But she would never stop grieving, not completely. The pain would ease, she would move on with her life—she already had, in a sense—but the grief would never completely go away. It would always mark her, somehow.
If she were different, perhaps she would find someone to love again. Widows did; it wasn't unheard-of. She suspected that her mother had developed a tendre for Lord Jellington, now, three years after Victoria's father's death.
But Victoria couldn't expect to do so.
Certainly, most people who lost a loved one would feel as if they never wanted to love again. Never wanted to go through that horrific pain of loss. But they could love again, when the grief eased. They would be able to.
Victoria couldn't.
Well, she could. It was possible and perhaps even likely that love would find her someday, as she was still young and attractive, and if her response to Sebastian was any indication, she appreciated being considered so by a man.
But she was a Venator. Her life was a patchwork of danger and deceit, night patrols, incessant hunting, violence, and matches with evil. A greater evil than most people would ever face.
Loving someone would endanger him—and endanger herself by dividing her concentration. The lies, the subterfuge, the lifestyle would pick away at and erode any chance of happiness she might imagine.
She couldn't allow herself to love—or, worse, truly worse, to be loved.
Her last words to Max had been to tell him he'd been right. He'd been right that she should not have married Phillip for all of the reasons that she now knew. Victoria would never finish grieving because she would never be able to forgive herself for marrying him anyway.
Yet, she missed the feel of a man's lips under hers, the steadiness of his embrace. The smell of masculinity and the broad height of shoulders, the race of her pulse when an attractive man looked at her like he wished to gobble her up whilst he was speaking of the weather or, as in Sebastian's case, about a secret society of vampire protectors.
She didn't have to marry, or even to love, to find pleasure in such a refuge from her world. She was a widow now, experienced in love and more experienced in life than most women her mother's age.
When she was lonely, she could find companionship with a man. Selectively, of course. Discreetly. Without the emotional attachment that could endanger them both.
She might be a Venator, a widow, a peer of Society. But she was still, and always would be, a woman too.
Being introduced at La Villa Foscarini was a most unusual experience for Victoria. Arriving at a small party where she knew no one, without a male escort, completely on her own, was something she could not do amongst the London haute ton without turning many heads and causing untold whispers of impropriety.
But Aunt Eustacia had explained that Italian Society was not nearly as rigid as that in England, and that their social mores were much more relaxed than what Victoria was used to. And this little clique of English expatriates that had become Lord Byron's miniature circle of Society were even more forgiving of accepted rules.
Still, it felt exceedingly odd to be announced as Mrs. Emmaline Withers and to face a small sea of faces that were unrecognizable to her.
In an effort to keep her identity as a Venator a secret, Victoria had agreed with Wayren's suggestion that she use an assumed name during her movements in Italian Society. Lilith most certainly knew who she was, and although many of the vampires she might encounter would recognize her name, they would not know her by sight. Thus, if Victoria were to penetrate the Tutela, she must take care not to be found out.
The consequences, as Eustacia said, were obvious.
"Mrs. Withers! How delighted we are that you could attend our little party." An energetic man, with dark hair even more curling and wild than John Polidori's had been, bolted from his seat and moved forward to meet her, keeping his limp as smooth as possible.
So this was Lord Byron, poet and, if all the rumors were true, lover extraordinaire.
He certainly had lovely hair. And a tall forehead. But he was rather short.
And most certainly attached to the ravishing redheaded woman who trailed after him to greet Victoria.
"Lord Byron, I am most appreciative of your kind invitation. I have been here a bit more than a week and was beginning to wonder if I should ever see another party again! How dull it has been, and what a lovely party you have here." She gave a brief curtsy, offered her hand, and smiled at the woman, waiting for Byron to make introductions.
"My love, this is Mrs. Emmaline Withers, a friend of John's. Apparently, she was unfortunate enough to be in attendance at the house party at which he died some weeks ago. Mrs. Withers, this is Teresa, Countess Guccioli. Now! Let us back to our readings!"
With what could only be described as a flourish, the poet turned back to the cluster of chairs where the other seven or eight people sat.
"He is quite loath to be interrupted when he is reading one of his works," Teresa told Victoria with a fond smile. Her English was perfect, but the syllables were lined with a lilting accent. "I am pleased to meet you, Mrs. Withers. I understand you have come to visit my fair country while recovering from your husband's death. I am very sorry to hear of it. Although there are moments when one could wish to be rid of one's own spouse. Nevertheless, I am certain you will find Venezia a lovely place to celebrate being left with a handsome sum and no husband along with it. Now, come this way and let us find you a seat next to one of our handsome young men."
It was fortunate that Eustacia had warned Victoria about the Countess Guccioli, or she might have been utterly offended. Teresa and Byron had been in love and cohabiting for two years, some of the time at the Palazzo Guccioli even while the countess's husband was in attendance. That, said Eustacia, was indicative of one of the great differences between Italian and English views on marriage.
In Italy, one married for one's parents and sought lovers for oneself. One treated one's lover with the respect and fidelity most English reserved for their spouse—at least, on the surface. Thus, Teresa Guccioli was not so very different from many of her countrymen and women, but she had a brash way of expressing it.
Victoria took a seat on a brocade cassock and proceeded to listen with the others for well over thirty minutes while Byron finished the reading of his latest stanzas. She wasn't much for listening to poetry for long periods of time, any more than she was for listening to music and doing nothing, but she managed to sit and appear to be enjoying herself. It wasn't that the stanzas were awkward or uninteresting; it was just that Victoria had a task to complete, and she certainly couldn't go about trying to learn if Byron was a member of the Tutela whilst he was reading about setting suns and the flowing skirts of goddesses.