To be sure, there was little similarity between holding his long-lost wife Anne and Jane Wood. Anne had been tall and lissome with a dancer’s grace, while Jane was small and slight and restrained. For more than ten years, he’d believed that there could never be another woman who could rival Anne in his heart and in the faces of their two daughters, and he believed it still. He’d long ago reconciled himself to having no son of his own. His brother Peter had sired sons as readily as he had done daughters, and Richard knew the title and estate would remain in the family, and in excellent hands, too. Peter would see to that. No matter that a widowed peer in his prime was regarded as an abomination to unmarried ladies and a waste to their mothers. Richard had held firm against their attacks, and was sure he’d missed nothing. But now, here in Venice, Jane Wood had come creeping into his affection, too, in a way he’d never sought and certainly hadn’t expected.
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