A Lady’s Secret by Jo Beverley Read Free Book Online Page A

accustomed to Spartan living than you, sir.”
    “Then I look forward to your assistance in the night.”
    As she sighed and turned away, his conscience tweaked a little. But only a little. The coming night could be very, very interesting.
    But then the coach lurched down at least a foot. “Plague take it! Pray fervently, Sister, for the axle.”
    “If God heard my prayers,” she said bleakly, “I wouldn’t be here at all.”

Chapter 4
    P etra regretted those revealing words as soon as they escaped, but how could God let things get to this dire state?
    When she’d joined Mr. Bonchurch, she’d expected an ordinary man and thus someone who would be easy to handle. He was anything but. She’d also expected to race ahead of Varzi, but here she was, stuck for the night in the middle of nowhere. Tomorrow, Varzi would catch up with ease—especially if the coach broke. It was groaning and squealing as it navigated the rough track.
    At every turn—every turn!—God’s hand seemed raised against her. Was her flight so wicked? Did He want her to be Ludovico’s whore?
    “Powick’s right,” he said. “We should settle a few more details. How old are you?”
    She could see no reason to lie. “Twenty-one. How old are you?”
    “Twenty-five.”
    She frowned. “Truth?”
    “You think me older or younger?”
    “Older.”
    “A year as head of a family can turn a man gray.”
    “Your father died? I’m sorry,” Petra said, thinking of the pain of her mother’s recent death.
    “So am I,” he said, but then the coach bounced down jarringly, and he winced. “Only think, we have to get out again tomorrow.”
    “Perhaps we should have gone on,” Petra said.
    “We’d have been stuck within a league.”
    He was looking at her in a way that made her twitch. “What?” Disconcertingly, it again came out in Italian. “Che?”
    “Maria is your second name, isn’t it?”
    The coach seemed to have achieved level ground and was turning around the back of a walled yard. Rain still drummed on the roof, however, and the dim light made everything grim.
    “How did you guess?” she asked.
    “It’s not right for you. So?”
    Again, the truth didn’t seem worth a struggle.
    “Maria is my second name. My first is Petra. Petronilla, in fact. No more convincing than Immaculata for an Englishwoman.”
    “Stranger ones have been known. Is there a Saint Petronilla?”
    “A holy virgin martyr of the early church, possibly a daughter of Saint Peter himself.”
    “A bride of Christ with a saintly lineage. How can anything possibly go amiss? Except,” he added, “that God does not listen to your prayers.”
    Petra looked away. “A foolish statement because of the interminable rain.”
    The coach swayed to a stop then, at a tilt that meant Petra had to use every bone and muscle not to slide on top of him. Every scrap of willpower, as well, because part of her wanted to. Part of her wanted to surrender to strong arms and kisses, to allow someone else to make all the decisions. To have someone take care of her. This man wasn’t interested in protecting her, however, except in the sense of making her his mistress. And now she had a perilous night to survive.
    “May I know your family name?” he asked.
    Again, Petra hesitated. He was wearing away at her, but it couldn’t matter. He wouldn’t suddenly realize that she was il conte di Baldino’s shamed sister, or turn her over to Varzi. If Varzi caught her, all her secrets would be exploded.
    She turned back. “Averio.”
    “Petronilla Maria d’Averio?” He said it as if he was relishing it, and for some reason she liked hearing it roll off his tongue.
    But she corrected him. “Petra d’Averio. The Maria I do not use, and the Petronilla was only to give me a saint’s name. My father insisted. Petra was my mother’s mother’s name. It’s common in German lands, but not in Italy. And your first name, sir?”
    “Robin.”
    She couldn’t help but smile. “The small bird