In Regency England, where does a gentleman’s income come from?
It depends on the gentleman, but in general, the majority of his income would derive from interest on invested wealth: the family money would be invested in the government funds, which delivered varying amounts of interest ranging from 3% to 5%. This interest would be held separate from the capital, and the responsible gentleman would consider that account of collecting interest his income, only drawing from that rather than uninvesting capital; in the case of an entailed property, he might legally only be allowed to access the interest. A gentleman’s wife would typically bring her own capital sum to the marriage, invested similarly to bring a yearly income that was her husband’s property, and the marriage contract usually stipulated that some amount of invested capital and its interest would devolve back to her when she was widowed, and/or to her children when she died, which is how even a younger son could have a small income.
However, yes, rents played a part. Many farms around a country estate would be rented from the landowner, as would homes in the villages. These rents were typically monetary, and were collected by the landowner’s agent on a quarterly basis - March 25 (Lady Day), June 24 (Midsummer), September 29 (Michaelmas), and Christmas.
The clergy, on the other hand, got paid a little more creatively. While they might have one of those younger-son inheritances mentioned above - this was a common career path for sons who weren’t going to inherit the main estate, like Edmund Bertram or Henry Tilney - they were also sustained by the parish, which is why there was a lot of competition for lucrative livings in prosperous villages and towns. Basically, every parish had greater and lesser tithes: the former was 10% of all the wheat produced, and the latter was 10% of all the non-wheat crops and livestock. If the local living was a rectory, the appointed clergyman would get both of these, and if it were a vicarage, the vicar would get the lesser tithes while the landowner got the greater ones. Vicars and rectors also had a “glebe”, a piece of land to farm, which they could either use for their own produce or rent out to earn more money.
Lizzy who is a little stubborn and unafraid and supported by most of her family and friends says no and is applauded by Austen fans. Emma who is rich and self-assured, even a little full of herself, says no and is applauded.
Shy, sweet Fanny is ignored, insulted, and treated like dirt by her family yet she helps them to the point of becoming sick and still cares about them enough to try to warn them away from danger. She says no when she is literally trembling, crying from fear and has only one person who fully supports her and she’s the one who is called weak and insipid?
Fanny Price is actually one of the strongest and most amazing of Jane Austen’s characters. If you can’t see that then maybe you need to ask yourself: why do I view only outspoken characters strong and interesting?
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.
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.
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.
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?”
