Chapter 19
Another Fountain, Another Revelation
Meanwhile, in the Piazza della Rotunda
Patrick and Armenia paused in front of the Fontana del Pantheon—the Fountain of the Pantheon—and studied the statuary. Sculpted out of marble by Leonardo Sormani, it featured four dolphins at the base of an Egyptian monolith, Obelisco Macuteo.
“It’s ingenious, really,” he commented, his mind still on what Armenia had implied but not admitted only the moment before. “Signore Slater didn’t have a title, but he could ensure his son had one?” he added, his gaze directed on the obelisk.
Armenia shook her head. “It wasn’t like that, Mr. McAdams. Donald.
..” She sighed. “He would probably prefer his son was merely a commoner. He is not a social climber in the least, despite growing up with an earl for a father and another earl for an uncle. His grandfather is a marquess and good friends with my sister’s husband, who is also a marquess,” she explained, watching to see how he would react.
“Which means he probably hasn’t had to work a day in his life,” he argued. “Although...”
Turning to regard Patrick with an expectant expression, Armenia knew he was recalling scenes from the ball the night before.
He had probably met Will Slater and the younger men with him.
They were all strapping lads with broad shoulders, possessed of physiques that were at odds with the typical English aristocrat.
“They have all labored in the Gisborn farm fields,” she stated. “Quite scandalous, if my sister is to be believed,” she added, waggling her brows as she grinned.
“Your sister?”
“Adeline Carlington. The Marchioness of Morganfield,” she stated.
“Her husband was on his Grand Tour when they met, and he took her home to England with him,” Armenia explained.
“As for Donald, these days he’s a... a writer.
His first book was published in London two years ago, and he’s nearly finished with another. ”
His opinion of the young man obviously improved, Patrick nodded in the direction of the Pantheon. “We should get you out of the sun,” he said. “And into a temple suitable for a Roman goddess such as yourself.”
She arched a dark brow. “You know it’s really a church,” she said, moving past the colonnade of Corinthian columns to stand before the huge bronze doors.
“A church?” he repeated.
“The Basilica of Sancta Maria ad Martyres,” she said. “Raphael the painter is buried here.”
“And here I was only interested in seeing the hole in the roof,” Patrick remarked. He opened the door for her, obviously amazed at how easily it swung on its hinges despite its size. “A marvel of Roman ingenuity,” he added his gaze going up.
Armenia made the Sign of the Cross after stepping over the threshold and then placed her hand on Patrick’s arm as she watched his gaze take in the huge, circular interior and its coffered concrete dome.
Sets of columns were separated by alcoves containing statuary.
Directly across from the entrance, an altar was placed in the apse from where a Roman emperor had at one time ruled.
“How is this not a wonder of the ancient world?” he asked in a whisper, his gaze sweeping the interior before rising to the oculus, the only source of light in the building.
“All the Roman statuary was removed in favor of the Christian versions, and the original red porphyry columns were replaced with granite copies,” Armenia explained. “All twenty-eight of them.”
“Twenty-eight,” Patrick murmured. “Which is exactly the number of coffers in each circular row in the ceiling,” he added thoughtfully. “Twenty-eight is a perfect number.”
“A perfect number?” she repeated. “Because there are twenty-eight days in a lunar cycle?” She turned to find him displaying an expression of awe, his features cast in the light that beamed down through the oculus.
For a moment, she was nearly as awestruck, for the oddest sensation deep in her belly had her inhaling softly.
Patrick tore his gaze from the ceiling. “Uh, it’s a number that equals the sum of its proper divisors,” he replied, grimacing. “Six is the first, for example. Its divisors are—”
“One, two, and three,” she interrupted. “One plus two plus three equals six.”
“Exactly,” he said, grinning in delight, which had her allowing one in return. “Twenty-eight is the next one,” he said, turning to face her. “And then, uh... four-hundred and ninety-six, if I remember correctly. The ancient Greek mathematicians were fascinated by them,” he added.
“Would they always be even numbers, do you suppose?” she asked.
He furrowed his brows. “I honestly don’t know if an odd number has been discovered yet.” He seemed to stare at her a moment before he shook his head. “An exercise for another time, I should think,” he said. “Shall we make our way to the next fountain?”
“What were you thinking just then?” she asked.
Patrick blinked a few times, a flush of red coloring his face. “Uh... I was thinking how lovely you look with this beam of light shining on you,” he said before he swallowed.
Armenia inhaled softly, and not only at hearing his words. For a moment, she wished her villa wasn’t a ten-minute walk away. “Grazie,” she murmured.
She wasn’t sure if she was the one to lean toward him or if he made the first move, but a second later, her lips were touching his. Before she quite realized it, he had an arm around her waist and had deepened the kiss. She was forced to open her mouth and allow him to plunder it with his tongue.
Forced? No. She knew she willingly participated in the intimate act, even if it was entirely unexpected.
Unexpected and yet wanted.
How had he known what her body was begging for whilst they stood in the beam of light? Was her desire for him so obvious? Had he spent the night before imagining them kissing like this? Clutching one another in a beam of celestial light as if they were being blessed by the Roman gods?
Even when Patrick angled his head in the other direction, requiring her to do the same to keep her lips on his, she knew she wouldn’t be the first to break such a kiss. She wouldn’t be the first to come up for air. She wouldn’t be the first to give up her hold on his arms.
The sound of a clearing throat was all it took for the kiss to suddenly end. For the two of them to break apart, their blinks of surprise giving away the fact that they had both been lost in the kiss.
The beam of light no longer enveloped them, the sun having moved beyond the edge of the oculus. Gasping, Armenia turned to discover a red-faced priest regarding them with a quirked lip.
“Scuse,” Patrick said, lowering his head.
“Per favore perdonaci, Padre,” Armenia chimed in, dipping a curtsy.
“Sei venuto a fare la confessione?” the priest asked.
Did you come to make the confession?
“No,” Patrick replied. “I came to...” He paused, glancing at Armenia before he said, “Proporre il matrimonio.”
The comment earned him two wide-eyed stares.