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A moment later he was at her side. “I see that everyone is making ready to dance. Shall we join them?” He took her hand and they joined the other couples moving towards the dance floor.

The ballroom was enormous. Paintings depicting everything from angels in flight to scenes of ancient Roman sea battles covered the walls and ceiling, set off by gilded plasterwork that gleamed in the light of thousands of candles. The air was perfumed with huge arrangements of full blown, bright pink roses. The silks and satins of the other guests’ costumes, the sparkle of crystal and candlelight… though she’d had but one glass of champagne, she felt intoxicated by all of it.

Her steps faltered a few times in the complex figures of the contra dance, but despite the fact that she hadn’t danced in several years, the music animated her feet. Besides, with West as her partner, any mistakes seemed unimportant.

They exchanged partners. She moved up one place, curtseyed, and found herself dancing with the governor himself, who promised the charming young duchessa and her dashing husband an invitation to a boating party, and revealed that later in the evening, the orchestra would play Viennese waltzes.

All of her partners were kind and gallant. It felt almost unreal that she’d gone from being singled out for suspicion and scorn at London evening parties, to being called “charming.” It was as though someone had waved a magic wand over her life, and everything that had been difficult and nerve-wracking had become effortless. Lady Theodosia would be so pleased when she wrote to tell her of this turn of events.

She reached almost the top of the dance. She made a curtsey. And as she rose, she found her partner staring at her.

Of course, she knew who he was. But somehow, though her body was already recoiling, for a moment her mind refused to believe that it could really be him.

“Good evening, Miss Keynsham.” He gave her the same derisive look that had always made her quail in London. “Or, I suppose that I must now address you as the Duchess of March.”

It was Cecil Townley.

Chapter Fourteen

It was most agreeable to flirt with one’s wife, and to see her blushes.

But it was almost as agreeable to see her in public—relaxed, chatting, smiling, enjoying herself—and to know that at last, she was getting the praise that she deserved. As he progressed down the dance he caught glimpses of her vivacious face. At last others could see her as he saw her: charming, clever, and beautiful.

But suddenly, there she was before him. And all the happy color had gone from her face. She was white with strain, and for a moment she couldn’t seem to speak at all.

“Darling! What is wrong?”

She shook her head. She swallowed. Her lips moved, but her voice was a whisper that he had to put his ear next to her mouth to hear. “We—we must leave. Now. This instant.”

“But... Are you unwell?” The moment that he touched her arm he could feel her shaking. He looked around wildly. What had happened? Did she need a doctor? He put his arm around her and began to lead her in the direction of the door.

And then all-too-familiar figure blocked their path. “Ah. West.”

He stopped. “Townley.”

Townley was smirking. “Only imagine! Here I am, newly arrived in Venice—and as luck would have it, you are one of the very first people I see! What are the odds of that? And of course, I have just had the pleasure of dancing with your, er… lady wife.”

Now he knew why Pomona wanted to leave. Rage flooded him. “You will address me as your grace, Townley.”

Townley’s face flushed a darker red. But his voice was still an insolent drawl. “Oh dear. How difficult that is to remember, in these unsettled times. Titles land on the oddest of heads.” He gave a theatrical sigh. “And then there are hastily-arranged private marriages, which also… Well, some things are best not dwelt upon, I suppose. However, it is fortunate that our hosts have not yet learned of Lady March’s penchant for ruining entertainments and setting fire to houses, or they might have been afraid to invite you!” He laughed.

West’s mind’s eye supplied a sudden vision of his fist connecting with Townley’s nose. But Pomona was already trembling with fear. And he couldn't make a scene here. “Have a care, Townley, or I shall make you answer for your insults. Now, I suggest that you move out of my way immediately.”

Townley’s face twitched as he struggled to hide his anger with a plastered-on smirk. “Of course—your grace. Far be it from me to inconvenience you.”

As they left the ballroom and the palazzo, he could feel Pomona shaking. Several times she half-stumbled, though each time she made a visible effort to pull herself back together. Outside the torches were burning low as they followed the walk back to the landing. He engaged the first gondolier that he saw.

Pomona sank into the boat. “Darling?” He leaned forward, his voice low and urgent. “We will be home in only a few minutes.”

She didn't answer. He wasn't even certain that she'd heard him.

West had known that Pomona had been treated poorly. After all, he'd witnessed Townley pursue her into Lady Beaufort’s library. But until now, he hadn’t understood how much Pomona’s sensitive spirit must have been crushed by the sneers and bullying of the ton—and most of all, by Townley’s relentless campaign of ridicule.

Somehow, he had to get her to see that Townley was worthless. He wasn't even fit to be in the same room as her, let alone to speak to her in such a familiar way. His opinion meant nothing.

But she was huddled miserably in her seat, seeming not to notice when the gondola bumped gently against the stone quay before the water gate of their palazzo. It wasn’t even midnight. They were back so early that the servants—who probably hadn’t been expecting them until five or six in the morning—weren’t prepared. As he handed Pomona out of the boat, a footman, his wig askew and his jacket unbuttoned, ran out holding a torch.

He didn’t want to leave her like this. “Let us have some wine in the loggia, and enjoy the moonlight.”