Venetia raised her eyebrows at the imperious tone and was taken aback by the girl’s breathtaking beauty.
And her vanity, it would appear, for the beetling look she received was more impatient than either grateful or admiring. “I daresay you’ll pass as myself as far as my father’s minions are concerned, watching from the tower as the gondola leaves the landing stage. But do carry yourself with a little more grace, or the game will be up, as I believe you English arewont to phrase it.”
You’re welcome for risking my reputation, by the way, Venetia thought with a surge of irritation.
“Now, the gondola is here. You must go with Caterina while I wait for a separate conveyance.”
The plan, as Sofia had outlined it, called for the gondola containing Venetia to follow a circuitous route through Venice’s quieter canals before depositing her at a predetermined location where Mr. Rothbury would be waiting. This elaborate choreography was designed to ensure that any observers—particularly Count Morosini—would witness what appeared to be Sofia’s routine journey to her music lesson.
Naturally, there was nothing to do but obey. With a nod, Venetia allowed herself to be assisted into the graceful watercraft, settling herself against the velvet-tasseled cushions while keeping her head bowed to minimize the risk of exposure.
The gondola’s route took them through some of Venice’s most enchanting backwaters, where narrow canals wound between palazzos whose foundations had been laid centuries before England’s Norman conquest. Laundry hung like colorful banners from wrought iron balconies, while the calls of street vendors echoed off ancient stone walls.
If Venetia’s heart hadn’t been beating so erratically, she might have enjoyed it more.
After some minutes navigating through this aquatic maze, the gondola approached the small, secluded landing stage Mr. Rothbury had designated, nestled between two crumbling palazzos that appeared to have been abandoned for decades. Tall weeds sprouted from cracks in the marble steps, while iron mooring posts bore the green patina of age and neglect.
It was precisely the sort of location her favorite author, Mrs. Radcliffe, might choose for clandestine meetings—sufficiently isolated to ensure privacy, yet accessible enough to serve as a rendezvous point.
Or the sort of place where one might be murdered and never found.
Venetia’s heart beat even harder as she waited in the gondola. Was Mr. Rothbury more of a romantic than she’d believed?
Might he have something to say to her that went beyond mere pleasantries?
Mollie and Mr. Rothbury soon appeared, the latter stepping forward to help Venetia onto the landing stage. “Miss Playford,” he said, his eyes wide with shock as his hand gripped hers, “your transformation is extraordinary.”
Venetia blushed. “I hope the resemblance was sufficient to serve Signorina Sofia’s purpose.”
“I’m sure it was.” The intensity of his gaze made her skin warm beneath the borrowed silk. For a moment, something flickered in his eyes—an expression she couldn’t quite decipher but which sent a delicious shiver down her spine.
Please say something romantic. Please.
“Though the resemblance is remarkable,” he said, “you remain entirely yourself, naturally, but the effect is quite…” He trailed off, clearly struggling with some internal conflict before saying more decisively, “Caterina will wait here with the gondola while we ensure sufficient time passes for Sofia’s purposes.”
With barely a glance in their direction, Caterina settled herself comfortably in the gondola’s shade, producing needlework from her reticule with the air of one who’d performed this duty many times before.
“Would you care to walk?” asked Mr. Rothbury, and at her nod, he led Venetia along a narrow walkway that skirted the edge of a particularly quiet canal, Mollie a few yards behind.
“I confess that I’ve been wrestling with considerable guilt regarding this entire enterprise,” Mr. Rothbury said, his words halting as they walked. “The more I consider the potential consequences—to you, to Sofia, to my own professional standing—the more concerned I become that I’ve exercised—” He stopped andturned to look at her. “Unconscionably poor judgment.”
Venetia stopped, too. “Yet you proceeded nonetheless.”
Because you wanted to spend time with me. Please say it’s because you wanted to spend time with me.
Even if they were exposed, she thought, she could think of far worse fates than being required by propriety to marry Mr. Rothbury.
For surely that’s what he was hinting at? Again, her heart performed another little lurch. Was this the moment?
“I suppose,” he said slowly, “that I’m not as immune to selfish desires as I’d believed myself to be. The prospect of spending these hours in your company proved more compelling than my better judgment could withstand.”
Venetia held her breath.
Oh. Oh, that was nearly a declaration.
The honesty in his admission hung between them like a bridge neither quite dared to cross. What could she say in response that would encourage him yet not appear overly eager?
“I feel exactly the same” seemed too forward. “How interesting” seemed too cold. Why was conversation so difficult?
