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“Here, Marta. Let me help you.”
Together they placed the tray on a table and began arranging the tea things. Marta must have included every delicacy in the house, but Alec was in no state to eat.
Marta was prattling on in rapid Italian—she had been delighted to learn he was fluent, and even knew a bit of the local dialect—but Alec barely heard a word. “Grazie. Puoi andare,” he said and waved her away.
Marta bowed eagerly. “Prego, prego. Grazie, signore.” She then scurried back into the house.
“Lord of the manor already?” Lottie quipped as she moved to pour for both of them.
Alec sat down and tried not to stare at her slender, bare hands gracefully holding the teapot. “Just trying to act the part.”
A bit of tea dribbled over the spout and Lottie caught it with her finger, then promptly brought it to her lips. Alec coughed and shifted in his seat.
“About that,” she said, adding a dash of milk to her cup without offering him any. “Why is Marta under the impression that you’re a nobleman?”
Did she remember he took it plain, or was this merely a snub?
“I told her my surname was Petrucci. It’s a very old, very well-respected family in these parts.”
Lottie raised an eyebrow. “Anobleone?”
“You could say that.” Alec picked up his teacup and took a sip while Lottie turned her attention to the plate of pastries; out of all the delicacies before them, she chose an individual custard tart—a crostata con crema. Alec’s favorite.
“What are you supposed to be, then? A duke? A marquis?” She passed the plate bearing the tart to him. “Oh, but do they have those here?”
Alec stared blankly at the plate.
Shedidremember.
“Yes, they do,” he said and accepted the dessert. “But this branch of the Petruccis are counts.” His lips curved in a smile. “Which makes you a contessa.”
Lottie laughed, as if the idea was absurd. As if she couldn’t marryanyman she wanted. She had rejected Ceril Belvedere only months ago, and he was the heir to an earldom.
She chose a few amaretti biscuits for herself and sat down. “Was it difficult to speak Italian again? I’ve been having a terrible time of it.”
Though Alec’s father had been English, he had been born in Venice to an Italian mother.
“A little, at first. But it grew easier once I began spending more time here.”
Lottie’s mouth tightened slightly. “And when was that?”
She really didn’t know, then.
Alec held her gaze. “About five years ago. The Mediterranean was deemed the most advantageous place for me. I moved around initially, but I always found my way back to Italy. Venice in particular.”
His father, the superfluous third son of a viscount, came to the floating city as a young man after a family quarrel over his pursuit of poetry instead of the church. The estrangement had only deepened when he took up with Alec’s mother. At the time of his death, Edward Gresham had not set foot in England in fifteen years. Though he had risen to become a well-respected member of Venetian society, it had not come without a cost. One that Alec still bore.
It didn’t seem necessary to add that Sir Alfred also had a number of connections to the city and expected Alec to use his Italian heritage in order to gain closer access to the powerful Venetians who wouldn’t otherwise trust an outsider, especially an English one.
“I see.” Her mouth tightened again, but the grimace was more pronounced this time. “I suppose playing a reprobate Englishman must make for an excellent disguise.”
“I wouldn’t know. I teach at the Università Ca’ Foscari now.”
Lottie couldn’t hide her surprise. “You’re a professor?”
Alec nodded. There were already enough English reprobates in the Byronic mold wandering around Venice. His middling academic career was one of the few things he was actually proud of. “I’ve been putting that blasted first in history to use.”
Her eyes warmed with a hint of approval. “The Etruscans, I take it?”
