A Grand Tour (Timeless Victorian Collection Book 2)

by Anthea Lawson

  Find out about all her books at anthealawson.com, and join her mailing list, tinyletter.com/AntheaLawson, for a FREE STORY, plus all the news about upcoming releases and reader perks!

  For more sweet Victorian romance by Anthea, try the following novellas:

  A Countess for Christmas

  A Duke for Midwinter

  A Prince for Yuletide

  To Wed the Earl

  A Lady’s Choice

  For more romantic adventure set abroad, the *spicy* full-length novel Fortune’s Flower reveals Isabelle’s past, as the Strathmore family adventures in Tunisia in search of a fabled bloom.

  Rome, Italy, 1879

  The Trevi Fountain stood in all its shining marble and travertine glory, radiant white against an azure blue sky, looking every bit as magnificent as the drawings Eleanor Doyle had seen in her father’s books. She stepped from the carriage, taking the driver’s hand without a glance, her eyes captured completely by the striking sculptures, the classic architecture, and the flowing water shimmering in the pool beneath. Though she’d studied renderings, ink and paper were unable to convey the full grandeur of Nicola Salvi’s creation.

  “Oh, it is glorious.” Lillian Blakely exited the carriage and moved up beside her teacher, turning pages in her drawing book. “I shan’t be able to rest until I sketch it.”

  Eleanor hid a smile at the younger woman’s words. What she lacked in artistic talent, Lillian made up for with enthusiasm. Over their four-month tour of the continent, Lillian had filled page after page in her sketchbooks with depictions of everything from French masterpieces to Swiss mountain vistas.

  Lillian found a shady bench near the edge of the piazza, chose a charcoal pencil, and set to work, brows drawn together in concentration. Eleanor sat beside her. Lillian’s excitement was endearing . . . and completely unshared by her younger sister, who was last to exit the carriage, of course.

  Rosalie Blakely huffed as she flounced onto the other end of the bench, pink ruffles and blonde curls bouncing. “It is so dreadfully hot.” She waved a fan in front of her face. “We really should return to the pensione. I still haven’t chosen a gown for the ball this evening.” Her blue eyes were wide, and her pink lips pulled into a pout. Though only a year apart in age, the two young ladies could not have been more different.

  “The hour is not yet noon.” Eleanor assumed her most patient smile—one she employed often when speaking to her students, this one in particular. “You’ve so many new gowns from Paris; I’m certain you will have plenty of time once we return this afternoon to find just the right one.”

  Rosalie’s response was the perfect combination of a moan and a whine that only an eighteen-year-old young lady can produce. “But I still do not know which slippers or jewelry to wear. And how shall I arrange my hair?” She lifted blonde curls from her neck with the back of her hand to allow some air circulation.

  Both young women wore their hair down in curls over their shoulders—one head fair and the other dark. They favored parasols to hats, which Eleanor found extremely impractical, especially in this heat. She herself preferred to keep her hands free for writing and her heavy hair pulled up beneath a sensible head covering.

  Lillian shifted to keep her sketchbook from being bumped as her sister flipped her curls and pouted.

  “And how long must we remain here?” Rosalie asked. “We’ve seen the fountain, so can we leave? I can hardly breathe this hot air.”

  Eleanor pushed down a flash of irritation. This morning was the first time she’d convinced her young charges to see any of the city’s sights. They’d not even visited St. Peter’s and had only seen the Colosseum in passing. “Just a bit longer,” Eleanor said. “We’ve only just arrived. I told the carriage driver to fetch us in an hour.”

  “How shall I bear the heat for so long?” Rosalie huffed out a breath, planting her elbows on her knees and her chin into her hands.

  “Perhaps if you think about something else,” Eleanor said. “Do you realize the Trevi is the largest Baroque fountain in the world?”

  Rosalie rolled her eyes, her typical reaction to any attempt Eleanor made to teach her about the amazing things they had seen these last four months. The girl was determined to be bored, but Eleanor was even more determined to make sure she went home with some improved cultural refinement.

  Eleanor continued as if she hadn’t noticed the reaction, waving toward the cluster of sculptures at the center of the fountain. “Look there. Tell me, what do you see?”

  “An ugly man with an unfashionable beard and no clothes on.” Rosalie folded her arms and shrugged.

  Eleanor smiled. “Yes, well, who is he?”

  “Neptune?” Lillian asked from behind her book.

  “A good guess,” Eleanor said. “But typically we see Neptune with a trident and a dolphin at his heel. This man symbolizes the ocean—the water that flows all over the earth. And do you see the two horses pulling his chariot? One represents the calm of the sea and the other the unpredictability and violence. And behind Ocean, you can see other sculptures depicting . . .” She let her voice trail off. Lillian had returned to her drawing, and Rosalie was looking around the piazza, a bored expression on her face.

  Eleanor stood. “Well, I’d like a closer look. Would either of you care to join me?”

  Neither moved to accompany her, so Eleanor left them in the shade and descended the large curving steps leading down to the pool. The brilliant design made the entire piazza feel as if it were part of the fountain.

  She walked slowly around the edge of the large basin, her hand trailing along the lip as she took it all in. The fountain and the façade surrounding it were awe-inspiring—a perfect blend of functionality, architecture, and sculpture. She would never fail to be amazed at the skill of an artist who could create such wonders as movement and texture from a slab of stone.

  The sound of flowing water dulled the conversations around her as she passed small clusters of people, turning their voices into a distant hum, and the pool cooled the air comfortably. For a moment, the weight of her responsibility pertaining to her charges seemed lighter. She breathed deeply, allowing the calm sensation to settle over her.

  They’d arrived in Rome two weeks earlier, and the young ladies were much more interested in the city’s society than its historical import. Eleanor, on the other hand, didn’t care a fig about dinner parties or morning visits. She’d dreamed of visiting this city since she was a child and her father had told her tales of the ancient Roman Empire. If not for this opportunity to chaperone the Blakely sisters, she would never have had the chance to see it. If only she could pique their interest in the remarkable history Rome held.

  She let her gaze travel over the carvings, noticing new details from this angle, then move upward, reading the Latin inscriptions. She took her notebook and a pencil from her reticule and recorded her impressions of the work and philosophical considerations that occurred to her as she studied it. She would have time to ponder later. Her father had taught her to take these kinds of notes, and though he’d passed on years ago, she still did a thorough job. Striking, as the sculptor intended. Thought-provoking as one considers the belief of water as a gift from—

  As she wrote, a voice caught her attention—an Englishman’s voice. She glanced to the side, noting three young gentlemen at the edge of the pool gathered around a man she guessed must be their teacher. The young men listened closely, their expressions pensive as their teacher described the fountain’s history, the pope who commissioned it, and the architect and sculptors responsible for its construction.

  Eleanor didn’t consider herself to be the type of woman to eavesdrop on another’s conversations, but something about the man’s voice held her interest. The younger men seemed enthralled as well.

  The teacher was perhaps in his early thirties, only a few years older than herself. Eleanor recognized the trappings of a scholar: wire-rimmed spectacles, a pencil poking from behind his ear, and in his hand, a worn leather
-bound book. But there was more to him than a mind filled with facts and dates. The man was a born teacher—a person whose words could capture and hold the interest of a group. His own enthusiasm for the subject projected outward, spreading to those who listened and infusing them with the same passion. She’d known others like him and envied their natural ability to make even the most mundane topics appealing. Teaching in this way was a skill that couldn’t be learned. Again, her mind turned to her father. He had been such a teacher.

  “And there is also a legend pertaining to this fountain,” the teacher said. “If you toss in a coin, the belief is that you will one day be fortunate enough to return to Rome.”

  “I wouldn’t say no to another visit,” one of the young men said, fishing a coin from his pocket and tossing it into the pool. “If only for the tiramisu.”

  “Hear, hear,” his friend said, tossing in his own coin. “And the sorbet.”

  “If I do return, I hope it will be in the winter,” the third said, flipping a coin into the water. “Not when it’s so blasted hot.” He glanced to the side and grimaced when he noticed Eleanor. “Pardon my language, ma’am. I didn’t see you there.”

  She smiled. “It is hot today.”

  He smiled in return, excused himself with a polite bow, and tugged on the brim of his hat as he passed. His friends followed.

  Eleanor returned to her notebook.

  The teacher stood a moment longer, staring at the fountain, apparently unaware of the exchange. He took a hand from his pocket and flipped a coin into the water. When he turned and saw Eleanor watching, he inclined his head. His eyes were a deep brown, and when he smiled the corners crinkled.

  A funny feeling moved through Eleanor’s middle, and she glanced toward the water, speaking quickly to cover her discomposure. “You didn’t tell them about tossing a second coin.”

  His eyes crinkled further, and the feeling increased. “You’re English.”

  She nodded. “As are you.”

  “Professor Russell Kendrick at your service, miss.”

  She inclined her head. “Eleanor Doyle. A pleasure.”

  His smile remained as he spoke. “As for your question, Miss Doyle, I didn’t mention the second coin because I don’t think my charges need to worry at present about the promise of finding true love. They are still very young and should focus on their education.”

  His brow furrowed and he frowned, looking toward the water for a moment. “I suppose I still haven’t fully rejected the possibility.” Then he tossed in another coin, following it with his eyes. When he looked up, his smile had reappeared, looking a bit sheepish. “What about you, Miss Doyle? Don’t you wish to return to Rome?”

  “I do very much.” She opened her coin purse and selected a coin. She tossed it into the water, watching as it sank into the pool.

  “Only one?” His voice held a tease.

  She turned toward him. “I’m a teacher, Professor Kendrick, soon to be a research assistant. My course is set and my future decided.” She snapped the coin purse shut and dropped it back into her reticule.

  The furrow returned but disappeared quickly. “And what brings you to Rome?” he asked.

  “I’m escorting two young women on their grand tour.”

  “We’ve more in common than I realized. I myself am shepherding a group of young men.”

  The sound of laughter drifted across the piazza. Eleanor recognized Rosalie’s voice, and she suspected, by the male intonations that followed, that the professor’s young charges were the reason for it. That girl could find a man in a convent!

  Eleanor hurried up the stairs and toward the group without excusing herself. Rosalie had already been involved in one scandal, which had been hushed up quickly and was the impetus for the young lady’s quick departure from London. Her parents, as benefactors of the new university, had set events in motion to provide Eleanor with a permanent situation as a research assistant in the Archaeology and Ancient History department once she returned from escorting their daughters. In only a few months, Eleanor would have the position she’d dreamed of, and Rosalie’s reputation would be repaired. Additionally, Eleanor would have completed a tour of the continent—something few women of her station ever had the chance to do. Though it had not been stated outright when the opportunity was offered, she understood that one misstep by Rosalie or any negligence on Eleanor’s part could destroy both their futures.

  “Lillian, Rosalie . . .” Eleanor spoke politely as she crossed the final steps, but there was no mistaking the reprimand.

  Rosalie’s smile was unconcerned as she brushed a mass of blonde curls over her shoulder. “Miss Doyle, do come and meet our new friends.”

  Eleanor raised her brow. Although Rosalie had no qualms about speaking with strangers, she was surprised Lillian had allowed an exchange. And what of the young men’s manners? It was highly improper for these gentlemen to presume to acquaint themselves with young ladies they’d not been introduced to.

  Lillian set aside her sketchbook and extended a hand toward one of the men. “This is Mr. Adrian Curtis of Surrey. Mr. Curtis and I became acquainted at Lady Wimbley’s house party last summer.”

  “A pleasure,” Eleanor said. So they had been acquainted before. Well, she still wasn’t pleased, especially when she noticed Rosalie’s overly wide smile and fluttering lashes.

  The young man she had spoken to at the fountain bowed and smiled, flashing white teeth. “Miss Blakely, I must say, was my saving grace that week.”

  “It’s true. Lord Wimbley was a bit . . . long-winded,” Lillian said. A blush covered her cheeks. In social situations, the young woman was a bit shy.

  “Indeed, he was,” Mr. Curtis said. “And who could forget—”

  “Croquet!” the two of them said at the same moment. They shared a laugh at a joke to which only they were privy, then Lillian immediately returned to her sketchbook.

  One of the young men cleared his throat.

  Mr. Curtis stepped to the side and motioned toward his friends. “Mr. Caleb Darrington and Mr. Harlan Reid.” The two men bowed in turn. “These chaps have been my closest friends since our first year at Eton,” Mr. Curtis continued. He glanced behind Eleanor. “Oh, and of course our bear leader, Ken.”

  Eleanor glanced to the side and saw that the professor had followed her. “Yes, Professor Kendrick and I met.” She introduced the young men’s teacher to Lillian and Rosalie.

  “Delighted to make your acquaintance,” the professor said. “And how do you like the fountain?”

  “Marvelous,” Rosalie answered. “And isn’t it the perfect day to enjoy it, Mr. Reid?”

  Eleanor was speechless.

  The young man with dark curls, thick side-whiskers, and a fondness for tiramisu smiled. “Indeed.”

  “And you, Miss Blakely?” Mr. Kendrick said to Lillian.

  “Breathtaking. I could not wait to sketch it.”

  “Glad to hear it.” He nodded, apparently satisfied that the young people had been suitably impressed by the aqueduct’s termination. “I planned to continue today’s tour at a nearby church, Santi Vincenzo e Anastasio. Would you ladies care to join us? It has quite an interesting history.”

  Rosalie clapped her hands. “We would love to, wouldn’t we, Lillian? Miss Doyle?”

  Eleanor raised a brow. Rosalie hadn’t shown this much enthusiasm since she’d flirted with the handsome curator at the Louvre museum. “Very well,” Eleanor said after a pause.

  “You’ll like Ken’s stories,” Mr. Reid said, offering his arm to Rosalie.

  She slipped her hand into the bend of his elbow, and the pair followed Professor Kendrick to the far corner of the piazza.

  Eleanor walked at the rear of the group, turning over the situation in her mind. Rosalie obviously fancied Mr. Reid and was not subtle about it. Eleanor’s instinct was to take her away and forbid her from seeing him—perhaps leave Rome altogether. Lillian would agree with the decision, and Mr. and Mrs. Blakely would have no qualms abo
ut Eleanor removing the young lady from a potentially disreputable situation, even if it cut their time in Italy short.

  On the other hand, the pair was supervised by not one, but two chaperones. And after months of pouting and complaining, Rosalie was willingly attending an educational tour. The mere presence of the young gentlemen had completely changed her attitude. And they had come to Rome to further the young women’s cultural education.

  They arrived at the base of the tall columns, and Mr. Kendrick held open the wrought iron gate, allowing the others to enter.

  “And isn’t this happy news?” Rosalie proclaimed to Lillian as they climbed the steps. “Mr. Reid, Mr. Darrington, and Mr. Curtis are all coming to Lady Aberline’s ball tonight!”

  Eleanor met Professor Kendrick’s gaze as she passed, returning his smile. She was surprised to find herself looking forward to the ball as well.

  That evening, Ken stood at the balcony above the villa’s atrium. The large space below was open to the sky with four pool-style fountains set into the mosaic tile of the floor. Anciently, the pools would have taken up the majority of the room, leaving smaller walkways filled with potted plants and benches. A villa of this size would need the larger pools for cooling during the hot summer months. However, Lord and Lady Aberline had decided a sizeable dance floor was more important than their comfort.

  Placing a hand on the rail, Ken looked over the edge at the orchestra playing below and the refreshment table serving finger sandwiches, cakes, punch, and tea. Tea. In this heat. He considered himself as English as the next man, but the idea of a hot drink brought sweat to his forehead. He dabbed at it with a handkerchief and noticed flashes of white as others around the ballroom and surrounding balcony did the same. Even at this late hour with servants operating large fans to move the air, the night was stifling.

  If there was one consistent aspect of the English, it was that they continued to be English no matter the setting. Whether in an Indian jungle, African safari, or outback ranch house, English routines and traditions were adhered to as strictly as if one were on holiday in Sussex. Ken considered it a pity not to fully immerse oneself into the customs of the local culture. Ambrose’s saying, “When in Rome,” was tossed about with a laugh among the tourists, but tonight, standing in a formal coat listening to a minuet while tea was served, the irony was nearly absurd.