The Venetian's Proposal. Lee Wilkinson

she held the smooth coil in place on top of her head and began to push in the pins her eyes were drawn to her wedding ring.

      Her task finished, she studied the thin gold band. Married for barely a year when Jeff was killed, she had now been a widow for considerably longer than she had been a wife.

      As John had said, anyone who had lost a loved one needed to mourn, but no one should mourn for ever.

      Maybe the time had come to let go of the past.

      Slipping off the ring, she put it carefully with her other treasures.

      Anxious to look her best—for the first time in more than three years—she picked up her cosmetic case and turned back to the mirror.

      With somewhat darker brows and lashes, and a clear skin, she needed very little in the way of make-up. A dab of powder to stop her small straight nose from shining, a touch of green eyeshadow and a light coating of pale lipgloss and she was ready.

      A knock made her snatch up her evening bag and stole and hurry to open the door.

      Looking devastatingly handsome in a black tie and evening jacket, Dominic Loredan was waiting.

      His gaze travelled over her from head to toe and back again, making her feel oddly shivery, before he remarked evenly, ‘You really are the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.’

      Just for an instant she had the odd impression that his words hadn’t been intended as a compliment.

      Perhaps he read the uncertainty in her face, because he took her hand and raised it to his lips.

      The romantic little gesture and its accompanying smile smoothed away the impression, as the sea smoothed away footprints in the sand.

      Her heart lifting, she returned his smile. ‘I’m afraid I forgot to thank you for a lovely afternoon.’

      Taking the stole from her, he put it around her shoulders and offered her his arm. ‘The evening should prove to be even better.’

      His sleek white sports car was waiting in the car park, its hood back, and in a matter of minutes they were making their way out of the city. Though the sun had gone, the air was still comfortably warm, and in the low-slung seats they were shielded from too much wind.

      Soon they began to climb steadily, the view changing with every horseshoe bend. Stands of trees set in sloping green meadows… The flash of water and a roadside shrine bright with flowers… Wooden chalets, with a steepled church perched high on a bluff above them… Then, set against the magnificent backdrop of mountains, a turreted castle.

      ‘The Schloss Lienz,’ Dominic said.

      ‘It’s a real picture-book place,’ she remarked delightedly.

      ‘I’m pleased you like it,’ he said gravely, as he took the winding road up to the schloss. When they reached it they drove through an archway into a vast cobbled courtyard. Set around it were metal sconces holding long torches that looked like enormous bulrushes.

      Having helped Nicola out, he handed the car keys to a hovering attendant, and it was whisked through another archway, out of sight.

      At this height the alpine air was appreciably cooler and fresher as she stood staring up at the grey stone walls towering above them. Seeing her slight shiver, Dominic thoughtfully adjusted her stole higher on her shoulders.

      ‘Thank you.’ She smiled at him, suddenly feeling cosseted and cared for, a feeling she hadn’t experienced for a very long time.

      At the entrance to the schloss they were greeted by a thick-set man with blond hair, who was, Nicola discovered later, the Baron Von Salzach.

      In heavily accented English, he said, ‘Good evening, Dominic. It is nice to see you again. Mrs Whitney, welcome to Schloss Lienz. If you will follow me, you have a table on the terrace, as requested.’

      ‘Thank you, Franz.’

      Their host led the way to the end of a large flagged hall and through a carpeted, chandelier-hung dining-room, where a quartet of musicians played Mozart and most of the well-dressed clientele seemed to be in decorous groups.

      As they followed him Nicola noticed that several of the women with middle-aged escorts gave Dominic a second surreptitious glance, and her an envious one. As they reached a long, curving flight of stone stairs, Franz said, ‘Please be careful. The steps are old and worn in places.’

      The stairway led up to a flagged open-air terrace, which held only a handful of widely spaced tables, four of which were already occupied.

      ‘Out here it’s somewhat less stuffy,’ Dominic remarked sotto voce.

      His sidelong smile convinced her he wasn’t referring to the temperature.

      When they were seated at a table set with gleaming crystal and a centrepiece of fresh flowers, the Baron said, ‘I hope you will enjoy your meal,’ clicked his heels, and departed.

      Intrigued by the glowing charcoal braziers standing at intervals along the waist-high outer wall, Nicola remarked, ‘They look so wonderfully appropriate.’

      ‘As soon as the sun goes down they’re necessary to keep the air comfortably warm,’ Dominic explained. ‘Though before they were installed, a couple of years ago, the hardy diner would risk pneumonia for the sake of the view.’

      Gazing at the wonderful panorama of Innsbruck spread below them in the wide, flat valley of the Inn, she said, ‘If you want my opinion, it was well worth the risk.’

      ‘When all the city lights start to come on, you’ll find it’s even better.’

      As they ordered and ate a superb dinner she found he was right. In the blue velvet dusk the glittering lights turned the twenty-first century into a fairy tale. While at the castle itself the lanterns on the terrace and the flaring torches in the courtyard below gave the scene a medieval feel.

      Though he drank little himself, Dominic kept Nicola’s glass topped up with an excellent Riesling that was light and subtle and easy to keep sipping.

      Caught up in the magic of the moment, a magic that had a lot to do with the schloss but even more to do with her companion, she failed to notice just how much she was drinking.

      During the meal he had steered clear of anything remotely personal, so it came as a complete surprise when, reaching across the table, he lifted her bare left hand and remarked, ‘You’ve taken off your ring.’

      ‘Yes.’

      ‘Why?’

      ‘I—I’m not sure,’ she stammered, shaken both by his touch and his question. ‘The time just seemed to be right.’

      Something in his look made her go on to explain, ‘I suddenly realised I’d been a widow for longer than I’d been a wife.’

      Releasing her hand, he queried, ‘How long were you married?’

      ‘Not quite a year…’

      Perhaps it was too much wine that loosened her tongue, or maybe, at long last, the time had come when she felt it a relief to be able to talk about the past.

      Whichever, she found herself opening up to a perfect stranger in a way she hadn’t been able to open up to anyone, except John.

      ‘Jeff and I had a traditional white wedding on my twenty-first birthday.’

      ‘But you’d lived together before that?’

      ‘Virtually all our lives… Oh, I see what you mean. No, we hadn’t lived together in that sense.’

      Seeing his slight frown, she explained, ‘Jeff’s parents were my parents too. My foster parents. They had been my grandmother’s friends for a number of years, and they took care of me while she was in hospital and after she died.’

      ‘How old were you then?’

      ‘Just turned five.’