1794_Charlotte

by Karen Hawkins

  Marco removed a leaf from his sleeve. “What should never have happened?” he teased.

  Her lips quirked, as if she fought a smile. Satisfied, he went to collect Diavolo. He checked the horse’s legs for injuries, glad to see there were none.

  Her voice, husky yet clear, broke the silence. “That’s a beautiful horse.”

  “Thank you. I trained Diavolo myself.” Marco led his mount back to the path.

  “He is bold, that one. I can see it in his eyes.”

  Diavolo arched his neck as if to agree, and Marco silently consigned his animal to the devil he’d been named after. As much as Marco wished it otherwise, the woman’s rich voice reminded him of red wine, delicious and heady. And when he’d held her in his arms, her mouth open under his, she’d been every bit as intoxicating.

  His body warmed at the memory and, realizing her gaze rested on his face, he tried to redirect his thoughts from that kiss, but failed. Good God, I cannot stop thinking about it. What’s wrong with me? Did I injure my head in the fall? He ran his hand through his hair, searching for a tell-tale knot that might explain this instant, heated attraction, but found none.

  He realized she was watching him with a concerned expression, so he dropped his hand to his side. Her horse whinnied, baring its teeth and then favoring him with a caustic look. “Your horse appears to be as opinionated as mine.”

  The woman fondly patted the animal’s neck. “You have no idea. Her name is Angelica, but my father says a better name would be ‘Obstinate.’” The horse nuzzled her owner, before it turned its accusing stare back on Marco.

  “She is angry with me.”

  “She’s protective.” The woman’s gaze narrowed. “Your accent . . . You’re Italian.”

  He nodded.

  “Ah! You’re the sculptor. I wouldn’t have thought that.”

  The disbelief in her tone irked him. “I am Marco di Rossi. And you are?”

  “Charlotte Harrington. My mother said a sculptor was coming from Italy and, as she had to leave, I was to make sure you received her instructions. She left you a letter.”

  “She is not here?”

  “She was called to London. The head groom is to see to it that you have everything you need.”

  “I won’t need much. I brought everything with me. The wagon carrying the marble and my tools should have arrived earlier this morning.”

  “I should have known who you were from your accent, but I didn’t think a sculptor would look—” Miss Harrington caught herself and grimaced. “No. Never mind.”

  He was amused despite himself. “What did you think a sculptor would look like?”

  “Well, not like—” She bit her lip. “It’s just that you’re dressed so . . . ” Her gaze traveled over him, touching on the square cut emerald pin set in his cravat, the silk waistcoat embroidered in silver, and the expensive lace that fell over his wrists. “You’re so fancy,” she blurted out.

  He choked back an impolite word. Fancy? What in the hell? “I beg your pardon?” he said stiffly. “Surely even a sculptor may dress as he wishes.”

  “Of course you may,” Miss Harrington said hastily, her brow creased as she continued to stare at him the same way he imagined she might watch a dancing monkey. “I’ve met only a few artists,” she confessed, “and none dressed as fashionably as you.” Her gaze dropped to his cuffs, and she added in a somber tone, “It would be sad to see such lace dirtied.”

  “I don’t wear this when I work,” he retorted.

  “Good, although, if you wanted to, I suppose you could tuck your cuffs up and wear an apron of some sort, or even—” She caught his expression and had the grace to flush. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t be speaking. I don’t know anything about sculpting.”

  “So I’ve noticed,” he returned in a dry tone, although his irritation had softened at her honesty. The sunlight filtered through the trees above and shimmered in odd patterns over her hair and face.

  He curled his fingers against the desire to reach into his saddlebag for paper and charcoal, as everything about her invited him to capture her likeness. Even more interesting than her features was the hint of sadness to her mouth, a tragedy unspoken. Was he imagining that? he wondered.

  Defiant and intriguing, she teased his senses. And every second he spent in her presence, his desire grew. Unaware of his hungry regard, Miss Harrington led her horse a few steps to where a tree had fallen, sticks crackling under her boots.

  “You’re limping.” He hadn’t seen her fall, but something must have occurred.

  “I’m fine.” She stepped onto the tree trunk and, with the expediency of long experience, swung back into the saddle with a lithe move and adjusted her skirts. “What were you and your servant doing on this path? You were going the wrong direction if you wished to go to Nimway.”

  “We were lost. When you came upon us, we’d just found the pathway again.”

  “Balesboro Wood does such things,” she said.

  He raised his brows. “You speak as if the forest was alive.”

  “My sister used to say Balesboro picks its favorites, helping them through, while trapping those it does not like.”

  “Your sister is very fanciful, then.”

  Something flickered in the deep blue eyes. A flash so dark that Marco’s own heart staggered from the strength of it. What’s that?

  Whatever it was, Miss Harrington quickly hid it. “It’s this way to the Hall.” Without waiting for an answer, she turned her horse down the path and left him alone with Diavolo.

  He swung himself back into the saddle and urged his horse after her. They quickly caught up, and he fell in behind her on the narrow path. “What of my servant? I don’t know where he is.”

  She answered over her shoulder, her profile in bold relief against the leafy green trees. “We’ll send one of the grooms to fetch him. They know Balesboro well.” She turned back, indicating there was no need for more conversation.

  Marco was left riding behind her, admiring the ease with which she handled her huge mare.

  The silence lengthened, and Marco grew impatient. Yet his very real irritation was tinged with a growing curiosity. From the time he’d been old enough to notice them, women had favored him, especially once he’d gained some fame as a sculptor. Yet this woman seemed almost anxious to be rid of him, and that was despite their burning kiss. In fact, as the moments slid by, Miss Charlotte Harrington seemed to have forgotten he was even here.

  He scowled at the woods where the leaves quivered as if laughing at him. “Do we have much longer to go?”

  She didn’t even bother to turn. “No.”

  He noticed that the wood wasn’t as thick now, and the sun shone through much more. A beam of light rested on Miss Harrington’s hair, gold threads appearing, twined among the auburn curls. He remembered the heavy silk of her hair when he’d sunk his hands into it during their kiss. If he curled his fingers closed, he could almost feel the weight of it now.

  Diavolo looked back at Marco and snorted, as if in laughter. “Stop that.” Marco muttered to the ornery horse.

  The gelding shook his head and yanked on the reins.

  “Keep that up and you’ll never see another apple so long as you live,” Marco told him.

  Miss Harrington sent him a surprised look over her shoulder. “What’s that?”

  “I’m sorry. I was talking to my horse.”

  Her lips curved. “I talk to Angelica, too.”

  “So long as she doesn’t talk back, no one can take issue with it.”

  A deep chuckle escaped Miss Harrington and he found himself yearning for another. To his relief, the path widened and he moved Diavolo up to ride beside her. “I owe you an apology.”

  She flushed. “You don’t need to apologize for the kiss. I was as much a part of it as you.”

  “What kiss?”

  Her lips quirked, but she managed to hide her smile.

  “I owe you an apology for not looking the way you imagined a scu
lptor should. With your mother gone, you are my sponsor and I should not disappoint you in such a way.”

  Her eyes warmed with amusement. “I was disappointed,” she admitted.

  “Of course. You thought I should have been covered in dust and wearing a dirty smock and a – how do you say it? – berretto?”

  “A ber-Oh, you mean a cap. No, no.” She sniffed loftily. “I expected nothing so silly.”

  But her tone of voice belied her words, so he said, “I hope you will share the history of your home so that I might design something suitable enough to win your mother’s approval. If you do, I might be prevailed upon to wear a cap for you.”

  Miss Harrington smiled. “I will hold you to that, although it’s only fair to warn you that my mother can be very particular.” She turned her attention back to the pathway. “Perhaps it’s best my mother’s not here.”

  He’d already decided that much was true, for he found the daughter quite intriguing. Perhaps, if he won her trust, he could convince her to sit for him and let him sketch her. There are so many things I could do with those features. They intrigue me as few have.

  How would he render her likeness, he wondered? Perhaps as a Greek handmaiden wearing a draped gown, one shoulder bared, a jug of water in her graceful hands. But . . . no. Not as a handmaiden. She wasn’t bland enough for such a trite depiction. Her features deserved something unique. But what? A goddess, perhaps? Oh yes. That held possibilities. She would be a ripe, sensual goddess of the earth with leaves tangled in her curls, her curves echoing the roll of the mountains, her bold nose and forthright stare daring the observer to—

  “We turn here.” She guided her horse onto a wider path, this one graveled and smooth.

  Marco reluctantly released his creative imagery and focused on where he was. “We are close to the house?”

  “It is only a few minutes away.” She kept her eyes fastened ahead. “I hope the accommodations my mother arranged will be satisfactory.”

  “I do not need much. I brought my tools and slabs of marble. I asked only that my workshop have ample room and plenty of sunlight.”

  “Then the old stables will make an excellent workshop. But I was thinking more of your housing. Mama thought the stables would be spacious enough and that you and your servant could sleep in the rooms the grooms once used, but now that I see you . . .” She cast a quick glance his way, eyeing his clothes again. “You cannot sleep in the stables.”

  “I must sleep near the marble. I work when the mood strikes and sometimes it strikes at three in the morning.” He shrugged. “I never know when, but I must be near the stone when it happens.”

  “That must be very inconvenient for your wife.”

  “I’m not married.”

  “Oh.” She rode in silence for a moment. “You live alone, then.”

  “I am rarely alone. I have many brothers and sisters, and we live within steps of one another. In fact, they and their families are often at my house.”

  She looked away, and he was instantly alert. What has caused that sadness, he wondered.

  She turned back, the shadow he’d seen was gone.

  He expected her to let the subject drop, but she asked in a wistful tone, “How many brothers and sisters do you have?”

  “I am the middle child of seven.”

  Her brows rose. “Seven?”

  “Most of them have children and wives or husbands, too.” He considered this a moment. “I’m not sure why they like to gather at my house, because it’s not the largest, but that is how it is.”

  “That sounds lovely.”

  “It is a little like living in an army camp, with large meals and far too much activity.”

  She slanted him a curious look. “If they are always at your house, how do you find the quiet to work?”

  “I lock the door.”

  “Ah. Efficient.”

  He grinned. “And necessarily direct. My father is a well-known painter, Vicento di Rossi.”

  “Oh! I’ve heard of him.”

  Marco nodded. “Most people have. When I was growing up, my father often worked from home. We all knew to leave him alone when his workshop door was closed, but if the door was open . . . ah, that was different. Then he was with us, telling tales about princes and popes, maidens and saints. There was much to learn, and much he taught us.”

  “How lovely.” Her voice lowered as if in reverence.

  “How noisy.”

  Miss Harrington laughed, the sound as husky and inviting as he’d imagined. “You will have plenty of quiet at Nimway. It is very peaceful here and—Ah! There’s the house now.”

  The Hall appeared before them, sitting on a bluff and surrounded by the sweep of a green lawn. He noted with admiration the use of local stone and the simple, but powerful lines. “It is beautiful.”

  “It’s Nimway,” she said simply. She’d pulled to a stop where the path split, and he joined her. Her gaze fastened on an ornate carriage that sat before the front doors. “My aunt has arrived and will be wondering where I am.”

  And now I am dismissed. “Of course,” he said, although he had to fight a surge of disappointment. “Where are the stables?”

  She turned back to him, framed by the green lawn and the darker forest beyond.

  Dio, but I want a painting of her, of this moment.

  “That path will take you to the stables. Richardson is the head groom and will be expecting you. He can send someone to find your lost servant.”

  That was that, then. From now on, Marco would only see her in passing, or for a few minutes here and there when she came to inspect his work. Which is how it should be, he told himself firmly.

  And yet, he found himself lingering. “I’m glad we met.” The words escaped him before he could stop them, and he silently cursed his lack of finesse. She was like a deer, this one, and one bold move could send her bolting.

  Her gaze darkened, and she increased the emptiness between them with distant politeness. “Thank you. My mother wished me to impress upon you how important it is that you finish on time.”

  “In four weeks. She was very firm about the schedule in our correspondence.”

  “Good. I’m to make sure you have everything you want—” Her face colored and she added hastily, “No, not everything you want. I meant to say I’m to make sure you have everything you need for your work. I didn’t mean—”

  “I know what you meant. Do not worry. I will let you know if there’s anything I need or want.” Smiling, he inclined his head. “And I’m sure there will be.”

  “Mr. di Rossi, I don’t mean to—”

  “Please, call me Marco.”

  Her face pinkened. “I shouldn’t—”

  “Ah, but you will,” he said firmly. “Now go, your aunt awaits. We will speak again soon.” With that, he turned Diavolo toward the stable, aware that she stayed where she was, watching him ride away.

  Chapter 3

  Lucy removed another gown from the trunk, pausing to unwrap the protective tissue paper from the delicate silk. “I don’t know why you brought so many ball gowns. We’ll only be here for a few weeks and except for the wedding, there are no formal events.”

  Verity, who was peering out the window, answered in an absent tone, “I know, but now I’ll have a variety of choices for the wedding day, which is good, for I have no idea what colors Olivia will wear, and I cannot clash with my own sister-in-law or—Oh!” She straightened. “There’s Charlotte, returning from her ride now.”

  “It’s about time,” Lucy said. “We’ve been here two hours already.”

  “Yes, and—” Verity’s eyes widened. “Oh, my.”

  Lucy paused in hanging yet another gown. “What is it, my lady?”

  “Did we pack my opera glasses? They would be most useful.”

  “I don’t believe so.”

  “A pity. It’s difficult to tell from this distance, but her companion looks to be very handsome—”

  Lucy was already peering over V
erity’s shoulder. “He does, indeed. Is that the Viscount?”

  “No, he is slender of frame. Personally, I prefer a man with shoulders like – well, like that one.” My dear Charlotte, where did you find that treasure? Perhaps Nimway Hall wasn’t as secluded as Verity thought.

  Lucy agreed. “Broad-shouldered men are handsomer. Take Lord Rackingham, for example.”

  Verity had done just that, and on more than one occasion, but all she said was, “I wonder who this gentleman might be? His clothing is quite fine, and—Oh! He has left her and is riding down the path to the stables.”

  “He must be one of those gentlemen who like to oversee the care of their own horses. Gentlemen who enjoy hunting often do such things.”

  “I suppose so,” Verity said. “Perhaps it’s best he won’t be with Charlotte when I see her. That way I can ask about him.”

  Charlotte was now approaching the house, her horse clipping along at a smooth trot.

  “What a monstrous huge animal,” Lucy said in a critical tone. “No lady ride should ride such a brute.”

  “The mare is large, but while she’s a handful with others, she’s quite gentle with Charlotte.” Or so Verity’s brother Jack had insisted when she’d said something similar.

  A groom hurried forward to hold Charlotte’s horse as she dismounted. She looked at the coach as she unpinned her hat and tucked it under arm, speaking for a few moments with the groom before she came inside.

  “Oh no, the poor thing is limping!” Lucy frowned. “That big horse must have thrown her—”

  “She always limps,” Verity said shortly, snapping the curtain to. “But not overtly so. In fact, she limps a very little, and even then, she does it gracefully.”

  “She limps gracefully? How can anyone—” Verity’s expression froze the maid’s words in place. After a moment, Lucy cleared her throat. “I’m sorry, my lady. I wasn’t thinking.”

  “No, you weren’t. I will tell you this, but only because I know that if I don’t, you’ll go asking embarrassing questions in the servants’ quarters. My niece’s back isn’t as straight as it could be, but she’s perfectly fine as she is, and there’s no need to say another word about it.”