He offered his arm with exaggerated gallantry. “My dear Eugenia, I have never doubted it.”
Chapter Thirty-Four
The visit toLa Serafina would, Venetia told herself, be exactly what she needed. Her thoughts were in tatters, her body too restless to sit meekly in a drawing room and sip chocolate.
She would go with them, she said.
First, however, there was the small matter of a torn sleeve.
Her silver-gray evening gown—embroidered at the hem—had caught on a nail in the casa’s narrow stairwell. The rip at the wrist gaped accusingly every time she moved her hand. Madame Bertolini could fix it in minutes, so with a promise to Lady Townsend and Lord Thornton that she would be back in time to accompany them to La Serafina in the early afternoon, Venetia set out with Mollie.
The market near the Rialto was already in glorious chaos. Fishmongers shouted their wares over the slap of gutted fish on marble slabs; baskets of lemons glowed like small suns; bolts of striped cotton hung from stalls like the sails of ships. The air smelled of brine, crushed herbs, and humanity.
Venetia drew in the chilly morning air, hoping it would clear her head. Instead, every turn of the narrow lanes seemed to knot her thoughts further.
“Why, there is Mr. Rothbury!” Mollie exclaimed suddenly, clutching her arm as a barrow piled with cabbages lurched past them. “A handsome man he is, miss, though always soserious—” She gave a beatific sigh, adding, “except when he’s defending your honor, miss.”
Venetia’s heart gave a violent leap against her stays.
Edward.
She saw him at once: tall, hat brim low, leather satchel couched under his arm, moving with that purposeful stride she knew so well. A lock of hair had fallen over his brow. He looked tired. And beautiful. And entirely out of reach.
You should keep walking, a sensible voice in her head said.You are under orders. So is he. Be a good girl, Venetia, and go and have your sleeve mended.
Another voice—louder, wilder—cut in.This may be the only chance you have for days. Take it.
Count Morosini wanted to own Edward—body, mind, and time. Any association with Venetia threatened that ownership. To run to him, to draw attention to them both in the middle of the market, would not be kind.
But she could contrive a chance meeting.
She drifted toward a stall heaped with glass beads and cheap trinkets, leaning over as if examining them. If she turned at exactly the right moment, the press of bodies would hide the briefest of conversations.
That was all she wanted. Just a greeting. Just to be near him. She had not seen him since the stolen, glorious, disastrous kiss in the gondola.
Since Captain Rizzi’s outraged interruption.
For he made sure to leave before she was up, and to return after she had dined.
“Mr. Rothbury,” she said softly, turning with a smile that she tried—quite unsuccessfully—to temper. She felt it burst across her face, pure and unguarded.
“Miss Playford!” He stopped short. For an instant he did nothing but look at her, as if she were something he’d conjured from longing. Then he cast a quick, furtive glance around and, shielded by thecrowd, reached for her hands.
The warmth of his fingers closed around her gloved ones, solid and sure. Venetia stepped closer, as though the tide of Venetians had pushed her there, and let herself lean into him for a heartbeat—just long enough to feel the steady rise and fall of his chest—before she straightened and gave his hands a quick, answering squeeze.
“I have missed you so dreadfully,” she said under her breath. “Why do I never see you anymore?”
Color flared along his throat and up into his cheeks. Guilt, pain, and longing chased across his face in quick succession.
“You know,” he said quietly, “how much it costs me to leave before you are awake and return when you have retired.” His voice roughened. “But you also know I have no choice.”
“Because your first obligation is to your employer?” she asked, trying—and failing—to keep the hurt from her tone.
“My first obligation,” he murmured, his grip tightening fractionally, “is to you, my dearest Venetia. That is precisely the difficulty. You know we are both in an impossible position. Count Morosini will guarantee your protection only so long as I remain his perfectly obedient translator. I am in service to a demanding taskmaster. He wishes to read the ending ofIvanhoein his own tongue faster than I can reasonably provide it.”
A rueful smile twisted his mouth. “It is a curious irony to work for a man whose sole delight appears to be the exaltation of high romance on the page, while he has not the slightest regard for the real romance unfolding under his nose.”
“Do you refer to his granddaughter Sofia…” Venetia asked, boldness pricking at her, “or to us?”
