by Gill, Tamara
Hugh sighed and concentrated on the dance, not wanting to dwell on the past. He wanted to enjoy himself and give Molly a pleasant evening that was just as enjoyable as her day was.
“You have proven yourself to be just as apt at dancing as me. Why these last two turns about the room, and you have not injured my feet once.”
“I confess, I too have had many years of practice. I’m sure it will not surprise you to know that I’m not a woman in her first season. I’m eight and twenty. At that age, I do believe I could become a master of dancing and give instruction.”
Hugh pulled her close as he guided them about a turn at one end of the room. The atrium ballroom was a crush, beeswax candles lay within the sconces on the wall, making the makeshift ballroom magical.
“You are not ancient at eight and twenty, Molly. If we’re declaring our ages, I must advise you that I’m two and thirty. I hope you do not think that too old for a woman such as yourself.” Hugh glanced over Molly’s head, not wanting to see if she was shocked or delighted by his words. Words that he’d not thought to utter. He would need to be better behaved before he did say something that had her packing her bags and heading back to England.
“Isn’t it always gentlemen who believe women of my age are too old to be of use to them? Men, it would seem, have the luxury of being any grand age to make an equally grand match. Women, on the other hand, if they are not married within a year or two of their coming out, are termed old maids and too long in the tooth to do anything but be shipped off to the country to be a caregiver for either their parents or their sibling’s children.”
The thought was not a pleasant one, but Molly was right. Society could be cruel and unfair to women. “Well, I shall not let anyone ship you off to the country, my dear. Not at least while you’re here in Rome with me in any case. I shall keep you safe from purgatory.”
She studied him a moment. Hugh met her gaze, and a punch in his nether region would have been less injuring. There was something about the woman in his arms that he relished. She made him think of things, of home and building a home, of children, while another part of her made him crave.
Made the rogue he’d once been when he’d had the freedom to do whatever he liked—before his brother’s demand had made him vilified by his peers—want to slip out of the dance, hide somewhere in this Roman villa and kiss her until the sun came up.
“You’re quite the gentleman, and I thank you. If I am to travel out in the country, I do hope you’ll accompany me. I should imagine you have seen many wonderful things in this country that a tourist such as myself may not know about.”
He could, he supposed, convey her down to Naples and show her his country estate. Hugh could picture her now standing on the balcony that housed the ancient city’s views beyond, the warm Mediterranean sun and sea air teasing her unblemished skin and sweet figure.
“It would be my honor to show you a little more of Italy if that is your wish. Simply tell me when you would like to go, and I shall arrange it.”
“Really?” she asked him, surprise blossoming on her features and making her even more beautiful than she already was.
His hand flexed about her hip, and he wished he could steal her away now. He coveted that what he was feeling about the woman in his arms was reciprocated.
Hugh steeled himself to finish the dance less he make a fool of himself with a woman he’d only known a day. It was only because bedmates had been absent from his life of late. His life in London had also plagued him, memories of everything he’d given up by agreeing to his brother’s demands taunting him of what he’d lost.
Now that he was the duke, he supposed he no longer had to hide away in Rome. He could return to London and take up his place in society. His mother had passed some years ago. His sister certainly would welcome him back, and he needed to be in England to support her.
But he could not. They had turned their back on him, and now he would never return home. Out of spite or pride he could not say, but England and the society he once graced could go to the devil. Which would mean that after Molly’s four weeks in Rome, he would have to say goodbye to her as well.
The latter impending day did not sit well with him. It was a day not to be borne.
Chapter 5
They returned home from the ball in the early hours of the morning. The impending dawn glowed bright on the eastern horizon, some of Rome's buildings already turning from dusky gray to a warmer shade of sandstone.
They walked through the courtyard in silence, Mr. Armstrong's warm, large hand on the small of her back, leaving her breathless and flushed. He'd been so very attentive all evening, so very handsome and sweet.
A woman could fall for a gentleman like Hugh.
A smile quirked her lips as they stepped into the atrium, a lone, male servant asleep on the chair near the door. "May I escort you to your room, Molly?"
"Thank you," she said, starting up the stairs, the sound of her name on his lips warming her blood. Molly's skin prickled, all too aware of the tall, muscular figure walking beside her. She had not thought to meet any gentleman while in Rome. This was a holiday purely to enjoy the sights of Italy. It was indeed a fortunate turn of events that Mr. Armstrong had arrived in her life. Ava had mentioned very little about Hugh, she had never met the gentleman, and had assured Molly that he was away from the city for the duration of her stay.
How very fortunate she was that he'd come back and decided to stay. Her trip to Rome already in the day she'd spent with him had been tremendous, and she hoped just the start of many more to come.
They came up to the door to her room, and she paused, turning to face him, having to glance up due to his towering height. "Thank you for the wonderful night. I shall treasure it always. I cannot remember the last time I had so much fun."
His lips quirked into a grin, his eyes inviting and warm. "The pleasure was all mine, Molly." He leaned down, the brush of his lips against her cheek making her breath catch. Should she turn just the littlest bit, their lips would meet. The scent of sandalwood teased her senses, and unwittingly she reached out, clasping his upper arms. Strong, toned muscles met her fingers, and she had the overwhelming urge to squeeze his flesh, see if it was indeed as strong as it felt beneath her fingers.
He pulled back, watching her. Time stood still. Her stomach fluttered when he didn't move away. She could kiss him if she wished. Did she want to? Did he?
Oh yes, yes she did, very much. His gaze dipped to her mouth, and liquid heat pooled at her core. Her breath hitched, she fumbled for the door handle, pushing herself into her room, and away from temptation. "Thank you again, Hugh, for the pleasant evening. Goodnight," she said, not waiting for his reply before she closed the door.
She stood there a moment, forcing herself not to move, not to wrench open the door and jerk him into her arms, taking from him what he was so obviously offering.
The sound of retreating footsteps sounded in the hall outside, and she breathed out a relieved sigh. She couldn't throw herself at him. They were starting to be friends. He was going to be showing her about Rome some more and the surrounding countryside. She could not jeopardize any of that. She wouldn't. Her time here was so precious, to start a love affair with a man she would not marry would be the worst decision she could ever make.
Her cousin played that game of giving herself to someone before wedding vows were spoken and had paid for her error of judgment with her life. She would not be another silly chit to be fooled by a handsome face and sweet words.
No matter how alluring that may be.
The following day Hugh was impatient for her to visit the Vatican, and by the time she had broken her fast in her room and come downstairs, a carriage was waiting for them to take them to their morning location.
If he missed her at breakfast, he did not say, and nor was she willing to give an excuse as to why she had not ventured down. After their almost-kiss last night, embarrassment had kept her upstairs.
Why she was acting l
ike a blushing debutante, she did not know. From Hugh's easy manner and charming self, he seemed oblivious to what had transpired between them.
"I shall ride on the box if you do not mind, Miss Clare," her companion said, smiling up at Mr. Armstrong's manservant, Marcus, who had already sat on the driver's seat.
Molly took in the secret little smile between the two and wondered if her companion, too, was embarking on her own adventure, one of her heart. "Of course, if you wish."
"If you need anything, do let me know. I will have Marcus stop the carriage."
"Miss Clare," Hugh said, holding out his hand to help her climb up in the equipage.
Molly braced herself to feel his touch and fought to school her features when her body thrummed at his presence, his voice, and warmth.
"Thank you." She swallowed her nerves and climbed up into the carriage, settling back onto the squabs and waiting for Hugh to join her.
The carriage dipped as he climbed inside, he rapped on the roof, and the carriage lurched forward.
His usual affable self, he seemed pleased to be with her again, no hint as to what had transpired between them in the early hours of the morning clouding his opinion of her. It was as if all was forgotten or was only imagined in Molly's mind.
This was for the best, of course. Molly did not need him to think that there could be anything else between them other than friendship. Unless, of course, she fell in love with him and he offered for her hand. Then, and only then, would she be willing even to contemplate giving herself to the gentleman.
Dressed in tan, buckskin breeches and highly polished black hessian boots, he again looked like a gentleman ready to stroll about Hyde Park. His white shirt had a loose cravat tied in the barrel knot design and a tan jacket. No waistcoat. No hat. No gloves. Not overly formal, which seemed to suit him. Not that he needed much clothing to look the epitome of sophistication, she would gather he need wear nothing at all, and he'd be perfect in her opinion.
Heat brushed her cheeks, and she took an interest in the streets passing them by outside the window.
"You shall like the Sistine Chapel, Molly. The paintings on the ceiling are simply unforgettable."
Excitement thrummed through her veins, not only because of their destination but because they were alone. How fortunate it was that Miss Sinclair had taken a liking to Marcus, and if the manservant's sweet smile back at her companion was anything to go by, he liked her also.
"I cannot thank you enough for taking me about, Hugh. I shall tell Ava and Whitstone of your kindness to me while I was here."
He threw her a small smile, glancing out the window. "It is a shame that you're only here for such a short amount of time. I feel like I shall miss you when you return to England. It has been so very long that I've had a little part of home beneath my roof. The last time it was Whitstone himself who had come to visit, and you being a mutual friend of His Grace, I know that I can trust you with such declarations."
Molly reached out and took his gloveless hand, squeezing it a little. "I should imagine it is very hard to be so far away from your home. Do you think you shall ever return to England? I know I should look forward to seeing you again."
"I will never return, no." A muscle worked in his jaw, and he frowned, staring at something outside the carriage window. "Rome is my home now, and this is where I shall stay. But," he said, placing his hand over hers that she realized was still laying atop his, "you are always more than welcome to stay anytime you wish."
"If only I could, but my family could not afford to send me for too long. If it were not for my friends, I would not have been able to make my dream a reality. I could not impose on you for any more length of time than I plan on doing already."
"Nonsense. I would more than welcome you to stay, whenever and however long you like."
"We're already skirting on impropriety with me under your roof and you in residence. I do not think I wish to push my fortune too far, sir."
His hand lifted hers a little, and he started to play with her fingers, tracing them with his own through her kid-leather gloves. "You should take these off. It is too warm for gloves in Rome."
Without waiting for a response, he flicked open the two little buttons on her wrist, his bare fingers slipping under her glove to pull her hand free of the soft leather. Fresh air hit her flesh, and he was right, it was cooler not wearing them.
He turned her fingers over, inspecting them. "You have lovely hands."
Molly looked at her gloveless hand encased in his. It looked small and delicate against his large, tanned one. She'd never really paid much heed to her hands, but perhaps he was right. They were certainly not awful-looking.
"You have large, strong hands." The words slipped from her lips, and as much as she may wish to take them back, she could not. It was an absurd notion, but she'd already spent too much time thinking about his hands and what they would feel like caressing her flesh.
Nice, very nice indeed.
The carriage turned, and Hugh moved to the side of the equipage, taking stock of their location. "We're nearly there. Should we be fortunate, we may get a glimpse of a cardinal or the Pope himself. Would you like that?"
"Oh, very much, although I'm no longer so very religious, I still respect those who are. Are you catholic, Hugh?"
He grinned, shaking his head. "No, protestant, and you?"
"The same." She moved over to the window and, pulling the leather strap, lowered the glass. Molly leaned out of the carriage, looking straight ahead and gasped. An imposing, Renaissance building met her vision, complete with a large dome atop it, columns and ornamental statues adorned the building, giving it an air of grandeur she'd never seen before. The carriage rumbled up the long road, gaining ever closer to the circular square. The buildings that circled the Vatican City faced this large square, and people milled about in the area, taking in the magnificent sights.
"I feel that I'm going to enjoy our outing today," she said as the carriage rocked to a halt, and Marcus opened the carriage door.
Hugh jumped out, reaching back to take her hand to help her alight. "You will be amazed, I'm certain. So many people never get to see such gifts. This will truly be a day you will never forget."
Molly couldn't help but smile at Hugh's words. There was little doubt that the day already was one never to forget. Hugh placed her hand atop his arm, turning to face his driver and her companion. "Please come back to collect us here in St. Peters Square in a couple of hours."
"There are plenty of people about, Miss Sinclair. You may return to the villa." Her companion beamed at Marcus, and it solidified Molly's curiosity. There was most certainly something up between the two people.
The driver tipped his hat as Marcus climbed back onto the box. "Of course, Mr. Armstrong."
Molly didn't spare the carriage a second glance as it turned and rumbled down the gravel road. Instead, her attention was caught and held by the magnificent buildings before her. They started toward St. Peter's Basilica, it's large, imposing dome looking down on the populace below. From the abundance of people, it seemed to be the most popular structure to visit.
"We shall go to the Sistine Chapel through St. Peter's Basilica. I want you to see the nave."
Excitement thrummed through Molly. She was in Rome, at Vatican City, and with a gentleman she'd not thought to have met. He was a wonderful host and guide, and she could not thank Ava and Whitstone enough that they were friends with Mr. Armstrong.
They walked up a line of steps heading toward the entrance to the large church. They passed under six high columns before stepping into the portico and then the nave. The gold and ornate columns were unlike anything Molly had seen before. Marble, sculptures, and murals were a feast to one's eye. She could not take it all in, the size alone was tremendous, so many details and history that it would take a person years to view each and everything under the grand roof and view its beauty.
"This is overwhelming. I always thought Westminster and St. Pauls were
beautiful, but this is another beast altogether."
Hugh chuckled, walking them leisurely up the middle of the nave, he too looking about the great space. "It's a feast for any historian or antiquities collector. You can understand why so many people come to admire this church."
"Oh yes," she said, squeezing his arm a little. "Take me to the Sistine Chapel. I cannot wait any longer."
He nodded slightly. "I'm at your service, Miss Clare." He pulled her back out into the portico and, turning left, they headed up some stairs before turning left again and climbing stairs that worked their way up one side of a building separate to St. Peter's Basilica.
"I had always thought the chapel was part of the church. From where you're taking me, this is not the case?" she asked, staring ahead to the door that loomed before them.
"It's a chapel off to the side and separate. I did not know this either until I visited for the first time. I'm glad I have a companion who appreciates history and beauty as much as I do."
She met his gaze as they made the top landing, and she beamed at him, her body thrumming with expectation. "I'm delighted you're here with me too. Had I done this alone or with Miss Sinclair, who dislikes travel and anything different to what she is used to, it would not have been the same. Thank you for escorting me, Mr. Armstrong. You're truly a good man."
"I wouldn't go that far, Miss Clare." His laugh held an edge of mocking, and she wondered at it. He was a good man and had been a wonderful friend to her these past days.
"I would," she disagreed as they walked through a small door into a rectangular room full of painted murals. Molly bit her lip, speechless by what she saw.
"Michelangelo, for all that he proclaimed to be a sculptor and not a painter, certainly had talent when he held a brush."
Gaping, Molly closed her mouth with a snap, arching her neck to look upon the roof that she'd read so many books on, but had never beheld in life. The famous making of Adam stared down upon them, grand and celebrated. She blinked back tears at finally being here, at seeing this treasure from a master of art.