Chapter Six
Edward sighed as he flexed his right hand, the joints protesting after hours hunched over his translation work.
The light slanting through the library’s tall windows had shifted considerably since he’d begun the morning’s pages of Ivanhoe—Sir Walter’s tale of a disinherited knight and his impossible love for the wealthy Rowena.
Rising from his chair, Edward paced the magnificent library, acknowledging ruefully that bodies required attention no matter how absorbed the mind became in scholarly pursuits.
Even more ruefully, he acknowledged that no matter how diligently he labored, he would never achieve the social standing necessary to honorably offer marriage to Miss Playford.
The fact that she now resided in the very same palazzo—that he might encounter her daily if he wished—was nothing short of exquisite torture.
Before he’d ridden to the rescue at Lady Townsend’s Comet Viewing extravaganza with the news that Miss Playford was now an heiress, he truly had still harbored hopes.
With a surge of despair, he ran his hand across his brow as he recalled what else he’d discovered amongst his father’s papers—not pertaining to the happily elevated Miss Playford… but to himself.
What a mixed blessing it had been to have involved himself in the young woman’s affairs.
In discovering the evidence to provide freedom to Miss Playford, he’d discovered evidence that showed how truly beneath her he was.
He knew the sensible course would be to banish her from his thoughts entirely.
His heart yearned for a loving partner. A wife and a family. And Miss Playford was the epitome of his greatest dreams.
But that could never be.
So, if he wished to marry, logic dictated he should involve himself more extensively in Venice’s social circles, where he might encounter a worthy young woman whose modest expectations aligned with what his salary could provide.
The trouble was, his heart possessed no appetite whatsoever for rational arrangements.
“Did you speak to your kind, dear friend as you promised?”
Edward turned sharply at the lilting voice. “Signorina Sofia! You gave me your word you would not enter this library while I worked alone.”
“Grandfather has gone to inspect his vineyards,” Sofia replied, waving this minor detail away as she stepped into the sunlight streaming through the Gothic windows.
“He won’t return until tomorrow evening, and the servants have strict instructions not to disturb your scholarly endeavors.
Besides, what harm is there in a brief conversation? ”
Sofia glided through the dappled light, which caught the jeweled pins in her elaborate golden coiffure, sending tiny rainbows dancing across the mahogany shelves. There was no doubt she was supremely aware of the power of her beauty.
So different, he thought, from Miss Playford, whose looks were equally exquisite, and yet she carried herself as if she were completely unaware of the fact.
Sofia perched herself on the edge of Edward’s desk with complete disregard for the scattered papers beneath her silk-clad form, her look calculating.
“If you can assure me you’ve spoken to her, I shall leave you in peace,” she said, toying with an escaped curl.
Edward struggled to maintain an even tone. “I am to speak with her this very afternoon. You are exceedingly impatient.”
Swinging her silk-slippered feet with the insouciance of a child, she smiled. “Your conversation with this kind lady is all that stands between me and blessed union with my Paolo. Of course I’m impatient.”
“She may very well decline to assist you.” While Edward had initially viewed Sofia’s request as a wonderful excuse for seeking Venetia’s company, he’d since developed second, third, and approximately seventeenth thoughts.
How could he ask such an honorable young woman to participate in a deliberate deception?
Why should her superficial resemblance to Sofia constitute grounds for involving her in romantic subterfuge?
What indeed had possessed him to consider such a scheme?
The answer was painfully evident: Love transformed even the most rational gentleman into a complete fool.
He flexed his wrist and winced. If Count Morosini ever discovered Edward’s complicity in this affair, he would certainly forfeit his lucrative position. Possibly also his kneecaps.
“But you declared her the kindest young lady of your acquaintance,” Sofia pressed, slipping down from the desk to move closer.
Her perfume—jasmine and orange blossom—created an invisible cloud between them.
“You said she possessed an instinctive sympathy for noble causes. Surely no cause could be more virtuous than uniting two hearts that beat as one?”
Edward angled himself backward. The girl was alarmingly adept at invading personal space.
“Such an undertaking would pose considerable risk to her reputation, significant danger to my career, and—most critically—grave peril to your own future, signorina. I begin to think I was exceedingly foolish to entertain your proposal. You possess a remarkable talent for bending gentlemen to your will—just as you’ve obviously managed with your Paolo. ”
Sofia’s lower lip trembled with theatrical skill.
“But Signor Edward, you cannot comprehend the desperation of my circumstances! Grandfather is about to begin negotiations for my betrothal—to that detestable Conte Bembo, who is not only old enough to be my grandfather but has the breath of a Venetian fish market!” She dabbed at her eyes.
“Paolo and I have mere weeks—perhaps only days—before Grandfather announces my engagement publicly. How do you think I enjoy being bartered like livestock?”
Despite his better judgment, Edward felt his resolve wavering. “Even so, I cannot in good conscience ask Miss Playford to—”
“You could frame it as Christian charity,” Sofia interrupted, her tears miraculously ceasing as she seized upon his hesitation.
“Inform her I’m desperately unhappy, that my heart will shatter without this single afternoon of stolen joy with my beloved.
Surely a lady of such compassion wouldn’t refuse a fellow woman in dire distress? ”
“You’re asking me to exploit her generous nature,” Edward said, though he could hear his objection losing steam.
“I’m asking you to appeal to her better angels,” Sofia countered with silken persuasion. “And consider this, signor—if you’re artful, such a request could provide entirely legitimate grounds for spending an afternoon in her delightful company.”
Edward stiffened. “That would play no role in my—”
“Naturally not,” Sofia agreed with utterly false innocence, though her knowing smile suggested complete comprehension of his true motivations. “But surely the prospect of such agreeable companionship might render the small deception more… tolerable?”
Edward closed his eyes, immediately conjuring Venetia’s gentle smile, her musical laugh. Would he not risk everything for the privilege of her company?
Yes, he would.
“You know,” Sofia continued, moving to examine the manuscript pages scattered across Edward’s desk, “I’m quite entranced by your translation.
Poor Rowena—” She sighed, trailing her finger along the manuscript’s edge.
“Born to wealth and station, yet her heart belongs to a man society deems unworthy of her elevated position. And noble Ivanhoe—stripped of his inheritance, possessing nothing but his honor and his love, yet convinced that honor itself prevents him from declaring his feelings.”
The parallels hit Edward with the subtlety of a Venetian gondola to the face.
“How tragic that pride and circumstance should keep two souls apart when their hearts beat in perfect harmony,” she mused, glancing up at him.
“Of course, in Sir Walter’s tale, external forces eventually unite the lovers.
But in life…” She shrugged delicately. “In life, sometimes one must create one’s own opportunities for happiness, must one not? ”
Edward remained silent, though his brain was shouting rather loudly.
Was he not exactly like Scott’s Ivanhoe—a man of honor but modest means, loving a woman whose fortune placed her beyond his reach?
And was Venetia not like Rowena—wealthy, elevated, yet possessed of a heart that might, perhaps, beat for him if circumstances permitted?
“I’ve often wondered,” Sofia continued with diabolical insight, “whether Ivanhoe’s rigid adherence to the chivalric code was truly noble, or merely cowardice disguised as virtue. After all, by refusing to speak his heart, did he not risk losing Rowena forever to a more pragmatic suitor?”
The question hung in the air while Edward contemplated the devastating possibility that his own principles might be costing him the only happiness he’d ever desired.
Also, when had this eighteen-year-old girl become a philosopher? It was deeply unsettling.
“If you truly cannot bring yourself to assist me,” Sofia said, her voice returning to its earlier whisper, “then I shall be obliged to find another method of being with my Paolo. Of course, when Grandfather discovers my absence and searches the city…”
Edward’s attention snapped back to her. “You would not dare.”
“What alternative would you leave me?” Sofia turned from the window, her expression one of tragic determination—though Edward was beginning to suspect she’d practiced it in front of a mirror.
“At least with your plan, Grandfather would believe me safely engaged in musical instruction. He might not discover my absence at all. But if I simply vanish from the palazzo…” She allowed the sinister implication to resonate.
Edward sank into his chair. The girl was far more cunning than he’d initially credited. She’d maneuvered him into a position where refusing her assistance seemed almost cruel—and where helping her offered the one thing he desired most desperately in the world.
Moreover, her observations regarding Ivanhoe had struck with precision at his deepest fears.
Was he not guilty of the same prideful cowardice that nearly cost Scott’s hero his happiness?
By maintaining rigid adherence to propriety, was he not risking the loss of Venetia’s affections to some more audacious suitor—perhaps one of those Italian counts Lady Townsend seemed so eager to parade before her?
Could it be possible he was exaggerating his deficiencies?
“You are a most dangerous young woman, signorina,” he said at last.
Sofia’s smile blazed with triumphant satisfaction. “I’m merely a woman in love, signor. Surely you, of all gentlemen, understand such feelings?”
Edward stared at her for a long moment, recognizing when he’d been thoroughly outmaneuvered. “Very well. I will present your request to Miss Playford. But I make no promises regarding her response.”
Sofia clapped her hands together delightedly. “Oh, Signor Edward! You are the kindest, most reasonable gentleman in all of Venice!”
“I’m a fool,” Edward muttered, already dreading the conversation ahead while simultaneously anticipating it with shameful—and, he had to admit, rather exciting—eagerness.