Chapter Eighteen
Venetia gazed with awe at the grand salon that had been transformed into Byzantium. Silk banners in purple and gold fell from the vaults; a thousand candles flickered across inlaid marble. Masked guests—saints, sinners, emperors—glided to a melody played by troubadours in blue and gold silk.
“My dear Venetia, the gold and sapphire tiara is the crowning glory.” Smiling, Lady Townsend stood at her side, her excitement palpable.
“You look magnificent, too,” responded Venetia. And she did. In cloth-of-gold set off by an emerald diadem, Lady Townsend looked every inch the equal of the grandest empress.
“But it is your jewelry that will have heads turning,” Lady Townsend went on. “I’m sure that Thornton was quite right to insist you wear Signorina Sofia’s family tiara when she wished so much to show her friendship.”
Venetia’s heart clutched.
Friendship? From someone who’d barely thanked her for risking her reputation.
Oh, why had Mr. Rothbury brought the dreadful thing back to the palazzo, and why had Lord Thornton—upon seeing it on the table when Mr. Rothbury had briefly pulled it out of his briefcase—said it would be a snub to the great family if she refused to wear it?
It was supposedly a mark of gratitude for her deception of a few days ago. But Venetia did not want the young woman’s gratitude.
Nor did she want her jewels to be the focus of tonight. Yet Miss Bentley had insisted she “wear them all.”
The clear admiration on so many faces should have buoyed her. Instead, it rankled. Gallant speeches itemized her jewels. Fans fluttered, and the words “the English heiress” drifted from lip to lip like gossip served on a tray.
Not “the lovely young lady” or “that charming Miss Playford.” Just “the English heiress.”
Surrounded, she felt oddly, thoroughly alone.
Yes, she had Lady Townsend’s friendship. And Lord Thornton was an ally. She had mixed feelings about Miss Bentley.
Mixed being generous. Miss Bentley was exhausting.
But it was Mr. Rothbury, alone, who had the power to make her heart feel… connected to another being.
She looked for a scholar’s black among the costumes. Was Mr. Rothbury going to attend? He’d been vague.
Embarrassed?
He was behind with his work, he said. Count Morosini’s friend, the reclusive marchese who, she’d learned, was the main instigator of the ambitious project to translate all of Sir Walter Scott’s Waverley novels was getting impatient and Edward was feeling the pinch.
Or, perhaps he was too busy contemplating the foreign posting he’d apparently received and which Miss Bentley had described with such relish.
Three years in Constantinople. Three years of not seeing Edward. Three years of dying inside.
The music washed over her while the floor seemed to tilt.
She felt a touch at her wrist—too familiar—and turned to find a tall Renaissance prince in black velvet and a gold mask. Not Edward. The stranger’s eyes lingered where eyes should not: at her throat, her tiara, her bracelet—as if tallying.
Oh, how tired she was of it all.
“You are melancholy, bella imperatrice,” he said in smooth English. “How can that be, when dressed in such magnificence?”
“Thank you for your concern, signor,” Venetia returned, barely considering the words as she stepped back to reclaim proper distance. “I fear I’m not much in the mood for festivities this evening.”
“Then you require the right companion.” He closed the distance by a fraction. “Do you not recognize me? I am Count di Montefiore.” He paused. “And you are far from alone. Miss Bentley admires you excessively, and Signorina Sofia speaks glowingly of your generosity.”
At Sofia’s name, a thread of cold pulled tight.
Sofia. Sofia knows this man? Why does that feel ominous?
“You know a great many people despite being so recently a stranger here,” Venetia said, not caring that her words sounded slighting.
“My letters of introduction were well received by Count Morosini. Subsequently, I’ve learned from the signorina herself of her desire to find a market for her talents.”
Her talents. What talents? Being vain and ungrateful? Oh yes… her painting.
Venetia inclined her head. “Then the signorina is fortunate.” What else could she say? She simply wanted to be gone.
“As am I to be enjoying these precious moments with one of the most beautiful women here tonight.” His gaze flicked again to the tiara. “So exquisitely fitting the role you play.”
“I beg you’ll excuse me.” Venetia took a step toward the canal-facing windows and the balcony beyond. She needed air.
And an escape route. Preferably one involving a gondola and immediate departure from Venice.
“But of course,” he said with exaggerated courtesy, though his dark eyes continued to study her when she glanced over her shoulder to ensure he wasn’t following.
Hunter’s eyes.
With relief, she slipped through a side entrance onto the marble balcony that overlooked the palazzo’s private garden.
And there she gave into her distress, alone with the sobs that wracked her. Would Edward really leave her for a lucrative posting in Constantinople?
“Forgive me.”
The voice made her spine straighten. English. Familiar. She turned slowly, her heart fluttering like a caged bird attempting escape.
Edward.
A figure in scholar’s black stood at the balcony entrance—simple robes, plain mask, but the voice that had just apologized was unmistakably Edward’s. He stepped forward, clearly wrestling with propriety.
“I saw you in distress, madam.” He swallowed visibly. “If you wish, I can find a friend. Lady Townsend is wonderfully kind.” He trailed off, the ethical puzzle of addressing a masked stranger warring with basic kindness.
“You don’t know me?” Venetia managed.
“No, but—” He moved closer. “No one should suffer alone.”
The words broke something in her chest. Here he was, offering comfort to a stranger because he couldn’t bear to see pain. This was why she loved him. Not because he was handsome and clever. But because he was the kind of man who couldn’t walk past suffering.
Even when it was inappropriate. Even when it might compromise him.
Oh, Edward.
“Edward.”
His name slipped out and she heard the longing in her tone.
Just as she saw recognition hit—his body going rigid, his breath catching.
“Venetia?” It was barely a whisper.
“I thought you wouldn’t come—” She swallowed, then added, “But you’re going away, aren’t you?” she whispered. “Miss Bentley told me.”
He didn’t refute it.
Miss Bentley had eagerly supplied the details. Three years in Constantinople stretched between them. Three years of him buried in diplomatic translations while she was parceled off to some suitable husband. The thought made her reckless.
Well, if propriety had already fled, why not honesty?
“Edward, if you leave—”
“Don’t.” But his protest died as she stepped close enough to touch, her gloved hands framing his face through the mask. The wool of his scholar’s hood rasped softly beneath her fingertips; his skin was warm where lips accidentally brushed his jaw below the edge of the satin.
His breath hitched. So did hers. The cool night air smelled of orange blossom and candle smoke, but beneath it was the quieter, steadier scent that was uniquely Edward—clean linen, ink, a whisper of some bitter shaving soap.
It grounded her. Made everything else—gold tiaras, Venetian gossip, Count di Serpentine—fade into irrelevance.
“I love you,” she said, the words pouring out before courage failed. “I’ve loved you since I was eight years old. If that means nothing, tell me now.”
There. I’ve said it. I can’t take it back. Mortification or happiness—one of those is coming.
His eyes closed as if her confession caused physical pain. “Venetia, I have nothing. A salary. No prospects beyond what my own work—”
“I don’t care.”
“Your fortune, your position—”
“Mean nothing without you.”
Why was this so difficult for him to understand?
She could feel the war inside him, see it in the tension in his shoulders, the way his hands opened and closed at his sides as if fighting the urge to seize her and push her away at once.
He stood so close now she could count the rise and fall of his chest. The fabric of his robe brushed her skirts; a single movement would have them flush together. Heat seeped across the small space between them, awareness prickling over her skin like sparks from a fire.
“We cannot—” he began hoarsely.
“We already have,” she whispered. “You said you’d rather see me safe and happy than have anything for yourself. This is what makes me happy, Edward. You.”
His gaze dropped helplessly to her mouth, then jerked away, as if even looking were an indulgence he had no right to.
She watched the moment his resolve shattered, the exact heartbeat when duty loosened its grip and love tightened its own.
The line of his jaw eased; something raw and unguarded flared in his eyes.
He stopped fighting what they both wanted.
His hands rose and covered hers where they cupped his face, his fingers dwarfing her gloved ones.
“God help me, I love you beyond reason,” he whispered. “You are my heart.”
Finally. FINALLY.
Her pulse thundered in her ears. Slowly, almost reverently, she slid one hand upwards and pushed his mask aside.
The silk ribbon snagged briefly against his hair before giving way; the mask dropped, dangling from her fingers.
For a moment she simply looked at him—at the beloved planes of his face freed from disguise, the vulnerable softness at the corners of his mouth, the crease between his brows that she’d wanted to smooth away for months.
Then she rose onto her toes and kissed him.
The first brush was almost nothing—a question, a trembling press of lips against lips.
For one suspended instant he stayed utterly still, as if the slightest movement would shatter them both.
She could feel his breath, warm and uneven against her cheek, could taste the faint sweetness of wine and something indefinably Edward.