Chapter 4
CHAPTER 4
“So many, I had not thought death had undone so many.”
Dante’s Divine Comedy
“ N o more colors of mourneeng. Zis ees mieux . Not très bien , but mieux .”
Molly curled her lips in repressed aggravation. She was not prone to sarcasm, but Miss Dubois brought out some of her base instincts, to be sure. “I am thrilled that you slightly approve of my attire.” She was not. She did not care a whit what the poodle thought.
“Lady Blackwood would advize to wear silk wiz zo many … admissible ?”
“Eligible.”
“Zat ees it! Eligible gentlemen, but zis ees … mieux ?” Claudette Dubois wrinkled her delicate nose as she sought the English word, and Molly restrained the impulse to provide it because she was hardly going to assist her chaperon to condescend. “Better! Zis ees better!”
Molly huffed under her breath, but she was pleased at her reflection. Preparing to retire to bed the evening before, she had decided to turn the page and begin a new chapter. As much as she missed her mother, it had been months since her passing, and it was time for her to set her sights on the future.
It has nothing to do with a certain Italian gentleman.
Or maybe it did, but if his presence acted as motive to leave her mourning behind so she might think about what she wanted from this life, then so be it. She had spent the last few years nursing her ailing mother in the country, enjoying her company, but her youth had slipped by until some would consider her on the shelf—too old to wed—but there were yet gentlemen who might consider her age acceptable.
Truthfully, she did not even know if finding a match was her aim—she did not know what her aim was because until now her only aim had been to get through the day without grieving until she could consider her options. The recent drama of the Scotts had been a gloomy but effective distraction. It was just such a relief to feel any interest in anything after months of feeling removed—distant—from the world at large. The grief of losing her closest companion, a wonderful and amusing parent, had a way of making time stand still. The rest of the world continued to move forward while one was caught outside of it, merely an observer standing in the cold with one’s face pressed against the window. Yesterday, time had begun to move once more, as if she had suddenly found an entrance back into the world of the living.
Molly suppressed a grin at the memory of Miss Dubois’s ire at being literally in such a position the afternoon before. She was not a vindictive person, but after contending with the poodle’s condescension and criticisms since the death of Lady Blackwood, it had been retribution for all the rebukes she had swallowed in the interest of peace. The poodle’s constant admiration of the murderous Lady Blackwood, whom she apparently adored with single-minded obsession, was grating, but Molly could not blame her for it. Miss Dubois was a shallow woman who revered appearances, and she was not aware of the foul misdeeds committed by her former employer.
Or is she?
Molly glanced at the servant who was fussing over her gown, straightening and shaking bits of it out as if Molly would not walk away and the minute rearrangements not be undone within seconds. She nearly groaned aloud when she recalled that Simon had departed London, so any hopes of a new companion were delayed.
How fanatical about the dead dowager baroness is she? Would she know how to sabotage a carriage wheel?
Miss Dubois seemed too delicate to do anything approaching that kind of manual labor.
Molly returned her attention to the mirror. Her military-inspired spencer, the sort that had become fashionable during the Napoleonic Wars as homage to their soldiers, was green with sleeves of gold and attractively tied with black loops and ornate buttons running down the front. The matching gold bodice was hidden from view, but her skirts matched the spencer, and the ensemble brought out the gold and green flecks in her hazel irises while complementing her complexion. She hoped it might draw eyes—a very particular, soulful pair that had appeared in her dreams throughout the night.
She was excited to descend for breakfast, and she had the seeds of a plan to distract her chaperon. But even the presence of her dogged shadow could not hinder her interest in seeking out the handsome Marco Scott.
Once they were in the hall approaching the breakfast room, Molly decided it was time to enact part of her strategy. “Miss Dubois! I just realized I have come down without my gloves!”
The poodle paused, peering down the corridor and then back to Molly’s naked hands, clearly at a loss as to what to do.
“Do you mind? I plan to go to the gardens after breakfast, and it is ever so cold.”
Miss Dubois was torn, both of them aware that there were now six unmarried men in residence, and only four could claim any familial relationship with Molly, which meant she was on duty as chaperon. But her sensibilities as a lady’s maid made the tug of clothing duty overwhelming.
“ Oui , I shall fetch zem for you and return right away.”
“The green ones. To match my gown.”
Molly smirked as the maid walked away. Miss Dubois thought she would only be gone a few minutes, but Molly had buried one of the gloves in the wrong drawer during the night, so she was hoping it would take ten or more minutes. Time she could spend searching out Marco. It was ruthless, but she would not allow the annoying companion to thwart her effort to learn more about the intriguing gentleman.
Molly hurried to the breakfast room, hoping to find Marco there, but a conversation in Italian had her coming to a halt. It sounded a little heated, and she was unsure about making her entry as she eavesdropped with a mild flare of guilt. But she had a goal for her day, and she would not be prevented from achieving it.
“Devi recarti dalla signora oggi, caro amico.”
(You must call on the lady today, dear friend.)
“Non posso, Lorenzo! Ho promesso al duca che oggi sarei andato a Markham House. è piuttosto seccato che non l’abbia informato del mio arrivo.”
(I cannot, Lorenzo! I have promised the duke I would visit Markham House today. He is quite put out that I did not inform him of my arrival.)
“Ma, Sebastian, dobbiamo ottenere il dipinto. è essenziale per la nostra causa.”
(But, Sebastian, we must secure the painting. It is essential to our cause.)
“Ne sono ben consapevole, ma dovrà aspettare un altro giorno.”
(I am well aware, but it must wait for another day.)
“Maledizione! Hai sempre delle scuse! Che cosa c’è in questa donna che ti rende così vile?”
(Damn it! You always have excuses! What is it about this woman that makes you such a craven?)
Molly recognized the curse. Her mother had loved music and opera, but she had also possessed a wicked sense of humor along with a copy of The Classical Dictionary of the Vulgar Tongue , so Molly had enjoyed a … well-rounded education. The thought instigated a sharp pang of longing for her irreverent parent. It had been just the two of them since her father had died a decade earlier, and it was still an adjustment to recall that Mama had been buried months earlier. She shook it off because she was weary of being gloomy. Two deaths and two almost-deaths within this household in the past few weeks had done nothing to lighten her mood, so she was going to pursue her newfound interest even if it could not lead to anything. There was no reason to not savor Marco’s presence while she could. Other than befriending Madeline, his riveting appearance was the only happiness she had enjoyed this year.
“Attento a come parli!”
(Mind yourself!)
The last was growled in a menacing tone, and nothing was said for several seconds until, finally …
“Le mie scuse.”
(My apologies.)
Molly took this as her signal, silently backtracking a few feet before stomping her slippers hard on the wooden floorboards to announce her approach before she entered the breakfast room. As she suspected, the only guests it contained were the Norse brother to the Duke of Halmesbury and his artist friend, both of whom were completing their meals with earnest intent while two footmen stood at attention by the sideboard where the breakfast platters were laid out. The servants’ presence explained why the men had been speaking in Italian—for privacy, she supposed.
“Good morning, Lord Sebastian. Mr. di Bianchi!” she exclaimed with good cheer, despite her disappointment that Marco was nowhere to be seen. Soon she was settled in her seat to eat her eggs and ham, when Miss Dubois rushed in with a nervous expression and Molly’s gloves clasped in her hand.
Molly ate in silence with Miss Dubois, the two men leaving soon after she had seated herself, and wondered what to do next. Thankfully, she had organized more than one delay for her intrepid chaperon, but perhaps she should ensure she located the elusive Italian before she played her next card. It had been a novice mistake to send for the gloves too early, and the gambit was now wasted.
Eating her meal in haste, with a grumbling Miss Dubois complaining she had not finished drinking her tea, Molly pulled on her gloves and began searching the rooms before finding Marco in the library. Nicholas was seated in a wingback chair near a window with his injured leg propped up on an ottoman and a stack of expensive journals on an end table. He was reading with an expression of distaste from one of the thick leather-covered tomes which were tooled in ornate gold patterns along the spines and borders, an intricate thistle embossed onto the front covers. Isla Scott’s journals might well have been custom-made, from their luxurious presentation.
Ignoring him, Molly focused on Marco who was seated near a library table reading what appeared to be account books, far simpler and more businesslike than Nicholas’s stack. He was dressed in buckskins that hugged his lean, muscular legs to perfection. His black coat and snowy white linen emphasized his black hair, olive skin, and soulful eyes with elegant impact, while his black riding boots gleamed in the morning light. She had heard of the craftsmanship of Florentine tailors, and Marco’s elegant form was evidence of their skill.
“Good morning, Marco,” she chirped in a voice that was more breathy than she had intended. Miss Dubois shot her a look, but she ignored it. During her meeting with him and Simon the day before, she had solicited an agreement to use their given names. She had reasoned, with Simon looking on, that they were of a similar age and shared a familial relationship.
It was a shameless ploy, because she had earlier made a case that they were not related by blood. Was she playing both sides? Indubitably. Had Marco appeared perplexed because he still did not know how they were related, other than he was her trustee? Unquestionably. Had Molly wanted to hear her name said in his deep, accented voice? Without a doubt.
“ Buongiorno , Molly.” He rose to drop a small bow, and Molly blinked in shivering delight to hear her name spoken with his accented lilt, while doing her best not to blush like a chit in short skirts as she had yesterday on multiple occasions. Some experience with courtship would have come in handy right about now. For a woman of her years, she had a surprising lack of knowledge about flirtation.
Behind her, the butler entered with a tea tray. MacNaby walked it over to where Nicholas was sitting, placing it on a free table nearby and politely gaining his attention. Molly supposed the household was a little short-staffed, what with the longtime footman, Roderick, falling to his death upon news of the baroness’s suicide the month before. She grimaced at the memory, quickly turning back to pose her question to Marco.
“I was hoping to show you the gardens this morning. They are most impressive, even at this time of the year.”
Marco hesitated before giving a nod. “That sounds delightful.” He turned to pick up his gloves from the table.
Molly thrilled, almost rising on her toes with glee. She had not seen him since the afternoon before. Everyone had settled on retiring early to their rooms, and dinner had been brought on trays to their respective bedchambers.
Molly had shared supper with the baron in his private drawing room, something of a habit since his collapse the prior month, except this time Miss Dubois had been there, too. With Lady Blackwood deceased, Simon away in Scotland for several weeks touring his inherited estates, and Nicholas in the perpetual grump of recovery from his days of hard drinking and carousing, it had been a pleasant evening ritual for her and John as they grew to know each other better by sharing stories about her aunt—who had been his first stepmother—and her own mother.
Last night, however, it had frustrated her to her core that there had not been a communal supper so she might partake in Marco’s company, so she had devised a plan to spend some time with him this morning. Simon and Madeline had spent the evening preparing to leave this morning, while their guests from Italy had been disinclined to socialize after their long journey and the carriage accident.
She smiled, gesturing toward a terrace door. As they reached it together, Molly turned with a contrived gasp to stare at Miss Dubois in consternation. “Oh my, I have quite forgotten my bonnet!”
The poodle scowled before obviously recollecting admonishments from the late baroness about the damage that emotions did to one’s youthful appearance. Molly could pluck the thought from her companion’s head as she quickly relaxed her face into placid lines. “You must wait ’ere!”
Marco raised his sweeping black brows at the impertinent tone, but refrained from comment as Miss Dubois spun on her heel to hurry away. Molly watched her depart the library on the heels of MacNaby’s exit with smug satisfaction. Every single bonnet had been removed during the night to a closet beneath the stairs where cloaks were stored. Not the cloaks worn currently, but the ones in deep storage, which were infrequently needed. It would take some time for her pestilent chaperon to find even one. Just to be sure, Molly had even removed the bonnets of the deceased baroness, too. Even if Miss Dubois gave up and returned, it should buy a good half an hour if Molly was wily about her tour of the gardens. The servant would expect her to make straight for the shared garden, the jewel of the twin estates, so Molly intended to take a different route and prolong her time alone with the man who captured her interest.
Glancing over at Nicholas, she confirmed he was still absorbed in his reading before turning back to give a wide smile to the gentleman waiting by the terrace doors.
“Shall we?”
He assented, politely opening the door and stepping aside to allow her to exit, and Molly was encouraged by his cooperation.
Outside, he offered her an arm, and with tingling anticipation, she took hold of it. He was strong, his upper arm muscular, and Molly had to remind herself to breathe lest she swoon from heady delight. He smelled of shaving soap, leather, and starch, his masculine scent a physical sensation that arrowed down to settle as a pulsing awareness in her lower belly. The urge to press closer had to be firmly denied as they walked to the stairs to descend to the garden where she discovered that the weather had warmed up overnight.
Instead of leading him through the back garden toward the walled sanctuary that was the jewel, though she wished she could take him there, she guided him to the left and around the corner of the manor. It was the least interesting part of the garden, mostly just a line of hedges along the property line with a narrow lawn, and Molly searched the attics of her mind to find a compelling justification for the route she had chosen.
Peering up, she considered the ivy creeping up the side of the building, but the singular thought that came to mind was to point out that the footman, Roderick, had plummeted to his death from the baroness’s private sitting room on the third floor. Not a subject that would add to the romantic ambience of their walk, so she kept walking while she sought for something else to show him.
Coming to a stop below a sentinel which guarded the parapet, she pointed up. “Here is Mars. Although he usually depicts power and strength, I believe he was placed here to symbolize a love of the classical by the men who commissioned the building.”
Molly wanted to kick herself. It was the first thing she could think of to say, their tour of the garden being conducted in silence for the first several minutes. But had she really lectured an actual bear leader from Florence on Roman symbolism? A man who tutored the sons of noblemen on this very subject? Molly was afraid her weak excuse to spend time with him was as transparent as a sheet of glass, but she had never had much practice with subterfuge.
Blushing, she turned to find Marco regarding her with amusement in his dark eyes. “I hate to correct you, but I believe that is Romulus. I believe Mars is standing watch at the front of the house.”
“Is it? How can you tell?”
Marco pointed up at the head. “The military attire misled you, but he is wearing a laurel wreath and holding a scepter. These are symbols of leadership to emphasize his role as the first king of Rome.”
“Oh.” Her tone was disappointed. He must think her the worst ninny. After impressing him with her knowledge of his Continental language, she had regretfully followed it up with a gauche lack of classical knowledge. “I suppose I do not understand ancient Rome as well as I thought.”
He turned back to look in her face, lifting a gloved forefinger to tuck a stray lock of hair behind her ear in a gesture so intimate she nearly lost the capacity to breathe. “It is not to be helped. You have not taken your Grand Tour or attended university. Many of the young Englishmen arrive in Florence with a faulty understanding, which is why they pay me to educate them.”
His kind words eased her embarrassment as his hand fell away, and they stood gazing at each other for several seconds, until Marco eventually queried in a husky voice, “Molly, how are we related?”
She was enthralled by the windows to his soul, which spoke of the emotional events of his past, while his question slowly filtered into her brain. “We are not. I mean … we are … but …” Inhaling deeply, she gathered her wits. “My aunt was married to your grandfather. His second wife. They did not bear any children together. We are second cousins by marriage.”
Marco nodded. “That is … good.” Then he raised his head back to stare up at Romulus, tensing beneath her fingers where she was holding his arm.
Next, he embraced her tightly and threw them both to the ground. She landed on the grass with a low rustle of clothing and a thud disproportionately loud, considering all their layers of fabric to mute their fall.
Despite her bemusement at being pressed beneath his body, she turned her head to find a large stone urn had shattered in the very place they had been standing a second before. She swung her gaze up to confirm that it was one of the twin urns that flanked the Roman god, who even now peered down at them with seeming concern, then looked back to Marco in shock.
The striations of Molly’s eyes had utterly fascinated Marco, shining like opals in the pale autumn light, when he heard a scraping sound from above. Swinging his head up, he thought he saw a flicker of motion, as if someone might be positioned behind the depiction of Romulus, when he noticed that one of the urns—the one right above them—appeared to be toppling over.
Flinging himself at Molly, he tackled her to the ground, almost in sync with the resounding thud behind him that confirmed he had acted just in time.
His first instinct was to jump up and run inside to find the roof, but he realized he did not know the way and if someone had pushed the large jardinère off the roof deliberately, they would have more than enough time to get away. If there was an assailant, the fact that they were familiar with the house would make it easy to run off while he lumbered around trying to find the right staircase.
He turned his attention back to Molly to check on her, becoming aware of her rounded breasts pressed against his chest, and his groin notched so neatly between her skirted thighs. Attraction sizzled, and his loins responded to her proximity with firing heat. Raising himself on his forearms, only to be riveted by blazing eyes which shone with a mixture of alarm and desire, he was captivated by the infinite constellations in those opalescent irises.
He shifted, attempting to untangle their limbs, and discovering that she smelt like cinnamon to further thicken his blood. A tide of heady passion made it difficult to think, while his mouth watered at the possibility of tasting that sweet spice on his tongue. Molly panted in agitation, squirming beneath him to set off a new riot of sensation, and their gazes were locked until hers flickered away to focus on his mouth. Everything around them receded as his head descended ever so slowly, the shouting of his conscience no match for the inevitability of the moment as his lips found hers in search of an ecstatic binding of their souls and bodies.
He had had a paramour or two over the years, but they had an arrangement of expediency to see to their mutual needs. He had avoided any hint of anything more meaningful because it reminded him of Catherine, which inevitably reminded him of the father he had barely known. It was not that he had done anything so crass as to swear off romantic love because his mother had been widowed so young, followed by losing Catherine before they had even had a proper beginning. It was more an instinctual aversion to pursuing deeper emotions.
This heightened awareness of the pragmatic gentlewoman who dealt with the harshness of life with fortitude and composure was something new—something he was not prepared for—but her lips were so soft against his, and before he could stop himself, he swept his tongue over the seam of her lips, growling in approval when they parted to allow him entry.
She tasted of cinnamon as he had hoped she would, and he distantly wondered if it was blended into her tea, but hunger took over and thoughts were washed away. The very ground wavered beneath them as if he were back at sea, his ardor mounting as he explored her mouth with infinite interest before gliding away to taste her creamy skin and nuzzle against her neck. Molly was all woman, kissing him back, while soft curves fitted against him as if they were made for each other, and he found himself nudging against the warm embrace of her thighs in search of?—
Marco lifted his head, gasping for air, and rolled off her to massage at his ribs. “Chiedo venia.”
Molly said nothing, recovering her breath as they both lay on their backs and gazed up at the pale sky. Finally, she rolled over and began to rise. “No apology required, but Miss Dubois might happen upon us at any moment.”
Standing up, they inspected the smashed urn while they brushed grass off their clothing. Marco noted with relief that no grass stains were visible on the fetching green and gold ensemble she was wearing.
“Two potentially fatal accidents in two days? You are either terribly misfortunate to experience such a string of bad luck or …”
“The devil beckons.”
Molly sighed. “Do you think someone could have deliberately pushed it?”
He raked through his hair. There was so much to think about at once. Another close call with death? And he should address the ravenous kiss with her, but he understood she was attempting to compose herself before they were joined by the chaperon.
“It is a distinct possibility,” he replied.
They would need to speak about what had happened, but it would have to wait. Marco was angry with himself. Molly was an innocent, and their little flirtation had got out of hand. He did not intend to stay in England, so why was he dallying with a well-bred woman who deserved his respect?
Nevertheless, it was a struggle to regret their passionate embrace. He could still feel the womanly form of her against him, and his loins were protesting the abrupt loss of contact. The urge to sweep back in her arms and tumble her to the grass was a distinct pressure to further conflict his tumultuous thoughts.