Diavolo arched his neck as if he liked the compliment, and Marco silently consigned his animal to the devil he’d been named after. As much as Marco wished it otherwise, the woman’s rich voice made him think of red wine that flooded the senses, delicious and intoxicating. Good God, I cannot stop thinking about that damn kiss. I must have injured my head in the fall. He ran his hand through his hair, searching for a tell-tale knot that might explain this instant attraction, but found nothing.
He realized she was watching him with a concerned expression and he dropped his hand to his side. Her horse whinnied, baring its teeth and then favoring him with a caustic look. “Your horse is exceptional as well, although she looks to be opinionated.”
The woman chuckled and fondly patted the horse’s neck. “You have no idea. Her name is Angelica.” The horse nuzzled her owner, but then turned its accusing stare back on Marcus.
“She is angry with me.”
“She’s protective.” The woman’s gaze narrowed. “Your accent . . . You’re Italian.”
He nodded.
“So you’re the sculptor. I wouldn’t have thought that.”
The disbelief in her tone irked him. “I am Marco di Rossi. And you are?”
“Charlotte Harrington. My mother said a sculptor was coming from Italy and, as she had to leave, I was to make sure you received her instruction. She left you a letter.”
“She is not here?”
“She was called to London. The head groom is to see to it that you have everything you need.”
“I won’t need much. I brought everything with me. The wagon carrying the marble and my tools should have already arrived earlier this morning.”
“I should have known who you were from your accent, but I didn’t think a sculptor would look—” Miss Harrington blushed again, gesturing weakly. “Never mind.”
He was amused despite himself. “What did you think a sculptor would look like?”
“Well, not like—” She bit her lip. “It’s just that you’re dressed so . . . ” Her gaze traveled over him, touching on the square cut emerald pin set in his cravat, the silk waistcoat embroidered in silver, and the expensive lace that fell over his wrists. “You’re so fancy,” she blurted out.
He choked back an impolite word. Fancy? What in the hell? “I beg your pardon?” he said stiffly. “Surely a sculptor may dress as he wishes.”
“Of course you may,” Miss Harrington said hastily, her brow creased as she continued to stare at him the same way he imagined she might watch a dancing monkey. “I’ve met only a few artists,” she confessed, “but none dressed as fashionably as you.” Her gaze dropped to his cuffs, and she added in a somber tone, “It would be so sad to see such lace dirtied.”
“I do not wear this when I work,” he retorted.
“Good, although, if you wanted to, I suppose you could tuck your cuffs up and wear an apron of some sort, or even—” She caught his expression and had the grace to flush. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t be speaking. I don’t know anything about sculpting.”
“So I’ve noticed,” he returned in a dry tone, although his irritation softened a bit at her honesty. The sunlight filtered through the trees above and shimmered in odd patterns over her hair and face.
He curled his fingers against the desire to reach into his saddlebag for paper and charcoal, for everything about her invited him to capture her. Even more interesting than her features was the hint of sadness to her mouth, a tragedy unspoken. Was he imagining that? he wondered, and wished he knew.
She filled his senses like good brandy, smoky and defiant and intriguing. And every second he spent in her presence, the desire to capture this wild beauty grew. Unaware of his hungry regard, Miss Harrington led her horse a few steps to where a tree had fallen, sticks crackling under her boots.
“You’re limping.” He hadn’t seen her fall, but something must have occurred.
“I’m fine. A rock in my boot, is all.”
“Then take off your boot and remove the stone.” When she didn’t move, he took a step forward. “I’ll help—"
“I’ll do it when I get home. It would be too much trouble right now.” She limped the final few steps to where a fallen tree lay on the forest floor. She stepped onto the fallen tree and, with an air of experience, quickly climbed back into her saddle. She adjusted her skirts over the horse. “What were you and your servant doing on this path? You were going the wrong direction if you wished to go to Nimway.”
“We were lost. When you came upon us, we’d just found the pathway again.”
“Balesboro Wood does such things,” she said.
He raised his brows. “Surely you don’t believe the forest is alive.”
“So it’s said.” “My sister used to say Balesboro picks its favorites, helping them through, while trapping those it does not like.”
“Your sister is very fanciful, then.”
Something flickered in the deep blue eyes. A flash so dark that Marco’s own heart staggered from the strength of it. What’s happened to your sister?
Whatever it was, Miss Harrington hid it quickly. “If you’ll follow me, I’ll take you to Nimway.” She turned her horse down the path and left him behind.
He swung himself back into the saddle and urged Diavolo after her. He quickly caught up, falling in behind her on the narrow path. “What of my servant? I don’t know where he is.”
She answered over her shoulder, her profile in bold relief against the leafy green trees. “We’ll send one of the grooms to look for him. They know Balesboro well.” She turned back, indicating there was no need for more conversation.
Marcus was left riding behind her, admiring the ease with which she rode her huge steed.
They rode on in silence, and Marco quickly grew impatient with her determined disregard. From the time he’d been old enough to notice them, women had favored him, especially once he’d gained some fame and his sculpture was sought after. And yet this woman seemed almost anxious to be rid of him, and that was despite their burning kiss. In fact, as the moments slid by, Miss Charlotte Harrington seemed to have forgotten he was even here.
He scowled at the wood where the leaves quivered as if laughing at him. “Do we have much longer to go?”
She didn’t even bother to turn. “No.”
He noticed that the wood wasn’t as thick now, and the sun shone through much more. A beam of light rested on Miss Harrington’s hair, gold threads appearing, twined among the auburn curls. He remembered the heavy silk of her hair when he’d sunk his hands into her curls during their kiss. He could almost feel the weight of it now, if he curled his fingers closed.
Diavolo looked back at Marco and snorted, as if in laughter. “Stop that.” Marco muttered to the ornery horse.
The gelding shook his head and yanked on the reins.
“Keep that up and you’ll never see another apple so long as you live,” Marco said.
Miss Harrington sent him a surprised look over her shoulder. “What’s that? Were you talking to me?”
“No. I was talking to my horse.”
Her lips curved. “I talk to Angelica, too.”
“So long as she doesn’t talk back, there should be no issues with that.”
A deep chuckle escaped Miss Harrington and he found himself wanting to hear another. To his relief, the path widened and he moved Diavolo up to ride beside her. “I feel as if I owe you an apology.”
She stiffened. “You do not need to apologize for the kiss. I was as much a part of it as you.”
“I thought there was no kiss.”
She slanted him a hard look, but didn’t answer.
“I wasn’t thinking of the non-existent kiss, anyway. I felt I owed you an apology for not looking how you imagined a sculptor should. You thought I should have been covered in dust and wearing a dirty smock and a – how do you say it? – berretto?”
“A ber-Oh, you mean a cap.” She sniffed. “I expected nothing so silly.”
But her tone of voice belie
d her words, so he said. “Perhaps, if you will share the history of your home so that I might design something suitable enough to win your mother’s approval, I will wear a cap for you. And a smock, if you are of help.”
She flicked him a look softened with amusement. “Be careful, for I might hold you to that. Fortunately for us both, my mother left a letter with her instructions, although I feel I should warn you that she can be very particular.”
He shrugged. “So can I.”
She shook her head and turned her attention back to the pathway. “Perhaps it’s best my mother’s not here.”
He’d already decided that much was true, for he found the daughter quite intriguing. Perhaps, if he won her trust, he could convince her to sit for him and let him sketch her. There are so many things I could do with those features. They intrigue me like few have.
How would he render her likeness, he wondered? Perhaps as a Greek handmaiden wearing a draped gown, one shoulder bared, a jug of water in her graceful hands. But . . . no. Not as a handmaiden. She wasn’t bland enough for such a trite depiction. Her features deserved something unique. But what? A goddess, perhaps? Oh yes. That held possibilities. She would be a ripe, sensual goddess of the earth with leaves tangled in her curls, the roll of the mountains echoes in her curves, her bold nose and forthright stare daring the observer to—
“We turn here.” She guided her horse onto a wider path, this one graveled and smooth.
Marco reluctantly released his creative imagery and focused on where he was. “We are close to the house?”
“It is only a few minutes away.” She kept her eyes fastened ahead. “I hope the accommodations my mother set up for you before she left will be satisfactory.”
“I do not need much. I brought my tools and several slabs of marble. I asked only that my workshop have ample room and plenty of sunlight.”
“Then the old stables will make an excellent workshop. But I was thinking more of your housing. Mama thought the stables would be spacious enough and that you and your servant could sleep in the rooms the grooms once used, but now that I see you . . .” She cast a quick glance his way, eyeing his clothing once again. “You cannot sleep in the stables.”
“I can and will.”
“You’ll be more comfortable in the house. I’ll have a room readied for you—”
“No. I sleep where I work. I always do.”
Her gaze met his, and he was struck anew at how dark blue her eyes were, and all the more intriguing because of the gold flecks that lit them from within. “The stables won’t be as comfortable.”
“I work when the mood strikes and sometimes it strikes at three in the morning.” He shrugged. “I never know when, but I must be near the stone when it happens.”
“That must be very inconvenient for your wife.”
“I’m not married.”
“Oh.” She rode in silence for a moment. “You live alone, then.”
“I am rarely alone. I have many brothers and sisters, and they and their families are often at my house.”
She looked away, and he was instantly alert. Was that sadness he saw in her remarkable eyes? What has caused that?
She turned back, the shadow he’d seen gone. “How many brothers and sisters do you have?”
“I am the middle child of seven.”
Her eyes widened. “Seven?”
“And now most of them have wives and husbands and children. We live close to one another; you could walk to each of our houses and still not be tired.” He considered this a moment. “I’m not sure why they usually gather at my house, because it is not the largest, but that is how it is.”
“That sounds lovely.”
“It is a little like living in an army camp, with large meals and far too much activity.”
“If they are at your house, how do you find the quiet to work?”
“When we were growing up, my father worked from home. We all knew to leave him alone when his workshop door was closed, but if the door was open . . . ah, that was different. Then he was with us, eating dinner, drinking wine from the vineyards, telling tales about princes and popes, maidens and saints. Our house was filled with painters and sculptors and musicians. There was much to learn, and much he taught us.”
“How lovely.” Her voice lowered as if in reverence.
“How noisy.”
Miss Harrington laughed, the sound as husky and inviting as he’d imagined. “You will have plenty of quiet at Nimway. It is very peaceful here and—Ah! There’s the house now.”
They’d turned a corner and the hall sat before them. He noted with admiration the use of local stone and the simple, but powerful lines. “It is beautiful.”
“It’s Nimway,” she said simply. She’d pulled to a stop where the path split, and he joined her. “Ah,” she said, her gaze on an ornate carriage that sat before the front doors. “My aunt has arrived and will be wondering where I am.”
“Of course,” he said smoothly. “And the stables?”
She turned back to him, a vision with her dark red hair and her velvet blue habit, the lush green lawn and forest a fitting backdrop.
Dio, but I want a painting of her, of this moment, he realized with some surprise.
“This path will take you to the stables. Richardson is the head groom and will be expecting you. He will be able to send someone to find your lost servant.”
That was that, then. He would only see her in passing from now on. Which is how it should be, he told himself firmly. And yet, he found himself lingering. “I’m glad we met.” The words escaped him before he could stop them, and he silently cursed his lack of finesse. She was like a deer, this one, and one bold move could send her bolting.
She was eyeing him now, trepidation in her gaze. “It is only polite. But also my mother wished to make certain the fireplace is finished in time.”
“In time for what?”
“She didn’t tell you?”
“No. She merely asked how long it would take to carve the fireplace surround. She gave me the measurements and I told her my expected schedule.”
“Oh. I thought she might have told you—” Miss Harrington frowned. “Well, it doesn’t matter. You have four weeks.”
“That should be enough.”
“Good. In the meantime, I’m to make sure you have everything you want—” Her face colored and she added hastily, “No, not everything you want. I meant to say I’m to make sure you have everything you need for your work. I didn’t mean—”
“I know what you meant. Do not worry, carissima. I will let you know if there’s anything I need or want.” Smiling, he inclined his head. “And I’m sure there will be.” As he said the words, he knew he was decided already; he would see to it that they met again.
“Mr. di Rossi, I don’t mean to—”
“Please, call me Marco.”
Her face pinkened. “I shouldn’t—”
“Ah, but you will. Now go, your aunt awaits. We will speak again soon.” With that, he turned Diavolo toward the stable, aware that she stayed where she was, watching him ride away.
Chapter 3
Lucy removed another gown from the trunk, pausing to unwrap the protective tissue paper from the long skirts. “I don’t know why you brought so many ball gowns! We’ll only be here for a few weeks and except for the wedding, there are no formal events.”
Verity, who was peering out the window, answered in an absent tone, “I know, but now I’ll have a variety of choices for the wedding day, which is good, for I have no idea what colors Olivia will wear, and I cannot clash with my own sister-in-law or—Oh!” She straightened. “There’s Charlotte, returning from her ride now.”
“Just in time for tea,” Lucy said.
“Yes, and—” Verity’s eyes widened. “Oh, my.”
Lucy paused in hanging yet another gown. “What is it, my lady?”
“She’s not alone. Did we pack my opera glasses? They would be most useful.”
“I don’t be
lieve so.”
“Drat it. It’s difficult to tell from this distance, but her companion looks to be very handsome—”
“What?” Lucy was already peering over Verity’s shoulder. “Oh my. He does, indeed. Is that the fiancé?”
“No. The viscount is blonde. Old Viking blood, I suspect. Personally, I prefer a dark-haired man, one with shoulders like – well, like that one.” My dear Charlotte, where did you find that treasure? Perhaps Nimway Hall wasn’t as secluded as Verity thought.
Lucy agreed. “Dark-haired men are much more handsome. Take Lord Rackingham, for example.”
Verity had done just that, and on more than one occasion, but all she said was, “I wonder who this gentleman might be? His clothing is quite fine, and—Oh! He has left her and ridden down the path to the stables.”
“Perhaps he’s returning his mount. He must be one of those gentlemen who like to oversee the care of their own horses. Men who like to hunt often do such things.”
“I suppose so,” Verity said. “Perhaps it’s best he won’t be with Charlotte when I see her. That way I can ask about him.”
Charlotte was now approaching the house, her horse clipping along at a smooth trot.
“What a monstrous huge animal,” Lucy said in a critical tone. “I’ve never seen a lady ride such a brute.”
“The horse is large, but while she’s a handful with others, she’s quite gentle with Charlotte.” Or so Verity’s brother Jack had insisted when she’d some something quite similar.
A groom hurried forward to hold Charlotte’s horse and she dismounted. She looked at the coach as she unpinned her hat and tucked it under arm, speaking for a few moments with the groom before she came inside.
“Oh no, the poor thing is limping!” Lucy frowned. “That big horse must have thrown her—”
“She always limps,” Verity said shortly, snapping the curtain to. “But not overtly so. In fact, she limps a very little, and even then, she does it gracefully.”
“She limps gracefully? How can anyone—” Verity’s expression froze the main’s words in place. After a moment, Lucy cleared her throat. “I’m sorry, my lady. I wasn’t thinking.”
THE LEGEND OF NIMWAY HALL: 1794 - CHARLOTTE Page 3