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Her heart began to lighten. “Well, some of those freiherren are likely excellent waltzers. Perhaps you will have competition.”

For a moment he looked startled. Then a slow grin spread across his face. “Is that so? Well, well. I shall have to keep a close eye on them. After all, you are looking particularly beautiful this evening.”

Part of her mind immediately began to argue that he didn’t mean it—that they were merely empty words, that he’d only said them because he knew that she wanted to hear them, and that she shouldn’t believe him. “Well, we both know that I am not beautiful.” She glanced around for her gloves. “Besides, I do not know how you will manage to watch the gentlemen, when all the ladies will wish to dance with you. People whisper that you look like Lord Byron. Only richer, and without all the… scandal.” Ladies were supposed to pretend that they didn’t know about any of the more sordid facts of life.

“I do not like to begin our evening with an argument. But in this case, I have a serious disagreement with you: You are beautiful.”

“I—I…” It was as though he’d called her bluff, though she hadn’t been bluffing. “Never mind.”

“No. Not ‘never mind.’ You are beautiful. I have always thought so. And seeing you now—you are not merely beautiful. You are breathtaking.” He touched one of the ringlets that Harding had arranged to frame her face. “You are lovely. You are my wife.” He drew her closer and kissed her, just missing her mouth as she turned her face.

“My—my maid will be back at any moment.”

“Will she?” His tone was indifferent as he traced the line of her jaw with his finger. Her heart began to pound and she tried to keep her breathing steady. “I am not done telling you what I think of your looks. There is a color in your cheeks exactly like the most delicate blush on a ripe apricot. Your lips are a deeper tone of precisely the same shade. And every time I see them I wish to do this.” He bent, and kissed her mouth again.

The sweetness of the touch was unexpected. His kiss was teasing, tender… and yet also full of promise. “Oh, and when I said that you are intelligent, what I meant was that you are brilliant. You surprise me every day.” He kissed her cheekbone. “Or at least, every day that I see you.” He kissed her forehead. “Every day that you are not shut away with your work.” His smile was teasing.

“But I…” She didn’t know why she felt compelled to argue with him. “I am sorry that I have been so busy. And I know that I am annoying. You need not tell me that I am not.”

“Annoying!” He bent toward her, and before she could move, planted a kiss at the corner of her mouth. “You could never be annoying.” The teasing smile flickered around the corners of his mouth again. “And if you ever are annoying, it is because I deserve it.”

He pretended to study her. “Also, honesty demands that I mention that there is a most enchanting dimple next to your mouth. Just here, where I kissed you.” He kissed her there again. “It only appears when you smile. I am fond of it.” He gave it another kiss. A dangerous, mischievous light flickered in his eyes.

“Your grace, I”— Harding froze in the doorway of the dressing room. “Oh! I beg your graces’ pardons!” She began to back away.

Pomona took a quick step backward. “It is quite all right, Harding. Thank you.” She took the reticule from her maid and swallowed hard. “I… I… We shall be late.”

West cleared his throat. “Yes. You are correct, of course.”

Her face was hot. She couldn’t meet his eyes. She picked up her fan and straightened her shoulders. “Well. Let us go and… waltz.”

The gondolier piloted them down a winding side canal. Pomona drank in the beauty of the nighttime city as they glided under footbridges and beneath lit windows. The lanterns hanging from the prows of the other gondolas made tracks of glimmering yellow light on the inky water.

Had West meant what he’d said? What if she’d been wrong? Yes, their marriage had come about under unconventional circumstances... but was it possible that he wasn't merely tolerating her? She hadn't believed that he had any genuine feelings for her. But since they'd married, he hadn't given her any reason to doubt him.

The shift in perspective was almost dizzying. Because if West still cared for her, then that meant that her life might amount to something more than a collection of disconnected episodes. And if that were true... well, then it was also possible that her future might be more than a series of painful setbacks for which she must constantly brace.

He turned and caught her eye. Against the light from the lantern on the boat’s prow she saw his lips curve into a wicked grin. Was he thinking about what they might do... later? She felt as though she couldn’t quite catch her breath.

She ought to tell him about the book, she realized. Keeping it secret suddenly felt silly. He was proud of her for working so hard. He’d said so. He'd be proud to know that she wasn’t merely Pomona West, Duchess of March—but also Mrs. Brown, moderately successful published authoress. Besides, keeping the secret created a distance between them—a distance that had made her feel safe. But now she no longer needed or wanted that safety.

The gondola slipped around a bend and into a broader canal. She gasped. Ahead was the lit facade of a palazzo set back from the water in a garden illuminated by colored lanterns strung between trees. The bobbing lights of dozens of other gondolas sparkled on the water before it, and the strains of violins floated over the water.

A thrill of excitement went through her. For the first time she felt as though she was actually part of the life of Venice—instead of just watching it from the library window. It was magical.

She would tell West about the book as soon as they returned to the palazzo. There was no time now. But from this moment on, everything would change. Her mistrust and resentment of West, the pain of the whispers and the gossip… that was in the past. And there was a happier future before her. She could feel it.

The gondola nudged the dock. West handed her out of the boat, and as they walked up the torchlit path with music floating around her, she seemed to be floating on air.

The ball was very grand, but less stuffy than she’d expected. They moved down a receiving line, exchanging greetings with all the dignitaries. An elderly, exiled French countess drew them into a circle of chattering guests. “I believe that you have met my very dear friend, Monsignor Ferritti?”

“Indeed yes!” The abbot of the island monastery bowed, beaming. “The duke and duchess visited us. We spent a most pleasant afternoon going over all our historic buildings. I do hope that your sketching is going well, your grace?”

Pomona blushed to be reminded of the dreadful watercolor that she had done… But the abbot was smiling and after a moment she relaxed.

They were introduced to someone else, and someone else after that. Nobody smirked at her gown or gossiped about her behind a gloved hand. Nobody made her feel like an object of scorn. It was the first time that she’d simply enjoyed herself at an entertainment. Before she knew it, they’d been at the ball for nearly an hour—exchanging bows and greetings with what must be most of the titled people in Venice—and she still hadn’t offended anyone or ruined anything.

She caught West glancing her as she chatted with an elderly Landgravine who knew Lady Theodosia. His face was full of happiness and pride. He really was proud of her. He hadn’t merely been saying it.