The Venetian Playboy's Bride. Lucy Gordon

snowy whiteness that it gave him an air of elegance, and made a contrast with his lightly tanned skin.

      ‘You could have found me quite easily,’ she pointed out as they strolled hand in hand. ‘You know my hotel.’

      ‘To be sure, I could go into the Vittorio and say the lady in their best suite has given me the elbow and would they please tell me her name? Then I think I should start running before they throw me out. They’re used to dealing with dodgy characters.’

      ‘Are you a dodgy character?’ she asked with interest.

      ‘They’d certainly think so if I told them that tale. Now where shall we go?’

      ‘You’re the one who knows Venice.’

      ‘And from the depths of my expert knowledge I say that we should start with an ice cream.’

      ‘Yes please,’ she said at once. There was something about ice cream that made a child of her again. He picked up the echo and grinned boyishly.

      ‘Come on.’

      He led her into a maze, where streets and canals soon blurred into one. Flagstones underfoot, alleys so narrow that the old buildings almost seemed to touch each other overhead, tiny bridges where they lingered to watch the boats drift underneath.

      ‘It’s all so peaceful,’ she said in wonder.

      ‘That’s because there are no cars.’

      ‘Of course.’ She looked around her. ‘I hadn’t even realised, but it’s obvious.’ She looked around her again. ‘There’s nowhere for cars to go.’

      ‘Right,’ he said with deep satisfaction. ‘Nowhere at all. They can leave the mainland and come out over the causeway as far as the terminal. But then people have to get out and walk. If they don’t want to walk they go by boat. But they don’t bring their smelly, stinking cars into my city.’

      ‘Your city? You keep saying that.’

      ‘Every true Venetian speaks of Venice as his city. He pretends that he owns it, to hide the fact that it owns him. It’s a possessive mother who won’t release him. Wherever he goes in the world this perfect place goes with him, holding onto him, drawing him back.’ He stopped himself with an awkward laugh. ‘Now Venice thinks we should go and eat ice cream.’

      He took her to a small café by a little canal so quiet that the world might have forgotten it. He summoned a waiter, talking to him in a language Dulcie didn’t recognise, and making expansive gestures, while giving her a look of wicked mischief.

      ‘Were you speaking Italian?’ she asked when they were alone again.

      ‘Venetian dialect.’

      ‘It sounds like a different language to Italian.’

      ‘In effect it is.’

      ‘It’s a bit hard on tourists who learn a bit of Italian for their vacation, and then find you speaking Venetian.’

      ‘We speak Italian and English for the tourists, but amongst ourselves we speak our dialect because we are Venetian.’

      ‘Like a another country,’ she said thoughtfully.

      ‘Of course. Venice was once an independent republic, not just a province of Italy, but a state in its own right. And that’s still how we feel. That is our pride, to be Venetian first, before all other allegiances.’

      As before, there was a glow on his face that told her he felt passionately about this subject. She began to watch him intently, eager to hear more, but suddenly the waiter appeared with their order, and he fell silent. She had a sense of let-down, and promised herself that she would draw him back to this subject later.

      She understood her companion’s mischievous expression when two huge dishes of vanilla and chocolate ice cream were brought to the table, plus two jugs, one containing chocolate sauce and one containing cream.

      ‘I ordered chocolate because it’s my favourite,’ he explained.

      ‘Suppose it isn’t mine?’

      ‘Don’t worry, I’ll finish it for you.’

      She gave an involuntary choke of laughter, and bit it back, remembering the aloof role she was supposed to be playing. But she made the mistake of meeting his eyes, daring her not to laugh, so that she had to give in.

      ‘Now tell me your name,’ he insisted.

      ‘It’s—Dulcie.’ She was mysteriously reluctant to say the rest.

      ‘Only Dulcie?’

      ‘Lady Dulcie Maddox.’

      He raised his eyebrows. ‘An aristocrat?’

      ‘A very minor one.’

      ‘But you have a title?’

      ‘My father has the title. He’s an earl. In Italy he would be a count.’

      A strange look came over his face. ‘A—count?’ he echoed slowly. ‘You are the daughter of a count?’

      ‘Of an earl. Does it matter?’

      She had the odd impression that he pulled himself together. ‘Of course you didn’t want to tell me that. I understand.’

      ‘What do you understand?’ she demanded, nettled.

      He shrugged. ‘Dulcie can do as she pleases, but Lady Dulcie can’t let a gondolier think he picked her up.’

      ‘You didn’t pick me up,’ she said, feeling uneasy, since she could hardly admit that she’d come here to pick him up. ‘I don’t care how we got to know each other. I’m just glad that we did.’

      ‘So am I because—because I have many things I want to say to you. But I can’t say them now. It’s too soon.’

      ‘It’s too soon for you to know you want to say them.’

      He shook his head. ‘Oh, no,’ he said quietly, ‘It’s not too soon for that.’