But he merely nodded, not making eye contact as he said to Mollie, “Look after your mistress. She had something of a fright this afternoon, and the shock may be delayed. Perhaps a soothing posset would be in order.”
A posset. He’s prescribing a soothing posset?
And then he was gone, and Venetia was back in the gondola, heading toward the palazzo where she knew she’d be received with eager excitement by Lady Townsend, who’d quiz her on every word spoken and meaningful glance shared.
But what could she tell her?
That her heart belonged more than ever to brave, handsome, gallant Mr. Rothbury.
But that he was further away than ever?
Chapter Fifteen
Edward endured afitful sleep that night.
His precious time yesterday with Venetia had been on the cusp of promising something deeper than the genial friendship they’d hitherto enjoyed. She’d tried to speak to him of what was in her heart and, indeed, he was about to let her.
For why should his misplaced honor stand in the way of their happiness? If she believed he was worthy of her, he’d be a fool to persuade her otherwise.
A fool. Which, frankly, he’d been acting like for months now.
The violent encounter with the footpads had truncated talk of love and affection—a conversation just resurrected before the well-meaning Signor Benedetti had ruined everything with his recognition of Edward’s true identity.
Yet, on reflection, he realized this had been his unexpected salvation.
For, as Miss Playford had uttered those heartfelt words indicating the depth of her feeling, his susceptible heart had answered.
Dangerous!
What would he have answered had his response not been cut short by the arrival of the ruffians but, more importantly, by Signor Benedetti? The gentleman’s recollections of Edward’s mother had been a salient reminder that memories were long, and his mother wasfar from forgotten in these parts.
Which only bore up how long some memories would prove to be if he were to announce to English society—much less Italian—that he, Signor Edward Rothbury, was to wed one of England’s most substantial heiresses.
Not only would this set tongues wagging, it would not be long before the truth was laid bare for all to judge. Was Mr. Edward Rothbury, with such a stain upon his reputation—the illegitimate son of an Italian opera singer—worthy to be the husband of one so untainted and elevated as Miss Playford?
With a groan, he pressed his fingertips against his temples, willing away the persistent ache that had plagued him since yesterday’s encounter with Venice’s less savory elements.
The bruising along his shoulder had deepened overnight to an impressive palette of purple and yellow, though that was nothing compared with the vulnerability and dangerous territory his heart had led him into.
Returning to Scott’s prose, he tried to rid his mind of Venetia’s lovely image, but the passage describing Ivanhoe’s internal conflict between duty and desire only led Edward back to those precious moments when Venetia had cradled his head in her lap, her voice breaking as she spoke words that had shattered every careful barrier he’d constructed around his heart.
“I would rather be poor again with a man I love than rich and miserable with someone chosen for his bloodline or bank account.”
She’d spoken with such passionate sincerity, such complete disregard for the conventions that governed their world, that for a brief, shining moment he’d almost believed their love might indeed conquer all obstacles.
Almost. Before reality and common sense reasserted themselves with its usual impeccable timing.
Edward stared down at the manuscript before him, seeing not Scott’s carefully crafted sentences but the imageof Venetia’s face transformed by borrowed finery. Even disguised as Sofia, the essence of her goodness had shone through.
Her goodness and her naivete.
How could he have been so foolish as to imagine, even for a moment, that such a woman could find lasting happiness with a man whose greatest achievement was his facility with foreign languages? Venetia might speak of preferring love over luxury, but she’d never truly experienced poverty’s grinding humiliations.
Unlike his mother, who’d chosen love and—according to Benedetti’s rapturous account—abandoned everything. Which had worked out… he paused… actually, it had worked out reasonably well until the fever that had taken her life when he’d been a boy. But that wasn’t the point.
At the sound of approaching footsteps in the marble corridor outside the library, Edward straightened in his chair, hastily arranging his features into an expression of scholarly concentration. Count Morosini rarely visited the library during Edward’s working hours, preferring to review completed translations in the comfort of his private study. The elderly nobleman’s unexpected appearance this morning was therefore both surprising and somewhat concerning.
“Ah, my dear Rothbury,” the count said as he entered the magnificent room. “I hope I’m not disturbing your scholarly endeavors?”
