The Makeshift Marriage Read Online Free PDF Page A

up in the dining room, and as she glanced in she saw that the maître d’hôtel was there too. There was nothing for it but to brazenly ask him to see that she was seated at Sir Nicholas’s table that evening and to then cross her fingers that that gentleman decided to take his meal there! She knew that she was blushing as she asked, and she knew too that the maître d’hôtel quite obviously thought she was pursuing her handsome countryman, but she did not really care what he thought. The object of the exercise was to convince the baron that she had been speaking the truth. The maître d’hôtel beamed and nodded. But of course she could sit with Sir Nicholas, nothing could be simpler to arrange… .
    Or more hateful, she thought as she climbed the grand staircase.
     

Chapter 4
     
    The chandeliers in the bedchamber glittered as Laura dressed for dinner. Outside it was quite dark and the room was warmed by charcoal burning in a little terracotta stove. With a sigh of relief she lowered her arms after painstakingly putting in the last little artificial flower in the carefully pinned curls piled high at the back of her head. Ringlets twisted down from the curls, and she surveyed herself in the mirror. Her arms ached. Enjoying the services of the maid at Hazeldon Court, she had not realized how very hard it was to achieve a fashionable evening coiffure. But she looked well enough now, and certainly no one would know she had labored this past hour to look as she now did!
    She got up from the dressing table and shook out the skirts of her pale blue silk gown. The crossover bodice was trimmed with dark red and green embroidery, as was the hem, and the petal-shaped sleeves were tied with dainty golden strings that trembled against her naked arms. It was a gown she was very proud of, for it was very fine indeed, quite elegant and costly enough to grace the dining room of the Hotel Contarini. She pulled on her long white gloves. She didn’t really know why she had taken such pains with her appearance tonight; it wasn’t as if she was ever likely to impress Sir Nicholas, but somehow she had felt that she must look her best.
    Outside, the satin waters of the Grand Canal shone in the darkness, and the lights of the palaces were reflected brightly on its surface. The bell of the church of San Giovanni de Rialto had long since sounded sundown. It was time to face the dining room. For a moment she was chickenhearted. She could avoid all this by meekly taking her meal in her room. But that would be to give in, something she could not do.
    The maître d’hôtel smiled knowingly at her as she entered the dining room, where the tables were again completely full and the band was striving even harder to drown all conversation.
    A flicker of annoyance crossed Sir Nicholas’s handsome face as she took her seat opposite him, and he made a very poor show of getting to his feet. “Good evening, Miss —er, Milbanke.”
    “Sir Nicholas.”
    The meal was indeed as Austrian as the gondolier had predicted, but no one could honestly have grumbled at the excellence of the fruit-stuffed goose that was the main course. It was certainly a far cry from sausage, pickle, and cold cabbage! And from calamari and risi e bisi! Thinking of her disastrous luncheon brought her thoughts inevitably to the baron, who was sitting at the same table he had occupied that morning. She could feel his dark, knowing eyes upon her. She was suddenly nervous, snapping open her fan to cool her face. She must at least attempt to engage Sir Nicholas in a conversation and make it appear as if they got on well enough for him to have asked her to dine with him.
    “Are —are you in Venice for long, Sir Nicholas?”
    He glanced at her in surprise. “A week or so.”
    “Is it your first time here?”
    “Yes.” He was not at all encouraging.
    She continued, undaunted as yet. “Are you one of the Flintshire Grenvilles?” she asked, inventing a fictitious branch of his