The logic of her argument, combined with the genuine talent evident in the painting and her obvious passion for this unseen Paolo, began to erode Edward’s resistance. What harm could there be in helping this spirited young woman escape a loveless marriage to a man likely old enough to be her father?
Watching him, Sofia added with remarkable insight, “Perhaps you yourself have experienced the frustration of loving someone whom circumstances have placed beyond yourreach? Or the pain of maintaining silence when every fiber of your being cries out to declare itself?”
The words struck uncomfortably close to Edward’s own situation with regard to Venetia Playford. Had his feelings been so transparent that even this young stranger could divine them? Or was it merely a fortunate conjecture based on his age and unmarried state?
Sofia pressed her advantage. “All I ask is that you take this painting and attempt to sell it on my behalf. I have several more completed works that might interest potential buyers. If you could secure prices similar to what my previous paintings fetched, Paolo and I would soon have sufficient resources to begin our life together.”
Edward was torn. The painting was genuinely excellent—worth considerably more than whatever modest sum she had previously received. And the thought of facilitating a union based on genuine affection rather than financial calculation appealed to the romantic sensibility he typically kept carefully concealed beneath his natural reserve.
However, his position would be tenuous if the count discovered his collusion.
Nevertheless, he heard himself say, “Very well,” though a voice of caution continued to sound faintly in the back of his mind.
Chapter Five
Afortnight hadelapsed since Venetia’s arrival in Venice, and during that interval, her encounters with Mr. Rothbury had been little more than fleeting exchanges in the palazzo’s grand entrance hall. He was too engaged with translating the works of Sir Walter Scott into Italian to spare a thought for Venetia, it would appear.
But she would make him attend to her—given the chance.
“Ivanhoeis my particular favorite among Sir Walter’s works,” Venetia told her elderly English friends, during a rare occasion that Mr. Rothbury was in attendance.
But although she saw his eyes flash with interest, he remained silent.
A fact which might have accounted for the change of direction taken by Lady Townsend and Lord Thornton in their apparent matchmaking efforts.
Had they given Mr. Rothbury up as a lost cause? Did they no longer believe his regard for her was either sincere or lasting?
Indeed, their sudden enthusiasm for introducing her to the most eligible gentlemen of Venice came to border on the excessive, she decided a week later.
“The Conte di Valmarana possesses extensive vineyards in the Veneto region, with an ancestral palazzo that boasts no fewer than twenty-seven reception rooms,” Miss Bentley had informed her onlythe previous evening, steering Venetia toward a tall, elegantly attired gentleman who seemed far more interested in her altered status as an English heiress than with anything above her neckline.
Venetia had dutifully admired his cravat while he catalogued his property holdings with the enthusiasm most men reserved for discussing their favorite horses. Property holdings no doubt greatly in need of an injection of English funds.
Lady Townsend, not to be outdone, had then maneuvered her into the path of the charming but positively Methuselah-like Marchese di San Pietro. This gentleman owned half a small island in the lagoon, Lady Townsend had whispered breathlessly, as if this might compensate for the fact that he appeared to have been present at the island’s original formation.
Even Lord Thornton had joined the campaign, though his contributions—a parade of earnest English gentlemen who blushed at her slightest smile—suggested he’d mistaken “eligible” for “terrified of women.”
By week’s end, Venetia had seriously considered compiling a ledger:Suitors Met,Reception Rooms Owned, andApparent Interest in My Actual Personality(this column remained depressingly blank).
The social whirl continued.
Several days later, she’d been momentarily charmed by the enthusiastic discourse of Signor Baretti (whose family, she had been informed, owned extensive shipping interests throughout the Mediterranean) and intrigued by the smoldering glances of the handsome Conte Grimani, Venetia still found Mr. Rothbury’s measured responses and thoughtful observations vastly more to her taste.
Now, unexpectedly, Mr. Rothbury had joined their English friends for tea in the water salon, and was saying, “Ivanhoeis indeed a remarkable work. I’ve developed an even greater appreciation for its nuances while translating it for Count Morosini.”
His voice sent an involuntary shiver down Venetia’s spine. She wished he’d look at her.
“Curiously enough, it’s also the count’s granddaughter’s favorite among all Sir Walter’s novels.”
How ungratifying.
“Which constitutes yet another point of similarity between you and that young lady,” Mr. Rothbury continued, apparently oblivious to the sudden chill in the room that only Venetia seemed to feel. “For, like you, she has golden hair and a daintiness about her that quite brings you to mind.”
Venetia’s teacup paused halfway to her lips. Was he truly comparing her to another woman? At tea? Had the man learned nothing about self-preservation during his naval career?
“I wonder if you’ve had occasion to make her acquaintance since her recent introduction to society?” He leaned forward earnestly. “Though I understand her movements are rather strictly circumscribed by her grandfather’s antiquated notions of propriety.”
“How terribly unfortunate for her,” Venetia replied through gritted teeth. “And what glorious weather we’ve been having, have we not?”
