A Timeless Romance Anthology: European Collection

by Annette Lyon

  Moonlight glinted off of the wide body of water, and a soft breeze blew a few stray, golden curls away from Evangeline’s face as she closed her eyes, enjoying the muted sounds of singing gondoliers and people in the courtyard behind the building, gathering for the pending masquerade ball.

  Evangeline adjusted the purple silk, jewel-encrusted demi-mask that covered her eyes, wondering if she dared take it off for these few moments she was alone. Her view of the water wasn’t encumbered by the adornment, but she wanted to feel the breeze upon all of her face, not just the lower half. Her younger step-sisters, the twins, had insisted it would be bad luck to remove the masks before the night was over, although Evangeline doubted nearly everything that came out of the girls’ mouths.

  Before leaving the inn, Evangeline had decided it was to be a magical night, so the mask would remain in place. She had dreamed of Venice for so long that she could hardly believe her good fortune; since her mother’s passing the year before, her stepfather had denied her all but the simplest of pleasures. That he had allowed her to accompany him and the twins on their holiday to the floating city had been more a matter of keeping up appearances, but she had grasped the opportunity with both hands before he could change his mind and had breathed a bit easier when they left London behind.

  Evangeline felt, rather than heard, someone watching her. She turned her head to see a man whose upper face was hidden by a black mask, which matched the rest of his dark attire, down to the shiny black of his boots. The only contrast to the dark night, and his equally dark suit, was the snowy white of his shirtfront, collar, and cravat. He leaned against one of the Byzantine arches gracing the loggia’s outer wall to Evangeline’s right and studied her with a silence she found unnerving.

  Straightening, she lifted her chin. My, but the man was tall. And broad. For a moment, she felt a stab of fear and glanced at the doors leading back into the palace.

  “I mean you no harm, bella,” the man murmured, his tone low. The corner of his mouth lifted in a wry smile. “You may escape back into the crowd if you wish.” His English was accented, but otherwise flawless.

  “What are you doing?” Evangeline asked, feeling slightly stupid.

  “I am a patron of the arts, you see, and I am admiring the exquisite.”

  Evangeline felt a blush steal across her face and was grateful for the mask. She knew well that the purple gown accentuated her figure to its best. She had enjoyed two Seasons in London while her mother was still alive but had spent little time recently in the company of gentlemen, as the twins now were the focus of the household.

  The man made no move toward her. In fact, he remained quite still. He was compelling, though, and his intensity had her feeling overwhelmed. Warm. Evangeline was very near to fleeing the loggia when a small voice in the back of her brain reminded her that she wore a mask and a beautiful gown. For the evening, she could be whomever she chose, even if she decided to simply be Evangeline for the first time in a very long while.

  She smiled a bit. How long had it been since she had allowed her joy to surface? How long since she’d felt it? For one night, just one night, she wanted to be the woman she might have become if circumstances beyond her control hadn’t altered her existence completely.

  “You are Venetian?” Evangeline asked. “Or visiting for the Biennales?”

  He inclined his head. “I am here for the art show,” he said. “From Florence.”

  “You are an artist, then?” she said, and bravely took the smallest of steps toward him.

  Again, that smile— a wealth of information contained in it. Wry, self-assured, perhaps jaded. “Regrettably, no. But I do enjoy art. I am on the Biennales selection committee.”

  “Oh? Well then, you are acquainted with my stepfather’s work. We are here because of it.”

  “His name?”

  “Robert Montgomery.”

  The stranger leaned forward slightly. “Robert Montgomery is your stepfather? I should very much enjoy meeting him. His paintings are exceptional.”

  Again Evangeline was grateful for the mask. She hoped that it, combined with the darkness of the night, covered her dubious reaction. Robert fancied himself an artist, but Evangeline thought his work amateur, pedestrian. That he had been invited to showcase his work in Italy’s first annual Biennales art show had come as a shock. Perhaps the selection committee was not so well-versed in what constituted quality.

  “You do not agree?”

  Drat. He had seen through both the mask and the dark.

  “But perhaps you are not familiar with art, then?” he said. “You are merely here to enjoy the Venetian splendor?”

  “I know good art,” Evangeline said, hearing the bite in her voice. She had drawn and painted since early childhood, had begun formal lessons at eight years of age and had continued them until her mother’s death. She knew, without any sense of guile, that her talent was special. That her stepfather should have his ridiculous efforts showcased on a world stage, while hers sat unnoticed in her attic room in London, grated against her nerves.

  A chuckle from the stranger had her flushing again, and he pushed off from the arch, stepping closer. “You ‘know good art,’ do you?”

  Hopes for a magical evening or no, Evangeline felt her temper snap. She turned to leave the loggia when the stranger moved quickly and caught her arm.

  “Bella, no. Do not leave me so soon.”

  His long fingers were warm; he did not wear gloves. Trying not to feel scandalized, she looked up at him, taking in the dark curls just brushing the top of his white collar and the equally dark eyes behind the black mask. “You must join me,” he said and pulled her hand gently through his arm. “Have you seen the gallery on the third floor?”

  Evangeline shook her head, her heart thumping at either the man’s proximity or his suggestion that they visit the gallery— she wasn’t certain which. “I would love to.”

  “Your name?” he said, looking down at her, holding her eyes with his own. “Your Christian name.”

  “Evangeline,” she whispered.

  “Cara mia,” he murmured. “Of course the name would be as exquisite as the body housing it.”

  Warmth at his bold compliment coursed through Evangeline as they walked toward the double doors leading into the palace, which had long since ceased functioning as a palace and now housed government offices and official receptions.

  “And am I to have the pleasure of your name, sir?” Evangeline asked as they entered the building and the stranger led her through the reception room and to a staircase beyond it.

  He hesitated and looked down at her for a long moment, pausing at the bottom of the staircase. “Matteo,” he finally said.

  She raised a brow. “You haven’t a surname?”

  The smile again. “You did not give me yours.”

  “You did not request it.” Evangeline smiled in return as she looked up at Matteo and paused as the eyes behind his mask widened slightly.

  “Cara mia, you should smile always.”

  Evangeline shook her head as they began climbing the stairs. “Something you undoubtedly say to all of the women you meet. I have heard of the Italian man’s ability to charm.”

  Matteo covered her hand with his own as they reached the next landing. “In this, bella, you are mistaken. I do not waste time saying things I do not mean.”

  Evangeline glanced up at him again as he led her down a long hallway. In the cozy light of the wall sconces, his boldly handsome face with its well-defined Italian features quite took her breath away. What were the odds that he was actually unencumbered? The thought that he might not be involved with another woman was ridiculous.

  “What of your wife?” she ventured. “Or your… your…” Drat. Could she truly not bring herself to use the word mistress?

  He paused with her outside a set of large double-doors. “My…” He gave her the benefit of his full regard again, and it quite unnerved her. Which she found immensely irritating.

&nb
sp; “Your courtesan?” she said and raised a brow, although he wouldn’t see it beneath her mask.

  “The position is currently vacant,” he said with a twitch of his full lips.

  “Which one?” she ventured, wondering if her blush was spreading down across the expanse of skin not covered by her dress.

  “Both,” he murmured and smiled before tugging her into the room.

  Anything she might have been brave enough to say in response was completely lost as she looked at the walls in the splendid room, which were lit to showcase each beautiful piece of art to perfection. She placed a hand over her heart, her breath stolen.

  “Oh!” She dropped her hand from his arm and moved more fully into the room, feeling her eyes burn. “A Vincini! Three of them!” Evangeline stood rooted to the spot, her mouth open. She moved slowly and approached the paintings, realizing it shouldn’t have come as a surprise that the government seat of Venice would house masterpieces. “They are originals,” she murmured and blinked back tears, suddenly remembering she wasn’t alone. It would be awkward indeed to be forced to lift the mask to wipe her eyes.

  Matteo approached and stood beside her, and she felt him watching her. “It would seem you do indeed know good art, cara mia. These are some of his lesser-known pieces.”

  “I would have thought to find these in the state museum,” she said and looked up at him.

  “They were, originally. They came here two hundred years ago, when the doges still claimed this building as a home.”

  “Incredible,” she whispered, turning her attention back to the paintings. “The use of light, his signature preferences for gold and deep green, the lifelike appearance of the mother and child…”

  “And yet you care not for your stepfather’s work? His style is similar, albeit more modern.” Matteo’s voice held confusion, and she had to admit to a certain amount of her own.

  “My stepfather’s work looks nothing like this,” she said, frowning. “And he wouldn’t know to blend these hues if I mixed the paints for him.”

  Matteo’s face registered surprise. “You are an artist, Evangelina?”

  Evangeline bit her lip and looked away, focusing instead on the far wall where she saw another artist of some renown, but nothing compared to Vincini. The urge to deny her talent was on the tip of her tongue, to downplay her efforts as she had become accustomed to doing as a means of defense at home. She glanced up again at the man who watched her as though he would learn her every last secret and relish each one, and remembered she wore a mask, which, ironically, allowed her to be herself.

  “I am an artist,” she admitted quietly, and felt a surge of the joy she’d missed since losing her father nine years earlier.

  “And you are good.”

  “Yes.” She nodded and felt the sting behind her eyelids again. “I am good.”

  “Did you not think to enter your own work in the Biennales?” He smiled at her, and it seemed, oddly, tender. Compassionate. He ran a fingertip along her cheekbone at the edge of her mask. “I am on the selection committee, after all.”

  Her lips quirked into a wry smile. “And interested in my art only after seeing me in a purple masquerade gown on a loggia in the moonlight.”

  He laughed, revealing a sense of unguarded, genuine humor. “Come,” he said, smiling still, and led her to a small desk in the corner of the room. “I want you to draw something for me.”

  Evangeline sat and arranged her skirts as Matteo opened a drawer and produced a piece of parchment along with pen and ink. After uncapping the bottle and placing it in the inkwell, he took her right hand, tugging at the tip of each gloved finger and then stripping the length of the glove from her elbow. “You draw with this hand, yes?”

  She nodded, speechless, as he released her hand and gave her the pen. She held it for a moment and looked at him as he drew a chair alongside the table. “What would you like?”

  “Ah, cara mia, I should hate to shock you.”

  “You already have,” she answered, wondering if she would ever stop blushing.

  He laughed again and gestured toward the paper as he sat back, relaxing in his chair. “Surprise me.”

  Evangeline felt a stab of uncertainty under his close regard.

  “Perhaps you should remove your mask, Eva.”

  She glanced at him and then sat closer to the desk, focusing on the paper before her. “No, thank you.” Little did he know, the mask was keeping her honest. She could see well enough to accomplish her task.

  Without giving it much thought, she dipped the pen into the ink and trailed it across the paper with sure, defined strokes. As always happened when she drew or painted, the world around her disappeared and became the work itself. In a matter of minutes, she created a rough sketch, pausing only briefly now and again to examine the subject.

  With a quick flick of her wrist, she signed her name at the bottom right corner and handed the paper to Matteo. He remained comfortably sprawled in his chair, but the very air about him had taken on a stillness, which she registered as her mind came back into focus. He looked at the paper for so long, she began to wonder if she’d done something he found offensive.

  “You find me handsome then, Evangelina?”

  She met the dark eyes behind his mask with her own gaze. “Of course,” she said. “I doubt there is a woman anywhere on earth who would not.”

  He looked again at the picture for a very long time, his lips tightening fractionally. “Tell me about your stepfather.”

  Chapter Two

  Evangeline tipped her head in some surprise. “I’m sorry?”

  Matteo rose and held out his hand, brushing her other out of the way when she tried to replace the glove. Holding her bare hand in his, he led her to a seating area in the center of the room and sat by her on a soft sofa that was easily the most comfortable piece of furniture she’d encountered since sleeping on her own fluffy bed in her former bedroom in London— the bed she’d not slept in since her mother’s death because her new attic bedroom was too small to accommodate it.

  He settled beside her and, after meeting her eyes for a moment more, leaned forward and placed his fingers alongside her mask. “I must see you,” he murmured, and after tipping his head slightly in question, she nodded. Evangeline leaned forward and allowed him to untie the ribbons from the back of her head, looking up slowly as it fell away.

  She felt exposed and cold, and wished she’d not allowed it. When she turned her face away, he placed a finger beneath her chin and gently nudged her attention back to him. He leaned forward and placed her hands upon the ribbons at the back of his head. She hesitated for only a moment before untying it and meeting his dark gaze unadorned. Her breath caught in her throat. He was every bit as exquisite as he’d claimed her to be.

  “Why did you not enter your own work in the Biennales?” Matteo asked as he traced his fingertip along her forehead, brushing a few stray curls from her eyes.

  “I did not even know of the exposition until my stepfather told us he had been invited to enter and that we would be traveling with him.” She held his mask in her hands, feeling the warmth of the fabric where it had lain against his skin.

  “And ‘we’ are?”

  “His twin daughters and me. My mother passed one year ago.”

  “And your father?”

  “Died of consumption when I was twelve.”

  Matteo studied her again in the intense manner she was coming to recognize. “Did your father leave behind an estate?”

  Evangeline refrained from rolling her eyes at the futility of her situation at home, but only just. “I am not allowed to access it until I am married or thirty years of age. I suspect it will be gone by then.”

  His eyes narrowed. “Your stepfather is your trustee then.”

  “Yes.” It was grossly unfair. Had she been a boy, the estate would have been hers at eighteen, and she could already be living independently, entirely on her own.

  “Does he know you paint?”

>   Evangeline allowed herself the eye roll that time and settled back more comfortably against the sofa. What did it matter if she told a stranger about her life? It wasn’t as though she would see him again. “He does know, and painting is the one thing he hasn’t forbidden me to do. But I am not to display my work anywhere except for my own room— my pieces that once hung in the house were removed when my mother died.”

  “And why do you suppose he would allow you to continue? I gather he is not a kind man.”

  Evangeline shrugged a shoulder. “I’ve asked myself the same question a thousand times. Perhaps he has a shred of humanity in him.”

  Matteo threaded his fingers through hers. “And he brought you here.”

  Evangeline shook her head and looked away, settling her gaze on the hearth. “Robert is concerned about appearances. One week ago, we had tea with some neighbors he wanted desperately to impress. When the topic of this vacation was brought into discussion, they assumed he would be taking his twins and me. He wants the world to believe he loves and cares for me as much as his own daughters. As he could hardly explain why he would leave me behind, I was suddenly part of the excursion.”

  “For that alone, I am in his debt.”

  Evangeline looked back at him with a smile. “You, sir, are incorrigible. And if we were in London right now and someone were to come upon us here, unchaperoned, I would be utterly ruined.”

  “Ah, but bella, this is not London.” He paused for a moment. “When I found you on the loggia, you looked very much like a woman who did not wish to be disturbed. Dare I hope you are planning to attend the masquerade ball, though? The music has started; can you hear it?”

  Evangeline sighed. “I had not intended to if I could avoid it,” she admitted. “The twins were… quite upset when they realized I would be accompanying them to Venice. I am doing my utmost to stay away from them, although I am curious enough to eventually want a peek at the ball.” A thought crossed her mind, and she quirked a brow at him. “You were also wandering the loggia alone. Perhaps you were avoiding the ball as well?”