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She pondered. Of course, a storm-wracked shore wasn’t nearly as good as a ruined castle. Still, it was better than nothing. And if there also happened to be a few cliffs and some secret tunnels—well, then a great many of her plot problems would be resolved quite easily.

West seemed to be waiting for her to say more. When she didn’t, he rose and clapped his hands together. “So! Lido it is, then. Shall we say tomorrow morning?”

Chapter Eight

Pomona sat in the prow of the little boat, staring tensely ahead as though she were a lookout expecting the French fleet.

Behind them, Venice seemed to float on the thin layer of mist that hung above the surface of the water. The early rays of the sun cast a rose gold light upon the domes of Santa Maria Della Salute and the towering campanile in St. Mark’s Square. Water slipped past the sides of the boat as the city dwindled in the distance.

West had been hoping for a romantic trip across the lagoon to Lido. Every day and night, the canals of Venice seemed full of couples in gondolas, gazing into each other's eyes. And while this was a sailboat, not a gondola, and though Pomona had never been the sort of lady who had nothing better to do than dream of love and dangle after love… well, still. This was their honeymoon, after all.

But she was clearly preoccupied, peering through the morning mist as though she was looking for something. And whatever it was, she wasn’t finding it. Confusion and disappointment were written on her face.

So. This was important to her, and not some mere whim. Not that Pomona suffered from whims. In fact, from the moment that they’d arrived in Venice and she’d recovered from her seasickness, she’d surprised him with the determination with which she'd shut herself in the library day after day.

But what could she be doing? He studied her. Unfortunately, when he looked at her it was difficult to maintain his train of thought and be logical. For instance, today she was wearing a most fetching blue redingote, with matching half boots and a shako hat adorned with darker blue braid and tassels. As she perched in the prow of the boat, the military flair of the ensemble seemed to emphasize her steely gaze and the determined set of her full lower lip.

Lady Alford had always seemed to ensure that her daughter would be wearing something frumpy and unflattering. Perhaps it was Lady Theodosia who had introduced Pomona to a dressmaker who knew what she was doing. The change added to his uneasy feeling that he might not know her as well as he’d thought.

She glanced back at him. Her eyes flashed at him from beneath the narrow visor of the hat. How he longed to lift that hat from her head, unpin her hair, unbutton that redingote… push aside all those layers of clothes and make her moan and arch against him again…

But he must keep his mind on his goal: Working out what she was up to. “You seem, er… distracted.”

She frowned. “I am looking for the island.”

“That is it. Directly ahead. The late Duke of Brunswick’s estate is to the right, behind those trees.”

“Directly ahead?” She leaned forward, peering through the mist. “But it must be very flat indeed!”

“Not entirely. There are some large sand dunes at the southern tip.”

“Sand dunes!” She leaned forward as though that would help her see farther. “Sand dunes will never do," she said to herself. “One cannot even have a cave in sand dunes.”

A cave? No. He must have mis-heard. Unless… Ought he to be worried about Pomona’s mind? But no. She seemed sane enough. So there was only one reasonable explanation. And that was that she was definitely up to something.

A few minutes later they reached the quay. He took Pomona’s hand to assist her onto shore, and they set off on foot through the small cluster of buildings around the dock. “It is possible that we shall meet Lord Byron here. He frequently hires a horse from these stables when he wishes to ride. Although, of course, he does not generally rise until late in the afternoon.”

“Oh, Byron this, Byron that. All anyone speaks of is Lord Byron.” She aimed a kick at a pebble in the sandy road. “One would think that he was the only writer alive.”

What? He studied her from the corner of his eye. Of course, many ladies were shocked and disgusted by the poet’s mode of life… the mistresses that he’d abandoned… the rumors of his affair with his half sister… the several illegitimate children… But Pomona’s pique was different. It was more like… well, if he hadn’t known better, he might almost have said that she was more irritated by Byron’s professional success!

Perhaps he was the one who was going mad.

And if he was going mad, she was the one who was driving him there.

Pomona had never been a confident rider, so West made certain that her hired mount was a gentle mare. They kept to a walk as they followed the sandy track that led across the narrow island, and by the time they arrived at the endless stretch of white sand on Lido’s seaward side, a gentle morning breeze was shredding the mist. The blue green Adriatic broke against the shore in a tranquil rhythm.

Once again, Pomona scanned the scene as though she were looking for something and not finding it. He drew up next to her. “It is beautiful, is it not? Do you see anything worthy of a sketch?”

She stared at him blankly. It was plain that she didn’t remember what he was talking about. “Oh!” She seemed to choke for a moment, and then coughed. “A sketch. Yes. No. This scene is far too… er…” She frowned. “Well, it lacks a… a foreground.”

Well, well, well. Just as he’d suspected: She’d never had the slightest intention of painting watercolors. He would have said that he was closer to discovering what she was really up to… only he knew her well enough to know that he wasn’t.

He inhaled the soft, salt-scented air. Seagulls mewled overhead. Black oystercatchers with bright red legs raced busily in and out of the small waves breaking on the beach. And Pomona was studying all of it with a tense expression. The wind caught the ribbons that secured the small cap under her chin, and the sun caught the contrasting red gleams in her hair.

What a very lucky man he was. Or would have been—if his wife could bear the sight of him. In fact, she seemed to be annoyed that he was looking at her. “What?”

“Shall we ride?”