tal prospects were further along. The thought of resuming her former life in Paris was not nearly as appealing as it once had been, but Venetia didn’t like to dwell on her possible change of heart.
Instead, she smiled at Cleo. “Enough about me. How have you been occupying yourself, Cleo? Are you eager to return to France?”
After a pause, Cleo gave a soft, almost secretive smile. “I have been reacquainting myself with some old friends.”
“Do I know them?”
Cleo suddenly looked oddly flustered. “I don’t believe so. But in any event, I am in no hurry to leave England just yet.”
Venetia sensed a subtle change in her friend but couldn’t quite put her finger on it.
Two hours later, she bid farewell to Cleo with great regret. “It isn’t safe for you to visit me until the assassin is caught, but with all the footmen I have guarding me, perhaps I can come back here soon.”
“You know you are more than welcome at any time. I have missed you immensely, Venetia.”
“Not as much as I have missed you, my dearest Cleo.”
The two women embraced each other fondly. Then Venetia made her way out the entrance door and down the front steps, through the walled garden and out to the curb where her carriage and footmen awaited.
Once settled and on her way, she realized what was different about Cleo. There was almost a glow about her, a contentment Venetia had never seen before. Her friend seemed unusually…happy.
Perhaps they were both withholding their deepest, most private confidences just now, Venetia thought wistfully. She could certainly sympathize with the desire for privacy. Some feelings were just too intimate to share. She wasn’t yet ready to confess her evolving feelings for her new husband, especially when she didn’t fully understand the incipient emotions herself.
She did understand, however, how satisfying it was to apply her skills at sculpting again. Her plan was to present her mother and father with small busts of the entire Stratham family as a peace offering of sorts. When Quinn visited her new studio the following morning, he found her wholly immersed in the joy of creating—elbow-deep in clay, her apron mud-spattered, her hair escaping its knot in careless tendrils.
His observations and questions about her work made her supremely self-conscious, though, especially when he brushed back a wayward wisp of hair from her forehead and tucked it behind her ear.
Barely hiding her flush, Venetia cleared her throat. “I work best alone. Perhaps you wouldn’t mind leaving me to myself?”
His blue eyes gleamed with humor. “Are you banning me from your studio?”
“Forgive me, but yes,” she replied cordially. “I will never be able to concentrate with you hovering over me.”
“If you insist…but I am mortally wounded.”
Smiling, Venetia watched him leave, feeling thankful, but also with genuine regret. She would have liked to ask Quinn to pose for her, for the challenge if nothing else. It wouldn’t be easy to capture his essence in the clay beneath her fingers—to transfer the lethal elegance of his aristocratic features or show the intelligence of his eyes, the sensuality of his beautiful mouth. The distraction would prove too overwhelming. Even worse, she might expose some of the burgeoning, inexplicable feelings she was trying desperately to ignore if not repress altogether.
Instead, Venetia stifled a sigh and returned to the much safer task of depicting her sister’s pretty face in clay.
By week’s end, Venetia had finished clay molds of Ophelia and their mother, yet she was still no closer to sorting out her conflicting feelings for Quinn.
At least they were making progress on the social battlefront. Having agreed to attend only select engagements to keep their exposure to a minimum, they chose to make their debut at a grand ball hosted by Lord and Lady Perry, where the cream of the ton would be present, including Quinn’s adopted cousin, Lord Jack Wilde, and his beautiful wife, Sophie, whom Venetia was greatly looking forward to meeting.
Lady Katharine’s brother Ash and his wife, Maura—the Marquis and Marchioness of Beaufort—would remain in the country with their new baby son, but they sent their fondest well-wishes, and Maura wrote a long letter to Venetia welcoming her into the family.
The Wildes were clearly determined to rally around the Stratham sisters. Not only was Katharine developing a matchmaking scheme for Ophelia and arranging introductions to potential beaus, Skye commissioned her favorite modiste to design lovely gowns for them both. The night of the ball, when Venetia dressed carefully in her exquisite gown of apricot silk with a cream lace overskirt and descended the staircase to the entrance hall, where Quinn awaited her, his blue eyes flared with appreciation.
The admiration was reciprocal. He had a presence that made mere mortals seem insignificant. And garbed in evening clothes—black coat, gold brocade waistcoat, and pristine white cravat that set off his handsome face and dark blond hair—every immaculate inch of him screamed wealth and bone-deep nobility.
“You look amply prepared to face the wolves,” he commented as he offered her his arm.
“I hope so. I cannot believe how nervous I am,” Venetia confessed, “knowing I will be the target of every gossip and disapproving dowager out there.”
“You will be the most dazzling beauty at the ball.”
“It helps that your sister has impeccable taste.”
“A gown can only accentuate a woman’s loveliness, not create it.”