Read Online Let it be Me (Blue Raven) by Kate Noble - Free Book Online

kind of delicate prettiness rarely seen in the streets of Venice, where bright colors and extravagant beauty seemed the fashion.
    Oliver was halfway to enchanted in the space of a breath. But then he remembered he was supposed to be annoyed.
    “Sorry, ladies,” he said in Italian, his face as stern as he could make it, “he’s not taking visitors today, nor is there coin to pay for your services.” When those green eyes just blinked, then looked nervously back at the older, more practical-looking woman behind her, he let out a breath.
    “Look, Carpenini might have sent for you, but I’m sending you away. I’m sorry, but the best I can do is pay for a gondola to take you back where you came from.”
    “Carpenini!” the green-eyed enchantress finally said, her language and accent decidedly English. That was shocking enough. What was more shocking was what she said next. “That is exactly why I am here!”
    English. She was English. He blinked twice. And by her cultured tones, she was a lady. One who, considering what he had assumed her to be, he fervently hoped did not know the Venetian dialect.
    “Er . . . can I help you, miss?” His English, so rarely used here, felt thick and awkward on his tongue. He suddenly became very aware of the fact that he hadn’t put shoes on yet that day.
    “Yes,” the girl replied, unable to keep the excitement out of her voice. “I should like to see Mr. Merrick, please.”
    “You are seeing him,” Oliver replied, in shock enough to only wonder where this conversation would lead.
    “I thought you looked familiar,” she said, and smiled.
    And she had one hell of a smile. Seemed a bit rough, though, somehow. As if the muscles in her face had briefly forgotten how to arrange themselves. But smile she did, and Oliver again found he was losing himself in her impish countenance.
    “Might we come in, sir?” the practical, stiffer one said from behind the green-eyed one. “My lady has been traveling for weeks, after all.”
    Oliver shook himself out of his reverie and stepped back to admit them to his foyer. He felt immediately awkward about the surroundings. The rugs were threadbare and the plaster was crumbling in a way he found charming, but he supposed young ladies of good family might not.
    “You seem familiar, too,” he finally blurted. “Er, your freckles.”
    A delightful blush spread across her cheeks and Oliver found himself wishing it would happen again. And again, and again.
    “We have met before, briefly, Mr. Merrick,” she said, her eyes meeting his. “I am Miss Forrester, and you wrote me a letter.”
    As she worked at the fierce knot of a reticule and then began to rummage in it, a sense of the familiar began to mingle with a sense of dread. “Miss . . . Brittany Forrester?”
    A small frown flashed across her face. “Bridget,” she replied tersely, and then handed him a piece of paper from her reticule. A letter written in his own hand.
    Oh, hell.
    “You wrote me on behalf of your friend Signor Carpenini, who heard me play some years ago, and wondered if I would be amenable to taking instruction from him when he—you—came back to England. Unfortunately I learned that you would not be coming to England after all, so . . .”
    “Miss Forrester,” he interrupted her. “Please do not tell me that you came all the way to Venice because of this letter?”
    “No.” The word came out weakly, and Oliver knew it was a lie. “My family is taking a holiday . . . and since we were in Venice and you were here, we thought . . . I thought, that maybe . . .”
    Oliver wanted to let his head come down into his hands. Oh, hell. Oh damn, and blast. He cursed profusely under his breath in Italian, which was a language much better equipped for the current predicament.
    “Miss Forrester, I am afraid there has been a terrible misunderstanding. You see, I did write this letter, yes, but Vincenzo—Signor Carpenini, that is—is in the middle of a