Chapter 13
Interrupting a Bath
Meanwhile, a mile to the southwest
Patrick regarded the entrance to the courtyard of Villa D’Avalos and wondered how long the testament to marble architecture had been standing.
The Corinthian columns framing the wrought iron gates were stained with rust but otherwise intact.
The marble blocks making up the courtyard walls, which he realized were also the outside walls of at least one of the interior rooms of the villa and of the carriage house, were mostly white, their veining a combination of pale yellow and gold.
A doorway separate from the gate was set off to one side, a reminder that most people probably didn’t arrive by coach but rather on foot.
He tested the black wrought iron handle and was surprised when it easily moved and the wooden door swung inward.
When he closed it, he was careful to ensure the latch caught.
Glancing around the courtyard, he discovered flowering oleanders in between the evenly spaced columnar cypress trees. From their perfect shape and size, it was evident a gardener tended the property.
Armenia’s coach wasn’t in the courtyard, but there were tracks on the marble floor leading to the carriage house, and their arched wooden doors were closed. The faint odor of horse manure suggested the stables were probably behind the carriage house.
Patrick made his way across the courtyard and paused before the front doors.
Another set of Corinthian columns flanked it—a detail he hadn’t noticed the night before given the dark.
Glancing up, he was surprised to see the building stood at least three stories tall.
Remembering the stairs beyond the doors, he realized the servants quarters were probably on the ground floor to the right.
He pulled his pocket watch from his waistcoat and checked the time—a minute past eleven. Well, her ladyship couldn’t claim he arrived too early if he knocked now.
Grabbing the large ring beneath the iron lion’s head knocker in a gloved hand, he pounded it three times and stepped back. He didn’t have to wait long for one of the panels to open.
“Signore DeLuca?” he said, remembering the name Armenia had used the night before.
“Sì?”
“Signore Patrick McAdams for Donna Armenia,” he said, holding out a calling card.
The butler didn’t take the card but stepped back and bowed as Patrick entered the vestibule. “Donna Armenia è al piano di sopra. Seguimi.”
She is upstairs. Follow me.
They climbed the curved staircase, the servant continuing to climb even when a landing indicated they had reached the first floor.
From Patrick’s brief glance, it was apparent the villa was kept in good repair.
Paintings framed in gilt lined the walls, their placement below ornately carved moldings.
A wide marble landing at the top of the stairs branched off into two corridors, a Turkish rug running the length of both.
They passed four closed doors before reaching the end of the west corridor. DeLuca knocked on the door and said, “Signore McAdams è qui.”
There was a moment of silence before a feminine voice called out, “venire.”
Reaching for the door handle, DeLuca paused and gave Patrick a beseeching look.
“What is it?” Patrick asked. “Uh... sbagliato?”
“Potrebbe essere arrabbiata.” He lifted both shoulders and hurried back down the hall as if he feared his mistress.
“Angry?” Patrick repeated, not sure if he correctly understood the man’s comment.
He slipped into the room—a sort of parlor featuring a marble fireplace and feminine furnishings from the century prior—but no one was seated at either of the chairs or on the settee.
A chandelier hung in the center, but none of the candles were lit. “Donna Armenia?”
“In here,” he heard from somewhere to his left.
He made his way through the only open door on that side of the room and stopped short at seeing Armenia lounging in a footed bathtub set in the middle of a bathing chamber.
If she hadn’t been there, he would have taken a moment to appreciate the marble fountain that dominated one wall or the chandelier that matched the one in the parlor.
Perhaps he would have glanced out the windows hung with lacy curtains that faced both west and south.
Instead, his gaze was caught by her. At first, he thought she was naked, her raven hair caught up in an ornate chignon at the back of her head, her bare arms resting on the curled edge of the tub, the level of the water barely covering her breasts.
After staring for only a moment, he realized she wore a sleeveless shift.
Beneath the water, though, the fabric was practically translucent, and he could make out the rosy areolae of her breasts and the dark triangle at the top of her thighs.
Apparently his cock thought the display was an invitation, for it reacted before he even realized what was happening. “Uh... apologies,” he said, turning away. “I didn’t mean to—”
“One would think you had never seen a woman in a bath before,” Armenia chided.
He swallowed, willing his manhood to settle down. “That’s because... well, I... I haven’t,” he struggled to reply.
“Liar,” she accused, although there was humor in her voice.
Finally facing her, his brows furrowing at hearing her accusation, he scoffed.
“I have not,” he insisted. When she didn’t attempt to cover her breasts with one of her arms, he glanced around until he spotted a pile of bath linens on a chair at the end of the tub.
“Where is your lady’s maid?” He headed to the chair and took the opportunity to glance out the window to see the tops of the buildings across the street.
Beyond was the river. At one time, the villa probably had a clear view of the Tiber.
Armenia straightened in the tub, pulled her knees to her chest, and wrapped her arms around her legs. “I dismissed Marcella after she finished my hair,” she replied, turning her head in an attempt to discover what he was doing.
Patrick plucked a linen from atop the stack and shook it out. “She’s done a beautiful coiffure,” he remarked. “But don’t you usually bathe first and then have your hair done?”
Blinking several times when he moved to stand next to the edge of the tub, the linen held up so it hid his face from her, she scoffed. “Sì, usually,” she replied. “But I decided I wished to bathe after she had already finished it. I was not thinking straight this morning.”
He dropped the linen a fraction, his gaze studying the fabric. “This isn’t linen,” he murmured thoughtfully. Realizing what she had said had him dropping the bath linen more, and he furrowed his brows. “Why weren’t you thinking straight?”
Armenia stared at him a moment. “Because I didn’t remember I was to expect you until she had already finished.” She lifted an arm. “Help an old lady to stand, will you?”
“Old lady?” he repeated, glancing around the bathing chamber. “I don’t see anyone matching that description.”
She glanced up at him, her expression unreadable. “Perhaps you require spectacles.”
“Ha ha,” he replied. Doing her bidding required he drop one corner of the towel so he could offer a hand. He tried not to look as she stood, her other hand gripping the edge of the tub until she was on her feet.
Noting the tub was elevated due to the clawfeet located at the four corners, he feared she might be injured should she slip during her attempt to get out of it. “From wherever did you get this tub?” he asked.
“I had it shipped from Holland,” she replied.
“Cast iron?” he guessed. What other material could it be made from that would allow it to have feet? Unless she’d had a sculptor carve it from marble, and it didn’t appear to be made of stone.
“Yes, and the towels are made of cotton,” she said on a huff, obviously not impressed he would notice.
She watched as he recaptured the other corner of the towel and held it up to wrap it around her.
He took another from the stack, shook it out, and tossed it over one of his shoulders.
“What are you...?” She couldn’t finish the sentence when he simply scooped her into his arms and lifted her from the tub.
“Apologies, but I think this is safer for you,” he said. “Where.... where do you dress?”
“You’re going to be soaked through,” she said in dismay.
“It’s merely water... isn’t it?”
“Well, I didn’t add any oils to the bath water, if that’s what you’re asking.”
“Good. That will make it less likely I’ll drop you.”
She scoffed, her attention on the open doorway. “Through there and into my bedchamber,” she said, pointing with a forefinger. “Although I can walk. I shouldn’t want you to hurt your back.”
“You’re light as a feather. Tall, but...” He hefted her, which had her crying out in surprise. “Light.”
“I cannot help my height,” she said as he angled her through the door and into the sitting room.
“Nor should you. It suits you,” he said. “Makes you appear statuesque.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” she asked, sounding defensive.
“You look like a Roman goddess. You’re an aristocrat, are you not?
When you stand, you don’t slouch like some of the other tall women tend to do, as if they think it’s fashionable to.
..” He paused on the threshold of the arched opening into the bedchamber.
A maid had already seen to making the canopied bed, its red velvet counterpane topped with a number of satin-covered pillows.
“Fashionable to?” she prompted.