"Without question. I feel like an entirely different person here. I'm not sure why." I shook my head. "Perhaps it's because I have never before traveled alone. I never imagined I would. Nor did I imagine, when my aunt decided to return to England, I would choose to continue on to Italy on my own. It was entirely out of character for me."
"It's quite remarkable, isn’t it?" He studied me curiously. "What happens when we step out of the boxes we have always lived our lives in. When we dare to take a chance. To select the road untraveled. To accept, even embrace, the new, the unknown, the—"
"Adventure," I murmured.
"Exactly." He smiled.
I studied him curiously. "You seem the type of man who welcomes adventures."
"Ah, Portia." He shook his head in a resigned manner. "I fear I am as afraid of venturing forth from my box as most people. There are expectations, responsibilities and everything that goes along with them. We can only hope, on occasion, for a momentary respite from those demands from which we can never escape."
"You don't sound like an artist now."
"But I do sound like a dutiful member of Her Majesty's Foreign Service." A note of resignation, or perhaps acceptance, colored his words. I'd never thought being a dutiful member of Her Majesty's Foreign Service to be quite so depressing.
"I gather you don't like your position?"
"My position is excellent, and I am grateful to have it." His tone was firm and left no doubt that this particular topic of conversation was at an end. Which was a shame, as he had certainly piqued my curiosity. I let the subject go for now.
"I have never quite looked at life in that manner."
His eyes narrowed in confusion. "In what manner?"
"Why, the idea of living in a box, of course." I rolled my gaze toward the ceiling. "Goodness, Fletcher, if we are to spend time together, you are going to have to try to follow along."
"Yes, of course. My apologies. I fear I am not used to topics of conversation leaping disjointedly from one to the next like stones skipping on the surface of a pond." He tried and failed to look sincere.
"If I am confusing you, I shall try to speak slower."
"And I shall do my best to keep up." Amusement glimmered in his eyes. I wasn’t sure if I liked that he found me amusing or if I was annoyed by it. The former, I thought.
"Tell me, Fletcher." I leaned closer and gazed into his eyes. "Do you expect that I will be a constant source of amusement for you during our stay here?"
"Quite the contrary, Portia." He too leaned closer. "I have no idea what to expect from you. When we first met, I would have said you were one of those terribly upstanding women too constrained by the dictates of propriety to even breathe freely. Today . . ." His gaze searched mine. "Today, I would not dare to categorize you at all."
I couldn’t resist an admittedly satisfied grin. "So I am not in a box, then?"
"I have absolutely no idea. Thus far, you are an enigma to me." He settled back in his chair, his thoughtful gaze never leaving mine. "But I would like to find out."
He studied me as though I was an unusual and intriguing creature. I didn’t believe a man had ever looked at me in that way before. As if I was of interest beyond my position and fortune and appearance. It was as exhilarating as it was uncomfortable.
What if he found me wanting? Lacking in some way I was not even aware of? Utter nonsense, of course. And furthermore, why would I care? After Christmas, and two weeks beyond, we would each go our separate ways. His opinion of me would make no real difference in my life. Still, for whatever reason, I did want that opinion to be favorable.
"Will you join me for dinner tonight?" he said abruptly.
I started to point out, as I had no intention of eating alone again in my room, his invitation was unnecessary. But it was rather nice.
I smiled. "I would be delighted."
"Excellent." He got to his feet. "Then I shall take my leave for now. I have some work I would like to finish before I lose the light entirely."
"Will you show me your painting?" I asked without thinking.
He paused as if considering the question.
"I would like very much to see it."
"I don’t know. I rarely show anyone my work."
"Is it that bad?" I said solemnly.
"It could be." He shook his head. "I am my own worst critic, so it could indeed be quite awful."
"I doubt that. Honestly, what harm would it do to show me?"
"In the guise of perfect honesty, you could tell me you hate it. And what I consider to be an accomplishment is not an accomplishment at all."
"Goodness, Fletcher, you needn't be the least bit concerned about that." A teasing note sounded in my voice. "I shall simply treat you like every other man who asks for an opinion from a woman but only wishes to hear how wonderful he is."
"In that case, then, perhaps." He grinned. "As reluctant as I am to leave right now, I am very much looking forward to this evening. Good day, Portia." With that, he turned and strode into the house, leaving me to stare after him.
And wonder just what kind of box Fletcher Jamison resided in.
CHAPTER FIVE
Dinner on the loggia was nearly the same as last night's: a mere three courses, one of them native fried fish. It was extremely rustic, apparently at Fletcher's request. In the spirit of embracing my adventure, I resisted the urge to comment—although it did seem that civilized meals, with an appropriate number of courses, would transcend the dictates of adventure. However, the fish was excellent.
As was the conversation. Fletcher struck me as extremely intelligent and seemed to expect me to be intelligent as well. The realization took me quite by surprise. That had not been my general experience with men. But I must say I rose to the occasion.
When he commented on the latest uproar in Parliament, when he mentioned the competition for African territory among the nations of Europe and when he spoke of the tenuous relations between Britain and Russia, I was able to more than adequately hold up my end of the discussion. While politics and foreign affairs never especially interested me, I did read more than just the society section of the Times. I simply thought it was wise to be well versed on a variety of subjects, although admittedly I rarely used such knowledge. No one expected it of me.
When the talk turned to literature, and he praised Mr. Haggard's King Solomon's Mines, I not only confessed to having read the book myself but to having enjoyed it. I'd never told a soul that I had read it, let alone liked it. It wasn’t the sort of thing anyone would expect me to read, although it did seem everyone in London had read it or was reading it. I wasn’t sure why I revealed this to him, but I had been feeling less and less my usual self since I’d arrived. Less and less restrained, I thought. And there did, as well, seem to be a great deal of freedom inherent in eating out of doors and watching the sun glide gracefully into the sea. It was extremely, oh, liberating was the only word I could think of. Which was interesting, as I had never felt that my liberty was especially curtailed.
"I must confess I am curious, Portia," Fletcher began after we had finished dinner and were sipping the lemon-flavored liqueur produced in the region. Silvestro had come onto the loggia at some point and lit lanterns that now glowed softly behind us, near the villa's open doors. "This part of the Italian coast is popular with the English in the winter for its redeeming medicinal qualities, but at Christmas most visitors return home, and the area is extremely quiet. Why are you here?"
"I told you. My aunt knows Lady Wickelsworth, and she made the arrangements."
"Which does not answer my question."
"No, I suppose it doesn't." I heaved a resigned sigh. "You'll think it’s rash and probably foolish."
"Oh, I expect to."
"Then you will not be disappointed." I debated for a moment over exactly how much to tell him. "Have you ever been married?"
"I have yet to be so blessed." A dry note sounded in his voice.
"You don't wish to be married?" I couldn’t hide my su
rprise. Nearly everyone I knew wished to be married. It was in our nature. We did board the ark two by two, after all.
"I'm not really concerned about marriage one way or the other. I'm not opposed to it, nor am I actively seeking it out." He shrugged. "It's been my observation that most people marry for duty or practical reasons or because it's expected of them. I have no particular responsibility to wed, and I see no practical reason to share my life with someone simply because it's expected I would do so."
"And what of love?"
"I don't believe I mentioned love."
"No, you didn’t, but it is another reason people wed. Some think it's the best reason." I chose my words carefully. "It sounds to me as if you don't believe in love."
"I neither believe nor disbelieve. I am hopeful of the possibility, but as I have never experienced love, I cannot say that it exists. Nor can I say, however, that it doesn't." He raised his glass to me.
"What rubbish, Fletcher." I scoffed. "You're an artist. I should think love and hate, emotions and perceptions, desires and passions, all of that would be part and parcel of what you try to express with paint and canvas."
He stared at me curiously. "That's remarkably profound. You are full of surprises, Portia."
"I am sorry I cannot be more shallow. Would you prefer I speak of art in terms of pretty pictures and pleasing colors and how well a piece might complement the furnishings in my parlor?" I sipped my drink and tried not to be annoyed. I shouldn't have been, really. I had never thought a woman's intelligence was something to be displayed, but somehow, with him, or perhaps here in this place, I felt differently. As if all the expectations by which I’d lived my life had suddenly vanished.
"You're offended. I am sorry." He grimaced. "Please accept my apology."
"Of course." I waved off his words. "There's really nothing to apologize for. I have never particularly asserted myself when it comes to expressing my opinion on subjects beyond those considered suitable for a lady to discuss."
"Why?"
"Why what?"
"Why do you feel there are certain topics a lady should not discuss?"
"Goodness, Fletcher, don't be so obtuse." I blew an exasperated breath. Really, I thought the man was just baiting me. But even knowing that didn't stop me. "That's the way things are. You know that as well as I. There are rules, if you will, of appropriate behavior."
"Proper behavior."
"Yes. Proper, appropriate, expected, suitable behavior."
"In your box."
"In everyone's box." I met his gaze pointedly. "Yours included."
"Probably." He paused. "I must say, I haven't noticed you having any difficulty tonight expressing your opinions on a variety of subjects."
"I am aware of that. It's not at all like me."
"You did say you feel like a different person here." He considered me thoughtfully.
I nodded. "I wonder if it's due to the setting or having to rely entirely on myself or"—even as I said the words, I knew they were a mistake—"the company."
"The company, by all means." He grinned.
"My God, Fletcher, you are arrogant." I huffed, then turned my gaze toward the bay. The reflections of the stars danced on the waters. The faintest scent of something sweet and floral lingered on the light breeze. There was something here, in the air perhaps, or in the sound of the water lapping against the shore, something that had wrapped around my soul. It struck me that I was not the same woman who’d left England, and I wondered who I might be when I returned.
"I would place my money on the setting." I put my glass down, rose to my feet and moved to the edge of the covered loggia to gaze out at the sea. "Look at this view, Fletcher. It's magnificent, but beyond that it's . . . it's magical, that's what it is. There's no other word for it. This is surely what Paradise must look like. Who could fail to be moved by it?" I spread my arms to the sea. "This alone makes one say things one would never say in a London parlor."
"Things about desire and passion." His voice was close to my ear. Good Lord, he was right behind me!
I whirled to face him. He was entirely too close. My stomach fluttered with something akin to panic. "I was referring to your art, as you know full well. I would never discuss"—I nearly choked on the words—"desire and passion with a gentleman, let alone someone I barely know. I do hope you don't think my comment indicated my interest in anything beyond friendship."
"I—"
I narrowed my eyes. "I would thank you to keep your distance, Fletcher. I very much value your companionship but nothing more. I realize our circumstances, my agreeing to share the villa, might have led you to make certain assumptions, but if you intend to seduce me . . ." I squared my shoulders and stared at him. "You should know I have no intention of being seduced. That is not the kind of adventure I am seeking." I sounded a bit pompous perhaps, but it did have to be said.
"I'm afraid you misunderstand." His voice was cool and slightly amused. "I was only bringing you your drink." He held out my glass, his own glass in his other hand.
The hot flame of utter and complete humiliation washed up my face. If I could have melted into a small puddle and disappeared between the stones of the loggia floor at that very moment, I would have greeted my fate gladly. I accepted my glass from him. "Thank you."
I drained the rest of my liqueur, although I was fairly certain it was more potent than I was used to. Good.
"My apologies if I led you to believe the thought of seducing you had so much as crossed my mind."
"No." I forced an awkward laugh. "I would never think such a thing. I don't know why I said that." If ever lightning were to strike me, I would have welcomed it right now. "It simply . . . well . . . you took me unawares, that's all. But I don't . . . no . . . of course not—"
He held out his hand to stop me. "Then we shall say no more about it."
"Ever?" I held my breath. "I would be most grateful for 'ever.'"
"Of course." He smiled. "Probably."
I cast him a weak smile in return. I was not thrilled at being more obligated to him than I already was.
"Good." He nodded. "Because that is no doubt the best way to destroy an excellent friendship. Besides"—he took a sip of his liqueur and gazed out at the sea and the stars—"you're really not the type of woman I prefer."
I didn’t know what to say. On one hand, I should have been relieved. Obviously, I was safe from any overtures of a physical nature. On the other, I had just been insulted, even though his preference in women probably ran to models or music hall performers or something else vaguely artistic and slightly sordid. My assumption wasn't at all kind, but then, I wasn't feeling especially kind toward him at the moment.
"Thank God," I said with as much relief as I could muster. It was surprisingly difficult.
"I think so," he said solemnly.
I knew I should keep my mouth shut, but I couldn’t resist. "Tell me, Fletcher, what kind of women do you prefer?"
"Well, I like tall, blue-eyed blondes."
"Now it’s your turn to be shallow."
He laughed. "I also like a woman I can talk to. Who will not merely listen to placate me, but will truly hear what I have to say. I want a woman who says things that are far more relevant than the newest fashion from Paris or the latest bit of gossip. Beyond that . . ." He thought for a moment. "Someone not quite as concerned with propriety as much as savoring life."
"Can't one do both?"
Even in the dim light, I could see the look of skepticism on his face. "I doubt it."
"Don't be silly, of course you can. Why, I consider myself eminently proper, and my life is quite pleasing."
"Then why are you spending Christmas alone with a stranger in a country where you don't speak the language?" His tone was casual, as if it didn't matter. But it did, and we both knew it.
The question hung in the air between us for a long moment.
"It's quite simple," I said at last. There was no need to go into extreme detail regarding my f
eelings about Christmas and the happiness my friends had found. "My husband died three years ago, and my aunt feels I have mourned long enough. She thinks it's time I find a new husband."
"I see." He took the glass from my hand, stepped back to the table and refilled it. "The good intentions of our families often have little to do with what we really want."
"She feels she knows what is best for me and is determined to help by having suitable prospects everywhere I turn. In the past year, she has increased her efforts. The closer we came to Christmas, the more I dreaded it." I shuddered. "I knew every party, every gathering, every event my aunt had a hand in would be less about Christmas and more about finding me a suitable match. I had no desire to endure that. So I thought it would be best to flee."
"Like the Israelites from Egypt."
"Faster." I sighed. "Quite honestly, I don't know what came over me. I've never done anything like this. Why, not being home at Christmas is unthinkable, or at least it always has been." He handed me my glass, and I took a thoughtful sip, my gaze fastened on the stars and the sea. "But this year . . ."
"This year, you decided to do what you want rather than what is expected of you."
"I'm not sure it was that well thought out. More of an impulse, really." I shook my head. "I never act impulsively on anything of importance."
"How very prudent and efficient of you."
"Thank you." I'd always been rather pleased that I was prudent and efficient. But tonight it sounded . . . dull.
The silence stretched between us. Easy and companionable. We stood staring out into the night, he slightly behind me. Entirely too close, but I decided to overlook it as the man did seem to generate a fair amount of heat, and it was a cool night.
I wondered what he was thinking. In spite of my best efforts, I couldn't seem to think of anything but how close he was. And how warm. And how I hadn’t stood this close to a man in the dark in a very long time. And how terribly romantic it all was, or would be if I were inclined toward that sort of thing. The very thought was ridiculous, as he had no interest in me beyond companionship. Which suited me perfectly, even if it was the tiniest bit annoying.
Same Time, Next Christmas Page 5
