‘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.’

‘YOU must forgive me if I talk too much about Venice,’ he said. ‘I forget that everyone must feel the same about their own home town.’

‘I don’t know,’ she said thoughtfully. ‘I can’t imagine feeling like that about London.’

‘That’s where you live?’

‘It is now, but I was raised on my father’s estate—’

‘Ah yes, Poppa the earl. And he has huge ancestral acres, yes?’

‘Huge,’ she agreed, mentally editing out the mortgages.

‘So you were raised in the country?’ he encouraged her.

‘Yes, and I remember how peaceful it was there too. I used to sit by my bedroom window at dawn and watch the trees creeping out of the mist. I’d pretend they were friendly giants who could only visit me in the half-light, and I’d write stories in my head about the things they did—’ she stopped and shrugged, embarrassed to have been lured into self-revelation.

But he was looking at her with interest. ‘Go on,’ he said.

She began to talk about her home, the childhood she’d spent there, and the imaginary friends she’d created, for her only sibling was a brother too much older than herself to be any fun. Soon she forgot all else except the pleasure of talking to someone who appeared absorbed in what she had to say. None of her family had the remotest sympathy with her ‘dreaming’, and at last she’d given it up in favour of good sense. Or so she’d told herself. Now she began to wonder if this side of herself had merely gone underground, to be brought back to life with the perfect listener on the perfect evening.

At some point he paid for the ice cream and took her arm to lead her out, murmuring about eating the next part of the meal elsewhere. But he did it without taking his attention from her, or interrupting the flow, and when she found herself crossing a bridge a few minutes later she wasn’t quite sure how she’d arrived there.

He found another restaurant and ordered without asking her. That was how she discovered ‘Venetian oysters’, the shells stuffed with caviar with pepper and lemon juice, served on ice with brown bread and butter. It was ten times as good as the splendid meal served in Roscoe’s house, prepared by his expensive chef. Her companion read her face, and grinned.

‘We do the best cooking in the world,’ he asserted without a trace of modesty.

‘I believe you, I believe you,’ she said fervently. ‘This is pure heaven.’

‘You don’t mind my ordering for you?’

She shook her head. ‘I wouldn’t know what to ask for anyway.’

‘Then you place yourself totally in my hands. Bene!’

‘I didn’t exactly say that,’ she protested. ‘I said you could choose the food.’

‘Since we’re eating, that’s the same thing.’

‘Well, I’m on my guard. I’ve heard about gondoliers,’ she teased.

‘And what exactly have you heard?’ he was teasing her back.

‘That you’re a bunch of Romeos—’

‘Not Romeos, Casanovas,’ he corrected her seriously.

‘Does it make a difference?’ she asked, wondering if it was ever possible to disconcert this madman.

‘Of course. This is Casanova’s city. In the Piazza San Marco you can still see Florian’s, the coffee-house where he used to go. Also he was imprisoned in Venice. So, you were saying—’

‘You mean I can finish now?’

He placed a finger over his mouth. ‘Not another word.’

‘I don’t believe you. Where was I?’

‘We’re all Casanovas—’

‘Who count the girls as they come off the planes.’

‘But of course we do,’ he agreed shamelessly. ‘Because we’re always looking for the one perfect one.’

‘Phooey! Who cares about perfection if it’s only for a few days?’

‘I always care about perfection. It matters.’

He wasn’t joking any more and she was impelled to reply seriously. ‘But everything can’t be perfect. The world is full of imperfection.’

‘Of course. That’s why perfection matters. But you must know how to seek it in the little things as well as the great. Look out there.’

He pointed through the window to where the sun was setting exactly between two high buildings, looking like a stream of gold descending into the earth.

‘Do you think the architect knew he was achieving exactly that perfect effect when he created those buildings?’ he asked her. ‘It seems fantastic, but I like to believe that he did. Perfection is where you find it.’

‘Or where you think you’ve found it. Sometimes you must discover that you’re wrong.’

‘Yes,’ he said after a moment. ‘And then nothing looks quite the same again.’ Then his laughter broke out again. ‘Why are we being so serious? That comes later.’

‘Oh, really? You’ve got our conversation all mapped out then?’

‘I think we’re travelling a well-worn path, you and I.’

‘I’m not going to ask you which path. It might mean getting too serious again, and I’m here for fun.’

He regarded her quizzically. ‘Are you saying that’s why you came to Venice—looking for a holiday romance?’

‘No, I—’ Absurdly, the question caught her off-guard. ‘No, that’s not why.’

‘What’s the matter?’ he asked at once. ‘Have I said something to hurt you?

‘No, of course not.’

It was hard because this man was shrewder and subtler than she had allowed for. His eyes were warm and concerned, studying her anxiously, but she needed to evade them, lest they looked too deep.

‘That was lovely,’ she said, indicating her empty plate. ‘What have you decided on now?’