Chapter Two
“Would miss like the 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?
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 the candelabra closer. The Conte Morosini’s obsession with the novels of Sir Walter Scott seemed to have gathered 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, dependent upon his own industry for advancement.
The gulf between them had grown too vast to bridge—that much was indisputable. And yet…