THE LEGEND OF NIMWAY HALL: 1794 - CHARLOTTE

  It was as if he were fighting an internal war, and no matter which side of him won, she would lose.

  He pushed himself from the table. “You wished to see the work I’ve already done. Come. I’ll show you.” He walked past her to the far end of the workroom and she followed. Squares of sunlight shone onto the ground from the windows, white dust swirling at their feet. He stopped where several large sheets of creamy white marble leaned against a wall.

  “You brought all of these with you?”

  “Yes. You must crate them carefully, but it can be done.”

  “They’re beautiful,” she said truthfully.

  She reached out to touch the marble, but he grasped her wrist, his fingers warm against her skin. “You shouldn’t touch the stone without first washing your hands. Fine marble can soak in oils, and as you’ve been wearing gloves that have been tanned, it could yellow the surface.”

  She hoped he couldn’t feel her galloping pulse under his fingers. “You must wash your hands all of the time.”

  He released her wrist. “Every time I work. I’ll seal this piece before I install it, but for now it needs protected.”

  “How do you seal it?”

  “With a waxy mixture Pietro will make once we’re ready to install the piece. The sealer can hold dirt, though, so it won’t be treated it until it is in place.” He nodded to the slabs of stone. “This marble is whiter than most. It’s mined from quarries near my home in Tuscany, near the town of Carrara.”

  She leaned closer, noting that both slabs were white, but one was delicately veined with faint traces of blue and gray. “It’s beautiful.”

  “It is the best marble for stonework.” Satisfaction warmed his tone. “The Romans used the same quarries. Michelangelo himself used it for his most important works.”

  “Are there many types of marble? I haven’t gotten to that chapter in the book.”

  He sent her an amused look. “There are more types, colors, and textures than you can imagine.”

  “My father once mentioned a quarry near London that produced a pale orange marble. He was not fond of it, although the Duke of Buckingham was and had it displayed all throughout his new palace.”

  “Taste does not come with money.”

  “My mother says the same thing.”

  “She is wise.” He picked up a dust cover and threw it over one panel of marble and carefully slid it to one side, revealing several large pieces hidden behind it, all protected with heavy covers. He tugged the tarp off a huge panel and then stood aside to let her see it. “This is the header. It goes directly under the mantel.”

  He’d carved a set of figures in the center, Greek in design, and to each side he’d added a thick swag of entwined wheat. The detailing was exquisite. It was a beautiful piece, and she was instantly awed by it.

  “It’s beautiful.” She tucked her hands behind her back to keep from running her fingers over the smooth figures. “How long did this take you?”

  “Weeks. The smaller figures take more time as one wrong tap and it could be ruined.”

  “It’s beautiful and much larger than I expected. Will it fit?”

  “Easily,” he said. “The trim panels are substantial and will fill out the rest of the space.”

  “Are those done, too?”

  “Yes. And so is the mantelpiece.” He pulled aside more dust covers, revealing the trim panels, decorated with a rope braid carving. Nearby sat the thick mantelpiece, which sported a masterful crenelated edge in thick and heavy, but elegant line.

  “Robert Adams couldn’t do better,” she said honestly.

  “Adams? Pah. There is no originality in his work.”

  “I’ll make a note of that in the margin of my book. Sadly, the author seems to think him a god of some sort.”

  “Then the author is a fool,” Marco declared. “Have you see enough?”

  “Oh yes. My mother will be pleased.” Charlotte certainly was.

  “Good.” He threw the cover back over his work.

  “What should I tell my mother about the pillars?”

  “They will be near life sized and wonderful to behold,” he said shortly. “That is all she needs to know.”

  She made a face and he laughed, his eyes crinkling. God, but she loved to make him laugh. When he laughed, her heart lifted. It was as if they were connected in some way.

  Stop it, she told herself, frustrated with her wild thoughts, and somewhat amused, too. This is what happens when you’ve spent too much time reading about the art of sculpture. She was thinking about him, his smile, even that kiss, far more than she should.

  Perhaps the truth of the matter was something simple. He was quite handsome, this dark-haired Italian. He should be modeling for statues, not making them. Normally, she wasn’t swayed by such things. In fact, she’d never been swayed by any man, including Robert.

  The reminder of Robert chilled her thoughts. Yesterday, she’d finally received a note from him, one that was somewhat longer than a line or two. In three short paragraphs, he mentioned that he’d been busy meeting with his solicitor over matters of his estate, had bought a new horse with a fine gait, and that he should be at Nimway in a few weeks. As an afterthought, he’d added that he looked forward to seeing her.

  At one time, the longer note might have eased her doubts and eased and assuaged her lonely heart. But although longer, it was highly impersonal, the tone more fitting for a distant cousin.

  Still, he was her fiancé and she owed him her loyalty. She was no brazen flirt, and yet here she was, staring into the dark, mysterious eyes of a wildly handsome Italian sculptor for no other reason than she was madly curious about his untamed, romantic life.

  And that was what she so desperately craved, she reminded herself. It was his life of adventure and passion, not the man himself.

  His brows rose. “Scusi. Do I have a smudge of dust on my chin?”

  Oh dear. I’ve been staring far too long. “No, no. I was just—” She clamped her lips closed and shook her head. “I should return to the house.”

  His sensual mouth curved into a faint, lopsided smile. “I’m surprised you were allowed to visit.”

  “Ah, that. My aunt might be taking a nap.”

  “So she doesn’t know you are here?”

  “Most likely not.”

  “If I had to have a chaperone, I would want one who naps, too.” His eyes glinted wickedly and she found it difficult to swallow.

  This man made her breathless, as if seeing him might, in some way, be wrong. Forbidden. It had been so long since Charlotte had tasted that particular freedom, of doing what she wanted rather than what was expected, that she was almost giddy over it.

  It was sad life had change her so much, especially as that part of her had been her true nature. As Aunt Verity had pointed out, all of the Harringtons suffered from that particular flaw. Except Caroline. Caroline was perfect. Caroline had been everything good in this life, even—

  A large, rough hand gently cupped Charlotte’s face and, shocked speechless, she looked up into Marco’s eyes.

  His smile was gone, his brows lowered as he whispered, “Every so often, I see in your eyes a sadness so deep it seems that it would swallow you whole.”

  “You can see that?”

  “How could I not?” He slid his hand from her chin to her cheek, his thumb brushing her skin. “I cannot not stand to see your sadness.”

  Tears clogged her throat. She wasn’t going to tell him her tragedies. She’d already revealed far too much. And yet, when she opened her mouth to deny him, other words slipped out. “My sister died ten months ago.”

  His expression, already gentle, softened. “So that’s it. She is gone and you suffer.”

  “Not as much as I did right after it happened.” Charlotte refused to think of those first weeks when she’d been so raw with pain. “I’m much better now. Now I’m just . . . waiting.”

  “For what?”

  For this. The words caught her by surpri
se, and she could only be glad she didn’t say them aloud.

  Was this what she’d been waiting for? For this man? This moment? This feeling. One she’d never experienced before. Longing and lust, desire and excitement. But it was more than that. It echoed something she’d thought she’d forgotten, that of being alive.

  His gaze narrowed. “What is it?”

  “Can you . . . would you hold me?” Oh God, did I really ask him that?

  “Of course.” He slipped his arm around her waist and pulled her against him, wrapping his arms about her without another word.

  She was engulfed in a heady warmth, surrounded by his strength, her head cradled on his chest as his heart beat steadily against her ear. It was heavenly, and she closed her eyes, soaking him in.

  “You fit into my arms, perfectly. That is why I call you ‘little one.’”

  The embrace was improper and audacious, but Charlotte didn’t care. She’d asked for this and oh, how delicious it was. She burrowed deeper, slipping her arms around his waist as she breathed in the smell of ink, paper, warm stone, and sunshine.

  Oh Caroline. If you could see me now. Charlotte smiled against Marco’s soft shirt, thinking about how scandalized Caroline would have been. Caroline, who never had the least urge to do anything other than what was right and proper, and had lamented that Charlotte spent far more time in trouble than out. Charlotte, why do you ride as if the hounds of hell were at your heels? Charlotte, why must you slide down the stair railing? Charlotte, why do you ride in the rain even though Papa has expressly forbidden it?

  The old Charlotte, the one she’d so carefully packed away after Caroline’s death, had loved doing the forbidden. It made her heart race, her blood thunder through her veins, had colored her life with meaning.

  She felt alive now, tucked into the arms of a stranger, his heart thrumming steadily under her cheek, his warmth pocketing hers. It was tempting to stay here forever, but the outside world would not let her. Aunt Verity would arise soon, if she hadn’t already. And who knew when Marco’s servant would finish dallying with Cook and return with lunch?

  Collecting herself, she dropped her arms and reluctantly stepped away. “Thank you.” Her voice was so husky, she didn’t recognize it.

  His dark gaze never left her face. “The pleasure was mine.”

  “I . . . I should go.” She looked up into his face, searching his expression for she knew not what. “You have been so kind. I cannot thank you enough.”

  His lips twitched. “Perhaps I was just being polite.”

  But he was doing far more than that, and they both knew it. Impulsively, she lifted up on her toes and kissed his cheek.

  It was a chaste kiss, meant only to express her gratitude. But the second her lips touched his stubbled cheek there was a long, silent moment. Neither moved, frozen in place, lips to skin.

  And then, like a strike of a flint to a stack of straw, the flame burst into life.

  He turned his head, his mouth ruthlessly covering hers, lifting her off her feet as he kissed her passionately.

  She barely noticed that her feet were off the floor, she was so caught in the kiss, her arms tangled about his neck, her mouth opening under his, her body aflame as he—

  Clunk.

  He lifted his head and looked toward the door.

  Cursing under his breath, he lowered her back to her feet and stepped away, his breath harsh. “That was – We should not have done that. I don’t know why I—” He raked a shaky hand through his hair and then cursed again.

  Charlotte pressed a hand to her heart where it thundered against her chest. “What was that?” she managed to say between breaths.

  “My servant. He came in the door, but then left again.”

  He saw us. Oh dear. “I’m so sorry.”

  Marco’s gaze brushed over her, taking in her flushed face and the way her fingers trembled where they were now pressed to her swollen mouth. His expression darkened. “Dio, I am a fool.”

  The words struck her heart like bricks against a window, shattering and unforgiving.

  “You must leave.” His face dark, Marco left her and strode to the table. He collected her hat and gloves and brought them to her. “Here.”

  She took them unthinkingly, her mind racing back to life. “I’m sorry your servant saw us. I should never have—” She shook her head. “I—I didn’t mean to cross a line.”

  “It’s not your fault. It’s mine.”

  That was too much and the ridiculousness of his words brought her thoughts back in order. “It wasn’t anyone’s fault. It was a kiss, no more.”

  His dark gaze never left her face. “You must go.”

  “But I—”

  “Go.”

  “But—"

  “Please.” He almost whispered the word. “And Charlotte?” His gaze burned into hers. “Do us both a favor and don’t come back.”

  Blast it, what was happening? She tried not to take his harsh orders to heart, but she felt vulnerable and painfully rejected. Her temper slipping, she gathered herself and managed to say in a cool voice that only trembled a little, “Fine. I’ll go.” She knew to stop there but couldn’t. “I will return tomorrow to see your work on the pillars.”

  “I’ll send word when there is something to see, but do not expect it for a few days. Perhaps a week or even longer.”

  She bit her lip to keep it from quivering. Goaded by his flat expression, she said, “Fine. A week then. It’s good it will take that long, for I’ve so much to do. Far too much to come back here. I’ve a fitting tomorrow for my trousseau, and—and I’ve lunch with the vicar’s wife, and that’s just the beginning. I’ve got many, many other things – important things—on my calendar.”

  His expression had darkened as she spoke, but he said in a dull tone. “We are both busy, it seems. Too busy to make a mistake like this again.”

  A mistake. Her eyes grew hot and her eyelids prickled. “Exactly. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ll leave you to your work.” With a stiff curtsey, she swept out in the miserable sunshine, biting the inside of her lip to keep her tears at bay. It wasn’t until she reached the house that she realized that, in addition to her pride, she’d also left the moonstone behind.

  Chapter 7

  The meeting with the dressmaker was as unpleasant as Charlotte had expected. Madame Guillemot was a thin, gaunt woman with a heavy, questionable French accent and a militaristic approach to fittings that would have made a general proud. She knew she’d landed quite a significant client with the Harringtons, but apparently it wasn’t enough to be paid her weight in gold. She demanded respect and made sure everyone remembered who the expert was.

  And truly, as much as Charlotte hated fittings, there was no denying the woman knew her craft. Madame, ever punctual, arrived exactly on time with a retinue of harried looking assistants, young women with matching expressions much like that of hunted deer. In addition to her harried servants, she also brought twelve partially finished gowns, six pairs of new shoes, ten chemises made of spider-web fine lawn, numerous stockings and bonnets, hats and cloaks, and a dozen sheer night rails with matching peignoirs.

  Overwhelmed by the rustle of lush silks and heavy brocades, Charlotte winced to think of the outrageous sums Mama was paying. The thought made Charlotte all the more determined to do her duty by the fitting, even though she’d have preferred to have a nail driven into her foot than stand for hours on end while stuffing herself into gowns far more lavish than any she’d ever owned.

  It didn’t help that a few moments into the ordeal, Aunt Verity had whispered far too loudly to Charlotte that she rather thought Madame’s accent to be fake, for she sometimes forgot it all together. Thus, Madame was in a far from charitable mood when it came to the fitting itself. She tugged and pinned, poked and prodded, and repeatedly hissed, “You must stand still!” until Charlotte was ready to scream.

  She was relieved when, three long hours after Madame Guillemot arrived, Aunt Verity had finally had enough,
telling the woman that if she couldn’t work with the fittings she had, then they would hire someone would knew how to use their time ‘more efficiently.’ True to her charade, this had caused Madame to fly into a raging Gallic tirade where she’d had the ill fortune to call Aunt Verity ‘out of fashion.’

  Aunt Verity had seemed half asleep during the modiste’s tirade, but Charlotte soon discovered that her aunt did not suffer insults lightly. The second the modiste paused for breath, Aunt Verity had answered, calling Madame every name in the book but polite. But as Verity had spun her tirade in pure, perfectly spoken French, Madame couldn’t retort, for her atrocious accent and lack of vocabulary would have completely unmasked her.

  The only thing Madame could do was retreat. Fuming and unable to reply, Madame had taken out her fury on her harried assistants, snapping at them until everything was packed into their bandboxes and cloth sheaths. The assistants, their arms piled so high that they could barely see where they were going, hurried from the room while Madame, ever the actress, paused dramatically on the threshold. “I must warn you that I will be speaking with Mrs. Harrington about this outrage! Make no mistake!”

  “That’s very kind of you, but there’s no need.” Aunt Verity hid a yawn behind her plump hand. “Olivia will be home before a letter could reach her, even if you did know where to address it.”

  Madame gasped, her mouth opening and closing like a fish thrown onto land. After a horrified moment, she spun on her heel and marched out.

  Charlotte turned an admiring gaze on her aunt. “That was masterful.”

  “Thank you, my dear.” Aunt Verity hooked a foot around the leg of a tasseled stool and pulled it closer. “Sadly, I have no patience with pretenders, which is odd when you think of the fact I was once married to a fake baron.”

  “Uncle Albert wasn’t a real baron?”

  “Lud, no. My second husband was quite a charlatan, but he was charming, which goes a long way to making the unacceptable acceptable.” Aunt Verity paused to kick off her slippers before she plopped her feet on the footstool, settling deeper into the settee. “I do miss him, even today. He was quite good at many useful things, your Uncle Albert, and was never so gauche as to pretend to know something he didn’t.”