“How tragic that pride and circumstance should keep two souls apart when their hearts beat in perfect harmony,” she mused, glancing up at him. “Of course, in Sir Walter’s tale, external forces eventually unite the lovers. But in life…” She shrugged delicately. “In life, sometimes one must create one’s own opportunities for happiness, must one not?”
Edward remained silent, though his brain was shouting rather loudly. Was he not exactly like Scott’s Ivanhoe—a man of honor but modest means, loving a woman whose fortune placed her beyond his reach? And was Venetia not like Rowena—wealthy, elevated, yet possessed of a heart that might, perhaps, beat for him if circumstances permitted?
“I’ve often wondered,” Sofia continued with diabolical insight, “whether Ivanhoe’s rigid adherence to the chivalric code was truly noble, or merely cowardice disguised as virtue. After all, by refusing to speak his heart, did he not risk losing Rowena forever to a more pragmatic suitor?”
The question hung in the air while Edward contemplated the devastating possibility that his own principles might be costing him the only happiness he’d ever desired.
Also, when had this eighteen-year-old girl become a philosopher? It was deeply unsettling.
“If you truly cannot bring yourself to assist me,” Sofia said, her voice returning to its earlier whisper, “then I shall be obliged to find another method of being with my Paolo. Of course, when Grandfather discovers my absence and searches the city…”
Edward’s attention snapped back to her. “You would not dare.”
“What alternative would you leave me?” Sofia turned from the window, her expression one of tragic determination—though Edward was beginning to suspect she’d practiced it in front of a mirror. “At least with your plan, Grandfather would believe me safely engaged in musical instruction. He might not discover my absence at all. But if I simply vanish from the palazzo…” She allowed the sinister implication to resonate.
Edward sank into his chair. The girl was far more cunning than he’d initially credited. She’d maneuvered him into a position where refusing her assistance seemed almost cruel—and where helping her offered the one thing he desired most desperately in the world.
Moreover, her observations regarding Ivanhoe had struck with precision at his deepest fears. Was he not guilty of the same prideful cowardice that nearly cost Scott’s hero his happiness? By maintaining rigid adherence to propriety, was he not risking the loss of Venetia’s affections to some more audacious suitor—perhaps one of those Italian counts Lady Townsend seemed so eager to parade before her?
Could it be possible he was exaggerating his deficiencies?
“You are a most dangerous young woman, signorina,” he said at last.
Sofia’s smile blazed with triumphant satisfaction. “I’m merely a woman in love, signor. Surely you, of all gentlemen, understand such feelings?”
Edward stared at her for a long moment, recognizing when he’d been thoroughly outmaneuvered. “Very well. I will present your request to Miss Playford. But I make no promises regardingher response.”
Sofia clapped her hands together delightedly. “Oh, Signor Edward! You are the kindest, most reasonable gentleman in all of Venice!”
“I’m a fool,” Edward muttered, already dreading the conversation ahead while simultaneously anticipating it with shameful—and, he had to admit, rather exciting—eagerness.
Chapter Seven
At three o’clockthe following afternoon, Venetia stood at the elegant casement windows of the casa’s principal drawing room, her gaze scanning the narrow canal below with the intensity of a naval officer watching for enemy ships.
Could this truly bethe moment? An honest declaration of Mr. Rothbury’s sentiments? The warmth in his tone yesterday had been unmistakable—or so she fervently hoped. Her tendency to misinterpret male attention was, admittedly, not well-documented, given her limited experience. But surely she couldn’t bethatwrong?
Her heart—and, she acknowledged with considerable discomfort, certain other parts of her anatomy—had responded to his proximity yesterday with embarrassing enthusiasm. The very thought of his hands touching hers with deliberate intent rather than mere courtesy caused a most improper flutter that she refused to examine too closely.
When Mr. Rothbury appeared from beneath the stone archway leading to the palazzo’s water entrance several minutes later, Venetia released a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. She’d been half convinced he might lose courage and dispatch some hastily scrawled excuse about an urgent translation.
Telling her lady’s maid she was ready, Venetia hurried from the palazzo, her heart thrilling at the nervous smile he offered.
Hedidhave feelings for her. He must.
After an initial exchange of somewhat awkward civilities, Venetia accepted his assistance into the waiting gondola, while her maid settled herself discreetly at the stern.
Rich burgundy velvet cushions lined the gondola’s seats, while an ornate canopy of midnight-blue silk provided shelter from curious eyes in palazzo windows above. Someone—Mr. Rothbury?—had arranged small luxuries: a crystal decanter of what appeared to be chilled wine, delicate Venetian glass goblets that caught the dancing light, and white roses whose perfume mingled with the salt-tinged air.
Oh, this was very promising indeed.
By this point, Venetia’s imagination had constructed approximately seventeen romantic scenarios. Perhaps Mr. Rothbury had determined to remain in Venice and wished ardently for a wife to share his scholarly pursuits. Perhaps he longed to return to England and desired a companion for that journey. She’d even entertained the possibility that his career required extensive travel, and he sought a hardy partner willing to accompany him to exotic Mediterranean postings.
All of these prospects, Venetia would embrace with rapturous—possibly unseemly—enthusiasm.
Yes, she was an heiress now, a woman of considerable fortune whose circumstances had been transformed beyond recognition. But wealth complicated romance in unforeseen ways. While she could never be entirely certain whether suitors were drawn to her person or her purse, a noble gentleman like Mr. Rothbury might not pursue an attachment for fear of being labeled a fortune hunter.
What a relief, then, that he’d apparently discarded those tiresome notions of honor!
