Beside him was an older, but still attractive woman dressed in the height of fashion, her blonde hair elaborately coiffed, jewels glittering at her ears and throat. Her gaze was pinned on Marco with such intensity, that he could feel it sticking him in the ribs like a sword. Mrs. Harrington.
To the other side of the woman was a young, slender man, whose expression could only be described as ‘confused.’ Is this John, the brother? Somehow, Marco didn’t think so, for there was no family resemblance. Ah, so you’re the abominable Robert, are you?
It took some effort to keep his scowl to himself.
The last face Marco knew. Lady Barton, as plump and bejeweled as ever, wiggled her fingers at him in greeting. Her eyes brimmed with merriment, her cupid’s-bow lips curved in a delighted smile. She said in a spritely tone. “Well, hello there! Fancy meeting you here!”
Mr. Harrington glared at her. “Damn it, Verity, this is not the time for levity!”
“Oh hush, Jack. No one asked you.” Lady Barton’s smile didn’t flinch, and neither did her gaze move from Marco. She bent over the back of the settee. “Mr. di Rossi, would you like some breakfast?”
Charlotte stirred in his arms, murmuring in protest at the noise. Her lashes fluttered open as sleep left her. He knew the second she saw the faces above her, for her eyes snapped open and she scrabbled to her feet, swaying at the sudden movement, the book tumbling to the floor at her feet.
“Good morning, child.” Lady Barton beamed as if Charlotte had just done the most amazing thing. “Sleep well?”
Mrs. Harrington favored her sister in law with a chilly gaze. “Verity, you have failed as a chaperone.”
“You think so?” Lady Barton’s gaze traveled slowly over Marcus. “I was thinking I did rather well.”
Charlotte was frantically trying to set herself to rights, tugging on her skirt, smoothing her straying hair, and in general trying to make herself look less ‘slept upon the settee.’ “Mama! Papa! When did you get in? I—” Her gaze fell on the young man, who had yet to say a thing. “Robert?” Her voice cracked.
Marco decided it was time he joined the fray, so he stood, only to discover that his shirt had bunched up and had rolled high under his arms. He tugged his shirt back into place, aware that that Lady Barton’s eyes followed his every move, showing her approval with an enthusiastic nod.
For all the approval Lady Barton was showering on him, Charlotte’s ex-fiancé was dousing Marco with scowled. “You, sir, will answer for this!”
Marco was more than willing, but Charlotte sent him a warning look and then stepped in between them. “Robert, I assume you received my letter.”
“I did. And I came as soon as I got it. Charlotte, please, you must rethink this. I left as soon as we became engaged, and that’s my fault, but—”
“Robert, don’t. As I said in the letter, we were never meant to be. I think you believe the same.”
“Don’t be so sure,” Mrs. Harrington said stiffly. “Charlotte, this is ludicrous. What are you thinking? This man—” She gestured toward Marco. “—is nothing more than a common sculptor and—”
“No.” Charlotte slipped her arm through his. “He is not a common anything. He is exceptional. He’s an exceptional sculptor, and soon he will be an exceptional husband and, hopefully, an exceptional father.”
Mrs. Harrington paled, while Robert flushed a deeper red, his hands fisted at his sides.
Lady Barton clapped her hands together. “Oh, wouldn’t that be lovely!” She leaned toward her brother. “They will have such beautiful children. I mean, just look at them.”
Oddly enough, Mr. Harrington looked neither surprised nor upset. Instead, he watched Marco with a cool, calculating gaze that made him wish he’d worn his court clothing.
Lady Barton looked at the small group with all of the pleasure of a hostess greeting her guests at a party. “I, for one, am famished. Should we sit for breakfast before we have The Discussion?”
“I am not sitting with this man,” Robert snapped.
Marco shrugged, willing to go in whatever direction this young hothead wished.
“Verity’s right,” Mr. Harrington said in a calm tone. “Before we’re beset with emotion at all of this strife, should we repair to the breakfast room? I, for one, am starving.”
“Jack, no,” Mrs. Harrington snapped. “I am not sitting down with this man for breakfast, or dinner, tea, or anything. He’s compromised our daughter!”
“Really?” Mr. Harrington looked at Marco. “Well? Have you compromised her?”
“She’s going to marry me. If that’s what you mean by ‘compromise,’ then yes.”
Charlotte, who’d sent him a surprised look at this, blushed, and then slipped her hand through the crook of his arm. “I would be glad to marry you.”
“I’ll get you a ring today,” he said under his breath, covering her hand with his.
“That will do.” Mr. Harrington turned to his wife. “There you have it, then. All this drama for nothing. There was no compromising, not yet, anyway.”
Robert made a muffled noise, and to Marco thought he detected tears in the young man’s yes.
Charlotte must have seen it, too. She quickly released Marco’s arm and bent down to scoop up the diary where it rested by her feet.
The color drained from Robert’s face and he almost staggered to a nearby chair, where he sat gasping.
“What’s this?” Mr. Harrington said sharply.
Charlotte held up the book. “It’s Caroline’s diary.”
Mrs. Harrington’s hand stole to her heart and she stared at the small book, tears in her eyes. “Charlotte, are . . . are you certain?”
“I am. I found it last night.”
“And you read it?” Mr. Harrington asked.
She nodded and then where Robert sat, his hands shaking as if he were in a blizzard, tears running down his face. “Robert, I had no idea. She didn’t tell anyone. I’m so very, very sorry.”
“Robert?” Mrs. Harrington said, looking as if the world might tilt over. “And Caroline?”
“They’d been in love for years. The night she died, she was on her way to meet him. They were going to elope.”
Mr. Harrington slipped his arm about his wife just as her knees gave. He walked to the settee and placed her on it.
Robert stared at the diary. “Where did you find it?”
“In the crofter’s cottage where you used to meet.”
“I should have thought to look there.” He ran his hand over the smooth cover. “I was to fetch her at midnight, but I suppose she . . . I don’t know what happened.”
“I know what happened,” Caroline said. “She was so excited that she left early. It’s the last entry she made in her diary. She’s loved you for a long, long time. And you, her.”
“Since she was fourteen.” He shook his head. “She was so beautiful and—Well, you all knew her, too. We’ve been talking about getting married for so long, but she wanted to wait, and then she had a season—” He gave a bitter laugh. “I was jealous and I wrote her some scathing letters, and all for no reason. She was always true to me. I—I just wish I’d been there for her when she needed me.”
Charlotte dropped to her knees beside Robert. “You did what you could. She was trying to prove herself to you, I think.” She placed the book in his lap. “When you finish, I’m sure you’ll let Mama have it back.”
He clutched the book with both hands, his eyes shining. “Thank you, Charlotte. I’m . . . I’m sorry about . . . well, everything.”
“I don’t understand,” Mrs. Harrington said faintly. “I thought you loved Charlotte.”
“He does,” Marco said. “But not in the way he should have.”
Robert looked at Charlotte. “He’s right. Can you forgive me? I thought Caroline would want me to take care of you. And I wanted to do that, not just for her sake, but yours. But I couldn’t stand being here. I see her everywhere. In every room of this house, in every corner, in every me
mory I have.”
Charlotte gave him a hug, her heart so full that she could barely speak. “You’re a dear, good friend, Robert. I’m glad Caroline had you in her life while she was here.”
He closed his eyes and held her tight.
After a moment, Charlotte gently disentangled herself and stood.
“Well.” Mama smoothed her gown over her knees, her color almost back to normal. “We’ve settled everything where Caroline and Robert are concerned, but Charlotte?” Mama’s cool blue gaze locked on Charlotte. “You and your father and I have much to discuss. As for you, Mr. di Rossi, I heard that you are to install the fireplace surround today. You will do so, and I will pay you the agreed upon amount. After that, you and your assistants will pack your things and—”
“Olivia?” Papa said, his voice oddly soft.
“What?” Mama snapped.
He pointed to a table by the window. There, sitting beside a vase of flowers, was the moonstone.
“The orb!” Mama stood, as white as a sheet. “Charlotte? Have you see that?”
“Marco says it’s a mace head, while Simmons seems to think it’s a decorative piece, but he can’t seem to figure out where to display it.”
Mama sank back into her seat.
“Well?” Papa said, looking amused.
Her lips quirked. “You want me to say I was wrong.”
“That would be the beginning.”
Aunt Verity sighed. “Jack, please. She’s had a shock. You’re being quite a brute to expect so much.”
“No, he’s right.” Mama managed a smile, though her lips trembled. “Fine. Charlotte, you may marry your sculptor.”
“Really? And you won’t disown me?”
Mama looked shocked. “Charlotte! I would never do that! Surely you know that.”
“I did, I suppose. I just needed to hear you say it.” She slipped her arm through Marco’s and rested her head on his shoulder.
“Yes, what’s this about this orb?” Aunt Verity asked.
Mama shrugged. “It’s a part of Charlotte’s heritage. The orb is . . . I don’t know how else to say this, but it’s magic.”
“Ridiculous!”
“It’s true. The orb is a part of Nimway, and it appears to the Guardian.”
“Which was Caroline,” Robert said, his mouth tight as if the words pained him.
“And is now Charlotte,” Mama returned. Her gaze turned back to Charlotte. “I should have realized that after Caroline’s death, but I was too busy mourning. Charlotte, where did you find the orb?”
“It was on the mantel, the one Marco will be replacing. I’d never seen it before then.”
“That’s because the orb appears when it’s needed, and it only appears to the Guardians when they find their true love.”
“You’ve never told me about this.”
“I should have. I see that now. But I had my reasons. When I met your father, the orb kept—I don’t know how to say this—but it kept leading him to me, over and over. I knew what it wanted of course, but I hated the thought that the orb was making your father fall in love with me rather than him loving me for myself.”
“The orb can do that? Make someone fall in love with you?”
“I don’t know what it can and can’t do. But it caused me to doubt my feelings and I didn’t want that to happen to either you or Caroline.”
“So you didn’t tell us.”
Mama shook her head. “There are many stories about the orb. I’ll share some of them over breakfast.” She looked around the room and for the first time since she’d arrived, she smiled. “Shall we?”
Papa held out his arm, but she patted it and turned instead to Marco. “Mr. di Rossi, if you don’t mind escorting me, I believe Charlotte would like to sit with her Papa, especially as she’s to be leaving soon.”
Charlotte watched as Marco bowed and then offered his arm, his manner as grand as any prince. “Madame,” he said, “it would be my pleasure.”
And with that, he escorted Charlotte’s Mama into breakfast.
Epilogue
Do not move.”
“I’m not moving!” Charlotte protested.
“You’re talking,” Marco pointed out, amusement in his dark brown eyes. “That’s moving.”
“I only spoke because you said something.”
“I said ‘Your parents are late as usual.’ There’s no need to respond to that.”
It took every scrap of control she could muster not to answer him, and she was reduced to expressing herself by rolling her eyes.
He chuckled and returned to his drawing.
It was a warm summer day and they were Marco’s workshop, a large square room with huge windows thrown open to let in the warm, Italian sunshine. White silk drapes fluttered in the slow breeze, bringing with it the scent of olive trees and red clay. The house was abuzz as the servants readied for their guests.
She smiled, thinking of her parents. It would be good to see them.
“You’re smiling. You’re not to smile.”
“I was thinking of my mother’s reaction to the pillars you carved for Nimway.”
A wolfish grin warmed his face. “She never told me I couldn’t use her daughter as a model.”
“She didn’t say you could, either.”
He shrugged, obviously pleased with himself. “Many people compliment that piece. It will be there for centuries.”
Charlotte didn’t doubt it. Marco was becoming more and more famous, his work in great demand. Even Mama wouldn’t turn her back on that.
Mama’s one complaint was that Charlotte had decided to live in Italy with Marco instead remaining near Nimway Hall. But Mama had the mark of the Guardian, and now Charlotte’s daughter Isabel had it, too.
Nimway was well taken care of, and Charlotte felt the house knew it.
Outside, near the stables where Diavolo and Angelica held court, children laughed, the sound catching Charlotte’s attention. She wished she could lift up just a bit to see if she could spot Isabel playing with her many cousins. But there was no moving, so she resigned herself to another few minutes.
The quick scrape of Marco’s charcoal told her he was almost done, anyway. She could tell because the charcoal met the paper much more firmly when his drawing was close to completion. It was like a symphony, she thought.
She watched him from under her lashes, this handsome, successful husband of hers, who continued to surprise her each and every day. He was charming, handsome, a loving father, and an ardent lover. He’d taught her much and to while away the time, she amused herself with all of the ways she was going to seduce him.
“You’re day dreaming. Your expression has grown softer.”
She sniffed. “I’m trying not to think about how cold I’m getting.”
His gaze flickered over her, resting on her exposed breasts. He tsked. “You are cold, aren’t you?” He put down his charcoal, and came to where she lay on the chaise, a scarf of the thinnest silk draped over her legs.
“Here. Let me warm you.” He placed his knee on the edge of the chaise and gently covered her body with his. “I fear you suffer from colpo di fulmine, the same as I.”
“What’s that? Is it a disease?”
“It is love.”
“Ah. Then I hope we never recover.” She slipped her arms around his neck and held him close. As they always did, they fit together perfectly.
He nuzzled her neck. “Warmer?”
She sighed happily. “Oh yes. Much.”
Discover More in the Nimway Hall Series
1750 - Jacqueline by Stephanie Laurens
1818 - Charlotte by Suzanne Enoch
1940 - Josie by Linda Needham
Discover More by Karen Hawkins
Made to Marry Series
Caught by the Scot
The Oxenburg Princes Series
The Prince Who Loved Me
The Prince and I
The Princess Wore Plaid (novella)
Mad for the Plai
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The Duchess Diaries Series
How to Capture a Countess
How to Pursue a Princess
How to Entice an Enchantress
Princess in Disguise (novella)
The Wicked Widows Short Stories
The Lady in the Tower
The Lucky One
The Hurst Amulet Series
One Night in Scotland
Scandal in Scotland
A Most Dangerous Profession
The Taming of a Scottish Princess
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How to Abduct a Highland Lord
To Scotland, With Love
To Catch a Highlander
Sleepless in Scotland
The Laird Who Loved Me
The Prequel to the Maclean Curse
Much Ado about Marriage
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An Affair to Remember
Confessions of a Scoundrel
How to Treat a Lady
And the Bride Wore Plaid
Lady in Red
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The Abduction of Julia
A Belated Bride
The Seduction of Sara
Novellas in Anthologies
The Further Observations of Lady Whistledown
Lady Whistledown Strikes Back
About the Author
Karen Hawkins is a New York Times and USA Today bestselling author of over 26 fun and lively Regency historical romances and two humorous contemporary romances. Like Sabrina Jeffries, Julia Quinn, Victoria Alexander, and Suzanne Enoch, Karen's books are renown for their sparkling humor, dashing rakes, independent heroines, and often include freshly retold fairy tales (Cinderella, Sleeping Beauty, Snow White, etc), daring rescues, runaway brides, marriages of convenience, Regency balls, and more! With vivid descriptions, strong characters, and captivating plots, Karen takes her readers from London's Regency ballrooms to the purpled moors of Scotland and beyond.
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