Their voices were fading away, but she was scarcely aware of them. The eventual silence was so blessed she almost wept.
Alistair Rohan. Why hadn't she known him immediately? She'd never seen eyes that captivating color on anyone but her brother's friend.
She'd been fifteen, he'd been twenty, sent down from Oxford with her brother Jack for some prank involving chickens and the dean's office, much to her father's annoyance.
She'd taken one look at him and fallen madly, desperately in love, as only a fifteen-year-old can love. Of course Rohan had barely noticed Jack's gawky little sister, though he lightly flirted with her when they'd been thrown together.
He left, and she'd never seen him again. Jack had served in India and, like so many before him, died there. Mary had died in childbirth, and their parents were already gone. She was alone, and she'd had no qualms about becoming a governess, and proved to be an extremely good one. She'd leapt at the chance to travel to Venice with the Brandon family, and then disaster fell.
Leaving her destitute, and now a whore, facing her childhood crush. She pushed herself out of the chair and went to survey the littered table, hoping there might be a scrap of food left behind. Apparently the members of the Saving Grace or the Heaven Host or whatever they were calling themselves were only interested in drink, and that one glass of wine had been a very bad idea.
Death before dishonor. It was a lovely sentiment, but she didn't want to die. If she had the chance to go back to England then she didn't fancy a grave as an alternative. They buried the dead on a separate island here--she didn't want her body dumped on a barge and carried over there with the other paupers.
An hour or two in exchange for getting out of this country. She had no sure idea what would await her in England, whether Mrs. Brandon's slander would follow her there, but she had good enough references from other families. And no one would ever need know of this.
She would think of it as a medical procedure, close her eyes and endure. At least no one would cut her open, and the pain would be marginal and quick, or so her sister had told her.
She moved over to the window seat, curling up against the bolted shutters. If Marcello showed up she'd ask him for food, which he'd probably refuse, but starvation had its own compensations. She was already so muzzy-headed she'd probably barely notice what they did to her.
She had drifted off to sleep when the door opened and Alistair Rohan came in, heading purposefully toward the table. His head was wet, and clearly he'd just bathed. She would have killed for a bath.
She sank back into the alcove. A mistake, because her movement caught his attention and he turned to stare at her for a long moment, clearly surprised.
"What are you still doing here?" he asked in that lazy voice she remembered so well.
Somehow she found she was able to answer. "They were afraid they might misplace me. "
He gave a short, sharp laugh. "You look like you're starving," he said abruptly. "Can I offer you some food, or will you throw that back in my face?"
"Food. . . would be very nice," she said in a faint voice.
He nodded, more to himself than to her. "Come with me. "
She followed, determined not to fall over, trailing behind the straight, tall back that she'd once sighed over. The room he brought her to was small and cozy, with a blazing fire to fight off the damp Venetian chill. She stood there, uncertain what to do.
"Go. Sit by the fire," he said irritably, and disappeared.
She did as she was bid. The chair was cushioned, the fire so hot that her hands and feet finally began to warm, and she could see steam rising from her sodden garments. She ought to be embarrassed, but it was nothing compared to what was coming later that night.
She didn't know how long he was gone. She had probably drifted off to sleep again, because when he appeared, the supercilious Marcello was with him, carrying a heavy tray.
She almost cried then. But she swallowed back the tears as Marcello set the tray down on the table beside her, then moved it in front of her. Soup, baked eels, cold chicken, hard cheese, bread, sweet confections. She couldn't believe the food there, and she didn't know where to start.
"If you think I'm going to hand-feed you you're wrong," Alistair said, throwing himself down in the chair opposite her.
"Don't. . . don't you want any?" She'd stab him if he did.
He shook his head. "I've been eating regular meals. Clearly you haven't. "
It was all she could do not to fall on the food like a ravenous savage. She forced herself to eat slowly, knowing she'd make herself sick if she shoved it all in her mouth, knowing he was watching her out of those heavy-lidded honey-gold eyes. She was past feeling self-conscious. When she finally finished she sat back, her stomach pleasantly full for the first time in weeks.
She had no choice--she'd been brought up with manners. "Thank you. "
He raised an eyebrow. "No longer wanting me dead? Though I can't imagine what I've done to earn your enmity. I was trying to save you from the worst folly imaginable. "
"Why? Oh, I remember. I'm just so damned pathetic," she said.
He grinned at that. "I can tell you're feeling better already. I've had Marcello prepare a room for you and a bath. You look as if you haven't had a good night's sleep in weeks, and you're going to need your strength if you expect to get through tonight's festivities. "