It was the only explanation that made sense. Max was a Venator, the most powerful one after Aunt Eustacia. He would never betray them.

And as for Sarafina Regalado? Victoria would not believe Max had fallen in love with that fairy-headed chit. If he ever deigned to allow himself to be distracted by a woman, it would be someone… different.

Having come to her conclusion, Victoria assumed that Max would be as anxious to make the truth known to her as she was to receive it, so she hovered near one of the ballroom entrances in hopes of catching his eye and hinting for him to leave. But he did not glance her way even once, and he seemed perfectly content to mingle among the guests, with or without Sara clinging to his arm.

When at last she had run out of excuses for Portiera and Placidia as to why she did not move from her spot, she allowed them to maneuver her to a cluster of young Italian men—the equivalent of the rakes and rogues that made their way through the ton in London—and present her to them.

For a short time, Victoria allowed herself to be lulled by the pleasure of being nothing more than a young, attractive woman interacting with young, attractive men. She'd forgotten what it was like to be concerned only with providing witty comments or flashing demure smiles.

This was the life she'd given up: a simple one, where the biggest worry was what gown to wear to which event, whether her dance card would be filled, and whether, once wed, she would provide an heir and a spare. It was filled with gossip and parties and little else.

Oh, and blissful ignorance.

Yes, that was definitely part of the life she'd given up.

Portiera and Placidia's handsome friends were complimentary and charming and falling all over themselves in an effort to speak with Victoria, to retrieve a drink for her, a biscotto, an antipasto, a walk on the terrace to steal some air. As an English widow, she was unusually attractive to them, in particular to one of the elder of the group—though he couldn't have been more than thirty—Barone Silvio Galliani.

"Perhaps I could convince you that some fresh air would be delightful, Mrs. Withers," he suggested, elbowing another, less bold competitor out of the way. "The gardens at Villa Regalado are particularly beautiful in the moonlight."

Italy flavored his English, admiration glinted in his dark eyes, and his smile was compelling enough to send a little twinge into her belly. When she acquiesced and he took her arm, she felt the fine cloth of his jacket and the sinewy muscle underneath it.

"Have you known the Regalado family for long?"

Victoria asked him as they strolled along the cobblestone terrace.

"For many years," he replied. "I am the contessa's cousin. Was I not truthful when I claimed that the gardens are most beautiful by moonlight? Do you see those roses there?"

She looked at the creamy white blooms, made silvery by the moon. "They are beautiful, but seem to be blooming rather late in the season."

"Indeed, they are! I dabble a bit in the breeding of flowers, and this one is one of my own creations. I named it Sara in the Moonlight—Sarè nel chiarore della luna—but perhaps I was rather hasty in choosing a name." He cast a meaningful look at her. "Its delicate color reminds me of your beautiful English skin, and the silver glaze from the moon is the same as the shine in your dark hair. Il chiarore della luna di Emmaline would perhaps be a more fitting name. Bmmaline's Moonlight."

Victoria felt the sway of his charm. After all, she'd never been described as a rose. "I am most complimented," she replied, walking on. "You must be very close to Sara and her family to name a rose after her."

"Si, I have known her since she was young. A bit frivolous at times, but a nice enough girl. Pretty in her own way."

"It sounds as though the family is quite pleased about her pending nuptials. Have you met her intended?"

"Many times. Pesaro is quite the gentleman and seemed to become rather quickly attached to young Sara. It was only a matter of a month, perhaps half again, and they were announcing their engagement. Of course, when one finds true love, time means nothing." He was looking at her again with that same intense look. Did he really think she was going to fall for it?

"Does the conte approve of such a quick decision for his daughter's marriage?"

"He is very pleased. He and Pesaro have extensive business dealings, which is how I believe he came to meet Sara. Now, my dear Mrs. Withers, enough talk about Sara and her beau… let us talk about yours. I noticed quite a bit of interest from that English boy back in there. Tell me true, and do not break my heart… is he of special interest to you, or is there the possibility that another might attract your attention?"

"My attention is not attached to anyone at this time, barone."

"Then I may count myself as a fortunate man." Barone Galliani's brilliant smile flashed in the moonlight. "It would make me very happy if you would call me Silvio. Would you care to take a turn along the pathway yonder? I should be happy to show you some of my purple sweet-peas."

"I would be very happy to see them, but I fear I must find my way back into the ballroom. I do not wish Placidia and Portiera to worry on my absence. They may be preparing to leave."

He was clearly disappointed, but he acceded to her wishes and escorted her inside. Just as they came back into the ballroom from the terrace, Victoria saw the tall figure of Max striding toward the opposite door.

He was leaving the room, and she was going to follow him. This would be her chance to catch him alone.

She told Silvio that she must excuse herself for a moment, and made her way through the people chatting and drinking without appearing to be in a hurry. She even paused at the drink table to dash down an unladylike gulp of lemonade, then continued on her way. By the time she reached the exit, nearly ten minutes had elapsed.

The doorway through which Max had disappeared was not the one through which she'd originally entered the ballroom; instead of leading to an entry foyer, it led into a spacious, curve-ceilinged hall lined with doors and alcoves, studded with shoulder-high pillars topped with marble busts. In keeping with Regalado's theme, several of them also sported nipples.

Victoria paused at one of the doors, unsure whether Max had gone this way to meet someone else, to obtain some solitude from the demanding social event, or, perhaps, to seek her out.

There was silence in the hall, then, from a distance, the rumble of a low voice followed by a low, delighted feminine squeal. Someone had taken the opportunity for a tryst.

Victoria moved along, wondering if she dared to open one of the doors. Max could be anywhere; he could be in a completely different area of the villa. But if he'd slipped out in order to create an opportunity for them to meet, he should be nearby. Waiting for her. He must have seen her come back in from the terrace and must know she was behind him.

A doorknob turned, and Victoria scooted into the shadow of one of the busts, tucking herself behind it, wishing she were as petite as Sara. With a low whoosh the door opened, and the rustle of skirts told her that a woman was coming along the hall.

Victoria held her breath, but the woman rushed along back to the ballroom with nary a glance. It was Sara Regalado.

An ugly feeling stirred in Victoria's belly. She stepped from behind the pillar and waited.

The door opened again, and out strode Max. His thick hair was rumpled and the collar of his shirt was crooked. Other than that, his hawkish features made him appear cool and removed, his elegant cheekbones as though they were carved from ice. He looked down his long, straight nose at her, standing there in the hall, and said, "You again?"

He would have brushed past her, but she planted herself in the center of the passage. "What's going on, Max?" she asked in a low voice.

"Whatever do you mean?" he asked, flicking at what had to be an imaginary speck on his coat sleeve. "Perhaps you've caught me in an awkward position, but after all, she is my fiancee."

"Why haven't you been in contact with Aunt Eustacia?"

His look was bland as porridge. "I've been busy. Wedding plans and such. You know how distracting they can be."

She felt as though he'd slammed her in the stomach. "Yes," she breathed.

He waited a beat, then said, "Is there anything else?"

"No."

"Very good, then… er, Mrs. Witters, was it? Will you permit me to return to my fiancee? I hope your journey back to London is comfortable—and imminent." As she stepped back, he walked past her, tall and dark, and she could not miss the air of annoyance that accompanied him.

Now, hours later in the carriage across from George, who'd enthusiastically offered to see her home when the Tarruscelli sisters weren't ready to leave, Victoria still seethed.

She simmered and stewed, but beneath the anger was emptiness, disbelief, fear. Arrogance and rudeness were nothing new where Max was concerned, but it was the blithe put-off when she'd asked him about Aunt Eustacia that really bothered her. He loved her aunt like a mother, a mentor, a teacher, and a liege. For him to dismiss her boded nothing good.

Surely it wasn't what it seemed. Surely it wasn't that he'd fallen in love and denounced the Venator world and duty.

Or that he'd joined the Tutela.

She'd never believe it.

Chapter 16

In Which a Small Italian Parlor Experiences Much Activity

Victoria wasn't surprised to find Sebastian waiting at the villa when she returned. It just seemed to follow with the rest of the way things had been going. When she came in to find him awaiting her in the cushion-sized parlor, she had a brief moment of regret that she hadn't taken George up on his hints to be invited in.It was only a brief moment, however, and was replaced with the more fervent wish that she'd allowed Silvio to take her home, and to come in with her. The presence of the attentive and handsome Italian baron would have wiped the expectant smile off Sebastian's face.

As it was, Victoria's hand itched to wipe it off. She truly wasn't fit for company, as her mother would say. But that was the risk Sebastian had taken, showing up here uninvited. Sending her off alone tonight. Not telling her everything he knew.