Thornton smiled indulgently. “It was not so long ago, Eugenia, that you were certain our penniless Miss Playford was the ideal marriage partner for young Henry Ashton. You helped push them together before their real feelings were made known, and Henry pledged his troth to Caroline. You had to concede you were wrong in that instance, and I believe you are wrong if you believe Miss Playford and Mr. Rothbury are suited.”
“Well, in pushing for a match between Miss Playford and Henry, I’ve come to know the young lady’s temperament much better as a result,” Eugenia replied, trying not to sound defensive. “And she has changed greatly in that money has given her safety and confidence… but it has not changed the way her heart beats. Believe me, Thornton, I saw real hope and feeling in her eyes when she beheld Mr. Rothbury. He was like a haven to her. Besides, you can’t forget that he was the one who rescued her from being whisked off unwillingly by Lord Windermere.”
“Only by delivering—in a timely fashion—the unassailable fact that she had come into money. He was the messenger only,” Thornton countered, his eyes twinkling with the familiar light offriendly debate.
Eugenia allowed herself an exasperated sigh. “You speak as if hearts do not hold sway over heads, and that is not true. No, Thornton, you are wrong. The pair of them would make each other very happy—”
“I don’t discount that. But at the very least, Rothbury’s pride will stand in the way. To be considered a fortune hunter by offering for Miss Playford is more than his honor will bear.”
“…and if you will humor me one more time, I will stake myPersephoneon it,” said Eugenia.
Thornton’s eyes danced. “Madam, you have already won your magnificent painting—”
“And in truth, you won it back,” Eugenia said serenely. “This is my opportunity to have it on my wall where it belongs.”
He laughed. “Very well. If love triumphs, the painting will be hung where it belongs, even if temporarily.”
“Nothing about love is temporary,” Eugenia said, with an arch look.
Chapter Two
“Would miss likethe blue silk or the cream muslin this evening?” asked Mollie, displaying both lovely creations.
Venetia hesitated. The blue suggested regal confidence. The cream was more girlish but charming and safe.
She ran a finger over the blue’s embroidery. Imagine—such gowns in her wardrobe were now as commonplace as the browns and grays she’d once thought permanent.
“The sapphire would flatter you, miss,” Mollie ventured, “and it won’t show when a gondolier splashes.”
Venetia smiled despite herself. “How practical of you.”
“I’m practical and devoted to seeing you appear at your best, miss.” Mollie smiled, then hesitated before adding, “You’re very brave, miss.”
Venetia swallowed, smiling her thanks as she recalled the reason she was here. Following her unexpected elevation to heiress, London had brought nothing but stress and anxiety.
The final straw had been the Marchioness of Hartley—audible for three rooms—who’d declared Venetia “too provincial to keep a fortune a twelvemonth.” Venetia had thought herself heroic by not dropping her teacup. Then she’d slipped away on the next packet to try to find the only person who’d ever offered genuine kindness: Lady Townsend.
And within mere minutes of locating that good lady, she’d come face to face with the one man who set her heart racing with the most improper palpitations: Mr. Edward Rothbury.
What were the odds? Venice contained approximately 60,000 people, and she’d walked straight into the one person she most hoped—and most feared—to see.
But he’d made it abundantly clear that whatever regard he might once have held for her was now extinguished. At first, she’d imagined she’d glimpsed a flash of genuine delight illuminating his features when his eyes met hers across Lady Townsend’s water salon.
He’d looked pleased—and then very determinedly he’d chosen not to join them for dinner. Since then, his manners had been scrupulous, his distance exemplary, and his timing—whenever she’d entered a room during the two days since she’d taken up residence there—remarkably educational.
“The blue, I think,” Venetia said with sudden decisiveness. If Mr. Rothbury was determined to treat her with such cool detachment, she would at least present herself to her utmost advantage while enduring it. “And the sapphire pendant that matches. The one with the diamond surround.”
Mollie lowered her voice. “Begging your pardon, miss, but after what befell the Countess Barbarigo’s rubies… they say there’s a thief about who fancies the English style of valuables.”
“Then he shall be disappointed,” Venetia said. “We won’t let a rumor rearrange our wardrobe.”
Mollie pursed her lips, failing to hide a spark of admiration. “Very good, miss. You don’t let nothing scare you, do you?”
Smiling, she began to arrange her mistress’s hair in the latest Parisian style while Venetia’s thoughts returned to Mr. Rothbury. What occupation claimed his attention at this very moment? Working on his translations, no doubt, his brow furrowed in concentration as he bent over ancient texts in the flickering candlelight of his chamber.
She recalled with painful clarity his arrival on horseback a year ago, just as Lord Windermere was about to seal her fate by forcing her into Lady Townsend’s hot-air balloon. For one breathless, heart-stopping moment, she’d thought he’d come for her—not as a messenger of news, but as a man staking his claim. Then he’d announced her inheritance, and everything had changed in an instant.
Was that why he maintained such distance now? Did he believe her character fundamentally altered by her newfound wealth? Or was it his own pride that erected an insurmountable barrier between them?
