Pride. Honor. Noble restraint. Why must men make everything so unnecessarily complicated?
“There, miss,” Mollie said, securing the final pin in Venetia’s elaborate coiffure with a flourish. “You look a proper picture. Like one of them fine ladies in the paintings at the Doge’s Palace.”
Venetia studied her reflection in the ornate mirror, scarcely recognizing the elegant young woman who gazed back at her with uncertain eyes. How peculiar that outward transformation could occur with such rapidity, while inwardly she remained the same diffident girl who’d trembled beneath her aunt’s dissatisfied scrutiny.
“Thank you, Mollie,” she said softly. “That will be all for now.”
She rose, smoothing the silk of her gown with gloved hands. Mr. Rothbury was merely one gentleman among many in this city of romance and intrigue.
Perhaps it was time to look forward rather than backward. To embrace the liberty her fortune had bestowed and seek happiness on her own terms, in this city where the very air seemed perfumed with possibility.
*
Edward drew thecandelabra closer. The Conte Morosini’s obsession with the novels of Sir Walter Scott seemed to havegathered steam since Edward’s first few translated chapters had made it into his hands.
He tried to force himself to concentrate on his work, but the memory of Miss Playford’s smile was too distracting.
With a sigh, Edward rested his head in his hands, the Italian text momentarily forgotten. He was fatigued, certainly, but even more keenly, he was famished. And it was, he knew from experience, exceedingly difficult to render accurate translations when one’s stomach demanded satisfaction with such persistent insistence.
The memory of Miss Playford—not as she appeared today in all her finery, but as he’d first known her, a quiet child with serious eyes and a gentle smile—rose unbidden in his mind. He’d been but fourteen to her eight, already preparing for his naval career while she played quietly with her dolls in the corner of her father’s study during his visits, with his father, to Mr. Playford’s estate. Even then, there had been something singular about her—a thoughtfulness beyond her years.
He remembered gifting her a small volume of fairy tales, illustrated with colored plates depicting knights and princesses. The radiance of her smile had warmed him, and, not having siblings, he’d thought of her often during his years at sea—wondering what had become of the solemn child with the luminous smile.
When fate had brought them together last year, he’d scarcely recognized her—though some essential quality remained unchanged beneath the weight of her aunt’s oppression. And now, transformed once more by the magic of unexpected fortune…
Was she still, at her core, the same Venetia? Or had wealth corroded what had been most precious in her nature?
Edward shook his head sharply, forcing his attention back to the work before him. Such ruminations were fruitless and, worse still, entirely inappropriate. Miss Playford was now one of the wealthiest heiresses in England.
And he, by contrast, was a scholar of modest means, dependentupon his own industry for advancement.
The gulf between them had grown too vast to bridge—that much was indisputable. And yet…
Chapter Three
Two days later,Venetia had decided that Mr. Rothbury’s avoidance would not spoil her Venetian sojourn—any more than a spot of rain spoils a sprigged muslin. She smiled dutifully through luncheon and dinner and even survived Miss Catherine Bentley’s dissertation on Venetian arches. (Miss Bentley knew a great many arches, each more magnificent than the last.)
Lady Townsend, meanwhile, was clearly determined to ensure that Venetia expand her social horizons.
At the Contessa Barbarigo’s rout, she’d introduced her to six eligible gentlemen of varying charm and solvency. Venetia had danced until her toes ached and her tongue felt tied in knots as she conversed in her mediocre—but rapidly improving—Italian.
Oh, she’d been studying hard.
Now, with a night’s reflection, she’d nearly convinced herself that Mr. Rothbury’s indifference need not cast a shadow over her visit to Venice.
Nearly. Almost. Not quite. But nearly.
She would follow Lady Townsend’s unspoken advice and cast her net wider—ideally somewhere with less dancing requiring her to be on display—and more books.
The endless social whirl was not the answer. If her visit to Venice was to help her look further afield for love, she’d obviously made awrong side step. She wanted a husband and children.
Wealth bought carriages and emeralds, not true love. She still wanted the old-fashioned things: a husband who liked her before he tallied up her accounts. And she wanted a nursery filled with laughter.
But perhaps she was going about it the wrong way.
Ensconced at the water-salon escritoire, her quill hovered over a sheet of creamy vellum. A drop of ink plopped onto the margin and made up her mind for her: She would write cheerfully to Caroline and keep the dramatic references of her favorite novelist, Mrs. Radcliffe, to a minimum. Venetia had kept her temperament under control for so many years now, she couldn’t afford to let her guard down and spiral into the sometimes-extreme responses to matters beyond her control that had led Aunt Pike to incarcerate her in a dark cupboard for days.
“Venetia, am I interrupting a masterpiece?” Lady Townsend appeared in the doorway, looking elegant in a pale-blue pelisse. “Come and tell me about last night. I saw you were popular with many of the contessa’s gentlemen guests, yet I gather none of them took your fancy.” Her eyes twinkled as she added, “I wonder if that is because there was someone special—who was not there.”
