“You mean to say that you… deliberately closed your heart against the possibility of love?” Venetia asked.
“The gentleman I loved married one of my dearest friends,” Eugenia said, almost lightly—as if she were reciting words well-rehearsed. “I mistook kindness for interest. I learned to be wary—to my detriment.”
Venetia blinked. “Truly?” She could scarcely contain her astonishment. She’d long assumed that Lady Townsend, with her considerable fortune and secure footing on society’s ladder, could have had her choice of husbands, had she wished to marry. “But surely you must have been obliged to fend off numerous fortune hunters over the years?”
“Oh, fortune hunters… I could pick them a mile away!” the older woman declared lightly. “I could see them calculating the artwork before they even looked at me. No, thankfully, none pursued me with the ruthless determination that Lord Windermere displayed in his pursuit of you. As for that gentleman,” Lady Townsend went on, brighter, “reliable intelligence has him posted to Constantinople as an attaché. I hear he left a fortnight ago and will be gone for at least two years.”
Venetia exhaled. “An attaché? As long as he’s not attaching himself to me, then I’m happy.”
“You wish to marry? Excellent. Let us talk about that!” Lady Townsend clapped her hands. “You have everything requisite—looks, kindness, and—” she hesitated “—an unpredictable streak. I’ve seen signs of it, yes. Well, that, together with your courage, is a good start.”
Lady Townsend’s gaze drifted meaningfully toward the doorway of the water salon, which was suddenly filled by a tall figure.
Venetia knew that particular breadth of shoulder before her heart had time to behave. Mr. Rothbury bowed—slightly too low—and, in rising, she saw the edge of his cuff was again streaked with ink. His gaze flicked to Venetia, warmed—just for a breath—and then he recollected himself.
There. That warmth. I didn’t imagine it, did I?
“Forgive the intrusion,” he murmured, and retreated with the speed of a man who’d remembered an appointment with a dictionary, Venetia thought with despair.
Eugenia’s smile turned positively conspiratorial. “My dear Venetia,” she said, “I told you I could spot a fortune hunter a mile away—” she gripped Venetia’s wrist and gave it a squeeze “—as well as I can spot a man in love.”
Oh.
Chapter Four
Edward had cometo Venice the previous year determined to throw himself into Italian translating in order to rid his mind of impossible thoughts.
Thoughts like the way Miss Playford had looked at him when he’d ridden his black stallion into the crowd at Lady Townsend’s Comet Viewing. The news he had brought had not only saved her from a life sentence as the wife of odious Lord Windermere, it had given her unimaginable freedom.
Freedom to find a husband worthy of her elevated status.
Not a man like himself.
Yet again, he told himself—firmly—that he was here in Conte Morosini’s library to translate, not to be distracted by its beautiful surroundings or—more aptly—to twist his mind in knots over Miss Playford. Then his stomach, perfectly unhelpful, reminded him that admiration and twisting his mind in knots stimulated appetite.
He gave himself a mental shake. Heart matters would have to wait; Count Morosini’s commas could not. Edward was proud of his work—his Italian mother had gifted him the music of the language; the count supplied everything else.
As he immersed himself inIvanhoein a library designed to uplift the soul with a window view of a fountain performing for his own entertainment, he’d finally stilled his restless mind when a small,delicate cough interrupted his battle with a tricky sentence.
Not the count—too airy for that. Possibly a maid? Another cough followed, a touch theatrical, as if someone were practicing being discovered.
“Oh dear, you look positively fearsome when you frown so,” a feminine voice floated down from the shadowed gallery—in perfect English with a lilting Italian music to it.
He drew back, shocked, as he searched for the speaker. A child?
“Please don’t inform my grandfather I said so,” the voice added cheerfully. “He would confine me to my chambers, and I’ve been exceptionally well-behaved for nearly eleven minutes.”
“Your grandfather is Count Morosini?” Edward rose.
“My only relative,” came the reply—and a girl of eighteen or nineteen stepped into a shaft of sun, golden curls artfully arranged, and a pair of sparkling brown eyes that regarded him above a smile full of mischief. For one disorienting heartbeat, she was the echo of another golden head. Edward tried to banish his imagination before it performed any more tricks.
“Your grandfather is Count Morosini?” Edward repeated, concern rising to the fore. “He has made no mention of a granddaughter, though I have been visiting this palazzo for the better part of eight months.”
“My grandfather prefers not to acknowledge my existence to those beyond our immediate household,” said the young woman with a hint of a smile. “He harbors the antiquated notion that young ladies should remain invisible until they are formally presented to society.”
Edward offered a respectful bow, belatedly recalling his manners. “Edward Rothbury, at your service, signorina. I have the honor of serving as translator to your esteemed grandfather.”
“And I am Signorina Sofia Morosini,” she replied. “A pleasure to make your acquaintance, Signor Rothbury. You are a hard worker. I have observed you over many days.”
