1794_Charlotte

by Karen Hawkins

  He shook his head, unwilling to put into words the thoughts that left his mouth tasting of ash.

  As if his silence hurt her, she winced. After a long moment, she said, “We all have secrets, don’t we?”

  The hurt in her voice chipped at his heart. He wanted to reach for her, to sweep her against him and vow to never have a secret from her of any kind, but he remained where he was, glued in place, his heart so heavy it felt as if it were made of lead. It wasn’t that he loved this woman, that was impossible for they’d only just met. It was that the air between them was filled with golden, exciting promise, and turning his back on that was the hardest thing he’d ever done. Though it cost him dearly, he nodded. “We have more secrets than we should.”

  Her lashes dropped, but not before he saw the hurt in her blue eyes. Without another word, she walked away, her hem leaving a trail in the white marble dust that coated the ground.

  Charlotte stared into the dark corner of the workroom where a fire crackled in an iron stove. She didn’t know what to think of this man. Everything about him confused her. He was ambitious, passionate, determined, and creative. His eyes glowed when he spoke of his family, his face suffused with a warmth that made him look young and approachable. But in the blink of an eye, that warmth would flee and all that would be left in its place was a mixture of icy fury and passion so hot she could sometimes taste it.

  Ever since their conversation in the dining room, she’d found herself wanting to know more about him, the work he did, and why he did it. Whether she was chatting with Aunt Verity, riding in the forest on Angelica, or abed waiting to fall asleep, a thousand questions about this man would drift through Charlotte’s mind, refusing to leave until they were answered.

  She’d asked him some of those questions a few minutes ago, and his answers had been as interesting as she’d expected. But there were more things she wanted to know. What was Italy like? What countries had he seen? Did he ever travel with his brothers or sisters? What was the life of a sculptor like? Did he love it? Hate it? Were there things he’d change?

  But the truly unsettling thing about her curiosity was that the more she knew about Marco and his life, the less satisfied she was with her own.

  She would soon be married, her duty limited to her husband, his life, and eventually their children. Meanwhile, this man who even now watched her from across the room with a gaze so intense that she could feel it, was accomplishing something that would be treasured for centuries, something that would inspire others with its beauty, something that could bring joy well past his lifetime.

  Charlotte’s life was missing something, a fact which had become even more painfully obvious after Caroline died. For years before that fateful day, Charlotte had been restless and unsatisfied, but she’d told herself that she had plenty of time to find whatever it was she was supposed to do and be. Caroline’s death had rudely ripped that falsehood away.

  Now Charlotte knew the brutal unpredictability of life. Of the need to grab with both hands every experience and adventure that offered itself, and to savor them for all they were worth.

  But how could she do any of that without turning her back on Robert, her family, her home here at Nimway? Were there adventures awaiting her that she’d never have if she continued to only do what was expected of her?

  She had no idea, but while she searched for answers, the least she could do was take the time to learn what she could from the fascinating man now standing before her.

  Charlotte slipped him a glance from under her lashes. “We have an excellent library here at Nimway.”

  He raised his brows. “I assumed as much.”

  “There are many, many books, and I happened on one quite by accident called Methods of Sculpting.” She searched his face. “Have you heard of it?”

  “Of course. It is a notable tome.”

  “Last night, when I was having trouble sleeping, I read some of it.” Seven chapters, to be specific, a fact she wasn’t planning on sharing.

  “Did you learn much?”

  “A few things. I now know what a tooth chisel is.”

  His mouth twitched. “Impressive.”

  The warmth in his eyes encouraged her to add, “I read something about a ‘riffler,’ as well. Those are used for smoothing, in case you didn’t know.”

  “I know.” His mouth curved into a smile, his dark eyes gleaming.

  She added helpfully, “You may borrow the book, if you’d like. When I’m done, of course. Just in case you need to refresh your memory.”

  He laughed, the sound rich and deep. And she smiled in return, as happy as if she’d accomplished a miracle.

  “Come.” He pushed himself from the table. “You wished to see the work I’ve already done.”

  “Yes, please.”

  He walked past her to the far end of the workroom and she followed. Squares of sunlight shone onto the ground from the windows, white dust swirling at their feet. He stopped by several large slabs of creamy white marble that leaned against a wall.

  “You brought these with you?”

  “Yes. You must crate them carefully, but it can be done.”

  “They’re beautiful,” she said truthfully. She reached out to touch the marble, but he grasped her wrist, his fingers warm against her skin.

  “Fine marble can soak in oils, and as you’ve been wearing gloves that have been tanned, then your touch could yellow the surface.”

  She hoped he couldn’t feel her galloping pulse under his fingers. “I won’t touch them.”

  “Thank you.” He released her wrist. “I’ll seal this piece before I install it, and then it won’t be a concern. But for now, the stone must be protected.”

  “It’s beautiful marble, so white but with traces of blue and gray.”

  “In certain light, it will gleam as if lit from within. This marble is mined from quarries near my home in Tuscany, near the town of Carrara.” Satisfaction warmed his tone. “The Romans mined these quarries for centuries, and it’s been said that Michelangelo himself used this marble for his most important works.”

  “Are there many types of marble? I haven’t gotten to that chapter in the book.”

  He sent her an amused look. “There are more types, colors, and textures than you can imagine.”

  “My father says there a quarry near London that produces a pale orange marble. He is not fond of it, although the Duke of Buckingham was, and has it displayed all throughout his new house.”

  “Taste does not come with money.” He nodded to the corner where a large tarp hid something. “Here’s the work I’ve finished.” He tugged the tarp away to reveal several large, carved marble pieces. He nodded to the largest one. “This is the header. It goes directly under the mantel.”

  The header was a large, thick marble rectangle, a set of figures carved in the center that were Greek in design. To each side he’d added a thick swag of entwined wheat. The detailing was exquisite, and she was instantly awed by it.

  “It’s beautiful.” She tucked her hands behind her back to keep from running her fingers over the smooth figures. “How long did this take you?”

  “Weeks. The smaller figures take more time as one wrong tap and it could be ruined.”

  “It’s beautiful and much larger than I expected. Will it fit?”

  “Easily,” he said. “The trim panels are substantial and will fill out the rest of the space.”

  “Are those done, too?”

  “Yes. And so is the mantelpiece.” He pulled aside more tarps, revealing the thick mantelpiece, which was thick and heavy but elegant, with masterful crenelated edge. Next to it were two smaller panels decorated with a delicately carved rope braid.

  “These are the trim panels, I take it?”

  He nodded. “They go to each side of the fireplace, between the fire box and the pillars, which I’m working on now.”

  She leaned forward to peer closely at the carvings. They were so perfect, so lifelike. “Robert Adams couldn’t do b
etter,” she said honestly.

  “Adams? Pah. There is no originality in his work.”

  “I’ll make a note of that in the margin of my book. Sadly, the author seems to think him a god of some sort.”

  “Then the author is a fool,” Marco declared. He picked up the discarded tarps. “Have you see enough?”

  “Oh yes. My mother will be pleased.” How could she be otherwise?

  “Good.” He threw the cover back over his work.

  “What should I tell my mother about the pillars?”

  “They will be near life sized and wonderful to behold,” he said shortly. “That is all she needs to know.”

  He was so preemptory in his tone that she made a face and he laughed, his eyes crinkling. God, but she loved to make him laugh. When he laughed, her heart lifted. It was as if they were connected in some way.

  Stop it, she told herself, frustrated with her wild thoughts, and somewhat amused, too. This is what happens when you’ve spent too much time reading about the art of sculpture and too little time on sleep.

  Perhaps the truth of the matter was something simpler than mere tiredness. He was quite handsome, this dark-haired Italian. He should be modeling for statues, not making them. Normally, she wasn’t swayed by such things. In fact, she’d never been swayed by any man, including Robert.

  The reminder of Robert gave her pause. Yesterday, she’d finally received a note from him, one that was longer than a line or two. In three short paragraphs, he mentioned that he’d been busy meeting with his solicitor over matters of his estate, had bought a new horse with a fine gait, and that he would arrive at Nimway in two short weeks. As an afterthought, he’d added that he looked forward to seeing her.

  At few weeks ago, a longer missive would have eased her doubts and assuaged her lonely heart. But now she wanted more and although longer, the note had been highly impersonal, the tone more fitting for a distant cousin than a lover.

  Still, despite his shortcomings, Robert was her fiancé and she owed him her loyalty. She was no brazen flirt, and yet here she was, staring into the dark, mysterious eyes of a wildly handsome Italian sculptor for no other reason than she was madly curious about his untamed, romantic life.

  And that was what she so desperately craved, she reminded herself – she didn’t want him, but his life of adventure and passion.

  His brows rose. “Scusi. Do I have dust on my chin?”

  Oh dear. I’ve been staring far too long. “No, no. I was just—” She clamped her lips closed and shook her head. “Thank you for sharing your work. It’s far more beautiful than I could have imagined. But . . . I should return to the house now as my aunt will be waking from her nap soon.”

  His sensual mouth curved into a faint, lopsided smile. “If I had to have a chaperone, I would want one who naps, too.” His eyes glinted wickedly and she found it difficult to swallow.

  This man made her breathless, as if seeing him might, in some way, be wrong. Forbidden. It had been so long since Charlotte had tasted that particular freedom, of doing what she wanted for no reason at all other than it appealed to her, that she was almost giddy. How I have changed. As Aunt Verity had pointed out, all of the Harringtons suffered from that particular flaw, the desire to taste the forbidden. All of us except Caroline. Caroline was perfect. Caroline had been everything good in this life, even—

  A large, rough hand gently cupped Charlotte’s face and, shocked speechless, she looked up into Marco’s eyes.

  His smile was gone, his brows lowered as he whispered, “Every so often, I see in your eyes a sadness so deep it seems that it would swallow you whole.”

  “You can see that?”

  “How could I not?” He slid his hand from her chin to her cheek, his thumb brushing her skin. “I cannot not bear to witness your pain.”

  Tears clogged her throat. She wasn’t going to tell him her tragedies. She’d already revealed far too much. And yet, when she opened her mouth to deny him, other words slipped out. “My sister—” She couldn’t say it, her throat as frozen as a pond in the deepest of winters.

  His expression, already gentle, softened. “She is no longer with us.” He didn’t ask, but merely made the statement.

  It was such a relief that Charlotte managed to nod without letting a single tear fall. “She died eleven months ago.”

  His thumb smoothed over her chin. “So that’s it. She is gone, and you suffer.”

  “I’m getting used to it.” Charlotte refused to think of those first weeks when she’d been so raw with pain. “Now, I’m . . . waiting.”

  “For what?”

  For this. The thought caught her by surprise. In the months since Caroline’s death, Charlotte had tiptoed around her parents’ grief until her own pain had been lulled to sleep. But now those feelings stirred, bringing back her old restlessness as if she been waiting for something, or someone, to awaken them.

  Was this what she’d been waiting for? For this man? This moment? This feeling. One she’d never experienced before. Longing and lust, desire and excitement. But it was more than that. It echoed something she’d thought she’d forgotten, that of being alive.

  His gaze narrowed. “What is it?”

  She locked her gaze with his and stepped closer. “I think . . . I think I might have been waiting for you.”

  He looked so astounded that she thought he might turn and walk away. But instead, with a muttered curse, he slipped his arm around her waist and pulled her against him, engulfing her in a heady warmth.

  It wasn’t a kiss, but a hug. She was surrounded by his strength, her head cradled on his chest as his heart beat steadily against her ear. It was heavenly, and she slipped her arms about his waist and closed her eyes, soaking him in.

  “You fit into my arms far too well, little one,” he murmured against her temple, his breath warm on her skin.

  Charlotte burrowed deeper as she breathed in the smell of ink, paper, and warm stone.

  Oh Caroline. If you could see me now. Charlotte smiled against Marco’s soft shirt, thinking about how scandalized Caroline would have been. Caroline, who’d never had the least urge to do anything other than what was right and proper, and had lamented that Charlotte spent far more time in trouble than out.

  The old Charlotte, the one she’d so carefully packed away after Caroline’s death, had loved doing the forbidden. It had made her heart race, sent her blood thundering through her veins, and had made her feel alive.

  She felt alive now, tucked into the arms of a stranger, his heart thrumming steadily under her cheek, his warmth pocketing hers. It was tempting to stay here forever, but the outside world would not let her. Aunt Verity would arise soon, if she hadn’t already. And who knew when Marco’s servant would finish dallying with Cook and return with their lunch?

  Collecting herself, Charlotte dropped her arms and reluctantly stepped away, feeling embarrassed and exposed in some way. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have—”

  “No. Don’t.” His dark gaze never left her face. “You have nothing to apologize for.”

  She tucked a stray lock of hair behind her ear, hoping he didn’t notice how her hand trembled. “Then . . . thank you.” Her voice was so husky, she didn’t recognize it.

  “The pleasure was mine.”

  She looked up into his face, searching his expression for she knew not what. “You have been so kind. I—” Impulsively, she lifted up on her toes and kissed his cheek.

  It was a chaste kiss, meant only to express her gratitude. But the second her lips touched his stubbled cheek there was a long, silent moment. Neither moved, frozen in place, lips to skin.

  And then, like a strike of a flint to a stack of straw, the flame burst into life and she grasped his shirt and pulled him to her.

  He turned his head, his mouth ruthlessly covering hers as he slipped his arms around her and lifted her off her feet.

  She barely noticed, she was so caught in the kiss, her arms tangled about his neck, her mouth opening under his, her
body aflame as he—

  Clunk.

  Marco broke the kiss and looked over her head to the door and cursed under his breath. Without another word, he lowered her back to her feet and stepped away, his breath harsh. “Dio, I am a fool!”

  Her mouth burning from his kisses, she struggled to say, “Who was it?”

  “My servant was at the door.” Marco raked a shaky hand through his hair and then cursed again. “He will hurry back to the kitchen and talk, and you’ll be in trouble and I—” He clamped his mouth over the rest of his words.

  Charlotte pressed her hand over her heart where it thundered against her ribs. What would Aunt Verity say, if she found out Charlotte had been caught in such a flagrantly improper embrace? She wasn’t sure she wanted to know. Aunt Verity was the laxest of chaperones, but that might be too much, even for her.

  Marco’s gaze brushed over her, moving over her face and her fingers where they now trembled against her swollen mouth. His expression darkened. “This was a mistake.”

  His words were hard, and sharp edged. They struck her heart like bricks against a window, shattering and unforgiving.

  “I must catch him before he reaches the kitchen. You must leave.” His face dark, Marco strode to the table. He collected her hat and gloves and brought them to her.

  She took them unthinkingly. “I’m sorry your servant saw us. I should never have—” She shook her head. “But it wasn’t anyone’s fault. It was a kiss, no more. I—”

  “Go.”

  “But—"

  “Go,” he ground out, his mouth white. “And Charlotte?” His gaze burned into hers, and there was a hopeless bleakness to his face that stopped her from speaking. “Don’t come back.”

  What was happening? She tried not to take his harsh orders to heart, but couldn’t seem to stop. Her temper slipped, and she managed to say in a cool voice that only trembled a little, “You forget yourself. I decide whether to visit my own stables or not.” She knew to stop there, but couldn’t. “I am the mistress of Nimway while my mother is gone, and I don’t answer to you. I will return tomorrow to see your work on the pillars.”

  “No, you won’t. I’ll send word when there is something to see, but do not expect it to be soon. It will be a week, perhaps longer. Until then, you are not welcome here.”