Chapter Seven
At three o’clock the following afternoon, Venetia stood at the elegant casement windows of the casa’s principal drawing room, her gaze scanning the narrow canal below with the intensity of a naval officer watching for enemy ships.
Could this truly be the moment? An honest declaration of Mr. Rothbury’s sentiments?
The warmth in his tone yesterday had been unmistakable—or so she fervently hoped.
Her tendency to misinterpret male attention was, admittedly, not well-documented, given her limited experience. But surely she couldn’t be that wrong?
Her heart—and, she acknowledged with considerable discomfort, certain other parts of her anatomy—had responded to his proximity yesterday with embarrassing enthusiasm.
The very thought of his hands touching hers with deliberate intent rather than mere courtesy caused a most improper flutter that she refused to examine too closely.
When Mr. Rothbury appeared from beneath the stone archway leading to the palazzo’s water entrance several minutes later, Venetia released a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding.
She’d been half convinced he might lose courage and dispatch some hastily scrawled excuse about an urgent translation.
Telling her lady’s maid she was ready, Venetia hurried from the palazzo, her heart thrilling at the nervous smile he offered.
He did have feelings for her. He must.
After an initial exchange of somewhat awkward civilities, Venetia accepted his assistance into the waiting gondola, while her maid settled herself discreetly at the stern.
Rich burgundy velvet cushions lined the gondola’s seats, while an ornate canopy of midnight-blue silk provided shelter from curious eyes in palazzo windows above.
Someone—Mr. Rothbury?—had arranged small luxuries: a crystal decanter of what appeared to be chilled wine, delicate Venetian glass goblets that caught the dancing light, and white roses whose perfume mingled with the salt-tinged air.
Oh, this was very promising indeed.
By this point, Venetia’s imagination had constructed approximately seventeen romantic scenarios.
Perhaps Mr. Rothbury had determined to remain in Venice and wished ardently for a wife to share his scholarly pursuits.
Perhaps he longed to return to England and desired a companion for that journey.
She’d even entertained the possibility that his career required extensive travel, and he sought a hardy partner willing to accompany him to exotic Mediterranean postings.
All of these prospects, Venetia would embrace with rapturous—possibly unseemly—enthusiasm.
Yes, she was an heiress now, a woman of considerable fortune whose circumstances had been transformed beyond recognition.
But wealth complicated romance in unforeseen ways.
While she could never be entirely certain whether suitors were drawn to her person or her purse, a noble gentleman like Mr. Rothbury might not pursue an attachment for fear of being labeled a fortune hunter.
What a relief, then, that he’d apparently discarded those tiresome notions of honor!
Seated beside him in the gondola’s intimate confines—with her maid positioned far enough away to preserve propriety but not so close as to actually hear anything—conversation turned to childhood, family tragedy, and the subsequent trials under Aunt Pike’s guardianship.
The gondola glided through narrow canals flanked by palazzos whose weathered marble facades rose directly from emerald-tinted water.
Venetia closed her eyes briefly, savoring the cooling breeze and distant church bells. “To speak freely of both the joys of my childhood and the challenges under Aunt Pike creates such a sense of… connection.”
She’d chosen her words carefully, hoping he might interpret them as encouragement to take her hand. What remained eloquently unspoken was the crucial role he’d played in her liberation.
Mr. Rothbury’s expression softened as she opened her eyes and sent him what she hoped was an encouraging look.
“You endured unconscionable treatment, Miss Playford. I am so happy to see you now flourishing.” He reached across to briefly touch her forearm—a gesture of solidarity that sent such a jolt through Venetia that she barely suppressed the impulse to capture his hand and press it against her racing heart.
“Flourishing… because of your intervention,” she managed, feeling warmth flood her cheeks at such boldness.
When he didn’t respond immediately, she pressed forward with reckless determination.
“When you appeared at Lady Townsend’s Comet Viewing Gala astride that magnificent stallion like some hero from ancient legend, bringing word of my inheritance just as Lord Windermere was preparing to whisk me into that balloon—” She lowered her voice.
“You, Mr. Rothbury, are the very reason I’m able to flourish. ”
He shifted uncomfortably on the velvet cushions. “You attribute far more significance to my actions than they merit. I was merely fortune’s instrument. Felicitous timing, nothing more. You would have inherited regardless.”
Venetia wished he’d acknowledge greater personal investment in her welfare. With perhaps fifteen minutes before they must return, she needed to encourage him past his natural reserve.
Clearing her throat delicately and resting her hand on the cushion mere inches from his, she began with more audacity than she’d known she possessed: “Yesterday you indicated there was some matter you wished to discuss.”
“Ah, yes. Indeed.” He suddenly appeared profoundly uncomfortable. “I have a most delicate request.”
Here it comes!
“Then pray make it, Mr. Rothbury,” Venetia encouraged, her heart performing acrobatics. “I’m certain I shall be favorably disposed to hear whatever you wish to say.” She placed her hand on his coat sleeve—well-tailored but showing age, perhaps not cut in the latest fashion.
She noted these details because newfound wealth had awakened an appreciation for luxury previously suppressed during years of privation. Not that Mr. Rothbury needed expensive tailoring—his keen intellect and fundamental kindness distinguished him far more effectively than sartorial splendor.
Nevertheless, she’d gladly outfit him in London’s finest if he’d permit such generosity. Would his pride make her wealth an insurmountable barrier?
“With your permission, Miss Playford, I shall proceed,” he said, looking like a man approaching the gallows rather than declaring devotion.
Nerves. Perfectly natural.
“Nothing you might ask could ever be an imposition!” Venetia gazed at his beautifully shaped mouth, imagining sensations his lips might evoke. There was nothing she desired more at this moment.
“You truly are the most generous-spirited young woman I’ve encountered,” he said awkwardly.
“Generosity is hardly required for a proposition that’s noble and well-intentioned,” she assured him, pulse racing. “What do you wish to ask?”
Mr. Rothbury’s fingers drummed nervously against the gondola’s brass fitting. With a deep breath, he began: “The matter concerns Signorina Sofia—”
Venetia’s sharp intake of breath might have given him pause, but he pressed forward with grim determination.
Oh no.
“She finds herself in trying circumstances, and I’ve given my word to assist.”
The words struck like a physical blow. “You’ve promised to aid Signorina Sofia,” she repeated slowly, voice scarcely audible above the gondolier’s oar, “and this is why you requested this private meeting?”
Only iron discipline instilled by years enduring Aunt Pike’s cruelties enabled her to maintain composure.
“And precisely how,” she continued with barely controlled emotion, “do you propose I assist Signorina Sofia?”
Of course. Of course it’s about her. The golden-haired, dainty paragon.
“As I mentioned, you bear a striking resemblance to the young lady,” Mr. Rothbury continued, seemingly oblivious to her distress.
“Your exquisite golden tresses and your—” His gaze traveled involuntarily to her décolletage, whereupon he colored violently and averted his eyes.
“Your general… proportions are remarkably similar. Signorina Sofia hopes you might lend perhaps twenty minutes to effect a temporary substitution. Don her clothing, step into a gondola, depart toward her music master’s residence while her grandfather observes—”
“So Signorina Sofia may slip away undetected to meet her lover?” Venetia concluded with savage clarity, eyes desperately seeking a nearby landing stage.
Her lover. Who was presumably the man currently blushing beside her in this ridiculously romantic gondola.
The full magnitude of her misinterpretation pressed upon her consciousness like a crushing weight.
Mortifying!
“I’d hoped you’d comprehend her predicament, given your aunt’s similar control,” Mr. Rothbury said, clearly dismayed.
“Though I attempted to dissuade her—she has a determined temperament.” He pressed his lips together, then continued carefully.
“I offer my sincerest apologies for suggesting something so contrary to your principles, Miss Playford. Clearly, I’ve committed a grave error.
Perhaps we should consider this conversation as never having occurred. ”
The gondola had entered a wider canal where distant vendors provided a soundtrack to Venetia’s crushing disappointment. Even Venice’s beauty seemed to mock her romantic delusions.
She fought to sound charitable rather than churlish. “I can appreciate the lengths to which a desperate young woman might resort.”
Mr. Rothbury’s expression brightened. “Then you’ll consider—”
“I didn’t say I’d participate in this deception,” Venetia interrupted. “Merely that I understand the motivations.”
“Of course,” he agreed hastily. “I’d never press for an immediate decision.”
Uncomfortable silence settled between them, broken only by the rhythmic splash of the oar and distant seagulls.
Well, this has been a spectacular disaster.
“There’s another matter,” Mr. Rothbury said suddenly, tone shifting to forced lightness.
“Count Morosini is hosting a masquerade ball next week—Byzantine style, in his palazzo’s ballroom.
He’s extended invitations to all English residents, and I wondered…
” He hesitated. “I hoped you might consider attending. It promises to be spectacular, with Venice’s finest musical performers. ”
Venetia hoped her smile didn’t reveal her emotional turmoil. Was he trying to change the subject? Did he desire her company?
Or would her attendance simply provide additional opportunities for Signorina Sofia’s schemes?
She shrugged. “Another entertainment?”
“You’ll consider it?” Mr. Rothbury pressed.
Venetia bowed her head, considering possible responses. “I shall give it due consideration, Mr. Rothbury. As with the other matter you’ve raised today.”
The matter where you asked me to impersonate your beloved so she could run off with her secret lover. That matter.
The gondola approached the Casa Bonaldi’s water entrance, where late afternoon shadows gathered in the narrow canal. Soon this uncomfortable interview would conclude, and Venetia could retreat to examine the ruins of her romantic hopes in private.
“Until we meet again,” Mr. Rothbury said, preparing to assist her from the gondola.
“Indeed,” Venetia replied, accepting his hand for the necessary moment. “Good afternoon, Mr. Rothbury.”
And good riddance to romantic delusions.