by Gill, Tamara
Her body ached for his touch. She clasped his side, anchoring herself lest she float away and never return to her body. Faintly, she was aware of his other hand, sliding up her waist. A moan burst free when it covered her breast, kneading the aching flesh. His thumb and forefinger found her nipple. He rolled it through the fabric of her dress, and she moaned.
She crossed her legs as she leaned against him, trying to appease the deep, thrumming ache between her legs. It did not help. She wanted him to touch her there as well. To tease and kiss her and bring that desire to heel.
"You're the sweetest woman. It is confirmed you must stay. Forget London and stay here with me."
Molly pulled back, hoping he was playing while a little of her wished she could be so brave. "You'll have to convince me harder than this, Hugh."
"Hmm," he said, grinning at her, his chiseled jaw and high cheekbones reminiscent of the many statues of gods that littered Rome. "Is that a challenge, Miss Clare?"
Molly stood, pulling him to stand before starting back toward the villa. "It most certainly is. Change my mind, and we'll see."
"I will win, you know. I'm very persuasive."
She chuckled, not caring that Miss Sinclair stood on the balcony above and saw their interaction or the closeness of their friendship. She had not done anything so very wrong. A kiss was not the end of her reputation or the end of the world. And it was not like Miss Sinclair was not embarking on a love affair of her own. "We shall see, will we not?"
"We will," he said, kissing her hand and throwing her a wink.
Chapter 7
Late that evening, a knock sounded on her bedroom door and, having dismissed Miss Sinclair some hours before, Molly slid from atop her bed where she had been reading, placing the book down before seeing who was there.
She cracked the door but an inch and fought back the urge to grin like a silly nincompoop. "Mr. Armstrong. Is anything wrong?" she asked, opening the door farther and checking up and down the hall that there was no emergency he was waking her for.
"Not at all. I wanted to show you something in the villa that I have recently had restored. I think you shall enjoy it."
"Really?" Intrigued, Molly stepped out into the hall and shut her door. Hugh held out his arm, and she took it willingly, any excuse to touch him, and she would. When she returned to London, she would miss him dreadfully.
After they had dined together, her mind had raced all evening with what he could mean by trying to persuade her to stay. Did he intend to ask her to marry him? If he did, would she say yes? Molly glanced at him quickly, knowing full well the answer to her question. Oh yes, she would marry him without a second thought.
Even knowing him so little, he made her blood sing, her body yearn and no one, not in all the years she'd treaded the ballroom floors in London, had reacted so to a man.
They made their way through the villa through the atrium and out into the courtyard. Sconces burned against the villa's walls and lanterns lit the garden paths, lighting their way. They headed in the direction of a room that had an oiled wooden door leading into it. Many such rooms ran about the villa walls, and Molly was yet to see what was in those spaces, but this one's door looked repaired and varnished.
"It's inside here." He turned to watch her a moment, and before she knew what he was about, he stole a kiss. Molly tried to make it linger, but instead, he grinned, turned, and threw the door open.
Molly gasped, stepping into the warm, tiled room that had an arched ceiling. She could not believe what she was seeing. It was as if she were stepping back two millennia to Roman times. The room held two deep, tiled pools in the center of the space, sconces burned on each wall, and what looked to be steam coming up from one of the pools made the water inviting.
"Is this a bathhouse?" she queried, taking in the painted mosaics on the wall that although were new, were of scantily clad men and women enjoying baths such as the ones that sat before them.
"It is. Rome used to have hundreds of them as you would know, and this villa had a derelict, ruined one when I bought it. I've had it restored and have had the hypocaust under the floors cleaned out and rebuilt. The hot air that flows beneath the caldarium or hot bath is heated by coal and warms the floor and water. The frigidarium or cold bath I put in myself, the room did not have one. This bath was located in the room next door, but I needed space for servants’ quarters and so placed it in here as well. But of course, there is no heating system beneath this bath."
He took her hand, pulling her toward the steaming-hot bath. "I thought you might like to bathe. Alone, of course," he said, grinning wickedly and making her body hum. "You may use the room whenever you like."
Molly didn't know a great deal about history and had learned much more from listening to Hallie and her many travels. However, one thing she did know about Roman baths was what happened to the person after they bathed. "You do not have a servant who rubs you down with oils after your bath, Mr. Armstrong?" Molly couldn't help but chuckle at her teasing. For a moment, Hugh looked a little shocked by her words.
"I do not. No." He moved over to a nearby daybed that sat in one corner, sitting on its edge. "I can arrange that for you, however, if that is what you wish."
Molly joined him, standing before him. He glanced up at her, his long locks mussed with a little curl. He looked vulnerable all of a sudden, and something in her chest ached. She reached out, running her hands over his unshaven jaw, reveling in the feel of his short whiskers. "Are you trying to tempt me to stay in Rome with this bath that I have at my disposal whenever I wish?"
He shrugged, a teasing grin upon his lips. "Is it working?"
Molly looked over her shoulder at the water. The bath looked deep and clean, and so appetizingly warm. It had been so very hot in Rome, and she would revel in bathing. She went over to the bath, looking over her shoulder and meeting Hugh's gaze. He was watching her, a hungry light in his eyes that made her stomach clench. She wanted him to look at her like he wanted to consume her and gorge on every piece of her body. The thought of him, kissing her the way he did in the carriage, of having him take her, left her aching.
Perhaps she ought to jump in the cool bath instead. All his deliciousness was making her discombobulated.
"Can you help me with my buttons?"
His eyes flashed with need, and without hesitation, he stood, striding toward her like a Roman warrior heading to war. Molly looked at the water, steeling herself for his touch on her back. And then it was there, the slip of his fingers upon her gown. He made short work of the buttons that ran down her back.
As the last button on her gown let go, Molly brought up her hands to clasp the front of her dress. Hugh did not stop there. His fingers slid down atop her bottom, the tug of the drawstrings on her corset making her wobble. She bit her lip and closed her eyes, forcing herself not to turn around. Should she do so, she would be lost, and she could not do that. For as much as she had come to realize that she wanted Hugh, wanted him to want her to stay, possibly marry her if that was where he thought their friendship was heading, she could not give herself unless the words were spoken.
At least she did not have the worry that he was merely a wealthy lord looking for a little entertainment while she was in Rome. His being untitled suited her, and she liked that he was a self-made man, had not inherited his fortune from his parents.
"What is it that you do here in Rome, Mr. Armstrong? You have not told me."
His fingers slipped between the laces, working their way up her back. "I grow wine on my country estate here in Italy, and I dabble in the shipping of goods back and forth from India and England. I've been fortunate that I'm not beholden to anyone, and I live a comfortable life here in Rome."
"Your parents, are they still alive?" Not that she wanted to intrude or seem ungracious, but she was curious. For as much as she longed to turn about and crawl into his arms and stay there forever, they did not know much about each other’s lives. If she were to stay in Rome, if he did happen to
ask for her hand, they ought to know everything there was to know.
"No, unfortunately, my father passed some years ago and my mother more recently. I was not there for her passing, not that she would wish for me to be."
Molly frowned, a pang of sadness swamping her at the pain she heard in his voice. She turned, staring up at him and wishing she could make the memories of his parents happy ones, just as hers were for her own.
"You were not close? I'm sorry if you were not."
He sighed, running a hand over his jaw before striding toward the door. "I am not. My mother made it clear when I left England that I was not needed or wanted there. I thought it would be contradictory to both our true feelings should I try and be there when she passed. I was correct when she wrote to me, telling me she did not regret her decision of years before."
For all of Hugh's words, there was something within his eyes, a pain hidden from those around him. He was not as immune to this hurt as he stated. The tightness of his mouth told her that no matter what his mother had said, her child had wished it otherwise. He wanted his mother's love, just as all children do, whether they receive it or not.
"I'm sorry, Hugh. That could not have been easy."
He grinned, the wicked and teasing gentleman once more. "What is not easy, my dear, is leaving you alone in this bathhouse to bathe without me. If you think my soul is tortured, it is, but only because of you and not because of a parent who may have had two sons, but only required one."
* * *
Hugh shut the door on the bathhouse and forced his legs to move toward the villa. The sanctuary of his tablinum. He supposed Molly would be curious about his past, his life when he lived in England. He'd not been prepared to answer such questions, not when he didn't want her to know he was the infamous Lord Hugh Farley, who had ruined a young debutante's life before fleeing to the continent.
Or so everyone thought.
Now the Duke of St. Albans, he supposed he could return to London, lift his nose to anyone who would naysay him, but it wasn't to be borne. He would not give the rats the gloating rights to curse his name and give him the cut direct. Not that they would. Not as one of the highest-ranking and wealthiest peers in England.
With the death of his mother and brother now too, all ability to clear his name was lost. There would be no redemption for him back in England, no matter how much he would like to return. To take up his duties for his father's sake, if no one else's, but he could not. His brother had ensured his name was mud.
Hugh strode into his library, closed the door, and went to the settee that sat before the unlit hearth, sinking into its plush cushions. With Molly intent on returning to England he would have to make a choice. Ask her to stay, to marry him, but therein itself was a problem. He could not marry her under false pretenses. Should he do so, any heirs they produced would not inherit his title, which left him with one choice.
To tell Molly the truth of who he is and the real reason he lived in Italy.
Unless, he could sign the marriage register in his real name without Molly being aware… Even so, he would have to check the legality of the marriage before any children were born.
What a conundrum.
He rubbed a hand over his jaw, the thought of admitting his lineage, his shame, not the feigned one his brother and mother had heaped on his head, but the shame of letting them force him to take the fall left a sour taste in his mouth.
Should he tell Molly the truth, he wasn't certain he could face the horror, the hurt that would shadow her pretty visage. He never wanted her to look at him as if she did not know who he was. To imagine her think him a cad who ruined a young woman's life was a shame he could not bear to see from her.
Why, however, was uncertain. They had known each other for such a short time, but the fire and the chemistry that burned between them were undeniable. Molly was a woman who had friends in high places. There would be little doubt in his mind that she would've heard of Miss Laura Cox and the wicked Lord Farley's ruination of her.
Hugh clasped his hands before his face, leaning on his knees, staring at the blackened hearth in thought. He would be better off leaving her be. Stop all flirtation, all clandestine trips to the bathhouse such as the one tonight. Stop the stolen kisses in the carriage and merely become the host he was supposed to be. Or even better, leave Rome and return to his country estate near Naples. Remove himself from the temptation that was Molly.
He swore, throwing himself back into his chair. The idea of leaving Molly was no more palatable than telling her the truth and watching her leave for London. It was a hopeless case and one he would have to think upon more. Tonight he could not decide his course of action. What he could decide upon, however, was that he needed a stiff drink. Or perhaps, many.
Chapter 8
The following evening Molly once again stole down to the courtyard of the villa and snuck into the bathhouse. The room appeared prepared for use at any time, the sconces burned against the walls, the mosaic floor warm under her feet. Molly sighed, luxuriating in the most opulent space she'd ever experienced in her life.
Back in England at her family's small cottage, she had only ever bathed in a hip bath, and the one they had had not given her the ability to swim in warm, fragrant water. Whatever sweet flower oils they were putting in the water were delightful, and other than Hugh himself, she would miss this Roman bath more than anything else when she returned to England.
She had now been in Rome for almost a week, and so much had happened. Not only with her tours of the city, but here with Hugh. They had become friends instantly, and that attraction she felt for him had only grown with each moment she spent in his presence.
Today, however, he'd not been at the villa. The housekeeper had been at a loss as to his whereabouts.
Molly slipped off her robe and untied the small ribbon at the front of her shift, letting that too fall to the floor to pool at her feet. She sank into the water, careful not to slip on the steps before the warm bath engulfed her. Molly smiled, dipping under the water and swimming to the other end. She chuckled, knowing she was frolicking like some water nymph, and she was. Who would not when given such a gift of a Roman bath to use whenever they desired?
The door to the bathhouse opened, and she squealed, swimming to the side of the bath to stop Hugh from seeing her naked. He stumbled into the room and shut the door, seemingly oblivious to her being there.
"Hugh?" she asked. His head flicked up. His glassy eyes focused on her for the first time. Was he drunk?
"Molly," he panted. "I did not know you were in here. I thought everyone was abed."
"I was in bed," she started, watching as he moved over to a daybed, slumping down on the mattress. "But I grew hot and wanted to bathe. I thought it might help me sleep." She paused, watching him as he lay there, one arm slumped over his face, his legs off the side of the daybed as if he could not be bothered to lift them farther. "Are you well, Mr. Armstrong?"
"Do not call me Mr. Armstrong. Please."
He sounded tortured, ill even. Should she risk getting out and slipping on her clothes? He seemed to be only a minute or two away from sleeping. Her towel sat upon a nearby chair, but to clasp it, that too meant she would have to step out of the water completely to ensure her modesty was preserved.
Why had she not placed her towel closer to the bath?
"Are you well then, Hugh?" she asked again, moving along the side of the bath toward the steps.
"I am somewhat drunk, but not ill."
He seemed odd this evening. His words were hard and did not invite conversation. Was he angry at her? The reason for such a turn of character did not make sense. She had not seen him today and the last time they had spent time together, they had parted on good terms.
"What is it then?" she queried, wanting to know what ailed him.
"You."
"Me?" She stood on the bath floor, glancing at him over the side of the pool. He sat up, staring at her, and the desire that blazed in his ebony
orbs fired her blood. It was dangerous for him to be in the room with her. She swallowed, her body tingling as his gaze dipped to her shoulders. Not that he could see beyond, but there was little doubt from his visage that he imagined what the rest of her looked like, naked and wet in the water.
"What have I done?" she queried when he didn't say anything further.
"You torment me."
Molly shut her mouth with a snap, unwilling to listen to such hogwash, and certainly unwilling to listen when he was foxed. She strode up the bath stairs, clasped her towel, and wrapped it about herself, ignoring the fact that her body burned. She could feel his attention upon her, scorching its way up and down her body as she covered herself with the soft linen.
Obscured enough to face him, she stalked over and stood a bare foot from his person. "I torment you. You sound like a petulant child. I have no more tormented you than you have me."
"Really?" He stood, towering over her. The breath in her lungs seized. His shirt was open, gaping far enough to see his chest and the scattering of hairs atop his skin.
Her mouth dried, her core ached.
"How do I torment you? Tell me."
His words, barely audible, were in themselves tormenting. His deep, throaty words made her yearn for more. Not just a stolen kiss, but a touch, caress, his hands pulling her against him so their bodies could take pleasure. There was little doubt in her mind that he could give her a lot of satisfaction. Her friends had been honest and open with her, telling her that she should not settle unless the gentleman who had taken her fancy made her burn.
She now understood those words, for burn she did. For him. She would not tell him how he made her feel. She would show him instead.
Her rules be damned.
