She smiled into his dark eyes. “It was most gracious of you to invite us to join you this evening. Your home is magnificent.”
“Enhanced only by your presence.” His gaze still locked with hers. “It is but a meager setting for a jewel such as you. You must allow me to show you the rest of the house and perhaps some of the city as well.” His English was very good, made intriguing and even seductive by his accent as well as the look in his eyes. In truth, this was a man worthy of being put on any woman’s list of desires. “The Palazzo de Sarafini has been in my family for twelve generations. But its beauty pales in comparison with yours.”
She laughed. “You are a charming devil, aren’t you?”
“When it comes to women of remarkable beauty.” He flashed her a wicked grin. “Indeed, I am.”
Sterling cleared his throat, and the conte released her hand.
“My apologies, Lord Wyldewood. Your delightful companion has distracted me from my duties.”
“No apologies necessary. Lady Rathbourne can be quite distracting,” Sterling said with a pleasant smile.
She glanced at him sharply, but his expression was cool and nothing more than polite.
“I was most intrigued by your note.” The conte studied Sterling curiously. “I assume there is more to this story than the mere acquisition of a painting.”
Sterling nodded. “Indeed there is.”
“Then I shall wish to hear all about it. But not tonight.” He turned his attention back to Olivia. “Tonight is for dancing and enjoying the company of a beautiful stranger who, it is my most fervent hope, will soon no longer be a stranger but a friend.”
She tilted her head and considered him. “One can never have too many friends.”
“That’s what I always say,” Sterling said in an overly jovial manner. “One can never have too many friends. No, indeed.”
The conte cast him an acknowledging smile. It was obvious, at least to her, that friendship with Sterling was not exactly what the Venetian had in mind.
“Allow me to escort you back to the ballroom.” He offered his arm. “And then I hope you will do me the honor of a dance.”
She cast him her most flirtatious smile, the very one she’d practiced after Sterling had informed her of her lack of skill at flirtation. Judging by the look on the conte’s face, or perhaps in his eye, she had at least mastered the smile. “I should like nothing better.”
They started off, Sterling a step behind.
The conte leaned closer and lowered his voice in a conspiratorial manner. “It is something of a coincidence that brings you here on this particular night, Lady Rathbourne.”
“Really? Why is that, my lord?”
“Tonight’s festivities mark my announcement that my family’s collection of art will soon be on display for all to see.” He chuckled. “The cornerstone of the exhibition is the Titian.”
She raised a brow. “The one I am interested in?”
He chuckled. “Indeed, my lovely Lady Rathbourne. The Titian you want that I have.”
Good Lord. He made a simple transaction sound quite, well, seductive. She laughed lightly, belying a twinge of concern. The Titian’s importance in this exhibit was a twist that could well make the painting impossible to acquire. Or, the vaguest beginning of an idea formed in the back of her mind, it could make it much, much easier.
“Tomorrow, perhaps, you will allow me to show it to you.”
“I look forward to seeing it.”
The moment they crossed the threshold into the ballroom, the conte’s secretary approached and spoke quietly into his ear. He nodded and turned to Olivia. “Do forgive me, there is a matter requiring my attention. I shall not be long.” He again kissed her hand. “Do not forget we are to dance.”
“I should never forget that.” Her voice was low, filled with unspoken promise and decidedly seductive. She was quite pleased with herself.
“Nicely done,” Sterling said behind her.
Her gaze stayed on the conte as he made his way around the room. “What was nicely done?”
“Your flirtation, of course.” A grim note sounded in his voice. “You have certainly learned quickly.”
She shrugged. “I suspect it’s like riding a horse. Even if one hasn’t done it for many, many years, given a bit of practice, it all comes back.”
“What was he saying to you? No doubt charming nonsense designed to turn your head.”
“Oh, he was simply saying those sorts of things a man says to a woman whom he hopes to entice into his bed.” She wasn’t quite ready to share the information about the painting the conte had just imparted. Sterling had come up with a plan to acquire the jar. It was time to do her part. After all, it was her future that hung in the balance. “Not that it’s any of your concern.”
“Oh, but it is my concern, just as you are my concern. And will continue to be my concern until we have achieved what we set out to do.”
“I refuse to argue the point with you at the moment,” she said in a lofty manner.
“Nonetheless,” Sterling continued, “you are aware that gentlemen like the conte are not to be trusted when it comes to the fairer sex.”
“You needn’t lecture me like I was an unruly child. I am a widow and well aware of the ways of the world.”
“I doubt that,” he muttered.
She glanced at him. “And what do you mean—‘gentlemen like the conte’? You just met the man. You can’t possibly have formed an accurate opinion.”
“I know his type. He has a certain air about him,” Sterling said in a superior tone. “He reminds me of Quinton.”
“Well, he is charming and handsome.”
“Too charming, I’d say. There is something not to be trusted about a man who is too charming. Besides, the man is a foreigner.”
“We are the foreigners, Sterling.” She directed her gaze back to the conte. “I suspect there are those here who might say the same things about you.”
“That I am not to be trusted because I am too charming and handsome?”
“You are handsome . . .”
“Don’t forget charming.”
“That remains to be seen.”
He adjusted his cuffs and surveyed the room. “I daresay there are any number of ladies here who would find me quite irresistible.”
She ignored him. “I think you’re jealous.”
“Jealous?” He scoffed. “Why would I be jealous?”
“Because I am flirting with him and not with you.”
“Yes, but you fight with me,” he said under his breath.
She glanced at him. “What does that mean?”
He smiled an enigmatic sort of smile, as if he knew all sorts of things she did not. He glanced past her and nodded. “Your conquest is returning.”
She turned and watched the conte approach. “I suspect he is an excellent dancer, among other things.”
He snorted. “No doubt.”
“You’re rather smug tonight.”
“Well, I am on your list.”
The conte drew closer, and she favored him with her brightest smile. She leaned toward Sterling and spoke softly for his ears alone. “Dallying with a handsome Italian count is also on my list.”
“I am not as concerned with your list tonight,” Sterling said smoothly, “as I am with his.”
“You needn’t be. I can take care of myself. I have for a very long time. After all,” she added without thinking, “I had no one else.”
“You do now.”
She cast him a sharp glance, but a polite smile curved his lips, his expression was composed and cool. It was most unnerving.
The conte stopped before her and nodded a bow. “Lady Rathbourne, I believe this is our dance.”
“Indeed it is, my lord.”
He took her hand and led her toward the other dancers. She glanced back at Sterling, who didn’t look even the tiniest bit concerned or responsible. But rather annoyingly smug.
The conte took her in h
is arms, and she was right. He was an excellent dancer. “Are you enjoying Venice, Lady Rathbourne?”
“We only arrived this morning, so we have seen little thus far.” She smiled. “It is a beautiful place.”
“Venice, La Serenissima.” He chuckled. “The most serene.”
“And is it? Serene, that is?”
“In many ways, yes. But we have a long past, much of which is not the least bit serene.” He led her through a complicated turn. “We are, and have always been, a city of light and love.”
“And art?”
“Art is part of the fabric of existence here. It surrounds us and is as much a part of Venetian life as the very air we breathe. The frescoes on this ceiling were painted by Tiepolo in the last century.” He smiled. “As such things go in Venice, they are considered fairly new.”
“But the Titian—”
“Is not considered new.” He chuckled. “But the last thing I wish to do with a beautiful woman in my arms is discuss business or even the great art of La Serenissima. Unless, of course, it is the art of love.”
She laughed. “Very well then. What shall we discuss?”
“You.” He smiled. “You grace the room with your presence.”
“You shall quite turn my head, my lord.”
“Ah yes, it is a beginning I think.” He grinned. “You are a widow for how long?”
“The viscount’s death was a little over a month ago.”
He narrowed his eyes. “And yet you do not wear the clothes of mourning.”
She lifted her chin. “No, I do not.”
He studied her curiously. “You do not regret his death?”
“I regret only that it did not come sooner.”
He stared at her for a moment, then smiled. “Are you certain you are English and not Italian? There is a touch of the Medici about you.”
She raised a brow. “I did not kill him.”
“Nor would I expect you to confess such a thing if you had.” He grinned. “Still, your candor is refreshing and unique among the women of my acquaintance.”
“I see no reason to be evasive about my late husband. One of the joys of my life is being able to call him ‘my late husband.’ ”
“The Medici women were prone to poison you know.”
“My husband’s throat was cut.”
“Most certainly not a woman’s weapon.” He winced. “From his correspondence, I gathered he was not a . . . a nice man?”
“No, he was not a nice man.”
“I see.” He paused. “And the earl. Is he a nice man?”
She nodded. “Quite nice.”
“You are his mistress?”
“His mistress?” She nearly missed a step. “Why on earth would you think that?”
“You are not married, and yet you travel together . . .” He shrugged. “It seems obvious to me.”
“Well you are mistaken. Lord Wyldewood is simply a very old friend who is assisting me as a means of paying off a debt of sorts that be believes he owes me.”
“And does he?”
She thought for a moment. “Yes.”
“I see.” He considered her thoughtfully. “He does not look at you as though you were an obligation.”
“Nonetheless—”
“He looks at you as if you were . . .” He pulled her a bit closer and spoke low into her ear. “His.”
“Nonsense.” She paused. “Does he?”
He chuckled. “He does indeed.”
“Well, I am certainly not . . . his.”
“Excellent,” he murmured, and steered her through another turn. Surely the conte was mistaken about how Sterling looked at her. Admittedly, given what had nearly happened between them today, he wanted her in his bed although God knew he had resisted all her efforts to accomplish just that on the ship to Egypt. Yes, they had forged a friendship in these past weeks. And indeed, he was protective of her, which was part and parcel of what he saw as his responsibility. But as for more . . .
“Where are you, Lady Rathbourne?”
“Where?” Her attention jerked back to him. “My apologies, my lord. I am sorry. I did not intend to offend you.”
“The fault is entirely mine.” He heaved a heartfelt sigh, but his eyes twinkled with amusement. “I should know better than to bring up the feelings of another man toward a lady when that lady is in my arms. I should instead be telling her that her eyes are the color of the rarest emerald, and the fire that burns within the stone burns as well in her eyes and sears my soul.”
“Indeed you should.” She laughed. “It’s most effective.”
“Alas though.” He considered her. “You are not the least bit affected.”
“But I am most flattered and quite charmed.”
“It is a very great pity then.”
“What is?”
“That the fire that burns in your eyes does not burn for me.” He smiled in a regretful manner. “But for him.”
“Utter nonsense.” She scoffed. She had no feelings for Sterling save gratitude and friendly affection. Certainly, when he had kissed her today, she had felt desire, but that was to be expected. It had been a very long time since she had been kissed at all let alone by him. And yes, the thought had occurred to her since he had come back into her life that she might possibly feel more than friendship for him. And admittedly, in those unguarded moments, the idea had flitted through her mind that perhaps it was not completely out of the question that he and she might . . . possibly . . .
The music drew to a close, and the conte escorted her off the floor. “Will you do me the honor of joining me for luncheon tomorrow? We can discuss the question of the painting then.”
“I assume your invitation includes Lord Wyldewood?”
“Unhappily, yes,” he said with a smile. “If I cannot have you all to myself.”
She laughed. “Then we shall be delighted.”
“I must attend to my other guests.” He took her hand and raised it to his lips. “Regretfully.”
“Tomorrow then.”
“Tomorrow.” He paused. “But you should know the Titian has been in my family’s possession for generations. I am not inclined to give it up at any price.”
“But you are still willing to discuss it?”
“With you, I would discuss anything.” He stopped a passing waiter and selected a glass of wine, then presented it to her. “Have you tasted our Prosecco yet? It is our champagne but much better.”
She accepted the glass and took a sip. It was very much like champagne and quite refreshing. “It’s very good.”
“It has been produced here since Roman times. We are as proud of our wine as we are of our art. It is all part of our heritage.” His brows pulled together. “I should warn you, Lady Rathbourne, I am aware that your late husband tried for many years to acquire the Titian from my father without success.”
“Your father?”
“Yes, of course.” He stared at her for a moment, then his expression cleared. “Oh, I see, you thought . . . It was not I who corresponded with Viscount Rathbourne but my father. He has been dead these past two years.”
“My condolences.” She shook her head. “I simply assumed that you . . . Are you a collector of art as well then?”
“Not with the passion of my father. I am a guardian, as it were, of my family’s heritage. And I am no more inclined to part with the painting than my father was. Still . . .” His gaze slid over her in a most improper manner that was not so much offensive as it was flattering. An action that would have made her hand twitch to slap the face of another man, from this man was most amusing. He was just so, well, his intentions were obvious. “My great weakness has always been beautiful women. I may be persuaded to change my mind.”
She sipped the wine and met his gaze. “Under the right circumstances?”
He chuckled. “I look forward to discussing it further with you.”
She flashed him a brilliant smile. “As do I.”
He bowed and took his l
eave. Olivia sipped the wine thoughtfully and glanced around for Sterling. She spotted him almost at once, dancing with a lovely woman who gazed at him as if he were the moon and the stars. It was very well done. Obviously, flirtation was as highly developed here as the wine and the art.
Did he really look at her as if she were his? And did she look at him with fire in her eyes? Regardless, she would never be any man’s possession again. As for anything else, that would have to wait until she’d won her inheritance. Until she’d beaten her late husband at his own game. Until she was independent and could base her decisions on desire rather then need. She sipped the wine and watched him dance. Now was not the time to dwell on what might or might not happen.
Sterling had offered to trade a mummy to Sir Lawrence for the canopic jar although he had, in effect, traded his mother as well. Perhaps, a similar offer would be successful with the Conte de Sarafini.
Surely she had something he wanted? Something she could offer him that no one else could? Something . . . unique. She sipped the Prosecco and smiled.
And she knew exactly what that something might be.
Eighteen
“You dance divinely, my lord.” The lady in his arms gazed up at him.
“I have an excellent partner.” Sterling smiled down at her. With dark hair and darker eyes, and a figure to melt the resistance of even the strongest man, she was one of the loveliest women in the room. Precisely why he had asked her to dance.
“Is your stay in Venice to be a long one?”
“I doubt it, but my plans are uncertain at the moment.” At least his plans regarding Venice. For the first time since her father had told him the truth, Sterling had a plan of sorts fueled by his own resolve and the knowledge that no matter what Livy might say, he had always been in her thoughts. And, with any luck, her heart.
“Perhaps”—she looked at him through lowered lashes—“I can convince you to extend your visit.”
“Perhaps.” He chuckled.
Granted, it was nothing more than a loosely formed plan at the moment. The vaguest of ideas that somehow he could use Livy’s list to his own advantage. Surely she had brought it with her. It would be to his benefit to know exactly what else was on it. But as important as that list was to her, he didn’t think simply demanding marriage in exchange for crossing him off would be successful. Besides, she had no interest in marriage. At least not yet. And until she had completed meeting the terms of her husband’s will, she would never consider marrying anyone, let alone him.
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