by Gill, Tamara
Miss Clare slipped on her bonnet, laughing at something Marcus, his manservant, said to her before they both walked from the atrium. “Maria,” Hugh called, catching his housekeeper’s eye.
Maria bustled into his office, a small smile playing about her mouth. “Signore? You called.”
“Where is Marcus taking Miss Clare?” He placed the letters from his brother’s steward and Sarah into his drawer, locking it away.
“She wished to visit Trevi Fountain. I think they will then walk to the food market, Piazza Navona after that.”
“I shall dine with her tonight, explain the reasons why I’m back in Rome. I’m sure she’ll understand that business has brought me home.” It’ll also allow him the opportunity to ask her about London and what the latest on dit was. He’d not dined with a woman in an age. In fact, he could not remember the last time he’d slept with one either. Too long, not that he was looking to Miss Clare to scratch that particular itch, but even so, she was attractive with her womanly curves, pretty eyes, and warm laugh. Dinner this evening may be an enjoyable affair and a good distraction after the news he’d just received.
“Of course, Signore. I shall get your luncheon right away.”
“Thank you, Maria.”
Hugh slid a piece of parchment before him, picking up a quill and dipping it into the black ink. He started a reply to his brother’s steward. He wished he could feel an ounce of despair, sorrow even, at the death of his brother. He did not. He would write to Sarah, and console her as best he could. Even with the thousands of miles that separated them, she had never turned against him at least, had believed his side of the story, especially since she knew all too well what a reprobate Henry was. Even so, she would be hurting right now, she had loved them both being her only brothers, her only family left, no matter how wild or vexing Henry could be at times.
Hugh wished he could be sorry, but his brother having joined in with the ton allowed the lies to percolate through society until his name was mud, and not admitting to his wrongdoing in the whole sorry mess was something Hugh could not forgive.
And now he was the Duke of St. Albans. A title and responsibility he’d never wanted.
Damn it all to blasted hell.
Molly returned to the villa late in the afternoon after a day of walking the streets of Rome. The Spanish Steps, the markets, and the beautiful, awe-inspiring Trevi Fountain. Marcus had allowed her to visit whatever seized her attention while keeping her safe. It had been the perfect first day in Rome, and she could not wait until another commenced tomorrow.
She entered the villa, the cooler air inside the atrium a welcome reprieve after a day in the sun. Molly slipped off her bonnet, perspiration moistening her hair and sticking to her neck. She would need to bathe before dinner. Her stomach rumbled at the thought of food as she stepped on the first stair heading upstairs.
“Miss Clare, how very good to meet you.”
The deep, gravelly baritone startled her, and she gasped, turning to see where the voice had come from. She felt her mouth pop open at the sight of the man before her. His tall, athletic frame was enough to turn any woman’s eye, but his face was beyond stunning. His cheekbones seemed chiseled from marble, similar to the statues she’d seen this afternoon. His raven colored hair was longer than it ought to be, was tied back off his face, and the shadowing of an unshaven jawline made her mouth dry. Her whole body shivered at his presence, and she swallowed, hoping her voice would still work.
Molly stepped off the stair and walked toward him, giving her a moment to compose herself. She met his clear, smoky-black orbs, and something inside her thrummed, came alive at his proximity.
She jerkily held out her hand for him to take. “Sir, I do not believe we’ve been introduced.” His mouth lifted into a delicious grin, and she bit her lip, unsure what to do with herself when he smiled. Heat crept over her face at her wayward thoughts. His eyes roamed over her features, and she schooled her emotions, willing her racing heart to calm.
“I’m Mr. Armstrong. I live here. The Duke of Whitstone, I believe, is a mutual friend of ours.” He picked up her hand, kissing her gloveless fingers. The feel of his lips on her skin sent a bolt of awareness up her arm, and she stepped back, placing well-needed space between them.
“Oh yes, Mr. Armstrong. How do you do? Thank you so much for offering me your home during my stay here. I hope you did not mind that his grace asked on my behalf for accommodations.”
“Not at all.” He gestured toward the stairs. “I shall return you to your room. I’m sure you wish to freshen up before dinner.”
“I would yes,” she said, starting up the stairs and hoping he hadn’t noticed her disarray too much. “Have you known the duke for long?” Molly hadn’t queried too much how the duke and Mr. Armstrong were known to each other, even though she was so very grateful they were. She had not wanted to stay in a hotel here in the city. She’d wanted to visit Rome and stay in an ancient villa if she could. Being here would probably be the only time she would visit the city in her life, and she had wanted to make it memorable.
“We were in school together at Eton and socialized in the same social sphere.” He walked beside her, his hands clasped behind his back. She surreptitiously took in his attire and liked what she saw. He seemed to have the air of a titled gentleman, but that wasn’t the case from what she did know.
His tan breeches and highly polished buckskin boots went well with his casual attire—no superfine coat or waistcoat for this Mr. Armstrong. A simple shirt and loosely tied cravat were all that he needed. It suited him, and she liked the casual way of life here in the city.
“Whitstone stayed here when he traveled abroad a few years ago.”
She nodded, listening to him talk of their friendship, savoring the sound of his voice, like rich, delicious chocolate that melted on one’s tongue. Molly cleared her throat, not sure why she imagined Mr. Armstrong in such a way. “Are you staying in Rome for some time, or are you just traveling through? I understood that you were going to be away from home for several weeks.”
“I was going to be away, but I had an urgent letter from London that brought me back. I hope you will continue to stay here, Miss Clare, even with me ensconced under the same roof. You have a chaperone, I understand.”
The thought of having Mr. Armstrong under the roof sent a thrill down her spine, and for a moment, she regretted her decision to bring a chaperone with her to Rome. Molly was, after all, a woman well beyond her first blush. It would be unnatural for her to look upon such a handsome specimen of a man and not imagine all sorts of naughty things with him. She’d read enough books on anatomy and the art of lovemaking to know that she would not be adverse to a man such as the one who towered beside her, taking her to his bed. His strong, athletic build, well-defined arms, and large hands displayed a healthy, active gentleman well in his prime.
“I do have a chaperone. Miss Sinclair is her name. I’m sure with her being here with me, nothing untoward can be said about you being back in Rome.” Molly let out a self-deprecating laugh. “Not that anyone cares what I do in any case, save my friends.”
“Why is that?” he asked, frowning and halting his progress at the top of the stairs. “Why would no one care what you do? I cannot believe such a statement.”
Molly stopped and glanced up at Mr. Armstrong, losing herself in his comforting stare. “While I may have friends who are well placed in society, I am not one of them. My family was good enough to help me achieve my dream of traveling to Rome, but there will not be another such venture. I’m not certain what I shall do when I return to England.”
“You do not wish to marry?” Mr. Armstrong ran a hand through his hair, cringing. “Apologies, Miss Clare. I should not ask you such personal questions. It is not my place.”
She smiled, reaching out and clasping his arm. The moment her hand touched the bare flesh, she knew it for the mistake it was. To feel his warmth, the sprinkling of coarse hair beneath her fingers shot longing throu
gh her body. Only made her want to touch more of him.
“I do not mind. If you’re to be here with me and we’re to spend more time together, you will learn soon enough that I am who I am and have no issues with being truthful. I cannot stand it when women dissemble, say things that one has to try to puzzle out. I think some women of my acquaintance think such a thing is amusing, whereas to me, it’s merely annoying.”
Mr. Armstrong barked out a laugh, taking her hand and placing it on his arm as they started back toward her room. “I think, Miss Clare, that you and I shall get along well. I, too, am opposed to disassembling and falsehoods. It is why I live in Rome. I could not live in London with the despicable gossipmongers who live to ruin other people’s lives.”
Molly stared down at the mosaic-tiled floor. His words held a hardened edge to them as if he were cut by the ton itself and knew firsthand what could happen to an unsuspecting or vague fellow in the ton.
“I hope your letter from home was not bad news, Mr. Armstrong. I should hate to be an inconvenience,” she said, hoping to change the subject away from London, and the pitfalls one could sink into without too much trouble.
He stopped at her bedroom door, and the scent of wisteria floated through the air. “You are not an inconvenience, not at all. I’m glad that you’re here and I intend to show you about Rome myself. It has been too long since I took the time to enjoy the city, the people. I will have no argument on the point, either. You’re my guest to spoil, and spoil you I shall.”
Molly stood before him, taken aback by his kindness. His sweetness toward a woman that he did not know. Perhaps his time in Rome had been lonely, and having her here allowed him to present his grand city to her. To spend time with a woman from his homeland who shared mutual friends.
“You’re too kind.” Molly opened her bedroom door, turning to face him. “I do not know how to thank you for having me here and being my escort. I shall tell Whitstone of your kindness. You can be certain of that.”
Mr. Armstrong nodded, stepping back and placing space between them. His eyes met hers and held. Molly’s heart sped up once more.
“No need for that. Your company will be thanks enough.”
Warmth touched her cheeks, and Molly prayed he thought her flush was from her tour of Rome and not his sweet words or company. Which, of course, was exactly why it was.
Chapter 3
The following morning, Hugh sat at his breakfast table that overlooked the gardens and read his mail that Marcus had brought in to him. Another letter from Sarah told him of Henry’s funeral and the outpouring of grief that the ton had managed to feign. He doubted anyone in society was honest and capable of any emotions other than greed and hate.
The sound of slippered feet caught his attention, and he looked up just as Miss Clare stepped up into the room, a small, welcoming smile on her pretty mouth.
“Mr. Armstrong. Good morning. What a beautiful day it looks to be.” She sat to his side, looking over the abundance of food to choose from that sat before her.
He had taken to serving himself since living in Rome, and having the food on the table instead of a sideboard was much easier for both him and his servants.
“It is going to be lovely, and because that is so, I have an idea.”
She glanced at him just as she placed a piece of bacon on her plate. “Even better. What is this idea?”
Her exuberance for life, for seeing the city he now called home, sent a kick through his blood. For years he had gone about with the same routine, rarely venturing out to socialize, keeping to himself and running his vineyard. To show off his home, his city to someone who did not know who he was, was liberating.
Made him feel like the young gentleman he once was in England that had his whole life ahead of him and little to worry about.
“You’ll need your best walking boots, for I’m going to take you to visit the Colosseum. We’ll return here in the early afternoon before it gets too hot.” He wanted to take her to the Colosseum, show her the majestic building, and, if permitted, take her into the building’s underground apartments where the gladiators waited to live or die.
Miss Clare’s smile lit up the room, and he found himself grinning back at her. “Are you certain I’m not taking up too much of your time? I do not want to drag you away from your work.”
He waved her concerns away, pouring her a cup of tea before finishing his own. “Not at all. I want to do this. Whitstone would never forgive me if I did not take care of you and show you about.” Not that he needed the excuse of his friend to make him escort her around. Miss Clare was a sensible, intelligent woman. It was no chore being in her presence.
The walk to the historical site took only half an hour, the stroll through the winding cobbled and paved streets pleasant on a warm morning. Behind them, Marcus and Miss Clare’s chaperone, Miss Sinclair, chatted and seemed to be getting along quite well.
The Colosseum had several arched doors to enter by, and Hugh pulled Molly through the first one they came across, walking into a large, curving tunnel, several degrees cooler than the air outside.
“What an amazing building this is.” Miss Clare stood looking out over the Colosseum, her mouth agape at the sight that beheld her. It was a common reaction and one that Hugh himself had had when he first visited the place.
They climbed stairs heading up to the tiered seat section that overlooked the central orchestra and stage. “This was all once marble-veneered, but over the years, people have stripped it of its precious decorations, and the weather has not helped. What a sight it must have made. Can you just imagine?” he asked, watching her. Warmth seeped into his bones at the unguarded pleasure that blossomed on her face. She took every ounce, every nuance of the building, no doubt imagining it in its prime.
“To think gladiators fought and died in the arena below us. And you said we might be able to go beneath?”
“Of course. It is no problem.” They walked along what was left of the seating areas that surveyed the central stage—the overwhelming magnitude of the place something he’d never forget. “I haven’t been here for some years. I’m glad that I’m here with you today, Miss Clare. To reacquaint myself with the city that I now call home.” And he was. She was a breath of fresh air into his life that had stagnated of late. He had his investments, his villa at Naples, and the vineyard, but no social life. Not when it came to attending balls and parties thrown by visitors from London to Rome. People who knew him and what he’d been accused of.
“To imagine the roars of the people barracking for their favorite gladiator echoes still through this old stone. I adore history if you have not noticed already. It was one of the reasons why I wanted to come here.”
“What was the other reason?” he asked, enjoying himself more than he ought, especially for a man who had been notified of his brother’s death only the day before. Not that Henry ever cared about anyone other than himself. Even so, as a brother, one ought to feel something. Regret, sadness. He felt numb. He’d lost all respect and affection for his sibling when he’d turned his back on him in London and let him face alone the savage wolves that were the ton.
“My friends.” She smiled at him over her shoulder before leaning on the stone railing and studied what was left of the combat ring. “I love them, do not mistake me, but they’re determined to see me wed. Married off and happily situated just as they all are.”
“You do not wish to be married?” Today it would seem he was full of inappropriateness. He was talking to an unmarried maid of her love affairs. That was not to be borne. Even so, he was curious why someone would run thousands of miles away to evade marriage.
“If I fall in love and marry, that is all very well, but if I do not, that is all very well. I’m not a young woman, Mr. Armstrong. If you have not guessed already.”
“You are not old either, Miss Clare. There would be many a gentleman who would offer for you, I would think.”
She chuckled, shaking her head. The action caused a curl
to fall loose from her motif and bounce upon her shoulder. His gaze dipped to the unblemished skin where the coil sat, a fine collarbone pulling the eye toward her sweet neck and ample bosom that her walking gown failed to conceal. Miss Clare was extremely appealing. The word lush floated through his mind, and he severed his inspection of her before she noticed.
“You would be wrong, Mr. Armstrong. I have not had one offer in all the years I have graced the London ballrooms. But I am happy for my friends, each of their husbands I adore and love like a brother. I shall never be lonely, do not fear, but I have come to accept that perhaps my time has passed, and so before my life does too, I must seize the day and see this wonderful world for myself.”
“I admire your will, Miss Clare. I wish more women had such a strong constitution. My sister certainly does. You would like her, I think.”
“You have a sister? Who is she? Maybe I have met her before?”
Hugh pointed to the stairs that led down into the bowels of the Colosseum, taking Miss Clare’s hand and pulling her toward the entrance. “Sarah is her name, but she is some years younger than me and for years has refused to attend the Season. She spends most of her time in the country with her horses and dogs.”
“I think then perhaps I shall like her very much.”
He chuckled. The morning drifted by pleasantly. They took an hour-long tour of the underground of the Colosseum. It was an agreeable day and Hugh found himself laughing a lot more than he had in years. They returned to the villa, dusty and weary after their excursion, just as the sun reached the hottest time of the day.
Hugh pulled Miss Clare to a stop in the atrium, not willing to relinquish her hand. “Will you dine with me on the terrace this evening? I feel I do not wish for this day to end.”
A light blush stole over her features, and the urge to reach out, touch her pretty face, was overwhelming. He had not thought to meet his house guest, nevertheless find her so sweet and charming. When the Duke of Whitstone had suggested that he help him in housing Miss Clare, he’d imagined a young, spoiled debutante. One who would simper and preen as they all did and drive his servants to distraction. He’d fled to Naples imagining such a visitor. How very opportune and fortunate he was that Miss Clare was nothing of the kind.