A Timeless Romance Anthology: European Collection (30 page)

Heather B. Moore is the author of ten historical thrillers, written under H.B. Moore, latest release
Finding Sheba
. She writes women’s fiction under Heather B. Moore, latest releases include
Ruby’s Secret
(The Newport Ladies Book Club series) and
Esther the Queen
. Her romances include
Heart of the Ocean
, the Aliso Creek Novella series, and A Timeless Romance Anthology series. Heather also owns and manages the freelance editing company
Precision Editing Group
.

Heather lives in the shadow of Mt. Timpanogos with her husband, four children, and one pretentious cat. In her spare time, Heather sleeps.

Author website:
www.hbmoore.com

Blog:
http://mywriterslair.blogspot.com

Twitter:
@HeatherBMoore

Facebook: Fans of H.B. Moore
or
Heather Brown Moore

by Nancy Campbell Allen

Chapter One

Venice, Italy—1894

Evangeline Stuart stood alone on the Doge’s Palace second floor
loggia
and looked out over Venice’s Grand Canal. She wished she could freeze the moment in time; it wasn’t so much that she disliked people— just the ones with whom she lived and currently traveled. At twenty-one years, she was quite the spinster, and her stepfather and his two daughters seemed loath to allow her to forget it. They were unpleasant in the extreme, although subtle about it, which somehow made it worse.

Moonlight glinted off of the wide body of water, and a soft breeze blew a few stray, golden curls away from Evangeline’s face as she closed her eyes, enjoying the muted sounds of singing gondoliers and people in the courtyard behind the building, gathering for the pending masquerade ball.

Evangeline adjusted the purple silk, jewel-encrusted demi-mask that covered her eyes, wondering if she dared take it off for these few moments she was alone. Her view of the water wasn’t encumbered by the adornment, but she wanted to feel the breeze upon all of her face, not just the lower half. Her younger step-sisters, the twins, had insisted it would be bad luck to remove the masks before the night was over, although Evangeline doubted nearly everything that came out of the girls’ mouths.

Before leaving the inn, Evangeline had decided it was to be a magical night, so the mask would remain in place. She had dreamed of Venice for so long that she could hardly believe her good fortune; since her mother’s passing the year before, her stepfather had denied her all but the simplest of pleasures. That he had allowed her to accompany him and the twins on their holiday to the floating city had been more a matter of keeping up appearances, but she had grasped the opportunity with both hands before he could change his mind and had breathed a bit easier when they left London behind.

Evangeline felt, rather than heard, someone watching her. She turned her head to see a man whose upper face was hidden by a black mask, which matched the rest of his dark attire, down to the shiny black of his boots. The only contrast to the dark night, and his equally dark suit, was the snowy white of his shirtfront, collar, and cravat. He leaned against one of the Byzantine arches gracing the
loggia’s
outer wall to Evangeline’s right and studied her with a silence she found unnerving.

Straightening, she lifted her chin. My, but the man was tall. And broad. For a moment, she felt a stab of fear and glanced at the doors leading back into the palace.

“I mean you no harm,
bella
,” the man murmured, his tone low. The corner of his mouth lifted in a wry smile. “You may escape back into the crowd if you wish.” His English was accented, but otherwise flawless.

“What are you doing?” Evangeline asked, feeling slightly stupid.

“I am a patron of the arts, you see, and I am admiring the exquisite.”

Evangeline felt a blush steal across her face and was grateful for the mask. She knew well that the purple gown accentuated her figure to its best. She had enjoyed two Seasons in London while her mother was still alive but had spent little time recently in the company of gentlemen, as the twins now were the focus of the household.

The man made no move toward her. In fact, he remained quite still. He was compelling, though, and his intensity had her feeling overwhelmed. Warm. Evangeline was very near to fleeing the
loggia
when a small voice in the back of her brain reminded her that she wore a mask and a beautiful gown. For the evening, she could be whomever she chose, even if she decided to simply be Evangeline for the first time in a very long while.

She smiled a bit. How long had it been since she had allowed her joy to surface? How long since she’d
felt
it? For one night, just one night, she wanted to be the woman she might have become if circumstances beyond her control hadn’t altered her existence completely.

“You are Venetian?” Evangeline asked. “Or visiting for the Biennales?”

He inclined his head. “I am here for the art show,” he said. “From Florence.”

“You are an artist, then?” she said, and bravely took the smallest of steps toward him.

Again, that smile— a wealth of information contained in it. Wry, self-assured, perhaps jaded. “Regrettably, no. But I do enjoy art. I am on the Biennales selection committee.”

“Oh? Well then, you are acquainted with my stepfather’s work. We are here because of it.”

“His name?”

“Robert Montgomery.”

The stranger leaned forward slightly. “Robert Montgomery is your stepfather? I should very much enjoy meeting him. His paintings are exceptional.”

Again Evangeline was grateful for the mask. She hoped that it, combined with the darkness of the night, covered her dubious reaction. Robert fancied himself an artist, but Evangeline thought his work amateur, pedestrian. That he had been invited to showcase his work in Italy’s first annual Biennales art show had come as a shock. Perhaps the selection committee was not so well-versed in what constituted quality.

“You do not agree?”

Drat. He had seen through both the mask and the dark.

“But perhaps you are not familiar with art, then?” he said. “You are merely here to enjoy the Venetian splendor?”

“I know good art,” Evangeline said, hearing the bite in her voice. She had drawn and painted since early childhood, had begun formal lessons at eight years of age and had continued them until her mother’s death. She knew, without any sense of guile, that her talent was special. That her stepfather should have his ridiculous efforts showcased on a world stage, while hers sat unnoticed in her attic room in London, grated against her nerves.

A chuckle from the stranger had her flushing again, and he pushed off from the arch, stepping closer. “You ‘know good art,’ do you?”

Hopes for a magical evening or no, Evangeline felt her temper snap. She turned to leave the
loggia
when the stranger moved quickly and caught her arm.

“
Bella
, no. Do not leave me so soon.”

His long fingers were warm; he did not wear gloves. Trying not to feel scandalized, she looked up at him, taking in the dark curls just brushing the top of his white collar and the equally dark eyes behind the black mask. “You must join me,” he said and pulled her hand gently through his arm. “Have you seen the gallery on the third floor?”

Evangeline shook her head, her heart thumping at either the man’s proximity or his suggestion that they visit the gallery— she wasn’t certain which. “I would love to.”

“Your name?” he said, looking down at her, holding her eyes with his own. “Your Christian name.”

“Evangeline,” she whispered.

“
Cara mia
,” he murmured. “Of course the name would be as exquisite as the body housing it.”

 Warmth at his bold compliment coursed through Evangeline as they walked toward the double doors leading into the palace, which had long since ceased functioning as a palace and now housed government offices and official receptions.

“And am I to have the pleasure of your name, sir?” Evangeline asked as they entered the building and the stranger led her through the reception room and to a staircase beyond it.

He hesitated and looked down at her for a long moment, pausing at the bottom of the staircase. “Matteo,” he finally said.

She raised a brow. “You haven’t a surname?”

The smile again. “You did not give me yours.”

“You did not request it.” Evangeline smiled in return as she looked up at Matteo and paused as the eyes behind his mask widened slightly.

“
Cara mia
, you should smile always.”

Evangeline shook her head as they began climbing the stairs. “Something you undoubtedly say to all of the women you meet. I have heard of the Italian man’s ability to charm.”

Matteo covered her hand with his own as they reached the next landing. “In this,
bella
, you are mistaken. I do not waste time saying things I do not mean.”

Evangeline glanced up at him again as he led her down a long hallway. In the cozy light of the wall sconces, his boldly handsome face with its well-defined Italian features quite took her breath away. What were the odds that he was actually unencumbered? The thought that he might not be involved with another woman was ridiculous.

“What of your wife?” she ventured. “Or your… your…” Drat. Could she truly not bring herself to use the word
mistress
?

He paused with her outside a set of large double-doors. “My…” He gave her the benefit of his full regard again, and it quite unnerved her. Which she found immensely irritating.

“Your
courtesan
?” she said and raised a brow, although he wouldn’t see it beneath her mask.

“The position is currently vacant,” he said with a twitch of his full lips.

“Which one?” she ventured, wondering if her blush was spreading down across the expanse of skin not covered by her dress.

“Both,” he murmured and smiled before tugging her into the room.

Anything she might have been brave enough to say in response was completely lost as she looked at the walls in the splendid room, which were lit to showcase each beautiful piece of art to perfection. She placed a hand over her heart, her breath stolen.

“Oh!” She dropped her hand from his arm and moved more fully into the room, feeling her eyes burn. “A Vincini! Three of them!” Evangeline stood rooted to the spot, her mouth open. She moved slowly and approached the paintings, realizing it shouldn’t have come as a surprise that the government seat of Venice would house masterpieces. “They are originals,” she murmured and blinked back tears, suddenly remembering she wasn’t alone. It would be awkward indeed to be forced to lift the mask to wipe her eyes.

Matteo approached and stood beside her, and she felt him watching her. “It would seem you do indeed know good art,
cara mia
. These are some of his lesser-known pieces.”

“I would have thought to find these in the state museum,” she said and looked up at him.

“They were, originally. They came here two hundred years ago, when the doges still claimed this building as a home.”

“Incredible,” she whispered, turning her attention back to the paintings. “The use of light, his signature preferences for gold and deep green, the lifelike appearance of the mother and child…”

“And yet you care not for your stepfather’s work? His style is similar, albeit more modern.” Matteo’s voice held confusion, and she had to admit to a certain amount of her own.

“My stepfather’s work looks nothing like this,” she said, frowning. “And he wouldn’t know to blend these hues if I mixed the paints for him.”

Matteo’s face registered surprise. “You are an artist,
Evangelina
?”

Evangeline bit her lip and looked away, focusing instead on the far wall where she saw another artist of some renown, but nothing compared to Vincini. The urge to deny her talent was on the tip of her tongue, to downplay her efforts as she had become accustomed to doing as a means of defense at home. She glanced up again at the man who watched her as though he would learn her every last secret and relish each one, and remembered she wore a mask, which, ironically, allowed her to be herself.

“I am an artist,” she admitted quietly, and felt a surge of the joy she’d missed since losing her father nine years earlier.

“And you are good.”

“Yes.” She nodded and felt the sting behind her eyelids again. “I am good.”

“Did you not think to enter your own work in the Biennales?” He smiled at her, and it seemed, oddly, tender. Compassionate. He ran a fingertip along her cheekbone at the edge of her mask. “I am on the selection committee, after all.”

Her lips quirked into a wry smile. “And interested in my art only after seeing me in a purple masquerade gown on a
loggia
in the moonlight.”

He laughed, revealing a sense of unguarded, genuine humor. “Come,” he said, smiling still, and led her to a small desk in the corner of the room. “I want you to draw something for me.”