Chapter Eight #3
Back at their accommodation, they set the coffee machine working, while Sanzio explored the collection of miniatures.
He selected his brandy, and Eleanora chose limoncello.
Coffee ready, they settled down on the twin loungers, side by side on their little terrace.
The lights from the main farmhouse were invisible and they left their own terrace unlit.
Above, the familiar stars burned in the heavens.
‘I’ve missed the stars,’ Eleanora murmured, taking a sip of her limoncello, tart, but sweet—and strong. ‘They disappear in the citiy.’ She turned to Sanzio. ‘Thank you for today,’ she said, her voice warm. ‘It’s been wonderful!’
He took a contemplative mouthful of his brandy, looking across at her. ‘It has,’ he said. ‘So much so that—’ he paused, then continued ‘—what say you to staying on? There’s no rush to get back to Rome, and this place is clearly not full mid-week. Dinner was good too, and the wine excellent!’
Her face lit. ‘Could we?’
‘Why not? Our time is our own. We could do what that Dutch couple recommended, and disappear off for cycle rides! Or just lounge by the pool. Or both.’
‘It’s a lovely idea,’ she said warmly.
‘Then it’s settled,’ he said decisively. He reached across the short space between them and took the hand that was resting on the arm of her lounger. Lightly, he raised it to his lips. ‘To staying on,’ he said, smilingly, and replaced her hand.
But he did not relinquish it.
Nor did she withdraw hers.
She went on sipping her limoncello. Sanzio took another mouthful of his brandy. ‘What a good idea it was of mine to get out of Rome today,’ he mused.
She laughed, agreeing. It was pleasant, so very, very pleasant, to be sitting here, replete from their delicious dinner, the strong wine in her veins, the brilliant stars above, no noise but the rustle of the countryside by night and the midnight chorus from the ever present, ever unseen cicadas.
And Sanzio’s warm, strong hand holding hers…
Emotion moved in her. Emotion she should not allow, but the night and the stars and the strong wine had let it flow—flow out into her blood, her body, bathing her in it.
Her eyes went to him. She could not stop herself.
He was looking right at her.
* * *
Sanzio held her eyes. Beneath his ribcage he could feel his heart start to beat heavily.
This was the moment he’d been waiting for, aching for.
His fingers tightened around the bowl of his brandy glass.
The brandy he’d imbibed was still sweetly fiery in his throat.
Last night he had felt the whisky burn him, sear away the last of his self-imposed resistance.
Tonight, that was no longer necessary. Tonight, he would not just tell Eleanora she was beautiful, he would show her.
His thumb stroked the back of her hand, still held fast in his, his eyes still holding hers, never relinquishing them. Her face was alabaster in the starlight, her delicate features sculpted by light and shadow.
‘How very lovely you are, Eleanora.’ His voice was low. Husky.
Her expression flickered in the starlight.
‘Like this?’ she said. ‘But I’m not—’
He did not let her continue. ‘So very lovely,’ he said again. ‘Just as you are. Oh, when we went out in Rome you were breathtaking! But here now, like this, you are so very lovely to me.’
‘Sanzio…’ Her voice was faint. Uncertain. Confused.
‘That night,’ he said, his eyes never leaving hers, his hand still holding hers, ‘that first night, when I kissed you to convince you—to make you understand how truly beautiful you were…are…’ A rueful note entered his voice, he could hear it. ‘I drew back because—’ He paused. Then spoke.
‘Because I had no right to kiss you—no right at all.’
He paused again. His eyes were still holding hers and, in the starlight, he could still see the uncertainty, confusion in hers. He did not want it there. He wanted only for her to understand, believe, what he was saying. Accept it.
Accept, if she would, this kiss now.
‘Will you grant me that right now?’ His voice was lower still, yet more husky. For a moment longer his gaze searched hers. Then he searched no longer. Leant across to her, reaching for her mouth.
It was the briefest kiss, the mere touch of his mouth on hers, the merest swansdown, but he felt her lips tremble beneath his, heard the soft intake of her breath. He could taste the wine, the liqueur she had been sipping, and it was sweet to taste—as sweet as the honey of her mouth.
He drew away again, conscious that the beating of his heart had quickened.
‘I have wanted,’ he told her, his eyes gazing into hers, his hand tightening on hers, ‘to do that ever since that night.’
He saw again the confusion and uncertainty in her face.
‘But you rejected me.’ The words fell from her lips.
A rasp broke from him. ‘Rejected?’ He spoke as if it were an alien word in an unknown tongue.
With a sudden, impulsive movement, he put aside his brandy glass, swung his feet to the floor and stood up, drawing her up too as he did, taking her liqueur glass from her, setting it aside. Then, freed of impediments, he did what he had been aching to do since that one single kiss.
He swept her into his arms.