Read Online The Visitant: A Venetian Ghost Story by Megan Chance - Free Book Online
Authors: Megan Chance
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doesn’t matter that you’re marrying someone you hardly know.”
“ Don’t know,” he said shortly. “But you’re right; if I don’t believe in true love, how can it matter? Except that I’d like to make the choice myself. If I have to marry, I’d prefer it be someone I liked, at least.”
“Perhaps you will like her.”
“Unfortunately, I won’t know that until after the wedding, when I’ve already carried her off to our bridal bower. Too late then, don’t you think? What if she’s a shrew?”
“You could take a page from Shakespeare and tame her. Or she could tame you.”
“Poor woman. Rather like bearding a beast in his lair.”
“You are hardly a beast,” I said.
“No?” He lifted a brow. “You’ve seen it. Don’t tell me you weren’t frightened.”
I didn’t want to admit that I had been. I wanted him to think me competent and assured. I didn’t want to tell him I’d felt helpless and overmatched and stupid. “I’ve seen such things before.”
“I’ve seen doctors quake in fear. What makes you different?”
“You say you remember nothing during your seizures,” I pointed out. “How could you know how anyone reacts?”
He made a face. “You’re very clever.”
“You think to frighten me into running. I won’t.”
“My parents must have promised you something very good indeed.”
“You should stop trying to guess why I’m staying and concentrate instead on getting well. Now I think you should sleep. You look terrible.”
“I feel terrible,” he agreed. “But you did promise to read to me. No poems, though. I don’t have the head for it just now. All those ‘thees’ and ‘thous,’ and I’ll want to throw myself into the rio .”
“Then what?” I asked, glancing around, seeing not a single book anywhere.
“I have a book. I think you might like it. It’s a romance. Of sorts.”
“Where is it?”
He lay back again as if the simple motion of sitting up and holding the position for all of a minute had left him exhausted. “It fell to the floor the other night, and I haven’t seen it. I think it got pushed under the bed.”
I looked, reaching through dust and probably rat droppings to pull out a well-worn, yellow-covered book. A dime novel. No doubt full of melodrama and daring escapes. Papa would not approve of this.
I sat on the chair I’d pulled next to the bed last night, reading the title out loud. “ The Nunnery Tales . I thought you said you were tired of ‘thees’ and ‘thous’?”
“Surprisingly, there seem to be very few of those,” he said. “I’ve marked the page where I was. Just start there.”
I turned to it. “Chapter Two,” I began. “We had an extremely good supper, and our snug little party thoroughly enjoyed it. Everything that could tempt and pamper the appetite was there”—here, a listing of foods, including oysters and shellfish; I had not realized nuns ate so well. And then, as if the author were commenting on my thoughts—“if the ladies in the convent lived on such luxurious and exciting viands, it was no wonder that they found their blood a little hotter and their passions more excitable—” I stopped.
“Go on.” Samuel’s voice was very quiet.
He was falling into sleep already. I didn’t think it would take more than a few more paragraphs. I read on as the narrator’s aunt told him that she suspected a priest was his real father. I suppressed a snort of disbelief.
“Don’t stop,” Samuel murmured.
I read on. “ ‘How do you know that, my dear aunt?’ I asked. ‘Oh, by the simplest way in the world,’ she laughingly replied.” The aunt explained how she’d paid a visit to her sister and been met instead by her brother-in-law, who complimented her lavishly. “ ‘He proceeded from compliments to kissing, and from kissing to feeling and handling my— ’ ” breasts and rump .
I closed the book with a snap.
“What’s wrong?” Samuel asked, oh so innocently.
“This is
“ Don’t know,” he said shortly. “But you’re right; if I don’t believe in true love, how can it matter? Except that I’d like to make the choice myself. If I have to marry, I’d prefer it be someone I liked, at least.”
“Perhaps you will like her.”
“Unfortunately, I won’t know that until after the wedding, when I’ve already carried her off to our bridal bower. Too late then, don’t you think? What if she’s a shrew?”
“You could take a page from Shakespeare and tame her. Or she could tame you.”
“Poor woman. Rather like bearding a beast in his lair.”
“You are hardly a beast,” I said.
“No?” He lifted a brow. “You’ve seen it. Don’t tell me you weren’t frightened.”
I didn’t want to admit that I had been. I wanted him to think me competent and assured. I didn’t want to tell him I’d felt helpless and overmatched and stupid. “I’ve seen such things before.”
“I’ve seen doctors quake in fear. What makes you different?”
“You say you remember nothing during your seizures,” I pointed out. “How could you know how anyone reacts?”
He made a face. “You’re very clever.”
“You think to frighten me into running. I won’t.”
“My parents must have promised you something very good indeed.”
“You should stop trying to guess why I’m staying and concentrate instead on getting well. Now I think you should sleep. You look terrible.”
“I feel terrible,” he agreed. “But you did promise to read to me. No poems, though. I don’t have the head for it just now. All those ‘thees’ and ‘thous,’ and I’ll want to throw myself into the rio .”
“Then what?” I asked, glancing around, seeing not a single book anywhere.
“I have a book. I think you might like it. It’s a romance. Of sorts.”
“Where is it?”
He lay back again as if the simple motion of sitting up and holding the position for all of a minute had left him exhausted. “It fell to the floor the other night, and I haven’t seen it. I think it got pushed under the bed.”
I looked, reaching through dust and probably rat droppings to pull out a well-worn, yellow-covered book. A dime novel. No doubt full of melodrama and daring escapes. Papa would not approve of this.
I sat on the chair I’d pulled next to the bed last night, reading the title out loud. “ The Nunnery Tales . I thought you said you were tired of ‘thees’ and ‘thous’?”
“Surprisingly, there seem to be very few of those,” he said. “I’ve marked the page where I was. Just start there.”
I turned to it. “Chapter Two,” I began. “We had an extremely good supper, and our snug little party thoroughly enjoyed it. Everything that could tempt and pamper the appetite was there”—here, a listing of foods, including oysters and shellfish; I had not realized nuns ate so well. And then, as if the author were commenting on my thoughts—“if the ladies in the convent lived on such luxurious and exciting viands, it was no wonder that they found their blood a little hotter and their passions more excitable—” I stopped.
“Go on.” Samuel’s voice was very quiet.
He was falling into sleep already. I didn’t think it would take more than a few more paragraphs. I read on as the narrator’s aunt told him that she suspected a priest was his real father. I suppressed a snort of disbelief.
“Don’t stop,” Samuel murmured.
I read on. “ ‘How do you know that, my dear aunt?’ I asked. ‘Oh, by the simplest way in the world,’ she laughingly replied.” The aunt explained how she’d paid a visit to her sister and been met instead by her brother-in-law, who complimented her lavishly. “ ‘He proceeded from compliments to kissing, and from kissing to feeling and handling my— ’ ” breasts and rump .
I closed the book with a snap.
“What’s wrong?” Samuel asked, oh so innocently.
“This is
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