Chapter 4 #2
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 collection.
He was dressed in buckskins that hugged his lean, muscular legs with disquieting perfection.
His black coat and snowy white linen threw his sooty hair, olive skin, and soulful eyes into elegant relief, while his black riding boots gleamed in the morning light.
She had heard of the craftsmanship of Florentine tailors, and Marco’s appearance was ample proof of their skill.
“Good morning, Marco,” she chirped in a voice that was rather more breathy than she had intended.
Miss Dubois shot her a look, but Molly 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 as witness, that they were of a similar age and shared a familial connection.
It was a shameless ploy, for she had earlier argued that they were not related by blood.
Was she playing both sides? Indubitably.
Had Marco appeared perplexed, still uncertain how they were connected beyond his role as her trustee?
Unquestionably. Had Molly wished to hear her name spoken in his deep, accented voice? Without a doubt.
“Buongiorno, Molly.” He rose to make a small bow, and Molly blinked in a shiver of delight to hear her name shaped by his accent, while doing her utmost not to blush like a chit in short skirts, as she had done yesterday on more than one occasion.
A measure of experience in courtship would have served her well just now.
For a woman of her years, she possessed a surprising ignorance of flirtation.
Behind her, the butler entered with a tea tray.
MacNaby carried it to where Nicholas was seated, placing it upon a nearby table and politely gaining his attention.
The household was a little short-staffed, what with the longtime footman, Roderick, having fallen 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 felt a small thrill of triumph, 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 as well.
With Lady Blackwood deceased, Simon away in Scotland for several weeks touring his inherited estates, and Nicholas sunk into the perpetual grump of recovery from his days of hard drinking and carousing, it had become a pleasant evening ritual for her and John as they grew to know one another better by sharing stories about her aunt, who had been his first stepmother, and her own mother.
Last night, however, it had frustrated her beyond measure that there had been no communal supper so that she might partake in Marco’s company, and so she had devised a plan to secure his attention this morning.
Simon and Madeline had spent the evening preparing for their departure, 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 clearly recollecting the late baroness’s admonitions regarding the ruinous effects of emotion upon one’s youthful appearance. Molly could nearly pluck the thought from her companion’s mind as she smoothed her features into placid composure. “You must wait ’ere!”
Marco lifted his dark brows at the impertinent tone, but refrained from comment as Miss Dubois spun on her heel and hurried away.
Molly watched her departure from the library on the heels of MacNaby’s exit with quiet satisfaction.
Every bonnet had been removed during the night and relocated to a closet beneath the stairs where cloaks were kept, not the cloaks in present use but those long stored away and rarely required.
It would take some time for her pestilent chaperon to locate even one.
To ensure it, Molly had removed the bonnets belonging to the deceased baroness as well.
Even if Miss Dubois abandoned the search and returned, it ought to purchase a good half hour, provided Molly was judicious in her route through the gardens.
The servant would expect her to proceed directly to the shared garden, the jewel of the twin estates, and so Molly intended to take a different path and prolong her time alone with the gentleman who had so thoroughly captured her interest.
Glancing toward Nicholas, she confirmed that he remained absorbed in his reading before turning back to offer a bright smile to the man waiting by the terrace doors.
“Shall we?”
He assented, opening the door and stepping aside to allow her to pass, and Molly found his courtesy encouraging.
Outside, he offered her his arm, and with careful composure, she accepted it.
He was solid and steady beside her, and Molly was obliged to remind herself to breathe evenly as they descended the steps together.
He carried the clean scent of shaving soap and fresh linen, and the awareness of his nearness stirred something unnamed but keen within her.
She kept her gaze fixed ahead, schooling herself to restraint as they made their way toward the garden, where she discovered that the weather had softened overnight.
Instead of leading him through the back garden toward the walled sanctuary, though she dearly wished she could take him there, she guided him to the left and around the corner of the manor.
It was the least interesting portion of the grounds, consisting mostly of a line of hedges along the property boundary and a narrow stretch of lawn, and Molly searched the attics of her mind for 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 presented itself was to point out that the footman, Roderick, had plummeted to his death from the baroness’s private sitting room on the third floor.
That was hardly a subject to enhance the romantic tenor of their walk, so she continued onward in silence, searching for something … anything … else to show him.
Coming to a stop beneath a sentinel statue guarding the parapet, she pointed upward. “Here is Mars. Although he is usually depicted as a symbol of power and strength, I believe he was placed here to represent a love of the classical arts by the men who commissioned the building.”
Molly wanted to reproach herself sharply.
It was the first thing that had occurred to her after several minutes of silence, but had she truly just delivered a lecture to a bear leader from Florence on Roman symbolism?
A man who instructed the sons of noblemen in precisely such matters?
She feared her excuse to spend time with him was as transparent as glass, but she had never been adept at subterfuge.
Blushing, she turned to find Marco regarding her with distinct amusement in his dark eyes. “I regret to correct you, but I believe that is Romulus. Mars stands watch at the front of the house.”
“Is it? How can you tell?”
Marco pointed upward. “The military attire is misleading, but he wears a laurel wreath and holds a scepter. These are emblems of leadership, intended to emphasize his role as the first king of Rome.”
“Oh.” Her tone held disappointment. He must think her a complete ninny. After impressing him with her grasp of his Continental language, she had immediately undermined herself with a lamentable lapse in classical knowledge. “I suppose I do not understand ancient Rome as well as I imagined.”
He turned fully toward her, lifting a gloved forefinger to tuck a wayward curl behind her ear, a gesture so unexpectedly intimate that she very nearly forgot how to breathe.
“It is not to be helped. You have not taken your Grand Tour nor attended university. Many young Englishmen arrive in Florence with similar misconceptions, which is why they engage my services.”
His gentle words eased her embarrassment as his hand fell away, and they stood regarding one another in silence for several heartbeats, until Marco at last asked, his voice lowered, “Molly, how are we related?”
She was momentarily lost in the depth of his gaze, which seemed to hint at experiences he did not voice, and it took her a moment for his question to fully register.
“We are not. I mean … we are … but …” Drawing a steadying breath, she collected her thoughts.
“My aunt was married to your grandfather. His second wife. They had no children together. We are second cousins by marriage.”
Marco nodded. “That is … good.” He lifted his gaze toward Romulus once more, his frame tightening beneath her fingers where she still held his arm.
The next instant, he seized her and threw them both to the ground, enclosing her in his grasp. She landed upon the grass with a muted rush of fabric and a surprisingly loud thud, despite the many layers meant to soften their fall.
Still stunned by the suddenness of being pressed beneath him, she turned her head to see that a large stone urn had shattered exactly where they had been standing moments before.
She looked upward to confirm it was one of the twin urns flanking the Roman figure, who now appeared to peer down at them with grave concern, before turning her gaze back to Marco in shock.
The striations of Molly’s eyes had utterly fascinated Marco, shining like opals in the pale winter light, when he heard a scraping sound from above.
Swinging his head upward, he thought he glimpsed a flicker of movement, as though someone were positioned behind the stone figure of Romulus, when he noticed that one of the urns, the one directly above them, had begun to tilt.
Flinging himself toward Molly, he knocked her to the ground in a protective instinct, almost in perfect synchrony with the resounding crash behind him that confirmed he had acted just in time.
His first impulse was to leap up and rush inside to reach the roof, but he checked himself.
He did not know the house well enough, and if the urn had been dislodged deliberately, whoever had done so would already be gone.
An assailant familiar with the manor could vanish with ease while Marco lost precious moments searching for the proper staircase.
He shifted, attempting to untangle their limbs, and discovering that she smelt like cinnamon to further confuse his thoughts.
Her proximity made it difficult to think.
Molly panted in agitation, 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.
This heightened awareness of the pragmatic gentlewoman who dealt with the harshness of life with courage and composure was something new, something he was not prepared for, but her lips were so soft against his and that was all he could think about in that moment.
She tasted of cinnamon as he had hoped she would, and he distantly wondered if it was blended into her tea, but then thoughts were washed away. Molly kissed him back, soft lips fitted against him as if they were made for each other—
Marco lifted his head, gasping for air, and rolled off her to massage at his ribs. “My apologies.”
Molly remained silent, regaining her composure as they lay side by side, gazing up at the pale winter sky. After a moment, she turned and began to rise. “No apology required,” she said quietly, “but Miss Dubois may happen upon us at any moment.”
Standing up, they inspected the smashed urn while they brushed grass from 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 a hand through his hair. There was so much to consider at once. Another brush with death and the unguarded moment they had just shared. He sensed her effort to restore composure before they were joined by her chaperon, and he did not wish to compound her disquiet.
“It is a distinct possibility,” he replied.
They would need to speak of what had occurred, but not here and not now.
Marco felt a sharp pang of self-reproach.
Molly was innocent, and their light flirtation had wandered beyond the bounds of prudence.
He had no intention of remaining in England, so why was he allowing himself such liberties with a woman who deserved care and consideration above all else?
And yet, regret did not come easily. The memory of her nearness lingered as a disquieting awareness that refused to be dismissed. He drew in a steadying breath and set his thoughts firmly in order, determined to reclaim command of himself before temptation could gain further ground.