Sweet Summer Kisses

by Erin Knightley

  Her eyes flicked to him, and she smiled briefly before returning her gaze to the inscription. “Bear with me, for the wording is a little odd and I’m not quite sure of the names, but here is my best translation:

  “This place is the tomb of the great king, Don Fernando, master of Castile and Telitala, and Leon and Valesia and Asvila and Karteva and Murcia; and who lives his life in heaven; who captured all of Spain; the right; the justified; the pius; the humble who feared God and worked for him all his life; who broke and destroyed all of his enemies and honored all those who loved him; and who captured the State Asvili, which is the head of all Spain, and died there on Friday night, twenty second day of the month Sivan, of the year five thousand and twelve from creation.”

  Philip nodded, his eyebrows lifted. “Well, the man certainly puts me to shame. That’s quite an impressive epitaph—no wonder he became a saint.”

  Libby chuckled and shook her head. “Of all of that, I am most impressed that it shall forever and always be known that he died on a Friday night. How wonderfully specific.”

  She circled around to another side, her lips pursed. “And here it is in Hebrew. Did you know that both Arabic and Hebrew are read and written from right to left? It makes me wonder if it was invented by people who favored their left hands for writing.”

  “Either that or they had a fondness for inkstains on their wrists,” Philip mused idly, his attention once again captured by her profile. It was a very nice profile, one worthy of being immortalized in a minuature. It was unfortunate that she hadn’t a parent or beau who might have use for such a thing.

  “Mmm,” she murmured noncommitally, her eyes tracking back and forth over the letters. “I rather wish I would have brought some paper to do a rubbing. I’m facinated with the characters they use to form the Hebrew alphabet. It looks so different carved in stone compared to any printed version I’ve seen.”

  “Perhaps we can return later, then.” The words were out of his mouth before he’d even realized he was going to say them.

  She looked over, meeting his gaze, a smile gracing those beautiful lips of hers. “I think that sounds like a fine idea.”

  Once again, he found himself meeting her smile with one of his own. Yes, he was here for his brother, and yes, he needed to concentrate on that, but with an entire month to spend here in Spain, setting aside a bit of it for Libby sounded eminently agreeable right about then. “Excellent. Now then, shall we go rescue Lady Winters from my brother?”

  She nodded and slipped her fingers onto the sleeve of his jacket, bringing the scent of jasmine with her. “Thank you for joining us today. I doubt the experience would have been nearly as memorable without you.”

  Philip didn’t tell her that he felt exactly the same way.

  Chapter 4

  “Are you absolutely certain you don’t mind going to the church alone today?” Amelia still seemed unsure, despite the three other times Libby had assured her it was fine.

  “For the last time, yes. And I won’t be alone; I’ll have Colleen with me.” Libby smiled brightly as she gathered up her parasol, reticule, and lightweight shawl. The maid already waited beside the door, hints of excitement bleeding through her normally staid expression. Turning her attention back to Amelia, Libby added, “Salvador wouldn’t be nearly as interesting to you anyway—not after having already seen the cathedral.”

  “I admit I’m not overly excited about the prospect of seeing another old church, but that doesn’t mean I wouldn’t be happy to accompany you later in the week.”

  Amelia had been a wonderful companion this trip, but the truth was, Libby was looking forward to a little time to herself today. Shaking her head, she said, “No need. You and Gabriel enjoy your day together. I’ll look forward to hearing your thoughts on the Real Fábrica de Tabacos building over supper tonight. It’s not every day a husband wishes to have his wife’s opinion on his investments, after all.”

  Libby paused to check her reflection in the mosaic-framed mirror hanging above the small table in the entry. “And for the record,” she said, sending a teasing grin toward her friend, “I do find it ironic that, of all places, you’ll be visiting an area referred to as de las calaveras.”

  Amelia met her gaze in the mirror, suspicion creeping into her sapphire eyes. “And why is that?”

  Twisting around to face her directly, Libby said, “After your reaction to the tomb earlier this week, I wouldn’t think an ancient Roman burial ground called ‘of the skulls’ would be your location of choice.” It was something she’d stumbled upon last evening while browsing through one of her books about the history of Seville. Calaveras had been a word she hadn’t known until then.

  Instead of the reaction Libby expected, Amelia broke out in a sly grin. “Oh, Libby, did you truly believe I was squeamish about that? I must be a more accomplished actress than I realized.”

  Libby gaped at her. “What on earth are you talking about? Of course I did! Whyever would you feign such a reaction?” She knew her friend to be quite clever, but devious? That was a surprise.

  Looking very pleased with herself, Amelia lifted her shoulders in a breezy little shrug. “I may be a chaperone, but I’m not the prude you take me for. I saw the spark between you and Mr. Westbrook. I was merely facilitating a bit of private time between the two of you.”

  Libby could hardly believe what she was hearing. She laughed out loud, delighted that her friend would do such a thing. “You may very well be my favorite chaperone ever. And here I thought you wished to keep me tucked beneath your wing.”

  Amelia grinned. “It occurred to me that if your uncle could encourage you to dance, stroll, and talk with men the whole of the Season, I could certainly allow for a little of the same here, right?”

  “Absolutely,” Libby said with a definitive nod of her head. “Especially since Mr. Westbrook is vastly preferable to any of the men I met in London.” Perhaps that explained why she had been thinking of him so much this week, hoping they would run into him every time they left the house. It was a bit of a disappointment that she’d not heard from him since their trip to the cathedral, but it had only been four days.

  After sharing a tight embrace with her friend, Libby set off for the church, Colleen in tow. It was another exceptionally warm day, and she was glad she had worn her most lightweight summer muslin, a pretty white frock with delicate mint-green leaves embroidered on the hem. She felt light and summery and exceedingly happy as she made her way down the street, listening to the rapid-fire Spanish being spoken all around her.

  It was fun to try to translate the snippets of conversation in her head. A woman purchasing flowers, a man calling out his wares, a shopkeeper shouting across the street in greeting to a friend—it was all simply life as usual. That was one of the greatest things about learning different languages. Without the barrier caused by lack of understanding, it’s possible to see that people from other cultures are still just people.

  She paused at an intersection, looking right at the exact moment that the man to her right looked left. Her heart dropped to her stomach as her gaze collided with Philip Westbrook’s.

  “Mr. Westbrook!” Her voice came out as a high-pitched squeak, and she paused to clear her throat before continuing in a more reasonable tone. “And Mr. Nigel Westbrook—how wonderful to see you both.”

  Her heart fluttered madly as she turned to face them fully, trying very hard not to stare at Philip. He was even more handsome than she’d remembered, with his newly sun-bronzed skin making his blue eyes stand out in stark contrast.

  He smiled easily, looking genuinely pleased to see her. “Miss Abbington, you’re looking very well today. How are you?”

  Pleasure whispered through her at the compliment. “Quite well, thank you. Although I fear this heat has marked me with a permanent blush.” She could have bit her tongue. She knew her cheeks were brighter than ever, but the excuse only called attention to it.

  Nigel lifted an eyebrow, mirth stretching his lips.
“Never mind the heat, Miss Abbington. A man likes to think a lady’s blushes can be attributed to his presence.”

  Unsure of what one was supposed to say to such a thing, she smiled a little too brightly. “Well, I admit I am quite pleased to run into you. How has your week been? Enjoyed anything of note since last we met?” Her eyes naturally went to Philip, wondering if he had thought of her as much as she had of him these past few days.

  Nigel gave a humorless little chuckle. “Enjoyed is too strong a word by half,” he said, his tone momentarily putting her in mind of the insolent young bucks she had met during her Season. “Endured may be more like it.”

  “Oh no,” she said, her brows coming together. “Have you not had the opportunity to explore the city?”

  “On the contrary. My brother has dragged me all over this city, attempting to force the merits of the culture. A dreadful bore, all of it.”

  Philip’s shoulders stiffened as he cut his eyes toward Nigel. “Yes, it’s my insidious plan to attempt to have an enjoyable holiday in the company of my brother.” Though the words were spoken in a light, bantering tone, an undercurrent of exasperation was definitely there.

  Tipping his chin up, Nigel said, “Well, perhaps you can enjoy the company of another for awhile. Miss Abbington, you appear to be without your usual delightful companion. Could I impose upon you to rescue me from an afternoon spent gazing upon musty old paintings?”

  She inwardly cringed at the comment, knowing it wasn’t really in jest. He had to be about her age—certainly not yet twenty. How was it he seemed so much more immature than she? Charming one moment, petulant the other. The Westbrook family must have quite a bit of wealth behind it for him to act like some sort of entitled Corinthian.

  Although, it was interesting that Philip was almost his polar opposite: polite, courteous, and gentlemanly to a fault.

  Except perhaps when it came to his sibling. It was clear that he would have dearly loved to give a proper dressing down, but instead he straightened and said, “If you wish to spend the afternoon in your own company, Nigel, then be my guest. Miss Abbington needn’t abandon her plans on my account.”

  In that moment, Libby’s heart went out to him. No one liked to think his company was intolerable. And when it came to Philip, such a description couldn’t be further from the truth. The thought of spending the day by his side, with no chaperone beyond the quiet presence of her maid, was enough to send a fluttering wave of butterflies through Libby’s stomach. Breaking the rules, indeed.

  Mind made up, she turned to him. “‘Musty old paintings’ wouldn’t happen to be referring to the Museo de Bellas Artes, would it?” Given their location, it was a pretty good bet.

  The clouds cleared from Philip’s eyes as he quirked a brow. “Assuming that means the Museum of Fine Arts, then yes, that was where I was headed.”

  “Well, how fortuitous,” she said, smiling brightly as though she wasn’t about to lie through her teeth. “As it happens, I was just headed that way now.”

  ~*~

  The interior of the old building that housed the museum was surprisingly light and airy given its age. As they stepped into the main entryway, Philip glanced around, taking in the impressive mosaic tile murals that greeted them. The lower half of the walls were completely covered in bold, abstract designs featuring brilliant blues, reds, yellows, and teals. The upper half featured several religious-themed mosaic portraits that stood out against the whitewashed walls, creating a striking effect, especially given the soaring height of the ceiling.

  An attendant greeted them, speaking a flurry of Spanish in a deep, resonate voice that echoed pleasantly in the open space. Philip waited as Libby spoke to the man, taking the opportunity to peer past the tall, arched doorway into the yawning space beyond. The building was much larger than he’d originally thought.

  He listened as Libby spoke, not understanding one bit of it but enjoying the way her tongue wrapped around the words. Despite his annoyance at his brother for forcing the pairing, Philip had to admit it was a relief to spend the day with Libby instead. No matter how hard he tried to bring Nigel out of his moodiness, his efforts only seemed to push him away. It was like trying to touch a rainbow: the more he advanced, the farther away it seemed.

  If he was honest, he was beginning to suspect that his brother actively resented him. Was it possible that Nigel was jealous of Philip’s title and the coffers that came with it, or that he begrudged the fact that Philip, as head of the household, had the right to tell Nigel what to do?

  Whatever it was, he was tired of dealing with it. Having Libby by his side was a vast improvement to his day, even with the rather unseemly way it had come about.

  Concluding her conversation, Libby turned her attention back to Philip. “He said that the most popular part of the collection is located upstairs, but he suggests we start downstairs and make our way up. There are three separate courtyards that he says aren’t to be missed, the largest of which is straight back and to the right.”

  The golden glow of her lovely eyes was like a balm, draining any residual anger at his brother from his system. He nodded, not really caring which way they went, and offered her his elbow again. The light fragrance of jasmine drifted on the warm air as she stepped close and slipped her hand over his arm. They started off, the light tap of the maid’s footsteps following a discreet distance behind them.

  They paused in front of the first painting they came to, a canvas nearly as tall as he was, depicting angels and cherubs lounging blissfully among clouds in the sky. Interestingly enough, it bore a striking resemblance to the mural painted on the library ceiling at his estate in Gillingham.

  Sighing happily, Libby smiled. “I could look at something like this for days.”

  “It is rather peaceful,” he said, thinking of the hours he had spent beneath his own mural at home. His great grandfather had commissioned it some sixty years ago, and it was said to have taken almost a year for its Italian artist to complete.

  “Peaceful is exactly the word. I love how it feels as though you could just reach out and touch the clouds. Aunt Margaret and Uncle Robert both have extensive art collections, but they consist mainly of dark portraits and boring, bucolic paintings of the countryside.”

  He had his share of those, as well, but with the exception of the portraits of his father and grandparents, he rarely paid attention to them. “Are you saying you’d have something different in your own home?”

  “Absolutely,” she said without hesitation. “First of all, any painting I’d own would be full of color and light, not dark and moody. I’d have paintings of places I hope to visit, and perhaps some of the places I’ve been. What good are pictures of a countryside you can see right out the window?”

  “Excellent point.” They moved on to the next painting, which depicted Madonna sitting on a throne with the baby Jesus in her lap and saints at her feet. Angels peered down from the clouds above, but this time the mood was more somber. “I wonder, what are some of the places you would like to visit?”

  She held out her hand and began counting down on her fingers. “Rome, Paris, Florence, Zurich. Possibly the Greek isles. I’ve heard the Mediterranean Sea is absolutely beautiful.”

  “That’s quite a list. Will you regret it if you aren’t able to visit them all?” As a duke, traveling like that had never really been an option. His place was in England, where he could see to all of his vast responsibilities.

  She shook her head slowly, her lips pursed. “No, I don’t think so. But I’ve always felt it was good to have dreams. To aspire to more than you could ever possibly accomplish. If we had everything we want in life, then what would be left to strive for?”

  It was an interesting point of view. So many people believed if they could just have enough money, or a lofty enough status, then they could be happy. As someone who had one of the highest titles in the land and one of the vastest estates—even with all the work it was taking to return it to its former glory—he knew that
those things couldn’t bring contentment. He’d often wondered why his father had seemed so desperately unhappy and had turned to things like gambling and drinking.

  Libby’s words really resonated with him. What if his father hadn’t had anything to strive for? What if having everything he could want in his lap had robbed him of any real enjoyment in life? Maybe that’s why he’d seemed to develop such contempt for it by the time he’d died.

  They continued on, stopping at a few more paintings before coming upon the open door that led to the largest of the courtyards. Glancing around the nearly deserted, surprisingly lush gardens, he said, “Would you like to explore outside? It might be best to do so before it gets too warm.”

  “Yes, absolutely. It looks like the Garden of Eden out there.”

  She was right. It was like a secret garden, lush and verdant in the middle of a city, unseen beyond the museum’s two-story tall walls. They strolled beneath the red-painted arches of the breezeway before choosing one of the small gravel paths. Swiveling around, Libby smiled at her maid. “Do feel free to relax on one of the benches on the perimeter while we’re out here, Colleen. It’s a small enough space that we should be able to see each other.”

  The maid nodded and found a seat, leaving them in relative seclusion. Philip breathed a sigh of relief. Finally, a bit of privacy.

  As they walked beside a fragrant copse of neatly pruned orange trees, Libby trailed her fingers along the waxy leaves of the nearest branches. “Did you know that this building was built in the sixteenth century and used to house a convent?”

  “I did not,” he answered, looking around at the architecture with new interest. “I suppose that’s not surprising, given the style.”

  She nodded. “It’s so peaceful. It’s not hard to imagine an order of somber women going about their prayers and duties here. Perhaps that has something to do with the large number of religious works here.”