“If she wanted to see my work, she has only to walk through that door, and I’d show it to her. She knows that.” He returned to his work table where the mace head sat waiting. Sunshine poured through the window and warmed the metal claw to a rich gold, which made Marco think of the golden threads that shimmered in Charlotte’s auburn hair when she stood in the sunshine. She might be avoiding him as if he were the plague, but when she’d looked at him across the stable yard, he’d felt as if she’d been hoping he’d do something more than stare back. What do you want from me? That I should speak to you? Reach out in some way? But to what end?
He’d already invited her to visit him. Plus, she already had the perfect excuse to visit his workshop – her own mother had seen to that. No, Charlotte hadn’t yet visited him for one reason – she knew as well as he did that every time they came together, sparks flew. I am not the only one who feels it, am I, carissima?
“You’re smiling.”
Marco banished his smile. “Was I? I was considering what you said. I don’t think Charlotte had anything to do with my sketches being rescued from the fire. Not this time, anyway.”
“Charlotte?” Pietro’s thick brows knitted over his nose.
Marco could have bitten his own tongue. “I meant Miss Harrington, of course,” he amended himself coolly.
The old man muttered a string of curses. “You must finish this project as soon as possible. Just carve some cherubs holding a—a—a garland of flowers, or a vase, or some such nonsense, and be done with it.”
“This commission is too important, and my work must be perfect.”
Pietro looked as if he had a million other things to say, none of them good, but after a moment, he said glumly, “You’re right. It must be perfect.”
“And it will be. Now go. Return to the kitchens and find us some lunch. And stop worrying about Miss Harrington. Instead, you should worry about yourself. You’re the one flirting with a powerful woman. If you anger Cook, then for the rest of our stay we will be eating burned, moldy toast and undercooked gristle.”
“I will keep her happy.” Pietro hesitated. “Are you sure you don’t need me here?”
“What for? I cannot carve while you’re holding my hand.”
Pietro flushed and muttered something about artists being too touchy for their own good. “Fine. I’ll fetch lunch.” He headed for the door, smoothing back his hair as he went.
Marco watched the old stonemason make his way down the path toward the Hall, his step growing livelier as he neared the kitchens.
Smiling to himself, Marco returned to his work table. He pushed the moonstone out of the way, opened his folio, and removed the drawings he’d made of the pillars.
His gaze flickered back to the fire and his thoughts returned to the sketches he’d burned. It was a pity he hadn’t kept at least one of them so that when he returned to Italy, he’d have something to remember Charlotte by—
Thunk! The moonstone fell, tipping over a small pot. Black ink splashed onto the table, soaking into the thirsty foolscap, and pooling around a line of charcoal pencils. Marco grabbed his folio just before the river of ink reached it, and stuck it high on a shelf.
Damn it all, he didn’t need this mess! Cursing to the high heavens, he picked up the soaked papers and carefully carried them to the stove where he tossed them inside, slamming the door for good measure. He pulled a rag from a stack kept nearby and, muttering about cursed moonstones, he washed his hands in a water bucket by the door.
Most of the ink came off, and he took grudging solace in the fact that the rest would disappear in a day or so. But the accident was a sign. Pietro was right; the time had come to focus on the real task at hand.
Marco returned to his work table and cleaned it as well as he could. That done, he moved the moonstone to a less polluted corner of the table. “Not that you deserve to be rescued from a mess of your own making,” he told the cursed carving. “But God knows what ink might do to a moonstone—”
Charlotte’s voice lifted through the open windows.
He leaned forward to catch her words. She was telling a groom that Angelica needed to be brushed, and something else he couldn’t quite hear. He held his breath, waiting, and then caught sight of his reflection in the moonstone.
His expression was intense, hopeful, hungry. Damn it all. What am I doing? “Enough!” he announced angrily, shoving the mace head far away. He found a clean piece foolscap and a new stick of charcoal. It took all of his self-discipline, but with more determination than vision, he forced himself to focus on his work. “I must finish this,” he told himself grimly. “Or else.”
“Or else what?”
He turned.
Charlotte stood in the doorway, the sun warm on her shoulders and lighting a nimbus of gold around her auburn hair. “Good afternoon.” She stepped into the darkness of his workshop and looked about her with an air of curiosity. “I hope I’m not interrupting.”
Chapter 6
“What are you doing here?” Marco winced at the harshness of his own voice. He couldn’t help it; her mere presence crackled along his words like lightning over water.
Charlotte’s expression, which had been open and even amused, instantly changed. It was as if a shutter had been drawn, for her smile disappeared, and her lashes lowered, hiding her expression. She said in a cool tone, “You invited me, remember?”
He had. But he was finding that hoping to see her, and actually seeing her were two different things. Hoping to see her was like knowing someone would be serving his favorite berry torte after dinner. But seeing her in person was having the flavors of that berry torte melting in his mouth, the buttery crust lingering on his tongue, and the sweet scent of warm berries making him yearn for more.
He tried to ignore his overwrought senses. “I’m sorry if I sounded unwelcoming. I was just dealing with an irritating ink spill.”
“Ah. That would irritate me, too.” As she walked farther into the room, she took off her hat and tucked it under one arm. The hem of her habit and her fine leather boots were mud splattered, while her cheeks bloomed. “I came to see the portions of the fireplace that you’ve already finished.”
“Of course.” Some of her silky auburn hair had come loose from its pins, and long tendrils fell over her shoulder and clung to the lace at her neck. He wondered if could replicate the curl of her hair into one of the figures he was carving.
“I hope the ink spill didn’t harm your sketches.”
“Actually, it was more of an ink dousing.”
“Was anything ruined?”
“Nothing of consequence,” he lied.
“Good.” Her gaze slid past him to the dark corners of his workshop and then back. “Where is your servant?”
“Pietro went to the kitchen. He is supposed to be fetching our lunch, although I think he’s more interested in seducing your cook.”
She smiled. “I must meet this servant of yours. He sounds like quite a character.”
“He is more of one than he should be.” Marco slipped the remaining sketches into the folio so that they were out of sight. “So . . . you’ve come to see what I’ve accomplished so far. I’m happy to show you what’s already done.”
“Mama will be glad for news of your progr—” Charlotte came to an abrupt halt, surprise flickering over her face. “How did that get here?”
Marco followed her gaze to the moonstone. “Ah yes. That.” He looked back at her. “I was hoping you might have the answer to that.”
“I didn’t bring it here, if that’s what you mean. I haven’t seen it since I left it on the mantel in the dining room when we last spoke. I assumed Simmons had put it away somewhere.”
“Apparently, he put it away here, on my work table. But please, when you leave, take that thing with you. It’s been misbehaving and has knocked over an entire pot of ink onto my table.”
“So that’s what caused your ink dousing.” Amusement warmed her eyes. “I hope you remembered to protect yo
ur toes.”
“I did. Still, that cursed claw ruined some old sketches and left ink stains on my hands. As you can see, I have evidence of its perfidy.” He held up his hands.
“Oh no!” She placed her hat on the table, and then crossed to him and took one of his hands between hers, her skin as soft as her touch was gentle. She examined his ink-stained hand, rubbing her fingers over one stain as if hoping to banish it then and there. “Those won’t come off any time soon.”
He looked down at her bent head and wondered why his heart thundered in such a way. He had to fight the urge to bend down and brush his lips against hers. He suddenly realized he was staring and struggled to remember what she’d just said. “I—That’s quite all right. There is nothing on my social calendar this week.”
She sent him a surprised look, although she kept his hand between her own, her skin warm on his. “Social calendar?”
He curled his fingers over hers, moving closer. He was pleased that although she flushed, she didn’t move away. “It might surprise you to know that I waltz quite well. I also know how to bow properly and how to discern which forks and spoons should be used with which course. Artists are often thrown into society, much as ponies are invited to perform in the park.”
Her lips curved into a smile. “You, sir, are no pony.”
He lifted her hand and brush a kiss over her fingers. “No, I’m not.”
Her face was so pink he was surprised it didn’t catch afire. “Of course you know how to dance and how to properly wield your cutlery,” she said. “I saw your fine clothing when you arrived. Besides, despite your lack of a fine coat today, your boots are not those of a common laborer.”
“Ah, my boots. My biggest weakness. I have far more pairs than I should.”
“So do I,” she confessed. She traced her finger over the largest scar on his hand. The scar lined the edge of his thumb from his wrist to the nail. “Where did this come from?”
“The slip of a very sharp chisel. As you can see, my chosen career is not gentle.”
She shook her head. “So many callouses and scars.”
“Stone can be unforgiving.” He thought she might release his hand then, but instead, she held it tighter and glanced up at him, a question in her eyes.
He was astounded once again at the color of her eyes. He’d seen many people with blue eyes, but none as dark as hers. In a certain light, they seemed almost purple.
“I wonder . . .” she began.
He waited. His hands felt as if they were afire, her touch both temptation and torture. He tried not to breathe too deeply of her scent, that of sunshine and lily, which went straight to his head like the richest red wines of his home. He cleared his throat. “What do you wonder?”
“My Aunt Verity’s maid knows many ways to get stains out of garments. She might know of a solution that would help your poor hands. I’ll ask her.”
“Thank you.” But he didn’t want help, especially not with inconsequential ink stains. What he wanted was this woman in his arms, her lips under his, her heart beating against his own – All of which you cannot have.
Damn reality. Dispirited, he tugged his hand free, picked up a rag, and rubbed at the stains again. He knew it wouldn’t help, but the movement gave him the space he needed to clear his head.
Disappointment flashed in her eyes, but she said nothing. She wandered a few steps away, picking up a chisel from his work table and pretending to examine it. After a moment, she dropped it back on the table. “You confuse me.”
He threw down the rag. “How so?”
“You are an artist, but you have the air of someone born of the nobility. I know your father is a famous painter, but was he born of a famous house?”
“No, but my mother’s family is one of the oldest and wealthiest in Italy. She died when I was young, so I don’t remember much about her, and even less of her family.”
“Her family? Not yours?”
“They disinherited her when she married my father. They thought him a lowly artist when he was, in fact, incredibly talented.” Marco leaned against the work table and crossed his arms over his chest. “My grandfather was a vindictive man and did what he could to destroy my father. The old man spread vile rumors and kept others from purchasing my father’s work. It slowed my father’s rise to fame by decades and made life for our family very difficult. But still, my mother was alive then, so my father was a happy man. He says those early years were like heaven, that the sun shone every day and the birds sang only the sweetest of songs.”
“Your parents must have been happy to have had so many children.”
“In Italy, large families are a way of life. My mother died shortly after giving birth to my youngest sister. My father was devastated, although he continued to paint. Portraits were his specialty, especially of the wealthy, and that meant he had to travel to his subjects. As an only parent, he found it difficult to be gone.”
“He never remarried?”
“He’s never shown the least interest. Eventually, he moved from portraits to painting landscapes, hoping to grow his market in a direction that would allow him to stay home. He thought he’d found the perfect situation when an art dealer from Milan offered to travel throughout the continent and sell his paintings for a simple commission.”
“A perfect solution.”
“At first, yes. My father had no head for business and he thought the dealer would negotiate higher prices, even with the commission, but the man was a thief and he stole most of the profits. We did not find out until it was too late.”
“Oh no! How old were you when this happened?”
“Too young to be of help. We faced some difficult years where just putting food on the table was a hardship.”
“Why didn’t your father just paint more pictures and then sell them himself?”
“Because shortly after he discovered the perfidy of the dealer, my father grew ill. I believe it was because of his anguish over what he’d lost. He’s never truly recovered, and now his hands shake too much for him to control a brush.”
“I hope that scoundrel was brought to justice,” she said fervently.
“He was, but the paintings and money were gone, so—” Marco shrugged. “We were left without.”
“What a betrayal.” She started to say something, and then stopped. After a moment, she said in a hurt tone, “Life can be cruel.”
“At times. Life isn’t all happy or all sad. Instead, it’s a fascinating mixture of both.”
“Fascinating? How can you say that?”
“Because without the one, we would never appreciate the other.”
She was silent a moment, her gaze dropping where the toes of her boots peeked from the skirts of her riding habit. “What does your father do now?”
“He helps with my career and keeps me from making the same mistakes he’s made. Thanks to him, I am now the main caretaker of my family, although we all work. Two of my brothers are horse breeders, one has just harvested the first crop from his new vineyard, while the youngest is studying to be a physician.”
“What of your sisters?”
“One dedicated herself to the church, and the other married an established farmer who owns acres of olive trees. They are blissfully happy, both of them.” He shrugged. “So you see? Except for my father’s health, life holds no ugliness for us now.”
“It’s nice your father can assist you.”
“He’s a better manager for me than he ever was for himself. He helps me decide which commissions will increase the value of my work and further my career. One of the things he’s insisted upon is that, when in society, I should always dress as what I am, a born member of nobility.”
“You are one, despite the meanness of your mother’s family.”
He grinned. “Only the Scots equal the Italians in their love of a good, centuries-long family feud. In fact, my father used his father-in-law’s hard heart to my advantage. My grandfather was unkind to almost everyone he met so the
re were a great many noble families in Italy eager to – How do you English say it? Ah yes. Eager to put my grandfather’s nose out of joint. Those were some of my first commissions, and they paid very, very well.”
“That was very wise of your father.”
“It was. Still, as he’s pointed out time and again, as welcomed as those families have made me, inviting me to their supper tables and soirees, an artist must follow the rules of comportment and never put himself on a level with his betters. There will be no forgiveness if I cross that line.”
“That seems unduly harsh.”
He shrugged. “It is life. But he’s seen it happen to others. My experiences and those of my father have taught me well. So long as I can answer the call of my passion, I will be content.”
She frowned, her delicate eyebrows lowered. “Your passion. That is what sculpting is for you.”
“It isn’t just what I do, it’s who I am.”
She nodded, her brow still furrowed. “I haven’t found my passion yet.”
“You will.”
“I hope so,” she said wistfully.
He watched her as she walked to the window and looked out, her gaze distant and unseeing. What is she thinking? He was struck anew with the desire to kiss her. God, but never in his life had he been so beset with a mixture of curiosity and longing. What was happening to him?
He was a fool to even think of this woman in any way other than as what she was, the untouchable daughter of a sponsor. He’d never met Mrs. Harrington, but from the correspondence they’d shared, he knew the high level of pride she took in her family ancestral home. If he crossed the line of propriety with Charlotte, he was risking far more than he was willing to. He wasn’t the sort of uncaring cad who throw his career and the future of his own family into the dirt for nothing more than the touch of a woman he had no business speaking to, much less longing after. She is not for me. She will never be for me.
She turned to say something, but stopped, her gaze moving over his face. His expression must have darkened with his thoughts, for she asked in a quiet, serious tone, “What is it?”
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