Nineteen
Ignore inconvenient rules.
From the secret list of desires of Olivia Rathbourne
Olivia was not about to wait for Sterling to make an appearance. Besides, the conte had sent a boat for them. As she was hoping to convince him to relinquish the painting through not much more than charm and persuasion, it did not seem wise to keep him waiting. She ignored any qualms she might have had about meeting the Venetian alone. After all, this was her quest, and she was more than capable of negotiating with the conte on her own. She wished to be independent; what better time to start? Still, where was the blasted man?
Olivia had refused to wait for his return last night, instead choosing to retire although “retire” was not entirely accurate. She had tossed and turned and risen from her bed more than once to press her ear against the adjoining door to determine if she could hear any sign of Sterling’s presence. She reminded herself that the fact that she could not did not mean he was not in his bed but rather that the door was exceptionally sound. She unlocked the door to his room but even as she started to turn the handle, resisted the urge to see for herself if he had returned or not. If he hadn’t, she wasn’t entirely sure that she wanted to know.
Her gondola made its way toward the conte’s palace, and the beauty of Venice slid by in an ever-changing panorama of places and people but her mind was anywhere but there. Her restless night had taken a toll. She slept far later than she had planned. When she had finally awakened and dressed for her luncheon with the conte, she had knocked on Sterling’s door, again to no response. A passing maid said his lordship was not in his rooms, but she did not say if he had slept there, and Olivia did not ask.
Jealousy was certainly not a virtue; but in this case, nor was it a vice. If only because it made her realize what she wanted. She wanted her inheritance, she wanted her independence and the freedom to choose how she would live her life, and she wanted Sterling. It was as simple as that, and she should have realized it sooner.
The conte’s secretary greeted her and escorted her into the palace. He left her in a parlor smaller than the one she had seen last night but just as exquisite, with gilded, painted ceilings, an ornate fireplace, and tall doors thrown open to the terrace beyond. A fanciful glass chandelier of the kind she had seen only in Venice sparkled overhead. A chaise and two chairs in the rococo style graced one side of the room. In the center, a table was set for luncheon for two. Off to one side, an easel stood supporting a painting. The Titian no doubt.
She moved closer to study the work. She knew far less about art than Sterling apparently did, but this scene of battle was obviously the work of a master.
“It is amazing to me that the colors remain vivid even after nearly four hundred years.” The conte stepped up behind her. “Bellini—”
“Giovanni?”
He chuckled. “Yes, Giovanni, was one of the first to recognize the depth and potential of oil instead of tempera, but Titian took his techniques to new heights.”
“It’s magnificent,” she said with a smile, and turned toward the conte.
“Indeed it is.” He moved to the table, poured a glass of wine, and handed it to her. “But its magnificence pales in your presence.”
She arched a brow and accepted the glass. “Last night it was your palazzo that paled in comparison.”
“Ah, you have caught me.” He grinned. “I am less original than I am sincere.”
She took a sip and nodded at the table. “You did not expect the earl to join us?”
“I had but hoped.” He poured a glass for himself. “The table was set for three, but when my majordomo saw you arrive unaccompanied, the earl’s place was removed. Has that eased your mind as to the honorable nature of my intentions?”
She grinned. “Not at all.”
“Excellent.” He sipped his wine. “I shall have to send your earl a note of gratitude.”
“For being so rude as to fail to appear?”
“For being so kind as to allow me to have you all to myself.”
“I should tell you, the earl was unaware of your invitation.” She shrugged. “We seem to have missed each other this morning.”
“And for that I am eternally grateful.” He studied her for a moment. Whereas last night his perusal was amusing, today it was disconcerting. As if he were assessing her fitness for his bed and how best to get her there. “Perhaps you would like to eat first?”
“First?”
“Before you tell me the story.”
She shook her head. “I’m afraid I don’t understand.”
“The story of why you want my Titian.” He pulled out a chair. “Please, sit.”
“Thank you,” she said with a touch of relief. She had obviously misjudged him. She sat down, and he joined her. A moment later, a servant appeared with the first course.
“Tell me, Lady Rathbourne,” the conte began. “What of my beautiful city do you wish to see?”
She thought for a moment. “Very nearly everything I think.”
“Then you shall have to stay indefinitely,” he said, with a smile. “Might I suggest you begin with a visit to San Marco . . .”
The conte’s recommendations of what she must not miss in Venice were accompanied by a casual lesson in history and included any number of fascinating and amusing stories about natives and visitors alike. Galileo, Lord Byron, and Casanova had all at one time graced the cobbled streets of La Serenissima. The conte was as charming by day as he had been by night. Between the excellent food, the stimulating conversation, and far more wine than was probably wise, by the end of the meal Olivia was hard-pressed to keep her wits about her and was just a touch light-headed.
“Now, my dear.” The conte leaned back in his chair, steepled his fingers, and considered her. “Tell me why you want my Titian. I suspect from your words last night, it is not to honor your husband’s memory.”
“No, it’s not.” She drew a deep breath. “In order to inherit what is rightfully mine, my late husband’s will decrees that I complete three of his unfinished collections. One is the Titian copies of Bellini’s lost histories of Venice. As the only known copies are yours and his, if I acquire yours, that particular collection will be considered complete.”
“I see,” he said thoughtfully. “I was right then. Your husband was not a nice man to have set you such a course.”
“No.”
“And if you do not complete these collections of his?”
“My life will continue as it did before his death,” she said simply.
He narrowed his eyes. “And it was not a good life?”
She met his gaze directly. “No.”
“Then you wish to purchase the painting?”
“I can, of course, if that’s what you prefer.” She rested her arms on the table, folded her hands together, and leaned toward him. “But I had something else in mind I think you might appreciate more than mere monetary compensation.”
“Aside from the eternal gratitude of a beautiful woman?” A slow, knowing smile curved his lips. Dimly she noted something brushed against her foot under the table, so faintly she wasn’t sure she felt anything at all. “I can think of any number of things I might appreciate more.”
She shifted her foot away and returned his smile. “I have a proposition for you, conte.”
“Pietro.” He reached for her hand and brought it to his lips. “My name is Pietro. Say it.”
She stared at him. “Pietro?”
“Ah, I knew it. It falls from your lips like the blossoms in the breeze.”
She stared at him and again something brushed her foot. What on earth . . .
“And you, cara mia?” He turned her hand over and kissed her palm in a most Italian manner. “You are Olivia. Like the fruit. A gift from the gods.”
“Oh,” she said faintly.
His lips had progressed to her wrist. “They are most generous gods.”
Gods or not, where did the man think he was going? And, good Lord, wa
s that his foot nudging hers? She moved her foot and tugged at her hand. He stood and pulled her into his arms.
“Conte!” If she’d had less wine, she might have been a bit more indignant. As it was, he was, well, amusing. “Do you know how . . . expected this is?”
He paused. “What do you mean?”
“My dear Pietro, every Englishwoman in every novel I have ever read has been seduced by an Italian if she so much as dared to step foot in the country. I would have been quite shocked if you hadn’t attempted it.”
He flashed her a wicked grin. “And disappointed?”
“No. Insulted.” She laughed. “Now unhand me.”
“But you have a proposition for me.”
“I do indeed. If you would release me.”
He gazed into her eyes in a manner he no doubt thought was quite effective. “Perhaps I shall have to counter your proposition with one of my own.”
“Perhaps. Now.” Her voice hardened, and she meet his gaze with an unflinching eye. “Unhand me.”
He paused for a moment. “If you are certain.”
“I am certain.”
“But if you wish the painting . . .” The comment remained unfinished, but then there was no need to finish it.
“Then I should allow you to seduce me?”
He smiled.
“Come now, Pietro.” She cast him a chastising look. “I am not so foolish as to think simply because I join you in your bed you will give me a work of art that has been in your family for generations.”
His eyes narrowed. “No?”
“Of course not.”
“Excellent.” He pulled her tighter against him. “Then you will not be disappointed.”
“I shall not be anything.” She pushed against him. “But I must say I am quite disappointed by your obvious dishonorable intentions.”
“My intentions?” He bent his head to nibble on her neck. “And what are my intentions?”
“Yes, Pietro, what are your intentions?” a feminine voice asked from the doorway.
Pietro froze, and Olivia took the opportunity to break free of his embrace. Sterling stood in the open doors to the terrace looking something less than amused. At his side was the dark-haired beauty who had obviously just spoken. The very same woman he had left the gala with last night. And had perhaps returned to later in the night?
Olivia drew her brows together and glared. “Who are you?”
The lady raised a patrician brow as if she couldn’t believe the question. “You ask who am I? You? Who are you to ask such a thing? Who am I? Hah! Who are you?”
“Allow me to present Viscountess Rathbourne,” Sterling said in a wry tone.
“I knew that.” Sterling’s companion huffed and turned her attention to the conte. “And you. You did not answer my question.”
“Question?” The conte shrugged in an innocent manner. “What question, amore mio?”
The dark-haired woman narrowed her eyes in a menacing manner. “Your intentions, Pietro?”
“My intentions?” He gasped as if shocked by the implication in her tone. “My intentions were most honorable. It was she.” He aimed an accusing finger at Olivia. “She wished to proposition me.”
“I most certainly did not!” Olivia huffed. “I do have a proposition for him. But not the sort of proposition he is implying, and he well knows it.”
“Hah! The man is a pig,” the lady said with a toss of her head.
“I believe you’re right.” Olivia glared at the conte. “He is a pig.”
“Olivia, may I present the pig’s wife.” Sterling moved to Olivia’s side. “This is the Contessa de Sarafini.”
Olivia winced. “Oh dear, I am sorry.”
“That I am married to a pig?” the contessa shrugged. “One gets used to such things.”
“I am not a pig.” Indignation sounded in the conte’s voice. “I am . . . a man. And perhaps weak. And look at her.” He waved at Olivia. “She is lovely.”
“Maiale!” The contessa fairly spit the word.
“Alessandra,” the conte began.
“Maiale!” She crossed the room to her husband, spewing Italian and gestures all the while.
Sterling pulled Olivia off to one side of the room, which scarcely mattered, as the conte and his wife no longer seemed to notice they were there. Indeed, they had lapsed into Italian with ever louder voices and ever more dramatic gestures.
“I have no idea what they’re saying,” Olivia murmured.
Sterling snorted.
“Well, yes, of course I have a general idea.”
He sighed. “She continues to call him a pig, a stupid pig I believe, and he insists it’s all your fault.”
“How dare he! He is a pig.” She paused. “You speak Italian?”
“Not enough to be really useful although I am fairly fluent in Latin.” He furrowed his brow and studied her. “Olivia, are you inebriated?”
“No.” She hesitated, then shook her head. “No, not at all.” She raised her chin. “Although that was obviously the conte’s plan. And where have you been?”
“The contessa invited me to see her gardens, and we had an errand to do first. But more to the point, why did you come here alone? Why didn’t you wait for me?”
“I had no idea where you were, and I did not want to keep the conte waiting.” She huffed. “And where were you last night? Were you seeing her gardens last night as well?”
“Are you jealous?” He stifled a smile.
“Not at all. You needn’t look so smug. I am simply . . .” She groped for a word. “Curious. And you haven’t answered my question.”
“Because it doesn’t deserve an answer. However, I didn’t see the contessa after we left here last night until I met her today. And might I point out my assessment of the conte’s character was accurate.”
“You said he reminded you of your brother.”
“And wasn’t I right?”
“You don’t always need to come to my rescue, you know.” She sniffed. “I was perfectly capable of taking care of myself.”
“Yes, that was apparent when we came in.”
She ignored him. “You still haven’t said where you were last night.”
“I was meeting with Josiah.”
“Without me?” She raised a brow. “About what?”
“Lady Rathbourne,” the contessa interrupted. “What is your proposition?”
Olivia glanced at Sterling.
“Yes, my dear,” Sterling said in an idle manner, “what is your proposition?”
“Well . . .” She drew a deep breath. “If you give me your Titian, when I am successful and have undisputed ownership of my late husband’s collections, I shall not only return your painting to you, but I shall give you mine as well.”
Sterling smiled.
The contessa eyed her suspiciously. “Why would you do such a thing?”
“Save for their role in gaining my inheritance . . .” Olivia shrugged. “The paintings mean nothing to me.”
The conte muttered something in Italian she couldn’t quite hear and thought it was probably for the best.
“It is an interesting suggestion.” The contessa thought for a moment. “And if you are not successful?”
“Your painting will be returned to you at once. However . . .” Resolve sounded in Olivia’s voice. “I do not intend to fail.”
The contessa studied her closely. “Both works are beyond price.”
“Not to me.” She shook her head. “My late husband’s collections are all considered extremely valuable. But when they are mine, I plan to donate them to museums or sell them and give the proceeds to charitable endeavors.”
The contessa’s brow rose. “You hated him that much?”
Olivia met her gaze directly. “Yes.”
The contessa stared at her for a long moment, then a slow smile spread across her face. “I like you very much. You remind me of . . . me.” She nodded once. “The painting is yours.”
The co
nte gasped. “Have you lost your mind? What are you thinking? To give our heritage to an Englishwoman is bad enough, but to give it to an Englishwomen we do not know is—”
“Precisely why I arranged to meet the contessa a short time ago at the home of the British ambassador,” Sterling said smoothly.
The contessa cast him an admiring glance. “He knew regardless of what arrangements might be made about the painting, we would need assurances that you and he were who you said you were.” The contessa’s gaze slid over Sterling as if she were assessing more than his identity. “He is very clever, no?”
The conte groaned.
“Apparently,” Olivia said under her breath. So that was what he had been up to. She could scarcely fault him for thinking of a point that had completely escaped her. Still, she would have appreciated it far more if he had informed her. Although it was indeed very clever of him. She smiled at him. A smile she meant to be only one of gratitude.
His gaze meshed with hers, and her breath caught at the look in his eyes, deep and warm and forever.
Here was a man one could depend on. A man one could trust. With one’s heart, with one’s future.
“I shall have the painting wrapped and delivered to your hotel by the end of the day.”
Olivia jerked her attention back to the contessa.
“There is one stipulation. My late husband wanted these collections to bear his name.”
The contessa raised a brow. “A brass plaque perhaps, very small, very discreet? Is that acceptable?”
“More than acceptable,” Olivia said with relief.
“But we have not given this due consideration,” the conte protested.
“The second Titian returns to its home,” the contessa said firmly. “That alone is sufficient reason to accept this proposal.”
The conte huffed and crossed his arms over his chest. “Very well then, but this plaque should bear the name de Sarafini as well.”
Olivia nodded. “I see no objection to that.”
“Very good.” The contessa smiled with satisfaction. “Then all is well for everyone. The earl has told me about Lady Rathbourne’s quest. I find it remarkable and courageous. It is not easy for a woman in this world to undertake such a challenge. Far easier to accept one’s fate than to attempt to change it.” She favored Olivia with a look of admiration and perhaps envy.
Desires of a Perfect Lady Page 23
