“No, no. It’s not you. Sometimes, it just hits me. I think I’ve wept my last tear, but there always seems to be another.”
“Oh dear. I’m so, so sorry. Perhaps . . . Would it help if we talked about something else?”
Charlotte sent her aunt a grateful look. “Yes, please.”
“I saw you riding in on that big, white brute of a horse. I take it you are still riding every day?”
“When I can, yes. I’d just returned from—” Charlotte froze, her words stuck in her throat. Good God, did Aunt Verity see me talking with di Rossi? Charlotte sent a searching glance at her aunt, but all she saw on Verity’s round face was bland, polite enquiry. Relieved, Charlotte said, “I love to ride. With Mama gone, I’ve been able to do it more often.”
“I’m glad you’re getting some fresh air. It’s good for you in so many ways—Why, look at the color in your cheeks now!”
Charlotte murmured her agreement and then hurried to change the topic, asking if Aunt Verity had heard any good gossip whilst she was in town.
That did the trick. Brightening, Aunt Verity instantly dived into all of the latest on-dits while Charlotte pretended interest.
There were many things Charlotte was willing to share with her beloved aunt, but the short time she’d spent in the wood with a sculptor, a meeting that had included a shocking kiss, was not one of them. Neither did she wish to share the particulars of her precious morning rides across the golden hills and fields of Nimway, around the sparkling waters of Myrrdin Lake, and through the twisty, mysterious paths of Balesboro Wood. Those belonged to her and no one else. Since she’d been a child, especially after the never-ending procession of doctors and physicians began to file through her home, she never felt more at peace than when she rode wild and unfettered. Or so it had been before Caroline had died. Since then, nothing made Charlotte feel whole. She felt lost. Adrift. And painfully lonely.
Aunt Verity shared a scandalous rumor about the prince and a certain Catholic widow. As the story progressed, her words slowed, and she often yawned, her eyes drooping, and Charlotte knew her aunt would soon be asleep.
While Charlotte waited, she glanced down at her hands, where the emerald and old gold engagement ring Robert had given her winked in the sunlight. She closed her fingers around the warm metal, her thoughts slipping from Robert and to a dark-haired man with a compelling gaze, his smoky laugh as delicious as honey.
She wanted – no, she craved – more of that, she realized with a sinking feeling. She wasn’t sure if it was the illicit nature of the man himself, his dark Italian good looks, or his patent unsuitability, but just the thought of seeing him again made her heart quicken. Her aunt’s words about the Harrington red hair and their propensity to break rules came tumbling back. If Charlotte wished her life to remain on the safe, prudent course she’d set since Caroline’s death, she’d avoid men like that.
It was a surprisingly disappointing thought, but she knew she had no choice. She had to control her impulsive nature until Robert returned, and then everything would work out.
It will because it has to.
It wasn’t much, but right now, with Robert absent, it was all Charlotte had.
Chapter 4
Three days later, Simmons walked into the breakfast room carrying a salver holding a neat stack of letters. “The post has arrived, miss.”
“Thank you.” Charlotte pushed back her plate, took the packet of letters, and sorted through them. There were a number of missives addressed to her aunt, one rather plain letter for her father from his solicitor, a fashion magazine for her mother, an invitation to tea from the vicar’s wife, and a bill from the mantua maker.
Everything but a letter from Robert.
She dropped the letters back on the salver Simmons held, and tried not to let her disappointment show.
The butler’s mouth thinned. “I take it Viscount Ashbrook has not written?”
She sighed. “No. I wish he would, because—” A thought caught her. “Simmons, I wrote the Viscount a letter two weeks ago. Perhaps it wasn’t sent. That would explain why he hasn’t written back.”
“I put your letter to his lordship on the mail coach myself, miss, as I was in town that day. He should have received it last week.”
“Of course. That’s that, then.” She managed a smile she was certain didn’t look at all real. “Thank you. That will be all.”
The butler cleared his throat, obviously dying to say something else.
She hated to ask. Because of the difficulties she’d faced as a child, the butler and the rest of the staff were far too protective of her, assuming she needed extra assistance when she was perfectly fine on her own. Still, she could hardly blame them for caring, so she steeled herself. “Yes, Simmons?”
“It’s unacceptable!” the butler announced. “I’ve known Master Robert since he was in short coats and his lack of communication is deplorable. When I see him again, I shall be hard pressed not to let him know my feelings.”
“That’s quite kind of you, but unnecessary. I’m sure there’s a reason for his silence. We’ll know what it is when he gets here.”
“I’m sorry, Miss Charlotte, but how long would it take the lad to dash off a letter? Why, I write more often to my mother, and she can’t even read!” Simmons was now puffed up like an angry pheasant. “He’s off kicking his heels while he still can, and has left you alone here. Meanwhile, your mother has left you in the care of a chaperone who is a complete scattergibbet!”
“Why, Simmons! I thought you liked my Aunt Verity.”
He flushed, his stern expression softening. “I do. Lady Barton has always been kind, but she’s been here for three days now and has done nothing but nap all day whist you ride off to God knows where!”
“I’m perfectly safe within the borders of Nimway.”
“Balesboro Wood is not to be trifled with. It is haunted and filled with spirits. Why, Miss Caroline—” He stopped, folding his mouth into an unforgiving line.
“My sister was thrown from a horse and hit her head,” Charlotte said, her voice ice cold. “It would not have mattered whether she was in Balesboro, or in the forecourt here at Nimway, the outcome could, and most likely would, have been the same.”
Simmons flinched. “Miss Charlotte, please . . . I’m sorry. I just worry. We all do.”
The butler’s sincerity soothed Charlotte’s ire, and after a brief struggle, she sighed. “Oh, stop looking as if I’m about to spit fire. I’ll come to no harm in Balesboro, with or without a chaperone. It’s a forest and is filled with trees and squirrels and birds and nothing more.” Except the occasional devastatingly handsome Italian man.
It was a welcome relief to think about something other than Caroline’s death or the servants’ oppressive watchfulness. If Charlotte closed her eyes right now, she could remember every detail of that ardent kiss. It had been so heated, so passionate, so perfect, that she couldn’t believe it had happened.
But it had. And my, how I enjoyed it. She supposed that was wrong of her; women weren’t supposed to enjoy kisses, were they? If she followed the expectations of society, then she was to arrive at the altar untouched and unkissed, which seemed wrong in so many ways. How was she to know she’d found true love without such an experience? It was rather sad that Robert had never tried to kiss her, a fact which stung her pride now that she thought about it. Perhaps that was why she’d been so willing to kiss a stranger in the woods. Marco had made her feel wanted.
A weaker woman might have given in to temptation and placed herself back in his path. Although it had been a struggle, Charlotte had fought her baser instincts and had stayed away from the man for three whole days. That said quite a bit about her fortitude, for she’d thought about him a lot.
Too much, in fact.
Unaware of how far her thoughts had strayed from the topic of chaperones, Simmons added, “Your mother thought having a chaperone was important, or she wouldn’t have invited Lady Barton here to begin with. I
believe that if Mrs. Harrington had known that her ladyship would do nothing more than sleep all day, she wouldn’t have left you in her care.”
Charlotte took a sip of her tea. “You’re right, Simmons.”
Simmons looked relieved. “Thank you, miss.”
“Aunt Verity does sleep a lot. I hope she’s not taking ill.”
The butler’s face fell. “Lady Barton sleeps during the day because she is up all hours of the night reading risqué novels, most of them written in French.” He said the word as if it were a viper and might bite him. “As much as I love and respect her ladyship, I would not call her attentive. Why, you were out riding for four hours yesterday and in the rain, no less, and when Lady Barton came down to dinner, not only did she not realize you’d been gone all afternoon, but she was surprised to find out it had been raining, as well!”
“I came to no harm, so it makes no difference.” Charlotte place her cup back into its saucer. “My aunt is doing an excellent job. She was kind to even come, for I’m sure she’d rather be enjoying the amusements of town than stuck here in the countryside.”
Besides, to be honest, Charlotte had enjoyed the freedom of this last week. She’d loved riding Angelica through the fields in the rain, something she hadn’t done since Caroline’s accident as such things now sent Mama into instant hand-wringing angst.
Charlotte had missed her rainy-day rides, and this one had been every bit as delightful as she’d remembered – the rain fresh on her face, the cool air prickling her cheeks, the scent of crushed grass under her horse’s hooves as Angelica pranced happily through fields and down muddy lanes, as ecstatic as Charlotte at their antics.
Charlotte smiled at the worried butler. “Simmons, please. I’m no longer a sickly child, a fact that you and the other servants would do well to remember.”
“We know that, miss, but I fear that Miss Caroline’s accident has put us all on watch. We don’t wish the family to face more tragedy.”
“Neither do I, which is why I promise to be cautious. As I’ve said, I’ll be fine. Truly, I will.”
Simmons looked as if he might say something more, but after a moment, he bowed. “Yes, miss. If you don’t need anything more, then I’ll see to it that Lady Barton’s missives are placed on her breakfast tray.”
“That would be lovely. Thank you.” Charlotte waited for the butler to close the door behind him before she threw her napkin on the table, sprang to her feet, made her way to one of the windows. Outside, the sunshine beckoned, the breeze bobbing through the flowers as it swept to the lawn and then rippled across the lake.
She drew in a deep breath and rested her forehead against the cool glass.
Oh, how she hated being watched over! It brought back memories of the hours she’d spent as a child in treatments for her back, bound up in a horrible brace, or strapped to a contraption that tugged at her from all angles – So many efforts, and none had worked. She hated those hours and days with a passion so fierce that it sometimes frightened her, even now. Even more important, those experiences had made her yearn for the unfettered freedom of the outdoors. That was why she was so protective of her rides, and why she had to fight the urge to lash out when Simmons, or anyone else, suggested she shouldn’t go, or that she should take someone with her. That was her time. Hers and no one else’s.
Her breath had fogged the glass, and now she traced her finger through the misted pane to write ‘Marco’ in flourishing letters. Try as she might, she couldn’t forget that kiss. Even now, if she closed her eyes, she could feel the warmth of his mouth over hers, the pressure of his hands as they molded her to him, the—
She shivered, suddenly more restless than ever, her face heated. She wiped his name from the window and then went to one of the new ornate mirrors that flanked the windows, grimacing at the sight of her red face. She placed her hands over her hot cheeks to cool them. That darned kiss keeps leaving its mark.
“Blast you, Marco di Rossi,” she said under her breath. For some reason, she repeated his name, this time twirling the r into a purr. She had to laugh at own silliness. I’m just giddy at the attention. No one has ever looked at me in such a way, especially not a man like that.
He was intriguing. Too much so. Several times a day since that meeting, she’d had to fight a painfully strong impulse to visit him. But the more she’d wanted to go, the more she’d stayed away. The last thing she needed was a complication like that.
Sighing, Charlotte smoothed her hair, pausing to re-pin a stray lock. Finally satisfied she no longer looked flustered, she turned from the mirror. She’d go see Aunt Verity. A little company right now would not be amiss and would certainly keep her from thinking too much about things she shouldn’t.
As she made her way to the stairs, she absently glanced into the open doors of the dining room, and slowly came to a halt.
Before she’d left, Mama had made certain the dining room was prepared for the coming renovations. The long mahogany table and chairs had been carried to the far side of the room, well away from the fireplace where they were protected by an off-white army of dust covers. Everything else – curtains, decorations, and paintings – had been carefully packed away and stored in empty guest rooms, where they’d remain until the work was completed.
Which was why the sight of a candleholder resting on the mantel over the fireplace had stopped Charlotte. Imagining the peel Mama would ring over the head of the thoughtless footman who’d forgotten his orders to leave the room untouched until the renovations were complete, Charlotte turned from the stairs and made her way to the dining room.
It was one of her favorite rooms. Long and elegant, the room was defined by tall windows and aged oak wainscoting. Like the great hall, hints of an older era lingered in the ornate woodwork that covered almost every surface. Overhead, large chandeliers hung, fastened in place by thick chains and requiring hundreds of candles for just one dinner.
The fireplace itself was built for massive four-foot logs, but the sheer size of it made the mantelpiece, a modest and overly simple affair, appear woefully out of place. No wonder Mama wishes to change it. The proportion is all wrong.
It was odd the things one accepted as ‘right’ when faced with them day in and day out. Shaking her head at her own blindness, Charlotte reached the fireplace only to realize the object sitting on the mantel wasn’t a candleholder at all, but a golden scaled claw that reached up to clutch a moonstone the size of a fist. What on earth is this? She had no idea, but it was intriguing, and so heavy that she had to use both hands to pick it up. It must be gold, to weigh so much. She held it up to the light and then slid her thumb over the moonstone, surprised to find it warm.
She’d always loved moonstones, but Mama held them in aversion. This one was particularly pure of form, the glossy white surface reflecting the morning light. “Where did you come from?” she murmured.
As if in answer, the stone gleamed. Silver and white mists swirled just under the surface. And then there, in the stone’s mists, a figure formed.
She caught her breath and looked closer. A man sat in a chair . . . and not just any man, but Marco di Rossi. He leaned forward, his elbows resting on his knees, his gaze piercing and direct. His finery was gone and in its place a pair of black breeches tucked into high riding boots, his broad chest and arms covered by a flowing white shirt that hung open at the neck. His hair was no longer in a neat que, but hung loose about his unshaven face, his expression every bit as dark as his eyes.
One look at those eyes and Charlotte was hit with a desire so instant and raw that her body ached with restless need. Good God, what is this? And yet try as she might, she couldn’t seem to release the clawed metal or stop staring at the figure in the stone.
Defiant even in repose, he looked like what he was – dark, dangerous, and forbidden. He belongs to another place, another home, and eventually, another woman. The thought was as clear as the floor beneath her feet, and yet her fingers slid over the moonstone as if to touch him thro
ugh the mist.
She grimaced at her actions. “Why are you doing this?” she muttered both to herself and the stone.
“It will not answer,” came a deep, richly accented voice behind her.
She whirled, clutching the stone before her like a shield. There, sitting in a chair was Marco, looking just as she’d seen him. The flowing shirt parted at his tanned, powerful throat, his dark gaze locked on her. He was disheveled, his hair mussed as if he’d raked his hand through it over and over, his face shadowed with stubble.
She hadn’t seen a vision in the stone at all, but a reflection. How could I have thought otherwise, she asked herself. “Mr. di Rossi, I didn’t see you. What are you doing here?”
“Please. It’s Marco, as I said before.” He leaned back, draping an arm over the back of his chair, and she realized he was far more dangerous without his fine trimmings. “I should ask you that same question,” he said, “but I saw what you were doing; you were talking to a rock.”
Her face heated and she lowered the moonstone, although she found herself reluctant to release it. “I was talking to myself, not the rock. And you?”
“I was thinking,” he said. He’d been doing more than that, for a sheaf of paper rested within reach on an empty chair, a stick of charcoal atop it, while crumpled pages lay scattered around his feet.
She nodded toward the papers. “It appears you’ve been sketching.”
“That is how I think. I must decide what to carve for the fireplace pillars. I cannot begin until I have a general idea of how they will look, so I sketch.”
His voice, rich and deep, stroked along her skin and she had to fight to keep her breath. “It’s been three days and you don’t have any idea what to carve? That’s sadly inept, isn’t it?”
The blazing look Marco sent her made her wince and she rushed to add. “I’m sorry. That’s not what I meant to say. It’s not inept; that’s the wrong word. It’s surprising, that’s all. It seems you would just sketch something, and then begin.” She tumbled over her words, saying them so fast even she couldn’t hear them all. Blast my unruly tongue! Just be quiet, she told herself fiercely. It always happened like this; a situation would grow awkward and she’d blurt out the wrong thing in the wrong tone and make things worse.
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