But it was Mr. Rothbury, alone, who had the power to make her heart feel… connected to another being.
She looked for a scholar’s black among the costumes. Was Mr. Rothbury going to attend? He’d been vague.
Embarrassed?
He was behind with his work, he said. Count Morosini’s friend, the reclusive marchese who, she’d learned, was the main instigator of the ambitious project to translate all of Sir Walter Scott’s Waverley novels was getting impatient and Edward was feeling the pinch.
Or, perhaps he was too busy contemplating the foreign posting he’d apparently received and which Miss Bentley had described with such relish.
Three years in Constantinople. Three years of not seeing Edward. Three years of dying inside.
The music washed over her while the floor seemed to tilt.
She felt a touch at her wrist—too familiar—and turned to find a tall Renaissance prince in black velvet and a gold mask. Not Edward. The stranger’s eyes lingered where eyes should not: at her throat, her tiara,her bracelet—as if tallying.
Oh, how tired she was of it all.
“You are melancholy,bella imperatrice,” he said in smooth English. “How can that be, when dressed in such magnificence?”
“Thank you for your concern, signor,” Venetia returned, barely considering the words as she stepped back to reclaim proper distance. “I fear I’m not much in the mood for festivities this evening.”
“Then you require the right companion.” He closed the distance by a fraction. “Do you not recognize me? I am Count di Montefiore.” He paused. “And you are far from alone. Miss Bentley admires you excessively, and Signorina Sofia speaks glowingly of your generosity.”
At Sofia’s name, a thread of cold pulled tight.
Sofia. Sofia knows this man? Why does that feel ominous?
“You know a great many people despite being so recently a stranger here,” Venetia said, not caring that her words sounded slighting.
“My letters of introduction were well received by Count Morosini. Subsequently, I’ve learned from the signorina herself of her desire to find a market for her talents.”
Her talents. What talents? Being vain and ungrateful? Oh yes… her painting.
Venetia inclined her head. “Then the signorina is fortunate.” What else could she say? She simply wanted to be gone.
“As am I to be enjoying these precious moments with one of the most beautiful women here tonight.” His gaze flicked again to the tiara. “So exquisitely fitting the role you play.”
“I beg you’ll excuse me.” Venetia took a step toward the canal-facing windows and the balcony beyond. She needed air.
And an escape route. Preferably one involving a gondola and immediate departure from Venice.
“But of course,” he said with exaggerated courtesy, though his dark eyes continued to study her when she glancedover her shoulder to ensure he wasn’t following.
Hunter’s eyes.
With relief, she slipped through a side entrance onto the marble balcony that overlooked the palazzo’s private garden.
And there she gave into her distress, alone with the sobs that wracked her. Would Edward really leave her for a lucrative posting in Constantinople?
“Forgive me.”
The voice made her spine straighten. English. Familiar. She turned slowly, her heart fluttering like a caged bird attempting escape.
Edward.
A figure in scholar’s black stood at the balcony entrance—simple robes, plain mask, but the voice that had just apologized was unmistakably Edward’s. He stepped forward, clearly wrestling with propriety.
“I saw you in distress, madam.” He swallowed visibly. “If you wish, I can find a friend. Lady Townsend is wonderfully kind.” He trailed off, the ethical puzzle of addressing a masked stranger warring with basic kindness.
