#giac x fanny

Paring: Giacomo Casanova x Fanny Price
Chapter: 1/?
Rating: Mature
Word count: 2990
Tags: Slow Burn, Fluff, First Meetings, First Kiss, First Time

Summary:

When he decided to come to England, it was for the women.
It wasn’t to sell the Italian dresses he didn’t make.
It wasn’t to drink champagne in posh garden parties he didn’t like.
It most definitely wasn’t to fall in love with a woman he didn’t want.

Read on AO3

New Teninch story I’ve started working on because I’ve wanted to do this for far too long!
I know it’s not the most popular pairing, but I love it and I wanted to give it a try!

Tagging both @doctorrosepromptsand@timepetalscollective should this fit in any of the ongoing prompts!

I hope you’ll like it! :-)

The hunting horn had blown. The moment he had stepped through the gate of the imposing mansion, the game had started. The first part of the game was setting up the rules. Making sure everyone knew he was a player, better yet, he was the man who would dominate the game. Make sure everyone knew he was the best hunter and would not let go of his preys, no matter how fierce or how cantankerous the opponents.

He had won the first round already. Pretend he was a wealthy Italian fabric merchant to slither his way into the garden, who unfortunately happened to have lost his invitation letter. The natural talent he possessed with his tongue and his charm were his best trumps, of course. His perfectly tailored costume, rich blue silk sewn with gold, white lace collar pinned with a jeweled brooch, knee-length leather boots were just helpful accessories. Outer evidence of a small fortune he only owned in the pompous discourses he had crafted for such occasions. Luxury clothes and precious adornments were but mere illusions. A few of his words were worth more than whatever money he could convince anyone he possessed. His mouth made him rich. His attitude made him respectable. His clothes only gave him the look.

Two young women walked past him, brushed against his arm, giggling and throwing the kind of decent smile high-society girls were taught to smile, but a smile that hid so much more. He clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth, a grin pulling at the corner of his lips, and picked up a crystal flute from the table. Just half a glass of posh champagne he would nurse until he would find the perfect prey. Obviously, it wouldn’t take long. He would have thought British girls to be more… Moderate. Elegant. Smarter, and maybe colder. Obviously, he had been wrong. Or so he thought.

Oh, they were classier, he couldn’t deny that. Well-mannered, well-dressed, well-behaved. But he saw it. He felt it. In the way they tried not to look at him but their eyes burnt his body under the heat of a single of their fleeting glances. In the way their fingers slightly tightened around their glass when he walked past them, as if they were struggling to keep their hands from reaching out to him. In the way they shifted in their seats, or shifted on their feet, like little animals who knew they could get bit and dragged into a den, but who would have gladly let themselves be caught. In all of those ways, none of them were better than all the frivolous Italian women who would have sold their mothers and properties just to get a chance to be naked in his bed.

So, he began to seduce. That one woman, with a red corset that puffed out into a large skirt, glorious breasts pushed up so high and so tight her pendant was trapped between the two mounds of flesh. He rather liked it. He didn’t even have to speak. A wink from one of his piercing blue eyes, a tug on a lapel of his jacket, a small bow and a devastating smile. There went his first dance. The first occasion to get a proper feel of British flesh, his long fingers digging into her hip, her supple chest brushing against his despite the expected and required distance between their bodies, the round swell of her bottom under his little finger, just enough of a contact to map out a derriere that was probably just as glorious as her devant. She fluttered her eyelids at him, looked at him through thick eyelashes, a light blush on her cheeks, and he decided he could do better. She was well-endowed, yes, but her face was common. Not particularly pretty, nor special enough to spark his interest. Not yet anyway. He’d have to wait until the end of the hunt and find out which weakened prey he’d pick - he would stop at three, no need to make himself too noticed.

“Remember the name, Mia Signorina,” he whispered in her ear as he let go of her waist on the last note of the song. “Casanova.”

Oh he loved it, how women swooned when he spoke those few words, rolled his letters and made the vowels last - the moment he had set foot on British soil, he had found out his tongue could not only talk his way in and out of things, but could also speak a foreign language. It made it all too easy.

“Ciao Lady, you sure look like, la perfetta stronza, today,” he greeted the older woman who had been ogling his backside for far too long - and chuckled under his breath when she had to fan her rubicon face, most certainly oblivious to the meaning of his words. “Very nice bosom, though too flabby and too vulgar, I don’t even want to think about the rest. Definitely not doable. Buona giornata, eh?”

It seemed her husband had been watching them from afar, because he briskly walked to them when the wife began to shout at him, rise from her chair and threaten him with her pointy umbrella. She was turning even redder, but knew it had nothing to do with either his charm or his backside, this time.

“This eccentric foreigner told me…” she started when her husband asked what was the commotion about in a bark.

“Advised you on your sense of fashion,” he was quick to interrupt with a fake laugh and a dismissive bending of his wrist, the kind of gesture he was sure those British expected from an extroverted Italian designer. “I truly am sorry, Sir, but look. The pompom under the chestline is much too loose, you can see the string about to break. The dress might have suited her a few years ago, but it is now too small and doesn’t hug her shapes in the right places, which makes her look più grassa than she is, and also rather ridiculous. I would suggest adding a ribbon of taffeta here, change that old-fashioned pompom, and have it entirely retailored. Or you could ask me for a brand new dress, of course, I would be more than happy to take her measurements and have my stilistas in Venezia come up with a better model. Half-price, for a gentiluomo like you. Truth be told, where I’m from, such a depraved appearance would be condemned by law, so let’s make a deal. Give me a hundred pounds right now, I’ll take the measurements after the party and your Lady can have her brand new dress by the end of the week.”

“A hundred pounds?” the husband huffed, his eyes travelling from his wife’s dress he had to admit had seen better days but still looked fashionable and reasonably fitted, and this foreigner who tutted and shook his head at his wife, taking in her appearance with sighs of discomfiture. “That’s certainly expensive.”

“The dress I’ll give you is worth thrice that sum,” he smiled, thumbing a lapel of his costume tu push it towards him. “Italian quality fabric, the most renowned couturiers you’ll ever find, a dress your wife can wear until the rest of her days. It’s an investment, but a good one. A hundred pounds, and you leave it all to me. Next wedding, your wife will shine brighter than the bride.”

“I… Suppose it’s been a while since my Lady was gifted with a new dress,” he shrugged, reaching inside his pocket to take out a roll of banknotes.

“I’ll give you the matching shoes for twenty more of these,” he raised an eyebrow - he knew he already had the wife swooning with the promise of that dess, and he congratulated himself inwardly when she purposefully stared at her husband.

“Fine,” he gave up, handing him a thick stack of notes.

“I shall meet you later, Signora,” he bowed, the notes quickly shoved inside the deepest pocket he could find. “My apologies if I chose the wrong words and made myself unclear earlier, English is a rather tricky language. Buona giornata.”

He saluted her with one last bow of courtesy and a charming smile - he knew she was perfectly aware he had meant the offensive words, but he also knew he had just bought her a brand new dress, or so she thought, so she simply smiled back and went away. Those British weren’t shy with money, it seemed. Maybe he could fill his purse by the end of the day and buy himself a first-class ticket for his return to Italy.

Feeling lighter despite the hundred notes protectively shielded in a folded layer of his puff-sleeved shirt, he swanned off in the direction of another young woman who could definitely win her way between his sheets or in a bush somewhere in the back of the luxurious gardens. His first real prey was in his line of sight. The woman with the red dress had just been a mere swim in the shallow pond to taste the waters. But that Lady with the emerald skirt and slightly lighter green corset was most definitely the occasion to make the big jump. Deliciously shaped and the face of Venezian beauty, with that added British grace that made her… Well he didn’t know what that made her, exactly, but he was sure it made him uncomfortably tight in the pants he had worn for the occasion   No full mast before the ship sails , he had to remind himself. Seduce first. That was part of the game.

“Ma ciao, bellissima,” he crooned, leaning against his cane crowned with a silver lion head, crossing an ankle above the other. “Allow me to compliment you on your choice of dress. This is by far the best I’ve seen today, it fits your body rather spectacularly. Molto bella.”

“I am married,” she answered, tugging on her shawl to cover her bare sternum.

“So?” he grinned with a raised eyebrow, almost delighted to be faced with a new challenge. “Can’t a uomo flatter a Lady who deserves it? I’m sure your husband has never told you how beautiful eyes you have, nor how elegant your gait is. I wanted to meet British class and beauty, and I’ve just met British perfection.”

“My husband often compliments me on my looks, thank you very much, Sir…?”

“Casanova,” he introduced himself with pomp, bowing to give the back of her hand a distant smack of his lips. “Forgive my audace, but would you mind if I readjusted some parts of your dress? I am a tailor, you see, dress designer in Venezia, and I’ve spotted a few things that could be improved. Don’t get me wrong, you look positively stunning, Signora, I put the blame on those English dressmakers. They lack the talent and imagination Italian couturiers have. Give me un minuto, and you’ll make all your friends jealous. You could be the queen of the party.”

“I already am,” she pointed out, her features not growing annoyed, but growing suspicious. “These are my gardens, Sir Casanova. My party. Forgive my asking, but I do not remember my husband telling me there would be an Italian tailor invited. Who introduced you?”

“Why, Sir Bellingham, of course,” he lied, citing a name he had heard after stepping into the party. “We met a while ago in Venezia, he told me he’d find me a suitable market for my designer dresses in England, and he invited me to this party to meet my first clients. See that Lady over there? Already bought one of my dresses, you can ask her. Le mie scuse, my Lady, but if you’re not interested in what my talents have to offer, I should go on with my business. Thank you ever so much for the invitation and the fine champagne. Ciao, brutta.”

He clicked his heels together with one last bow of courtesy and hurried to get away, fast enough to deprive her of the time she’d need to realize he was a fraud, slow enough not to arouse any more suspicion from any others. Well, some of those British girls were tough. Nothing like the Italian women he had courted seduced within mere minutes for the better part of his life. It might not have been the best enterprise to try his luck with a married woman who also happened to be the hostess, he reckoned, but still. In his country, he would already be bunching her skirt up to her hips and ravishing her against a tree - no, better not to think about ravishing women against trees just yet. His frustration was a fantastic remedy to his condition, anyway. He had to fight this frustration. He had to keep playing. He had lost a round, not the game. Yet. Because if all the beautiful British women were as uptight and sober as this one, he doubted he’d ever get to shove his pants down his knees, especially not in such ridiculously posh parties. He would give it one more try, maybe two, but if it kept going that way he would rather flee to the neighbouring town and find a brothel. He hadn’t come all this way, travelled several countries and crossed a sea to be disappointed and frustrated.

So, he kept going on his search for a prey. His previous failures made him more careful, however. Spot the rings, spot the husbands, spot those who looked at him as if they knew he didn’t belong. It made the hunt harder. Made him a predator that had to stay hidden in the shadows rather than run and hunt in the open. He had become a prey himself, in a way. He didn’t like it.

He walked for several minutes among the groups of people, occupied his hands with another glass of champagne he didn’t drink, picked up a few nibbles on the tables to pretend he knew what he was doing, only to discard them in the many plant pots disseminated around in the clean-cut grass. And then he spotted her. The perfect prey.

She was alone, sitting on one of the steps that let to the entrance to an appurtenance, isolated from the main hubbub of the party. No ring on her finger. A dress that looked much less elaborated that the others, a dull beige when all the others sported bright colours, a pale maroon tunic going askew on her shoulders. Rather disheveled, compared to the neat hairstyles and carefully pinned hats the other women wore. If he managed to seduce that one, it wouldn’t be one of his greatest achievements, nor one of his greatest prides. But then he saw her face, and an odd feeling coursed through him. A shiver of… Something. He didn’t know what it was, but he knew perfectly well his heart hadn’t beaten harder in his crotch like it usually did when he looked at a woman, but louder in his chest. She wasn’t even beautiful. Pretty, at most, with her blond curls, her full mouth, her round nose. A woman like a hundred many others he had made his bed creak with. No, not like a hundred others. Like a few others, only. Because he felt it from where he was standing, smelled it, tasted it. That young woman with that innocent sad face was a virgin. He didn’t particularly enjoy virgins. He liked his women like he loved his sex. Bold, mature, liberated. That blonde was none of that. The exact opposite, even. Shy, inexperienced, reserved.

Her deep whiskey eyes met his, her thick lips stretched into a small smile, her hand tightened on her tunic. And he saw in her eyes something akin to what he was feeling himself. The feeling that she didn’t belong here, the feeling of isolation, the feeling that she was pretending. Without knowing why, he realized she was a bit like him. A poor girl lost in a world of wealth who had had to learn the rules by herself rather than being taught. A girl that had been thrown into a cage full of hyenas, waiting for her to die to feast on her cadaver and make her disappear, like a nuisance that needed to be erased from the surface of this Earth. He saw it in the way the others looked at her. He heard it in the murmurs behind him. He felt it in the cloud of tension that thickened the closer he got to her. He was in the same kind of cage. Except he’d been lucky enough to be blessed with talents to help him fight off his enemies and fend off his demons. She obviously hadn’t.

“Hello, Sir,” she greeted him with a bow of the head - it was only then he realized his steps had taken him to her, quite against his most sensible reflections. “Please excuse my ignorance, but I don’t remember seeing you before.”

He had never really seen her before either, he thought. Because as he looked down at her face and into her eyes, he was suddenly struck by her beauty. Unconventional beauty, certo, but beauty nonetheless. Before he knew it, he was taking her hand in a gentle hold and brushing his lips against her skin. It terrified him to understand he wasn’t doing it to drag her into an empty room ten minutes later, steal her virginity against a cupboard and ditch her when he’d be done. He was doing it because he wanted to do it. No underlying purpose. He peered at her through his eyelashes, lips still hovering above the back of her hand, and he saw the way she nibbled her lip with an embarrassed grin.

“Più bella cosa, you’ll wish you had never seen me at all,” he said softly, pushing himself up straight with the help of his cane. “Call me… Giacomo.”

Paring:Giacomo Casanova x Fanny Price
Chapter: 4/?
Rating:Explicit
Word count: 3700
Tags: Slow Burn, Fluff, First Meetings, First Kiss, First Time, Mutual Pining, Masturbation

Summary:

When he decided to come to England, it was for the women.
It wasn’t to sell the Italian dresses he didn’t make.
It wasn’t to drink champagne in posh garden parties he didn’t like.
It most definitely wasn’t to fall in love with a woman he didn’t want.

Read onAO3

Tagging@timepetalscollective for the fourth chapter!

CHAPTER 4

He sighed at the feel of his cane getting stuck between two slabs of the rough pavement, a murky paste of mud and rotten grass following their curves down the road that led to his destination. It had rained pebbles, that night, and the street was but a vast canvas of grey and dull colours, thankfully counterbalanced by the deep blue sky free of any clouds. He wanted this day to be a success, and the downpour had already imperilled part of the escapade he had planned. Hopefully, the sun would shine bright enough over the hill sticking from behind the landscape of this horrible city to dry the green slopes, at least partially.

It was a lively city, but much too different from the Venice he knew like the back of his hand. Back in his hometown, it was always busy, buzzing with movements and crowded with people. Portsmouth was similar, but it lacked the organization Italian people had mastered over the years. Here, everything happened in a general hubbub of confusion and chaos, everyone going in and out of small shops as if they didn’t really know what they were doing, brawls blowing up between groups of drunken sailors in front of the pubs, mothers who couldn’t handle their handfuls of kids and sought for help with the kind of desperate look that made him feel uneasy. In Venice, everyone knew where and when they needed to go, people only got drunk on expensive wine in the comfort of their homes, mothers left their kid attended by servants and went about their businesses without having to worry about one of their progeniture falling into a canal. He realized he was starting to miss his country, already.

He shoved his cane under his arm and avoided an old fisherman running down the street with a cart full of cods, sowing a few of his fish in his wake that were quickly picked up by the passers-by. His nose scrunched up at the smell - had had always loathed fish and seafood in general - and he unconsciously brushed his sleeve as if it would chase the strong and sickening fragrance. That was his last clean costume, he had left all the others to the caretaker of the inn he stayed in so he wouldn’t have to survive on one jacket and two pants for the next two weeks, and he very much intended to keep his ruby tailcoat free of any fish or mud or any other filthy treasure this dreadful city seemed to hold. Especially since he had to meet her again. She had accepted his invitation.

A shiver coursed through him at that thought and he grinned to himself when he finally spotted the sign dangling in the breeze at the corner of the street. And there she was. He wished he had noticed how much effort she had put into brushing her rebellious hair first. Or noticed she had gone through the trouble of fitting into a dress that was more elaborate than the one she had worn the day before, but was just a breadth too small for her supple forms. Or noticed, for the first time again, how beautiful she looked and how odd a feeling she made him feel. But he only noticed the way she dabbed the underside of her eyes with an embroidered handkerchief and anxiously fiddled with the pair of white gloved she held in her hand.

His pace grew just a bit faster, the heels of his boots clicking against the wet pavement and his pigtail jumping over the nape of his neck. He wanted to be spotted before he would let his presence known - he didn’t want to provoke her embarrassment and give her enough time to dry her tears and pretend he had been oblivious to them, should she refuse to show them. So, he let his cane fall on the hard tiles of the pavement, let the fake silver lionhead bounce and roll, all while loudly cursing in Italian at his clumsiness. He stole a glance at her, and it was only when she had managed to hide her small square of white precisely where he didn’t want to look that he picked his cane up and walked to her with a smile.

“Squisita Fanny,” he greeted with a small smile, gently cupping her fingers to brush his lips over the back of her hand - and he was glad to feel the ghost of a shiver course through her skin. “Should the sun not have woken up beside you this morning, your face would have been enough to enlighten my day. You look splendid.”

She fought the urge she had to surrender to his touch and his beautiful words - she had promised she wouldn’t let herself be tricked into believing something more could happen. Smile. Laugh. That was all that would happen, not matter where he would decide to take her. And with her face she was sure was still stained with the tears she had missed on her cheeks and her red eyes, she had trouble believing she could truly enlighten his day at all. Still, a woman could not refuse such a compliment, and she thanked him with a courtesy bow and a smile.

“Giacomo, you do look spruce yourself today,” she noted, daring to trail a finger over a golden pattern sewn into the crimson velvet. “The red suits you.”

“Italian blood, mia cara, red is our colour,” he winked as smoothed the seams of his lapels. “How are you feeling today, dolcezza? Is that sadness in your eyes, or are you disappointed to see me?”

“I am most definitely not disappointed to see you, Giacomo,” she was quick to reassure him, unwilling to let him think he had come all this way for nothing. “I am… Things at home haven’t been at their best for the past few days, my brother has just been sent away on mission with my father, and my mother… Well, she thinks I do not exist. I am left with brothers who will never consider me as a sister and sisters who blame me for leaving them behind. So… I am very pleased to see you. I was hoping you would be the one to lift my spirits now that William is gone, and I do apologize if this sounds very presumptuous of me.”

“I will do what must be done,” he sighed with a dismissive shrug - and hurried to smile and lock his elbow around her at her obvious discomfiture. “Italian humour, dispiace molto. I will do my assoluto best to please my Signora today. I have planned what I hope to be an agreeable adventure, but if at any point you are bored, annoyed or tired, per favore let me know and we’ll operate a change of course. The first stop is not far from here, if you wish to follow me, amata Fanny.”

“I should tell you, Giacomo, I do not have much money, and…”

“Everything is already paid for,” he interrupted as tried to find a comfortable position for his arm holding hers, the difference of height making it awkward and energy-consuming to keep it at the right level. “No talks of dues, reimbursements, sharing bills. Well, let’s make it simple. Forget about money. Money doesn’t exist when you’re with me, chiaro? Right now, all you should think about is a colour. Your favorite colour, mia cara, think hard, think fast, we’re almost there.”

“Rosso,” she answered without thinking about it, biting her lip when he stopped walking and looked down at her with a dazed squint of his eyes.

The word had come out naturally, and she feared he had heard way too much more in that simple word than she had intended him to. He seemed pleased to hear his own language, but there also was a flash that brightened his deep chocolate orbs that died so fast she would have missed it if she had but blinked. She wasn’t sure she wanted to know.

He hoped she hadn’t felt his arm momentarily tighten around hers under the warm trickle of delight that had rolled down his spine. He didn’t know if the tension came from her sudden timidity, or his sudden realization he had kept this particular costume for this day, this moment, by chance or by accident. Red. Her favourite colour. Rosso. An almost flawless Italian carried by her melodious voice, a single word that was enough to wish she could hold a whole conversation and twist his loins into a tangle of lust and passion. It was just a language. Just a word. But it fell into his ears like thick honey and echoed down his abdomen louder than the bang of a gong.

“Parla italiano?” he asked after swallowing a compliment he knew she wouldn’t appreciate, let alone understand. “Perché mi piacerebbe tanto. Hai una bellissima voce.”

She drank his words, but of course, apart from the feeling of amazement and enchantment she could translate from his expression, she didn’t understand much. She giggled and playfully tugged on his arm to spur his long legs forward again, ignoring the odd looks they were given as they ambled down the street - she guessed they did form an unconventional couple, but if she could decide Giacomo would be her friend, she could also decide she needn’t care about what the others thought.

“I am very sorry, Giacomo, that was the extent of my Italian,” she apologized with a small smile, following the lead he had picked up again. “Rosso and pollo.”

“Do I want to know where you learnt those words?” he raised an eyebrow, a half grin putting his dimple on prominent display.

“The neighbours have an Italian grandmother who lives with them,” she explained as they stepped into a less frequented street that smelled of heavy perfume and rough leather. “I might have visited her yesterday evening and borrowed a dictionary designed for children. I wanted to learn more, but… You see, a big sister has to do her chores in a family like ours, even if she’s not regarded as such. I promise I will try to learn more.”

“You don’t need to learn more, dolcezza. One word is enough to…”

“To?”

“To make me happy,” he answered - it wasn’t a lie, more an innocent euphemism she wouldn’t see through, a euphemism that would keep his dignity intact. “Ah, there we are. Rosso it is, then.”

They stopped in front of one of the few luxurious shops that could be found in the otherwise impoverished city, the kind of shop only visited by the Ladies and Sirs who lived in the neighbouring countryside. A few dresses that were worth more than her whole wardrobe were on theatrical display, next to suits so expensive she was sure Giacomo would be offended by the ridiculous number written on the tag.

“I cannot go in there,” she said lowly, smiling at a wealthy woman stepping through the doors with heavy bags. “Giacomo, whatever your plan is, I cannot go in there.”

“Why?” he frowned, genuinely dumbfounded and worried he had made a horrendous mistake. “This is a shop, Fanny.”

“Yes, but there are shops and… Shops,” she emphasized, purposefully glancing at the cardinal dress she didn’t dare admit had been the subject of her wildest fantasies ever since she’d seen it for the first time during one of her many errands in town. “Look at this, Giacomo, this is not for me.”

“Oh,” he simply said - and she felt like a horrible person for bringing the disappointment and embarrassment to his features. “I thought you liked dresses of this kind. I must have misunderstood, please accept my apologies.”

“No, Giacomo, I adore these dresses, I almost sold my grandfather’s engagement ring to buy one of them,” she said with a sad smile, waving one of her gloves at the vitrine. “But they are not made for girls like me, and I don’t wish to go in this shop and look at things I can never have.”

“Primo, these dresses are meant to be worn by women like you,” he started, tapping his thumb on his index, then kept going and tapped his middle finger. “Secondo, any of these can be yours. I have already paid for it, we just need to have it tailored. This is a gift, mia Fanny, and I would very much like it if you accepted it. Per favore. Just this one time. Just this one gift. Just this one dress.”

“Giacomo, I don’t deserve such a gift, I…”

“Please, dolcezza. Please.”

He took a tentative step towards the door of the little shop, gently pulled on her elbow, looked at her with an encouraging smile, and she finally surrendered to his hopeful eyes. The little bell chimed as they stepped onto the shiny wooden floor that creaked under their feet, and the tailor greeted them with a bow.

“Sir Casanova, Lady,” he smiled - more by professional consciousness than true kindness, she noticed. “I will be done with Lady Howards in twenty minutes, if you would please take a look around and see what dress you would like.”

“I think the choice is already made,” he grinned, asking her for confirmation as he pointed to the crimson dress she had spotted in the vitrine. “Feel free to correct me should I be wrong, mia cara.”

“You’re not,” she breathed out, eyes wide in wonderment as she observed the velvet shine under the light. “It looks… Beautiful.”

“And you’re not wearing it, yet,” Giacomo whispered in her ear, glad to see his gift was not left underappreciated. “Kind gentleman, may we help you with your work and put the dress on already? We will leave the adjustments and couture to you.”

“Of course, sir, second wardrobe to the right, if you please. The changing room is through here.”

She followed him to one of the tall wardrobes, watched as he gauged her for long seconds, then picked up the dress which was pinned with a size that should roughly fit her body. He smiled and twirled around with the dress splayed over his chest, obviously delighted she had given in and was about to don the wealthy garment. She still wasn’t quite convinced she was worthy of such a beautiful piece of craftsmanship, but she refused to cause him any more unwanted feelings. If this masquerade pleased him, she wasn’t about to let the wonderful occasion slip under her nose without seizing it. For the first time in her life, she would wear a dress that would make all the women in her family swoon with jealousy.

“Holler if you require any assistance,” Giacomo said with a broad grin, hooking the hanger to the screen painted with exotic flowers. “These can be tricky when you’re not used to them.”

“I’m just scared I’ll tear it,” she shrugged, unlacing the ribbon of her shoulder shawl. “Are you sure you haven’t underestimated my size? I’m rather… Shapely, you see, and the corset looks rather small.”

“It is not too small and your silhouette is divina,” he told her, brushing the back of his knuckles on her hip. “I can stay, should that make you feel better, but we will have to tell the tailor we’re married. I’m not entirely convinced he would fancy the idea of a woman showing that much skin to a gentleman behind his curtains.”

“I would rather… You stayed,” she confessed, nervously clasping her fingers across her chest.

Giacomo was a friend, she repeated firmly at the back of her head, and now that she knew that, she couldn’t see any problem with him seeing her in her underslip. It wasn’t as if she was about to completely reveal herself to him - if that had been the case, she would have refused his help without thinking about it twice. And she would really hate to spoil such a beautiful dress because of a lace pulled to tight or a seam tugged too hard, especially since he was the one spending a small fortune on it. A fortune, yes. So much money she could have opened her own shop and built an entire dynasty for the centuries to come over it. To him, it might have been but a snowflake in a blizzard or a particle of quartz in a sandstorm, a coin fished in a sea of gold and jewels, a blade of grass picked in his hanging gardens of Venezia. A little nothing in his world of so much.

He disappeared for a moment, just long enough for her to fold her shawl and smooth it down on a chair, then reappeared with a pleased clap of his hands.

“Bene, now that we won’t be arrested for indecency,” he started, leaning his cane against the wall and pushing his sleeves up his wrists, “shall we begin, mia cara. I promise my eyes will not wander anywhere they are not required and my hands know how to behave. Do you need help taking that one off?”

“No, thank you,” she said as she reached behind her neck to untie a knot. “The servants at Mansfield Park never helped me, I had to learn fairly quickly how to do it myself. The first time I put a dress with a ribbon in the middle of my back, I had to sleep in it. My best friend set me free the morning later and I was chastised by my aunt because it got wrinkled.”

“I hope you know that whatever happens to that dress, even the worst case scenario, I will always play your friend and never your aunt,” he laughed - a laugh that quickly died down when the knot was released and the nek of the dress curtained over her shoulder blades.

“Don’t cast evil spells like this, Giacomo. You know you only need talk about worst case scenarios for them to happen.”

“Scenari. But I do get your point, no more maledizioni.”

He might have crossed his fingers behind his back when he had promised his eyes wouldn’t travel a forbidden path, or he might not have. Either way, he found himself betraying her trust. Just for a second, he abused the faith she had put in hands. The pale blue dress she had donned finally pooled at her feet, her silk underslip kissed the skin of the round hills of flesh and flapped around her thighs, hidden under the thin nylon stockings. He didn’t look, merely watched it from the corner of a fluttering eyelid. He looked when she bent down to take off her shoes and stepped out of the cage of blue fabric to shove it to the side. Just for a second. A second to imagine how the crevices in the small of her back, defined under the shiny, clinging surface, would feel like against his lips. How the full cheeks of her glorious bottom would react when touched by his fingers. How the strong, curvaceous legs would feel, wrapped around his hips or around his neck, as he slowly, deeply, passionately…

“Giacomo, I know what you’re thinking,” she suddenly said, blood rushing to her cheeks as she covered herself with her brand new dress.

He swallowed a gasp and hurried to pull on his jacket to hide the proud illustration of his rampant imagination, briefly squeezing his eyes shut when his fingers inadvertently brushed against the hardened flesh. No, she couldn’t know. If she had been any other woman, he would already have his pants down his knees, her body bent over the chair and his throbbing erection ramming into her heat. This wasn’t any other woman. This was Fanny. He only had stolen one look, one quick look, not even long enough to remember if the images reeling through his mind were what he had seen or what he had invented. One look, that was enough for his desire to spark, and just enough to taste the bitter guilt at the back of his throat. She couldn’t know. She couldn’t have noticed his arousal, because he was convinced she was too pure to even consider the possibility. She couldn’t realize he was aroused, because that would mean he’d have to tell her about all those things he wasn’t ready to tell her about yet.

He desired her. Only, not like any other woman. Because this was Fanny. She was attractive. Simply, so simply, not like any other woman. She had a beautiful face, an exquisite physique, and he desired her body.

But more than that, and most certainly not like any other woman, he desired who she was. He knew that, because, though that was a foreign and oddly satisfying feeling, he wanted to protect her. To respect her. To care, to please. To make her laugh and smile. To make her happy. To lo….

“Scusi?” he asked after a particularly hard gulp of fear and culpability, chasing the unfamiliar word away from his train of thoughts. “What am I thinking about, dolcezza?”

“About my body,” she continued, unaware that her shy statement brought him to the steep verge of spontaneously combusting. “About my fat body and how it will never fit inside this dress. You really should have picked a bigger size, Giacomo, you underestimated…”

“Your body is perfect as it is, magnifica Fanny,” he hurried to reassure her, keeping his eyes firmly locked on her face. “And the dress is the perfect size, I promise. Should we try it on?”

She nodded her assent with a sheepish quiver of her lips, and his nervous fingers closed around the dress she handed him.

Paring:Giacomo Casanova x Fanny Price
Chapter: 3/?
Rating:Explicit
Word count: 3000
Tags: Slow Burn, Fluff, First Meetings, First Kiss, First Time, Mutual Pining, Masturbation

Summary:

When he decided to come to England, it was for the women.
It wasn’t to sell the Italian dresses he didn’t make.
It wasn’t to drink champagne in posh garden parties he didn’t like.
It most definitely wasn’t to fall in love with a woman he didn’t want.

Read onAO3

Tagging@timepetalscollective for the third chapter - and I am writing this much too quickly!

CHAPTER 3

The ten minutes she had given him had turned into twenty, thirty, into a full hour they had spent strolling along the white pebbled-path slithering among the gardens. They had talked. Just talked, gotten to know each other a little better. He knew she had been sent away from an impoverished home at age ten to live with a wealthy family that didn’t hold her in their hearts. She knew he was a prosperous Italian dressmaker in Venice and had come to England to sell his creations to British high-class society and enlarge his market.

He tossed a ten pound note on the counter and pointed his chin at the scantily dressed prostitute eying him with a filthy smile he answered with one of his own.

Fanny Price. She was a nice girl, he thought. No, not a nice girl. An exquisite woman. He remembered her smell, a shallow scent of summer flowers and autumn leaves, a scent that must have been but a ghost of a once powerful fragrance, probably diluted into too much cheap alcohol to make it last longer. He wasn’t one to mind a woman’s smell much - if he had, he believed the number of women he had claimed would be divided by a few digits. But Fanny smelled nice. Nothing strong, nor intoxicating. Just a subtle smell in the background that didn’t speak to him directly, just whispered quiet words of comfort and peace, a discreet companion that had followed in their steps. He had only noticed the smell when she had left at the arm of her brother.

The dark-haired woman giggled as she wrapped her legs around his hips and he sat her down on the chest of drawers in the small room. Dimly lit by a few candles, probably less clean than it ought to be, filled with the noises coming from the other rooms - sounds that would soon echo in this room from the inside. He bunched her skirt high enough, fiddled with the laces that kept his trousers tight around his waist, bit his sharp teeth into the juncture of her neck. He groaned against her ebony skin, gave his hard length a few tight pumps, and inhaled deeply just as he thrust into her. Her smell was pungent. Aggressive. A perfume to hide the lingering musk of sweat and sex she couldn’t scrub off her body between clients. He growled his pleasure through his nose, but he only breathed in through his mouth. A flicker of guilt ignited in his stomach as he rammed into her, squeezed her thighs, massaged a breast that had escaped from its flimsy prison. Guilt, because he closed his eyes, and remembered the summer flowers and autumn leaves.

Fanny. He still didn’t know why he had felt compelled to talk to her. With her cheap dress and messy hairstyle, she wasn’t like any of the women he usually chased after. It must have been her eyes. Or her mouth. Her smile.

He slipped his hands under her bottom and lifted her up from the chest, wavered back on his feet and crashed over her, they bodies collapsing on a hard mattress covered with a moth-eaten duvet. He hurried to lift her legs and lock them across his shoulders, heavy pants flowing out of his mouth, thrusting his hips harder, faster.

Her smile. Shy and embarrassed, with that twinge of cute. He had never qualified a smile, much less a woman, with that word. He liked flirtatious, eager, hungry. He liked the smiles that spoke of a desire to bend before him and surrender some dignity to him, that spoke of a need to feel him take and give, but mostly take. And he took them. He took those smiling lips, and filled their mouths, he took those women, and filled them whole. But Fanny. It was just a smile. A cute smile. And he had no desire to take that smile away from her face. Had no other desire than to see her smile again, and hear her laugh again. There had been something unfathomable about the merry song that her voice had carried to his ears when he had told her the story of the fat Italian duchess who had tripped over her coat and fell head-first into a murky pond. Some kind of innocent amusement, an almost childish glee that didn’t deprive the sound of its beauty. That didn’t deprive her of her beauty. Deep whiskey eyes that sparkled more than the most expensive of champagnes, that shone more than a scorching Italian sun at its zenith, that spoke of her joy better than her words had. And her voice…

“I not know Italian men was so…” the prostitute started to say between choked gasps as he folded tighter over her, the loud and quick slap of flesh against flesh almost drowning her words.

“Sta’ zitta, puttana,” he grunted, wiping a bead of sweat rolling down his nose on his sleeve.

“Wh…”

“Shut up,” he clarified - and he brought fingers between they bodies to rub against her bud, hoping that would be enough to steal whatever words she had left on her tongue. “When you come, say my name. Only my name. Casanova.”

Casanova. He didn’t want to be a Casanova to Fanny. He wanted to be a Giacomo. Casanova was the side of him he would keep out of her sight for as long as she would allow him to, for as long as he would be able to. He shouldn’t be scared of who he was. The life he was leading, he had chosen. He wanted the women, he wanted the sex, he wanted the freedom, sod the decency, sod the decorum, sod the rules. Nothing wrong about enjoying the simple and too-rare pleasures life brought with it, and certainly nothing wrong about sharing those pleasures with consenting women who spread their thighs and opened their mouth at any given chance. Some enjoyed strong liquor, Cuban cigars and games. He enjoyed sex. It was an addiction just like any other addiction, except sex had never hurt or killed anyone before - not to his knowledge, and most certainly not when he was in charge.

So why was he terrified at the thought of Fanny finding out about Casanova when he believed he was just as nice a gentleman as Giacomo, he could only guess. Probably because he knew she had liked him. How she had confided in him, how she had leant almost imperceptibly against him when they had sat on that stone bench under a willow tree, how her voice and smiles had grown more confident, more open, as if she already trusted him like a dear friend. She had liked him, and he had liked her. She had been honest, he had lied all along. Giacomo, the wealthy dress trader on a business trip to England. He should have been honest too.

“Casanova,” the dark-skinned woman writhed under him and he winced when her nails scraped red paths down the skin of his thighs.

Casanova, yes, the bankrupt libertine on a quest for British women to add to his prize list. That would have been honest. As honest as a slap in the face and a kick in the loins. And just as painful, because he would have had to wave his sweet Fanny goodbye. Sweet Fanny. Sweet, innocent, virgin Fanny.

His eyes shot open and he stared at the woman under him. Black eyes, black skin. He licked her calf and let the taste of her body oil fill his mouth, her strong smell invade his nose.

“Parla,” he ordered through a heavy groan, slamming his hips hard against her, chasing after a completion that wouldn’t come if he kept the fair hair, the summer flowers, the smile, the laugh and the voice in his head. “Speak. Presto, speak.”

She did. Each coarse words leaving her mouth fueled his desire, incentives that made his pleasure boil, curses that gnawed dents in the tight coil settled deep in his abdomen. He bit his tongue and stared at her face, flared his nostrils to breathe in more of her scent, and pounded into her wet heat until the ravenous waves of his orgasm finally swept it all away. It took one flutter of his eyelids. Just as his release hit. One flutter, and he saw her face, a fleeting image of fair hair, a breath of flowers, a ghost of a laugh ringing in his ears.

“Cazzo,” he moaned loudly, letting her legs fall to the side as he pushed himself away from her. “Sono fottuto.”

“No good?” she asked - and he saw the fear in her eyes that she wouldn’t get the tip she needed to live. “Again?”

“No, it’s not you, bella,” she shook his head as he reached inside his pocket to take out another note. “There. Go. Grazie.”

He waited until she was gone to lock the door and divest himself of the clothes he hadn’t managed to take off, damp with sweat and more wrinkled than they were supposed to be. It fell at his feet. A light pink lily she had picked up in the gardens and given him with a smile, proud to have thieved it from a bed of flowers. He remembered it was a symbol a devotion, though he doubted she was aware of the fact when she had tucked it behind his ear, pretexting its colours matched the one of his ribbon rather well. He remembered it was also a symbol of death. That flower bore way too deep and eloquent meanings he didn’t want to dwell on in that moment. He put the lily atop the pile of fresh clothes he had retrieved from his bag and fled in the modest bathroom, dipped his too tall body in the water of the rudimentary tub. The wood felt viscous under his skin, the water felt too cold, the soap smelled of rotten earth, but still. It was nice. He closed his eyes, and he saw her again.

“Who are you?” he murmured to himself before he submerged his head between his knees.

***

“Who is he?”

She blushed a little and whacked his arm when she realized he was wiggling his eyebrows and grinning from ear to ear.

“An Italian dressmaker, or so he told me,” she sighed, the way their joined hands were swinging back and forth as they walked losing a bit of its fervour. “I know he goes by the name of Giacomo, but he wouldn’t tell me his full name.”

“Italian? Careful there, Fanny,” her brother warned her with a tut. “I have heard of Italian men, they don’t have the best reputation around.”

“Well, he was nice,” she shrugged, discreetly hiding the lily she’d been holding between her fingers in a fold of her tunic. “He was more of a gentleman to me than you could ever be to any woman, if you must know.”

“Did he try to kiss you?”

“For Heaven’s sake, William, he didn’t even try to hold my hand. We just sat on a bench and talked. As friends. That man must be riding his horse on a path of gold and diamonds. He sold a dress to Lady Edwards for a hundred and twenty pounds, can you imagine?”

“What does this have to do with being just friends?” he raised an eyebrow, helping her to lift her dress when they reached a thin stream of water hidden among the blades of grass.

“He,’ she continued as she hopped over the stream, “was obviously looking for a British wife to invest part of his fortune. With me, the best thing he can spend his money on is a village corner shop that sells rags. Open your eyes, William. I know you want me to find a good man, but Giacomo is exactly the kind of man I cannot have. I appreciate your faith in me, but I’d appreciate it more if you didn’t try to feed me dreams. I have dreams of my own, and they don’t involve money or social rank, thank you.”

“Fanny, you know I just want your happiness,” he smiled, poking her rib with a fingertip. “And from where I was standing, believe me, that Giacomo really seemed to want more than a friendship with you, gold or not. You want to know the best?”

“What, he came to ask you for your blessing?” she groaned, swatting his hand away from her.

“No, no he didn’t. I wouldn’t have given it anyway. No, the best thing was… That was the first time I saw you smile since Edmund left for Peterborough. And that Italian tailor smiled more than you did. That has to mean something, hasn’t it? Did he want to see you again?”

The small blush tinting her cheeks turned to a full fire of red that swallowed her face at the unexpected question. She nibbled her lip to hide her smile, and realized her brother might have been right about the smiles. The more she thought of Giacomo, the brighter it grew. Still, she believed she had a chance with him just as much as she had a chance at becoming Queen of the country. He was not yet a friend, but he would probably be if they kept meeting. He was not yet a potential husband, but he would probably never be even if they kept meeting. She was Fanny price. Just Fanny Price. He was Giacomo. Kind, handsome, and offensively rich Giacomo. She had learnt a long time ago it was no use building fantasies on mere wishful thinking. She wasn’t even tempted to imagine what could happen beyond the day that would follow. She knew there would be more smiles, because he could make her smile like no one else. More laughing, because he was good-natured and accessible enough to enjoy his humour and farces. But no more wild heartbeat in her chest and knots in her stomach. No more lies in her head. That day, she had let herself believe because she had been caught off-guard. The day later, she would be prepared.

“He invited me,” she mumbled uneasily, fiddling with the fake ring around her middle finger. “Tomorrow, middle of the afternoon. Probably to another tea party.”

“Ah, see?” William smiled - and she had to roll her eyes at the excited pride in his voice.

“Because he doesn’t know anyone and didn’t want to go alone,” she added with a shrug. “William, please, don’t make it what it isn’t. Look at what stands before you, look at where Giacomo will see me tomorrow, and tell me he will not want to run away from this chaos. At Mansfield Park, with a nice dress, I might have had an opportunity like I had with Mr. Crawford. Here, in Portsmouth, there is nothing for him to find. Especially not someone like me.”

“Fine, I won’t annoy you any longer with Giacomo,” he nodded before he pressed a tender kiss on her temple. “But should anything happen, remember I want to meet him first. He can be rich and noble, but that doesn’t make him a good gentleman for my sweet sister.”

***

Sweet Fanny. He wasn’t rich, nor noble, and he most definitely wasn’t a good gentleman for such a delicate woman. But he wanted to believe. Believe she would see him for who he was, for Giacomo, and forgive him for his sins and his lies. Forgive Casanova. He wasn’t ready to ask for forgiveness, and he wasn’t ready to let Casanova go. Yet.

He blew out the quivering flame of the candles and slipped under the thin cover.

He could have gone downstairs to pay for another prostitute, but he had spent all his money already, both the savings he had brought in his luggage and the notes he had tricked that man into giving him for a smile. He could have ignored it altogether and slept through it, if that face didn’t haunt him everytime he closed his eyes. He had faced this situation many times before and dealt with it easily, quickly. This time would be just as easy, if not more, but it wouldn’t be quick. He didn’t want it to be quick.

He snatched a rag from the bedside table, trailed his fingers down his naked torso under the cover, stopped when they reached the coarse hair at the juncture of his legs. He just wanted to make sure guilt wouldn’t crush him. He brushed a fingertip against the base of his hard length, thought of her face, of the breasts he imagined to be firm and responsive under his hands, and let a groan roll up his throat. No guilt. Of course, he wouldn’t feel guilty. That desire might have been the only truth he allowed himself to confess. The only truth he knew he couldn’t feel guilty about, because it was pure, honest, fierce. He, Giacomo, desired Fanny. It wasn’t Casanova who wrapped his hand around his erection and teased his head. It was him. Just him. He smelled the summer flowers again, saw her smile, heard her laugh. He let his pleasure build, slowly, gentle strokes when he was used to hard squeezes, sensual and erotic images of an almost fully clothed Fanny when he was used to unimpassioned sexual pictures of faceless women spreading their legs, a simmering passion in his loins when he was used to a roaring fire. Soft gasps and words he wished he would get to whisper in her ear one day, when he was used to loud and animalistic groans and grunts. It had been a long time since he’d really enjoy masturbating, even longer since he’d made it last long enough for his erection to grow almost painful. Shots after shots of heat rushing through his blood, brought by thoughts and feelings all aimed at the fair-haired woman he had met that day, until it became to much.

He splayed his rag over his stomach and set his imagination free. His fingers pumped harder, faster, gathering his moisture so the hot and hard friction wouldn’t hurt as much. He dared to imagine the tip of his tongue lapping at her nipple through that beige dress and a raspy grunt fell from his lips. His hips rutted, once, twice, his back arched from the bed, and for the second time that day, he thought of Fanny Price as he released his passion over his fingers and his rag.

He made a quick job at wiping the evidence of what he thought to be a mere infatuation that would die soon enough. But then he turned on his side, nestled his face in the uncomfortable pillow, and he smelled the summer flowers again.

“Who are you?” he whispered in the dark, eyes wide-open captivated by the curls of blond hair and the smile that floated before the window. “What have you done to me, Fanny Price?”

Paring:Giacomo Casanova x Fanny Price 
Chapter: 2/?
Rating: Mature
Word count: 3000
Tags: Slow Burn, Fluff, First Meetings, First Kiss, First Time

Summary:

When he decided to come to England, it was for the women.
It wasn’t to sell the Italian dresses he didn’t make.
It wasn’t to drink champagne in posh garden parties he didn’t like.
It most definitely wasn’t to fall in love with a woman he didn’t want.

Read on AO3

Tagging@timepetalscollective for the second chapter of this Teninch piece & @aneclipsedhabitue just in case you want to read this! :-)

CHAPTER 2

Edmund must have been the only person who really made it worth staying at Mansfield Park. She thought he was the only man she had ever truly loved, and with him gone to Peterborough to be ordained, the anchor that had always kept her from sinking in her aunts’ home was gone too. She wasn’t even sure what was the kind of love she felt for him. It could be true love, and she had often imagined the both of them, together, sifting through life as a couple. Childish desillusions, that was. He was her friend. The one who had brought her up better than any adults had, the one who had always supported her despite her impoverished background and her silly antics. Her best friend, that made her feel like she belonged, that made her feel important, that made her feel loved. But he was just a best friend. A brother, that was as far as she was willing to consider him. A dear brother.

A very different brother from the one who was pulling on her hand all while pulling on her tunic to straighten it over her shoulders.

“I told them you would be there, and you will be, Fanny,” he insisted, stopping dead in his tracks as they neared the gates of the garden. “Lady Vaughan will adore you.”

“Lady Vaughan will not look at me twice because she already knows me,” she answered with a moue, fluffing out her blond locks she knew would always remain desperately messy despite her best attempts at taming them. “Do I need to remind you she and Maria have been corresponding for years? She knows I’m poor, naive and a simpleton. I don’t own any proper dress because I have never been given one, and I always look disheveled. You have the Navy, the uniform, you are polite and well-mannered, which I am not because I have never been taught how to be those things. Please, William, I think you should go on your own.”

“Fanny, don’t belittle yourself like this,” he smiled, pressing his large hands over her shoulders. “You look perfect, and you’re an extraordinary woman. Whatever Maria wrote Lady Vaughan doesn’t matter. Show them who you are. Show them you are worth just as much as they all are, if not more. Please, Fanny, don’t go back now. Who knows, you might find a gentleman that catches your fancy.”

“As if a single gentleman will even look at me,” she sighed as she swatted his hands away to properly shrug her tunic over her back and pick a dead leaf off the skirt of her dress. “Let’s just get over the greetings ceremonial so I can find myself a safe place to hide from the lot of them. I don’t need the whispers and the looks.”

“Will you share a drink with your brother?”

“If my brother so wishes,” she giggled, playfully shoving his shoulder. “But just one, then I will leave you to your friends.”

And so she had. She had locked her elbow with her brother’s, bowed before so many people she had almost been struck by vertigo sickness after five minutes, sipped on her tea for a reasonable length of time under all those pairs of eyes she could feel gauged her and her manners, judged her and her looks, then had excused herself never to go back to them. They didn’t like her. But it was fine, because she didn’t like them either. She had simply done the brother she loved a favour. Quite as predicted, no gentleman had caught her fancy, and no gentleman had looked at her for longer than the respectable amount of time, but she wasn’t disappointed. She knew that, somehow, the man she would eventually marry wouldn’t be wealthy, wouldn’t belong to the upper class, would never be as dashing as Edmund riding his black horse, nor as handsome as William in his strict uniform. She was a simple girl, with simple dreams. Just a man who would love her for who she was, not because of her reputation or relations. Just a man who would give her a roof, a decent marriage, a few kids. Just a man who would choose her, but more importantly a man she would choose herself. Those might have been the dreams of a poor girl, which only confirmed her place in this society, but they were her dreams. No one could take that away from her.

That step, that flight of stairs that led to an abandoned servant residence, was the perfect safe place she had chosen for herself. The seemingly haphazard disposition of the neatly trimmed bushes around it provided a shelter, but also a vantage point like no others. She could see without being seen. When she was just a little girl at Mansfield Park, that kind of secretive observation had been one of the best ways to learn about manners, habits and customs, behaviours. But now that she had learnt those things - not well enough to please her family, but she had hardly even seen the point of trying harder when she was more often than not sent away not to embarrass their friends - she simply liked to watch the people. Imagine what their conversation were about, read what they were feeling on their faces, decipher emotions and thoughts in their carefully measured movements.

Like that Lady who quickly switched her pink umbrella from on hand to the other when her husband arrived - a husband she most definitely didn’t love, given she used that umbrella to pretend she couldn’t offer her arm. Or that Sir, who turned his head as his wife laughed too loudly - he was probably embarrassed by the crow shriek that left her lips, a sound no decent woman would dare produce but in the privacy of her home. Or that other Lady with the beautiful red dress, who fled from a lover who had indulged in one too many glasses of champagne, it seemed.

It made her laugh, to see all those people. A sad laugh. She was just left wondering what good all that money could be when it meant matching people up according to their rank and bank account, no matter how little they thought of each other, or how obviously not in love most of them were, if not all. That was what she didn’t want. Love might very well be the only true thing she would ever get in her miserable life, and she wasn’t about to let a title or a family name deprive her of that right.

Her eyes were suddenly drawn by a patch of bright blue in the distance, an ostentatious colour she was sure no one had been wearing minutes before. Someone new, then. And someone who was unfamiliar with the colour code of upper-class society, with his flamboyant costume and leather boots. That, or he was a foreigner. He turned his head, and she noticed the small pigtail, or a braid, she couldn’t be quite sure from the distance, held together by a silk ribbon, just as blue as his jacket, tied into an elegant knot. Definitely a foreigner. He looked unlike any man she had ever seen before. Tall, slim, an extravagant gait and and unconventional posture. She had found her attraction for the next hour or so, before her brother would accept to take her home - and if he didn’t, she was a grown girl and she would leave herself.

She wasn’t entirely surprised to watch him make his way to one of the single ladies merely minutes after his arrival. He was alone, didn’t seem to know anyone apart from Sir Vaughan who was keeping vigil at the gates, and even from behind her bushes she could see he was the kind of man to seek attention. She supposed with a face like his - not the typical British handsome, but rather an exotic beauty that came with his overseas origins - it must have been easy to seduce women. And he most likely hadn’t travelled all this way, to this little village in a lost corner of the Devon countryside, to drink tea or get drunk on expensive champagne. Maybe a wealthy French noble who hadn’t found the right wife in his country. Or a Spanish count who was looking for the kind of greener grass he had been denied back wherever he came from. She probably could have deduced his nationality if she had paid better attention during her classes, but she found it much more amusing to guess.

She watched him dance with eager eyes, mentally praising him for the ease and elegance with which he managed to move his lanky body, giggled at the way his short pigtail struggled to follow his steps, rolled her eyes at the way the Lady pretended to trip over her own feet so he would catch her and blushed at his smiles. Foolish girl, for an otherwise clever man, she thought. The dance ended on a bow, and she was pleased to see the stranger hadn’t fallen for an old-as-the-world seduction parade. He hadn’t been convinced.

He walked to another woman - Lady Edwards, she recognized, and she wondered if he knew what he was getting into. He was a bit closer, now, and she could make out his features more precisely. Electric blue eyes, a straight nose that was slightly slanted to the right, thin lips, a face as thin as the rest of his body. Most definitely not what British women would qualify to be a good-looking man. Still, he had his charm, she believed. Lively expressions, flirtatious smiles, provocative winks. A high-pitched voice the wind carried to her ears that could fall to a deep vibration faster than a wrongly-tuned bass. She couldn’t decide if she liked it, but she liked it very much when Lady Edwards threatened to whack his head with her umbrella and her husband joined the dispute.

To her surprise, and disappointment, the vehement argument she expected turned into a sharp negotiation. The foreigner left with a large roll of banknotes in his pocket and his dignity intact. Talented talker or fierce bargainer, either way, she was now sure he must have been a wealthy merchant with expensive and valuable goods. Sir Edwards had the ongoing reputation of being closer to his bank account than to his wife, so it seemed highly improbable he would have ceded so much money for a worthless trinket.

She followed his steps to the hostess of the garden party, and had to cover her mouth with her fingers to cover a laugh when he approached her, full grin and magnetic eyes, striking a pose with the obvious intent of seducing her. Maybe people in his country didn’t wear any outward signs that they were married, she presumed. Or maybe he simply was oblivious to the signs, on purpose or not, and simply talked to the Ladies he fancied. The conversation was short-lived, of course, but she almost wanted to thank him for looking just as uneasy and embarrassed as she had been when she had met that contemptuous woman for the first time. At least, she wasn’t alone in her misery.

But then, he was gone. He disappeared, behind a bush, to the other side of the party she couldn’t see from her stairs. She was just a bit dismayed. She didn’t know why, but she would have liked to meet him. Meet that man who gave an odd impression, and not just because he was a foreigner. He was different. As clever, rich and boastful as all those men she loathed, that was for certain, but he had a something more that made it all…. Tolerable. More than that, that made it all exciting - and whatever was left of her meagre reputation would burn down to ashes if, God forbid, anyone ever learnt she found a man exciting. But there were secrets and mysteries she was sure he kept hidden in the layers of his bizarre costume and she wanted to discover.

And, just as she thought that particular thought, he reappeared again. Not only did he reappear, but he was looking at her. Really looking at her, like no one had before. She had been stared at, with disdain and condescendence. She had been observed, with mockery and defiance. She had been embraced with soft looks and gentle eyes with the few who loved her. But that man was looking at her, with genuine interest and a disconcerting intensity. Her anxiety pulled her lips into a smile when she simply wanted to run away, and her hands tightened around her tunic to hide the cheap dress underneath. She knew he would notice her hair and her shoes, notice her lack of elegance and finesse, but he didn’t stop. Looking at her. She hurried to her feet and discretely cleared her throat, just as he walked towards her and grew impossibly taller, so tall he still had to lower his eyes despite her still standing on the step.

“Hello, Sir,” she greeted him with a small bow of the head, hoping the blush she felt inflaming her cheeks wasn’t as bright as the jewel of his brooch. “Please excuse my ignorance, but I don’t remember seeing you before.”

She blushed even deeper when his fingers wrapped around hers and his hot breath caressed her skin, as softly as his lips did - if there was one thing she had learnt, a gentleman would have never touched her with his mouth, but then again, he was a foreigner. A clash of traditions, probably. A difference she wished didn’t exist, because she was finding out she quite liked the intimate gesture, from a man she knew nothing about, no less. She shivered, bit her lip and prayed he wouldn’t feel how clammy her hand was getting under his.

“Più bella cosa, you’ll wish you had never seen me at all,” he said softly, and that was the version of his voice she liked the most, she decided. “Call me… Giacomo.”

“Sir Giacomo…”

“Giacomo,” he interrupted before she could go any further. “Just Giacomo, if you please.”

“Giacomo, I do appreciate your kindness,” she continued, clasping her hands loosely in front of her, “but I believe I am not the one you are looking for.”

“No, you are not indeed,” he agreed as he let his eyes roam over her body and caused her already quivering smile to falter. “At least you weren’t until I saw you. What’s your name, il mio Sole?”

“Fanny. Fanny Price. Simply… Fanny.”

His eyes squinted ever so slightly at those words, and when she had already been feeling self-conscious about her clothes and hair, he managed to make it worse. His long finger brushed a strand of hair going astray on the side of her face behind her ear and pinched the knot that held her tunic around her shoulders. He certainly was bold, and she didn’t like it much. She liked his smile even less, thinking he was just another one of those men who enjoyed toying with desperate women, one of those men who found it wildly entertaining to use their charm and nice words to give hope they always took away. She wasn’t desperate, thank you very much, and she wasn’t about to let him loosen that knot. But then, he brought his second hand to one of the loops.

He only tightened the knot and made sure the bows were similar in shape and size, letting them fall in the middle of her sternum.

“Scusi,” he apologized with a soft smile, bringing his fingers back to his cane. “I like symmetry. Will you walk with me, cara Fanny?”

“I must apologize, Sir… Giacomo,” she corrected at the half grin that taunted his lips and the twitch of his eyebrow,” but I was about to leave with my brother.”

“Ten minutes,” he insisted, gently catching her wrist when she stepped off the stairs. “Per favore, ten minutes. Let me hold your arm and enjoy your warm company.”

“You should not be seen with me, I will not do wonders to your reputation,” she pleaded again.

She didn’t quite know why she was trying to get away from him, but there was something indescribable about this man. He had an aura. A powerful aura that was drawing her like a moth to a flame, and the feeling was foreign as he was. He looked at her with a smile, a very different smile from the ones he had greeted the other women with. Kind and respectful. Nothing seductive about it, apart perhaps from the way it made his dimples deeper and brought a light to his piercing blue eyes. It was seductive, in a way. But the kind of unwilling seduction.

He bent towards her and she got a full breath of his heavy cologne with the wisp of air that came with a flutter of his lace collar.

“What makes you think I have any reputation at all?” he winked, offering an arm. “Please, do me the honor. We do not have to mingle with the rest of the compagnia.”

“Forgive my asking, Giacomo, but… Why me? You’ve been after all these Ladies and I… I am not a Lady. I will never be a Lady. I fail to see what it is that made you even notice me.”

“Not being a Lady doesn’t make you any less of a woman, dearest Fanny,” he pointed out with a dismissive swish of his cane towards the general direction of the party where all the Ladies were gathered. “Just as much as not being a Sir doesn’t make me any less of a man. I am not… Coercing you into doing something you do not want. I would like it very much if you accepted to spend more time with me, but if you don’t… Fa niente. I will let you go back to your brother.”

“Ten minutes?” she sought for confirmation, anxiously looking around to make sure no one was watching them.

“Promessa,” he swore, a humble bow bending his neck. “Please?”

“Ten minutes.”

Paring:Giacomo Casanova x Fanny Price
Chapter: 5/?
Rating:Explicit
Word count: 3500
Tags: Slow Burn, Fluff, First Meetings, First Kiss, First Time, Mutual Pining, Masturbation, Virginity, Alcohol, Minor Violence, Angst

Summary:

When he decided to come to England, it was for the women.
It wasn’t to sell the Italian dresses he didn’t make.
It wasn’t to drink champagne in posh garden parties he didn’t like.
It most definitely wasn’t to fall in love with a woman he didn’t want.

Read onAO3

Tagging@timepetalscollective for the fifth chapter, just in case! :-)

I hope you will enjoy it!

CHAPTER 5

“Sei stupenda, mio sole.”

Her eyes met his in the reflection of the mirror as he knotted the ribbon of the corset between her shoulder blades. She was quite sure it was a compliment, and for the first time in her life, she wanted to accept it. The cardinal dress looked even better on her than it had on the mannequin. Fanny had never really looked at her body before, because no one else ever looked at her. But in that moment, the Italian man behind her was swallowing her whole with his chocolate eyes, and she felt proud. Proud, when she usually felt ashamed. Happy, when she usually felt bitter. Beautiful, when she usually felt grotesque. She would have thought such an elegant dress would have only underlined just how unlady-like she was, made her lack of grace and refinement all the more obvious. But she followed his eyes, from the subtle curve of her breasts down her flat stomach and generous hips, to the thighs that were shaped under the red velvet. And she was tempted to believe she looked just as good as any other Lady.

He smiled, soft and reassuring, and trailed his warm fingertips down the side of her neck, hooked them into the silver chain of her pendant to center it on her sternum.

“Do you like it, dolcezza?” he asked, clasping her hand into a delicate hold before he took a step on the side to disappear from the frame of the mirror.

“Is this really me?” she smiled as she twisted her waist to get a side view of her body.

“Oh, it is you, mia Fanny. Just as beautiful as yesterday, just as divine as tomorrow.”

“The dress is beautiful and divine,” she corrected with a light blush. “Giacomo, are you sure about this? We met yesterday, you see, and I… Even if I were worthy of such a gift, which I am not, I fail to see what reasons would make you spend so much money to please a poor woman you barely know. It all seems so… I don’t know, suspect? That isn’t quite the word I’m looking for, but… You understand what I mean, don’t you, Giacomo?”

“Is that doubt and fear in your voice, mia cara?” he raised his left eyebrow, his throat obviously bobbing up and down as he swallowed his anxiety.

Giacomo let go of her hand to lock his own in the small of his back, even took a step away to make sure he wouldn’t stand too close to her personal sphere. He understood her hesitation, of course. Even thought she was right to hesitate, in a way. He wasn’t even sure what he wanted from her himself. He knew he liked her, and he knew she made him feel different. He simply didn’t know what kind of different.

Was it just the fact that she was a foreign, poor virgin girl desperate to find love in a world that wasn’t quite hers? It might have been. Just the thrill of a new challenge, a fast-paced race, drums beating loud in his chest, feral desire heavy in his loins, mouth salivating at the taste of so much ripe innocence ready to be stolen, eyes widening at the sight of so much flesh waiting to be bit and licked and sucked, nostrils flaring at the smell that oozed from her pores. A hunt that would culminate in the hard and bloody taking of a willing prey. His hips, slamming against hers, his cock, ramming into her unsullied Eden, claiming her pleasure and her purity, leaving his trace on her skin and her mind, forever.

“I don’t want to doubt you, Giacomo,” she said, a quivering smile sketched over her plump lips. “I’m afraid my brother told me things I find hard to forget. I’m sorry, Giacomo, this is impossibly rude, but… William told me Italian men have a certain reputation when it comes to… Women. And you, here, buying me such a dress, being so charming and so kind when we have just met… “

“No,” he interrupted before she could finish a thought he already knew was headed.

When the word left his mouth, loud, clear, spontaneous, Giacomo understood. Fanny made him feel very different. His doubts about his own feelings evaporated along the breath of the fierce negation, and he understood. This wasn’t a playful challenge or a whimsical hunt. This was real. What he felt was real. It wasn’t the thrill of the chase that made his heart swell against his ribcage, nor the trepidation of the hunt that made his stomach swoop. It wasn’t this kind of crude fantasies that drove his desire. It was the meek excitement of seducing her, and the quiet expectations floating around his thoughts. He craved her touch and yearned for her body. Not sex. Just her hands in his, her body close to his, her lips against his. Casanova would never understand what the word meant, but Giacomo understood. He wanted to love Fanny, and he wanted Fanny to love him.

Giacomo expected the interruption to light up the smile he loved so much again, but it did the exact opposite. She squinted, almost skeptical, and lightly pulled on the lace of the breast line of her dress, as if suddenly scared it was too low and revealed too much. Her smile was but a memory. She nibbled her lower lip, looked away, and snatched her shawl from the chair. Maybe her brother was right, after all. Maybe this Italian man was just playing a game of seduction and she had sold herself as a willing participant. His kindness, his charm, his gifts. A well-rehearsed routine he must have used many times before, so perfectly staged she had let herself be fooled by the main actor. She should have known better. What wealthy Italian dressmaker would ever look twice at miserable Fanny Price?

“No, mio sole,” he repeated in the vain hope to see her smile, if just once again. “Not you. Never you.”

He realized his poor choice of words when she frowned and what he thought to be tears fill the amber gems that remained firmly locked on a sculpted flower crowning the mirror.

“Not me… That what would imply you do charm other women to… Such ends, wouldn’t it?” she asked, nervously fiddling with the hem of her shawl. “Is that… What you do?”

He closed his eyes for a brief moment, letting the meaning of her words pour over him like an acid rain that burnt through his skin to pool in his stomach. He wanted to say Casanova did, but that Giacomo didn’t. But to her, it would be the same. He was both the adept con man and the truthful man who only wanted her to trust him. He was both the wild seducer and the soft man who only wanted her to like him. He was Giacomo Casanova. And he realized he needed to tell her about his darker side soon, very soon. He wanted Fanny to love him, and she would never really do if he kept such an important part of his life hidden away. Debauchery, deception, raw sex and cruel lies were as real and true as his affection, kindness, sentimental passion and unadulterated truths. It was him. All of him. He didn’t regret any of his past choices and he would never see what was wrong about such a liberated lifestyle. Fanny would probably run away, and he would understand. Because she deserved the truth, no matter how hurtful it would be for the both of them.

“Mia dolcezza, I have much to tell you,” he said, suddenly impassioned by the tip of his black leather boots. “But I do have one request, if you will allow me.”

“What would that be, Giacomo?” she asked - the way she hurried to wrap her shawl around her shoulders and kept her arms crossed over her chest didn’t go unnoticed by the fleeting glances he dared to steal. “Take off the dress so you can have your way with me behind this paravent? Take it off so you can get your money back because you know I will not let any of that happen?”

“No, cara Fanny, that is not what I want,” he shrugged, a sad smile overshadowing his features as he took in her beauty he believed he would never touch with anything else but guilty eyes from now on. “I meant for this dress to be a gift. Just that. A gift, not a vicious trick to charm you into my bed. I wanted to make you, my friend, mia amica, happy. I promise. Just a gift, Fanny. Nothing more, nothing less. I wanted to see you smile, and I did.”

“Then what more could you ask for, Giacomo? What more do you want from me?”

“Per favore, dolcezza, spend the rest of the afternoon with me, as we planned it yesterday,” he humbly pleaded, wrapping his hands around the lion head of his cane to give himself some countenance. “If you don’t, fa niente, I understand. I just hope you can see me, and see that I never meant for anything more to happen than… Than a simple afternoon spent at the arm of a friend. Let me enjoy your company for a few more hours, dolce Fanny, then we’ll talk and you can take your leave of me if you so wish.”

“Where did you want to take me?”

She didn’t want to sound suspicious, because she could see his honesty and his own apprehension, but she still did. She didn’t think he was lying, and she was tempted to trust him. But he was hiding so many vile things under that crimson jacket, and she had always been taught not to trust a man who left too many secrets unshared. She glanced at him, quickly, just to steal a picture of his eyes that had considerably darkened under his nervous frown. Despite her best efforts, she couldn’t imagine this man hurting anyone, much less a woman, much less her. Somehow, she knew. She wanted to trust him. Her friend. Who wanted to take her to…

“The teahouse at the corner of the street,” he answered - he had wished to keep his plan a surprise, but he wasn’t in any position to argue and he wanted to prove he had never planned to take her back to a bedroom. “I brought Italian caffè from Venezia, and I made you an Italian cake this morning. I thought you might have enjoyed some delicacies from my country, discover what we do in my region. Then, I wanted to take you to the Chestminster theatre, there is a private opera concert, about Il drago di Roccascissa. We do not have to do any of it, mio sole, we can go wherever you want to go. But please… Please, dolce Fanny, give me a chance. If just for a few hours, let me be your friend.”

“I…”

She was interrupted by the sudden apparition of the bald, rotund tailor who clapped his hand, unrolled his tape measure and stuck a needle between his teeth. Giacomo offered a falsely agreeable smile and crossed the small distance that separated him from Fanny to delicately take her hand. She kept her head high and ignored her shivers as he bent forward to press his warm lips on the apple of her cheek, murmuring a soft apology in her ear before he stepped back again.

“I will leave you to it, then,” he laughed, outrageously over-enthusiastic, swinging his cane in the air. “Shall I come back in…?”

“It won’t be long, Sir, twenty minutes sounds reasonable to me,” the small man answered, already kneeling on the parquet to readjust the lace edge of the skirt. “Your wife shall be ready to go by then.”

“Excellent, just enough time to wander around,” he nodded before he searched for Fanny’s confirmation in the mirror. “I will come back for you, mio sole, please do not leave without me.”

She understood the underlying question in that request, the same question she had wanted to answer before she had been cut through her words. She smiled, a little smile, and lightly bowed her head.

“I will wait for you,” she said - and she had to smile brighter at the way his shoulders sagged in relief.

Giacomo winked at her reflection and blew a grateful kiss he planted over his fingertips in her direction. It was only when he turned on his feet and disappeared in the main room of the shop that he let a heavy breath out of his lungs and chased the tension off his features with a hard rub of his palm. He wasn’t one to be used to things happening the way they were supposed to - and he usually wasn’t one to mind, always thrilled by the unknown and delighted by unexpected turns of event. But this time, he wished everything would have happened as he had wanted it to. Everything he had said was true. The gift was just that. A gift.

A poisoned gift. He should have known she would question his motives. Penniless Fanny, who had never been given anything else in her life than second-hand dresses and reproaches. Of course a brand new dress worth more than anything she had ever owned would make her doubt about his intentions. He had been blinded by his desire to please her. And now, he was left with the weight of all his secrets in his hands, and he would have to gift her with that, too. Tell her about Casanova. About his life of sin. The sex, the deceptions, the thievery. His friendship, his desire for more, not matter how true and pure, would never be enough in the balance. He had to give innocent, kind, beautiful Fanny a burden too heavy for her shoulders. Just a few hours, and he would have to say goodbye to the only woman who had ever made his heart stutter.

“Grazie,” he muttered under his breath at the sight of the renewed rain lashing at the vitrine. “Molto meglio.”

He snatched an umbrella that must have been forgotten by a customer in the holder next to the door and stepped out into the flooded street. Twenty minutes. Nothing much to do in so little time, with what few coins were left in his pockets and the sudden lack of confidence he experienced regarding his persuasion skills. He looked to the right, then to the left, and spotted the sign of an inn dangling at the end of rusty chains. The Beheaded Menestrel, he read, painted in bright red letters over a pair of crossed axes. Fitting, he thought.

He quickly marched towards the inn, thinking he might as well spend his last few pounds on some liquid courage that would fuel his tongue for the rest of the afternoon. The place was loud, filled to the brim with sailors on a quest to some recreation between missions, prostitutes who danced among the crowded tables, Sirs who probably wanted to escape the yoke of their wives for a few blessed hours. He found a free stool behind the murky counter and ordered a glass of rum - back in Italy, he only swore by expensive red wines, but he had quickly found out they only sold what he considered to be cow piss in this country.

The alcohol felt sweltry on his lips, bitter on his tongue, repugnant in his throat, but he drank it faster than if it was refreshing water. He needed the buzz brought by the liquor if he wanted any chance at keeping his fears out of sight and unbinding his tongue. The effects would be gone by the time they really talked, he knew that. But at least, he would find the determination to go back to his Fanny and take her for that tea.

“Another,” he waved at the bartender, searching his inside pocket for the small leather flask he kept there in case of emergencies. “And fill that up for me, per favore.”

His Fanny. She would notice the smell. Maybe she would notice if he slurred too much or wavered a bit on his feet. He took a large swig of his second rum and winced, the alcohol burning a treacherous path down his throat. It didn’t matter. Alcohol would be but a small stone more in the wall of the truths he would need to break in front of her. Sweet Fanny. He wasn’t used to such strong liquors, and he could already feel his fingers get tingly, his eyelids heavier. Two would be enough. He didn’t want to be drunk as a lord. Tipsy would do just fine.

“Excuse-me, Sir?”

He blinked the blur away from his eyes and turned on his stool when someone patted him on the shoulder. A tall man sporting a thick mustache and a monocle, dressed in an expensive suit was standing behind him, obviously with some resentment to share.

“I know you, don’t I?” Giacomo asked before he licked the edge of his glass and smiled with just enough teeth to look offensive. “Wait, don’t tell me. You’re the husband of the fat lady I sold a dress to. Dannazione, never seen such a hideous woman before, and trust me kind Sir, I have seen many hideous women in my life. Nevermind that, what can I do for you, gentleman?”

“I want my money back,” Sir Edwards answered between clenched teeth, cheeks turning red, eyes shooting daggers. “You were supposed to take measures after the party and you didn’t.”

“Oh, well, I forgot to bring my hundred-foot tape measure,” he shrugged dismissively. “I did have the standard one, but we’d still be at it right now, you see.”

“I want my money back,” he seethed as his balled his fists on his side, ignoring the disrespectful taunts on his wife’s size. “A hundred and twenty pound, right now.”

“Scuzi, I don’t have them. Used them to buy a dress for a Lady who actually looks gorgeous in a dress, not like a sweaty stringed sausage that’s been left hanging too long above the chimney.”

His empty glass shattered on the muddy floor of the inn, but the sound was drowned by the curse of pain that came out of his lungs, just as a chubby fist collided with the side of his jaw. Giacomo was sent crashing against the counter and his stool stood on half its leg for a moment, until he shook his head to dissipate the cloud of pain and confusion and slipped off the seat to prepare and defend himself.

“Figlio di puttana,” he growled, blindly reaching for his cane to use as a weapon. “Hit me again and you lose your tiny balls, bastardo.”

“My money,” Sir Edwards threatened again with his fist high in the air, ready to deliver another puch. “Now.”

“I don’t have it,” Giacomo repeated before he spat the blood gathering under his tongue at his feet. “Tomorrow. Meet me here, at noon, I’ll give you your dannato money back.”

“Now.”

“I don’t fish money out of my arse nor do chickens shite coins,” he barked - and he made sure to grab a lost chicken that was pecking at the dirt by the neck and shove it against the opulent man’s chest. “I will have your money tomorrow, bonus a fifty pound note for your pains, and if you don’t want it, you can suck me off, is that chiaro enough?”

“A hundred more,” he grumbled, swiping a few stray feathers off his black suit with the back of his hands. “At nine. I don’t want to suck on the thumb you call a dick.”

“Shave your groin, maybe you’ll finally find yours, impotent stronzo.”

Giacomo grabbed his own crotch and thrusted his hips towards the man as a last offensive gesture before he disappeared from view. He growled his frustration through his nose, grimacing at the coppery taste still tinging his tongue. He worked his jaw a little and was relieved to find out it didn’t hurt as much as expected. Probably a side-effect of the alcohol still running in in veins, he supposed

“You alright, mate?” the bartender asked as he handed him a filthy rag to wipe the drying blood on his chin.

“Fine. Sorry about the glass, you can add that to the bill.”

“Nae, don’t worry, it’s on the house.”

Giacomo thanked him with a half-hearted shrug and threw his few coins on the counter before he straightened his jacket and hid his flask in a fold of his suit. He massaged his sore jaw, felt the slight swelling of the flesh he was sure had turned a few shades darker. Not only would he have to explain Casanova to Fanny, but he would have to explain why he was coming back with a marred face. He would definitely need his flask.