crabbed hands by the fire. And Lady Forrester tended to swing by in the first and last hour of the lesson, thereby providing Bridget an escort to whatever destination they were headed for next. Meaning that the chance for Oliver and Bridget to take a lingering walk went from slim to none.

Bridget found the restrictions on the freedoms she had just been beginning to enjoy more stifling than ever. She was no longer able to enjoy the sights from her morning gondola ride with only Molly and her own thoughts for company. No longer was she able to beg off from an evening spent in boring company—now her mother insisted that she attend and be feted. (Although, thankfully, she always managed to avoid playing for people, as Carpenini expressly forbade it, and her mother was the very best enforcer of Carpenini’s rules.) And worst of all, no longer was she able to meander through alleys and enjoy the way the sun fell on cobblestones and the memories that flared to life at seeing them.

But when she mentioned her chafing frustrations to Oliver during one of the few rare moments they found alone, he gave her a long considering look before replying.

“It’s probably for the best, you know,” he said on a sigh, his hand unconsciously reaching out to play with one of her curls.

“Why?” she asked, unable to keep the longing from her voice.

“Gustav Klein,” he answered simply.

Bridget could only sigh in agreement. For the third consequence of her mother’s visit was that Carpenini’s fears about Klein had been proved right.

After her mother and sister left that day—the former presumably to tell the world about her daughter and the latter hopefully to keep her secrets—Antonia Galetti hung back for a few moments, eager for a private word.

“You’ve done it now, Antonia,” Carpenini growled, once the door closed on the two Forrester ladies.

“What have I done? I simply told a concerned mother what her daughter was involved with,” Antonia replied, eyes wide with innocent astonishment.

“Well, your little plan failed—” Carpenini began, but his anger was interrupted by Oliver’s rising from his great-aunt crouch and stretching to his full height.

“Vincenzo, Lady Forrester would have to know eventually; Antonia did no lasting damage,” Oliver said kindly, smoothing the troubled waters. “If she wanted to, she could have revealed me at any moment.”

“Oh, Signor Merrick, I would never do that. You amuse me too much.” She shrugged simply. “Besides, if you had not kept me so in the dark, barring me from visiting”—she pouted, very prettily—“why, I did not even know for certain that Signorina Forrester was your chosen student . . . at least not until I heard her play the Number Twenty-three yesterday.”

The weight of her stupidity fell on Bridget’s shoulders like an anvil.

“Yesterday?” Carpenini asked. “When?”

“While I was visiting with her mother at the Hotel Cortile,” Antonia replied. “And I was not the only one. Gustav Klein was with me.”

Carpenini and Oliver both gaped in astonishment.

“Well, a lady cannot always be alone, Vincenzo,” she replied pointedly. “Perhaps if you had been more available to me . . .” She shrugged her little shoulders, seemingly unaware of the rage vibrating off Carpenini.

“Antonia, you did not—”

“I did nothing, Vincenzo. The same as you.” She stepped to him, squaring her shoulders. “But as a friend, allow me to give you a warning. Klein knows the girl has talent now. And he will stop at nothing to beat you in this competition.”

Antonia turned to leave, pausing only at the door for a brief moment. “Ciao, Signores. Signorina, you play very beautifully, and I wish you the best of luck.”

From that moment on, Klein had been at the forefront of their worries. And it was not without cause. As Bridget was a member of the British aristocracy, her family was invited to many engagements held by resident Englishmen that her out-of-favor instructor was not. (And now, thanks to her mother’s enthusiasm, she had to attend them.) But as Gustav Klein was very much in favor, he had apparently taken to responding positively to such invitations. And he was often . . . looking. In Bridget’s direction.

It was more than unnerving. It was disturbing.

However, when she mentioned Klein’s attentions to Oliver, suddenly she had a reason to start enjoying these engagements. Because suddenly, Oliver began showing up at them, too.

“Oliver!” she cried, seeing him walk through the door one evening. “Er, I mean, Mr. Merrick,” she corrected herself, hoping no one had overheard her slip.

They were at a card party in a palazzo on the Grand Canal—held by some son of some English Duke whose natural climate did not agree with him nearly as much as his adopted one. It was the third such engagement this week, and Bridget was bored of them. This was good entertainment for good people, and they all talked of the same things, be it in English or Italian, none of which really interested Bridget. Oh, now and again someone (invariably her mother) would bring up the competition, but Bridget would smile and change the subject as quickly as possible. The only reprieve was when there was a quartet, or some music for dancing.

But the sudden appearance of Oliver Merrick made the evening much more interesting.

“I thought you were banished from such amusements,” she whispered, as he bowed over her hand.

“I am not banished—I have simply never shown an interest before. I am used to trading on my brother’s name in Venice, not my father’s. But in company such as this, it’s his that opens the doors.” Oliver smiled, a little grimly, a little uncomfortably. But he was there, and she knew, deep down, that he was there for her.

“It’s your name, too, you know,” she replied, a little pertly. “Did you never think you open your own doors?”

If Oliver had a reply to that, he did not have the chance to give it, for Lady Forrester and Amanda found them and greeted him happily. And Bridget had to remember to extract her hand from Oliver’s.

“Mr. Merrick, how lovely to see you again.” Lady Forrester looked approvingly at his evening dress and, with a gleam in her eye, toward Bridget. “Have you come to dance, Mr. Merrick? I hear the musicians are particularly good this evening.”

As if taking his cue, Oliver bowed to Lady Forrester. “There could be no greater pleasure. Miss Forrester, would you do me the honor?”

They had been in company together for months, they had explored every corner of the city and had a glorious lesson in passion besides, but for some reason, the formal act of dancing with Oliver Merrick put the pink to Bridget’s cheeks. He put his hand on her waist for the waltz, and all it did was remind her of another such embrace, it seemed like ages ago now, although it had really been little more than a fortnight. In the meantime, her life had been lessons, engagements, and a strange sense of needing.

And it had been so long since they had been able to be alone together . . .

“Well, this is pleasant,” Oliver murmured in her ear as they spun through the turns. Bridget was by no means a bad dancer, but Oliver had a different sort of masculine grace that gave his steps confidence. “Finally having you alone to myself.”

Bridget blushed—had he been reading her mind?

“Not quite alone, unfortunately,” Bridget replied softly, her eyes falling on where her mother and sister were standing. While their mother chatted with their host (a rather florid-looking man who enjoyed the leisure of continental living), Amanda watched Bridget and Oliver closely, entirely suspicious.

“Ah yes, your sister,” Oliver said, his gaze catching the line of Bridget’s. “I am amazed at how you managed to keep her from revealing our small deception to your mother.”

“It was not difficult. I simply had to give in to her blackmail and tell her everything.”

“And did you?” Oliver’s head whipped back around to hold Bridget’s eyes.

She blushed through her smile. “Almost everything.”

Amanda had been relentless, so Bridget told her everything she could: about how the competition was conceived, about Carpenini’s need to win. About how it was simpler not to have any extra ears around during lessons, that even though she was not formally chaperoned, she was completely safe under Molly’s, Frederico’s, and Oliver’s protection.

Especially Oliver’s.

Although she kept certain things as vague as possible—she did not think she could easily explain the nature of their meandering walks home, or how having a circus in the music room could be considered completely proper and aboveboard—it felt amazingly good to be able to confide her feelings in someone. About how she was playing, improving, learning. About how she found the city brighter and more beautiful because of the way she was allowed to see it. About how she was actually composing little tunes—ones that might be halfway decent, if only in her own mind.

And Amanda reveled in her newfound role as confidant.

“Do not worry about Amanda,” Bridget said, as Oliver took her expertly through another turn. “She swore up and down that she would not tell our mother anything.”

“Then why is she looking at us like that?”

“Because she wishes she could dance but is not yet out, and is therefore not allowed.” Bridget waved away any suspicions . . . although she had them, too. Amanda was frighteningly observant when it suited her purpose. Was it possible she could see straight through to Bridget’s thoughts, the way Oliver seemed to be able to?

“Never mind Amanda; tell me, how was it that you were able to sneak away and not raise Carpenini’s ire?”

“Oh, I doubt he even noticed I was gone. After your lessons, he has his head in his compositions and does not come out for food or company.” Oliver frowned. “It’s very good, in a way—it’s been so long since he’s composed anything; he seems to be back on track now.”

“And what is he composing? A sonata? A symphony?” Bridget asked, trying to keep up conversation. Although she was having a harder time of it than she would have liked, because Oliver’s thumb was making lazy circles on the back of her gown, leaving a trail of fire on her skin in its wake.

“He plays things, but I do not really hear them.” Oliver bent low to her ear, and whispered in the most delicious tenor, “For once you leave the house, all I can think is, ‘I wonder what Bridget is doing right now.’”

Heat spread out from his thumb at her back, diffusing through her body. She breathed in sharply. “So you came to find out.”

His honey gaze caught hers, and she could feel his body tense under her arm, in the same manner, from the same cause as her own present distress. That fantastic want. That unbearable need.

Suddenly, a movement caught Oliver’s eye and his gaze flickered up. Through a turn, she was able to see what garnered his attention. It was Klein, on the other side of the room. He seemed to be very much not watching them, with great attention.

“Is he still bothering you?” Oliver asked.

“He has yet to bother me at all—indeed, he has yet to speak to me,” she said soothingly, trying to cage the anger she felt coming off Oliver. “He only stares.”

“But it unnerves you.”

“Yes, well, most anyone staring at me unnerves me,” she replied, hoping to break the tension. But it seemed to have the opposite effect.

Oliver returned his gaze to her, cocking his head to one side, quizzical. “You still find it unnerving? Being watched?”

Bridget knew he was asking about her playing, about her fear of performing. “I . . . I don’t know,” she replied honestly. “I am much more comfortable, but I only play for you and Carpenini. And of course, Veronica, now. And Molly. And Frederico. I suppose I shouldn’t be afraid any longer. Although I fear that I will be. Afraid, that is, when the time comes. Does that make sense?”

“Yes,” Oliver replied grimly. Then, with a sudden burst of inspiration, he asked her, “Bridget, do you trust me?”

“Of course,” she replied, albeit suspiciously.

“Then I have an idea to help you—but we must obtain your mother’s cooperation for it.” His smile widened to a mischievous grin as the musicians played the waltz’s final notes. All the couples came apart, some more reluctantly than others, applauding the musicians and the dance.

Oliver bowed and offered Bridget his arm. “Shall we go ask her?”

They made their way to the side of the room, where Lady Forrester and Amanda stood with their host.

“Mr. Merrick, I take it you are acquainted with our host, Lord Pomfrey?” Lady Forrester made introductions.

“Of course,” Lord Pomfrey blustered. “All of us expatriates know each other—although Mr. Merrick enjoys the company of the natives more than the most of us.”

Bridget could feel Oliver bristle, and she kept a steady hand on his arm.

“Interesting to see you here, Merrick! I thought you had forsaken the good life,” Pomfrey ribbed, obviously trying for jocular good humor.

But whatever Oliver was feeling, he kept it underneath his skin, because he simply smiled, and replied smoothly. “All of Venice is the good life, Pomfrey. Don’t you agree?”

He did, and through his jocular good humor, Oliver began to converse with Pomfrey, finding they had many interests in common, including the opera.

“To that end, Lady Forrester”—Oliver turned to Bridget’s mother—“I was wondering if you would permit me to escort you and your fair daughters to the opera tomorrow?”

The opera! Bridget’s heart leaped with glee. Oh, it had been too long since she had been to the opera. But then she caught Oliver’s eye and the gleam it held. Then, of all things, he winked at her!

Trust me, he mouthed silently.

While her mother was busy accepting and her sister was busy exclaiming at the idea of seeing the famed Fenice opera house, Bridget suddenly felt a pit in the bottom of her stomach.

Somehow, she felt certain the opera was not going to be the delight she was hoping.