THE LEGEND OF NIMWAY HALL_1794_CHARLOTTE Page 5

Charlotte murmured her agreement and then hurried to change the topic, asking if Aunt Verity had heard any good gossip whilst she was in town.

  That did the trick. Brightening, Aunt Verity instantly dived into all of the latest on dits while Charlotte pretended interest.

  There were many things Charlotte was willing to share with her beloved aunt, but the short time she’d spent in the wood with a sculptor, a meeting that had included a shocking kiss, was not one of them. Neither did she wish to share the particulars of her precious morning rides across the golden hills and fields of Nimway, around the sparkling waters of Myrrdin Lake, and through the twisty, mysterious paths of Balesboro Wood. Those belonged to her and no one else. It was only when she was on the back of a horse that she felt whole.

  Or so it had been before Caroline had died. Since then, nothing made Charlotte feel whole, not her precious wild rides, not the safety of Nimway Hall, not even an exciting encounter in the wood with a handsome sculptor.

  Unaware Charlotte was no longer listening, Aunt Verity shared a scandalous rumor about the prince and a certain Catholic widow. As the story progressed, Aunt Verity’s empty tea cup was returned to the table, and in between words, she began to yawn mightily, her eyes drooping. Charlotte knew that in ten minutes or less, her aunt would be asleep.

  While she waited, she glanced down at her hands, which were now folded neatly in her lap. The emerald and old gold engagement ring Robert had given her winked in the sunlight. She closed her fingers around the warm metal, holding it close, her thoughts slipping from Robert and to a dark-haired man with a compelling gaze, his smoky laugh as delicious as honey.

  She wanted more of that, she realized with a start. She wasn’t sure if it was the illicit nature of the man himself, or his dark Italian good looks, and just his patent unsuitability, but just the thought of seeing him again made her heart quicken. Her aunt’s words about the Harrington red hair and propensity to break rules came tumbling back. If Charlotte wished her life to remain on the safe, prudent course she’d set, she’d avoid the man even if she had to forgo her favorite trails and take her morning rides to the other side of Nimway.

  Yes. That’s what she would do; she’d make certain she never set eyes on Marco di Rossi again, at least not while she was alone. And then, once Robert returned, everything would work out.

  It will because it has to.

  It wasn’t much, but right now, with Robert absent, it was all Charlotte had.

  Chapter 4

  Three days later, Simmons walked into the breakfast room carrying a salver holding a neat stack of letters. “Good morning, miss. The post has arrived.”

  “Thank you.” Charlotte pushed back her plate, took the packet of letters and sorted through them. There were quite a number of missives addressed to her aunt, one rather plain letter for her father from his solicitor, a fashion magazine for her mother, an invitation to tea from the vicar’s wife for Charlotte and Aunt Verity, and a bill from the mantua maker.

  Everything but a letter from Robert.

  She dropped the letters back on the salver Simmons held, and tried not to let her disappointment show.

  “I take it Viscount Ashford has not written?” Concern softened Simmons’ voice.

  She sighed. “No. I wish he would, because—” A thought caught her. “Simmons, I wrote the Viscount a letter two weeks ago. Perhaps it wasn’t sent. That would explain why he hasn’t written me back.”

  “I put your letter to his lordship on the mail coach myself, miss, as I was in town that day. He should have received it last week.”

  Charlotte tried to keep her disappointment to herself, although she was fairly sure she failed. “That’s that, then. Thank you, Simmons.”

  Simmons cleared his throat, obviously dying to say something else.

  “Yes?” She hated to ask. The servants were far too protective of her.

  Simmons drew himself up and said in a stern tone, “I’ve known Master Robert since he was in short coats and I find his lack of communication unacceptable. If—no when I see him again, I shall be hard pressed not to let him know my feelings.”

  “That is quite kind of you, but unnecessary. I’m sure there’s a reason for his silence. We’ll know what it is when he gets here.”

  “I hope so, but meanwhile, someone needs to have a word with Viscount Ashbrook and soon. How long would it take the lad to dash off a letter? Why, I write more to my mother, and she can’t even read!” Simmons was now puffed up like an angry pheasant. “This is unacceptable! Meanwhile your mother – and heaven knows I would never criticize a mother in mourning – but she’s left you under the care of a chaperone who is a—a—a complete scattergibbet!”

  “Why, Simmons! I thought you liked my Aunt Verity!”

  He flushed, his stern expression softening. “Lady Barton always been quite kind, but she’s been here for three days now and has done nothing but nap all day whist you ride off to God knows where without a single person knowing where you might be or when you’ll return.”

  Charlotte poured herself some more tea. “You know I never venture past the borders of Nimway.”

  “But Balesboro Wood is unusual, miss. It is haunted and filled with spirits who—”

  “They are woods, Simmons, and nothing more. The simple fact is this; I’m not attending any balls or parties, so I don’t need a chaperone.” As soon as she said the words, she remembered the devastatingly handsome Italian she’d found wandering lost through Balesboro Wood and a twinge of guilt pinched her.

  Simmons sniffed. “Your mother thought having a chaperone was important, or she wouldn’t have invited Lady Barton here to begin with. I’m also sure that, had Mrs. Harrington known that her ladyship would do nothing more than sleep all day, she wouldn’t have left you in that woman’s care.”

  Charlotte took a sip of her tea. “You’re right, Simmons.”

  He blinked. “I am?”

  “You are. Aunt Verity does sleep a lot. I hope she’s not taking ill.”

  “Lady Barton sleeps during the day because she is up all hours of the night reading risqué novels, most of them written in French.” He said the word as if it were a viper and might bite him. “As much as I love and respect her ladyship, I would not call her attentive. Why, you were out riding for four hours yesterday and in the rain, no less, and when Lady Barton came to dinner, not only did she not know you’d been gone all afternoon, but she was surprised to find out it had been raining, as well!”

  “As you can see, I came to no harm, rain or no.” Charlotte place her cup back into its saucer. “Simmons, pray let my aunt nap in peace. And let her read her books, as well. She was kind to even come, for I’m sure she’d rather be enjoying the amusements in town than stuck here in the countryside.”

  Besides, to be honest, Charlotte was enjoying the freedom of the last week. She’d loved riding Angelica through the fields in the rain, something she hadn’t done in months since Mama now went into instant hand-wringing angst at the sign of any risky behavior.

  Oh, how Charlotte had missed her rides. And it had been every bit as delightful as she remembered – the rain fresh on her face, the cool air prickling her cheeks, the scent of crushed grass under her horse’s hooves as Angelica pranced happily through fields and down muddy lanes, as ecstatic as Charlotte at their antics.

  Charlotte caught Simmons disapproving stare and tucked her thoughts away. “I’ll admit it was a bit uncertain, to go for a ride in such weather—”

  “Uncertain? It was dangerous,” he corrected in a relentless tone.

  “Simmons, please! I’m fine.” She smiled. “I’m no longer a sickly child, a fact you would do well to remember.”

  “You’ve a wedding coming up and you won’t wish to suffer through a bad case of sneezing fits on your glorious day, would you? It would ruin everything. Please miss, just be cautious. That’s all I ask.”

  “I will. I promise.”

  He sighed. “Very good, miss. I’ll send Lady Barton’s letters
upstairs on her breakfast tray.”

  “Thank you.” Charlotte pretended to sip her tea, but the second the door closed behind the butler, she sprang to her feet and hurried to one of the new ornate mirrors that flanked the windows and placed her hands over her hot cheeks. That darned kiss keeps leaving its mark.

  “Blast you, Marco di Rossi,” she said under her breath. For some reason, she repeated his name, this time twirling the r into a purr. She had to laugh at own silliness. I am giddy from being allowed to ride again.

  But it was more than that. The man was intriguing. Too much so. So much that she’d had to fight fought every impulse to go by the stables where he was even now working on his masterpiece. But the more she’d wanted to go, the more she’d stayed away. The last thing she needed was a complication like that.

  In the meantime, she’d tried her best to forget their kiss. She’d done quite well while awake. But at night, snug in her bed and sound asleep, her mind roamed to places that, upon awakening hot and out of breath, she wished it hadn’t. And it didn’t wander just once in a while, but every time she fell asleep.

  Worse, her imagination didn’t stop at the kiss, but took it farther. Much farther, and she’d awaken just this morning with the feeling that she could still feel his hands on her bare skin, his hot breath on her neck, his muscled shoulders under her finger tips as he—

  Charlotte turned from the mirror and hurried out the door. She’d go see Aunt Verity. A little company right now would not be amiss and would certainly keep her from thinking too much about things she shouldn’t.

  As she made her way to the stairs, she absently glanced into the open doors of the dining room, and slowly came to a halt.

  Before she’d left, Mama had made certain the dining room was prepared for the coming renovations. The long mahogany table and chairs had been carried to the far side of the room, well away from the fireplace where they were protected by an off-white army of dust covers. Everything else – curtains, decorations, and paintings – had been carefully packed away and stored in empty guest rooms, where they’d remain until the work was completed.

  Which was why the sight of a candleholder resting on the old mantel had stopped Charlotte. Muttering under her breath at the thoughtless footman who’d forgotten his orders to leave the room untouched until the renovations were complete, Charlotte turned from the stairs and made her way to the dining room.

  The room was long and elegant, fitted with tall windows and aged oak wainscoting. Like the great hall, hints of an older era lingered in the mellow gold of the wealth of ornate woodwork that covered almost every surface. Light poured into the room, the windows framing a spectacular view of the lush lawn. Overhead, large chandeliers hung, fastened in place by thick chains and requiring hundreds of candles for just one dinner.

  The fireplace itself had room for massive four-foot logs, but the sheer size of it made the decorative mantelpiece, a modest and small affair, look woefully out of place. No wonder Mama wishes to change it out. It doesn’t go with anything in this room, new or old.

  Charlotte made her way to the mantel to where the lone candleholder sat. As she drew closer, she realized it wasn’t a candleholder at all. It was gold, this – thing, whatever it was, and shaped like a scaled claw that reached up to clutch a moonstone the size of a fist.

  It was so heavy that she had to use both hands to pick it up. It must be gold, to weigh so much. She cupped it to her and slid her thumb over the moonstone, surprised to find it warm. She’d always loved moonstones, but Mama held them in aversion. This one was particularly pure of form, the glossy white surface reflecting the morning light. “Where did you come from?” she murmured.

  As if in answer, the stone gleamed. Silver and white mists swirled just under the surface. And then there, in the stone’s mists, a figure formed.

  She caught her breath and looked closer. A man sat in a chair . . . and not just any man, but Marco di Rossi. He leaned forward, his elbows resting on his knees, his gaze piercing and direct. His finery was gone and in its place a pair of black breeches tucked into high riding boots, his broad chest and arms covered by a flowing white shirt that hung open at the neck. His hair was no longer in a neat que, but hung loose about his unshaven face, his expression every bit as dark as his eyes.

  One look at those eyes and Charlotte was hit with a desire so instant and raw that her body ached and her mouth tingled as if she’d been kissed anew. Good God, what am I thinking? And yet try as she might, she couldn’t seem to release the clawed metal or stop staring at the figure in the stone.

  He looked like what he was – dark, dangerous, and forbidden. He belongs to another place, another home, another woman. The thought was as clear as the floor beneath her feet, and yet her fingers went to the misty moonstone as if to touch him through the mist.

  She grimaced at her actions. “Why are you doing this?” she muttered both to herself and the stone.

  “It will not answer,” came a deep, richly accented voice behind her.

  She whirled, clutching the stone before her like a shield. There, sitting in a chair was Marco, looking just as she’d seen him in the mists. The flowing shirt parted at his tanned, powerful throat, his dark gaze locked on her. He was disheveled, his hair mussed as if he’d raked his hand through it over and over, his face shadowed with stubble.

  She hadn’t seen a vision in the stone at all, but a reflection. “What are you doing there?”

  He leaned back, resting one arm along the back of his chair, and she realized he was far more dangerous without his fine trimmings. “I would ask you that same question, but I saw what you were doing; you were talking to a rock.”

  Her face heated and she lowered the moonstone, shifting it to one side so she could rest it on her hip. “I was talking to myself, not the rock. And you?”

  “I was thinking,” he said. He’d been doing more than that, for a sheaf of paper rested within reach on an empty chair, a stick of charcoal atop it, while crumpled pages lay scattered around his feet.

  She nodded toward the papers. “It looks as if you’ve been sketching, too.”

  “That is how I think. I must decide what to carve for the fireplace pillars. I cannot begin until I have a general idea of how they will look.”

  His voice, rich and deep, stroked along her skin and she had to fight to keep her breath. She wet her suddenly dry lips. “It’s been three days and you don’t have any idea what to carve. That’s rather weak, isn’t it?”

  The blazing look Marco sent her made her wince and she rushed to add. “I’m sorry. That’s not what I meant to say. It’s not weak; that’s the wrong word. It’s just surprising. It seems you would just sketch something, and be ready to begin.” She tumbled over her words, saying them so fast even she could not hear them all. Blast my unruly tongue! Just be quiet, she told herself fiercely. It always happened like this; a situation would grow awkward and she’d blurt out the wrong thing in the wrong tone and make things worse.

  “You cannot rush inspiration,” he said shortly, sitting forward as if he were tempted to launch from his chair. “You cannot just snap your fingers and it comes running like a trained dog. You have to wait for it, coax it.”

  “I wasn’t—” She bit her lip. “I shouldn’t have spoken. Sometimes, I say things without thinking. I don’t know why, but it just comes out and it always sounds far worse than I imagined it would, and— well, I’m sorry.”

  His gaze never wavered from her face, but some of the tension left him. After a long moment, he said quietly, “It is not often I meet someone who will admit their flaws.”

  “Oh, I have plenty,” she said with a rueful smile. “Shall I list them?”

  His eyes warmed with humor. “Do we have the time? I’ve less than four weeks to finish this project.”

  She laughed, and realized she was still clutching the moonstone before her. “I’ll spare you, then.”

  He leaned back in the chair, the wood creaking as he did so.

 
She suddenly realized that he hadn’t stood when she’d entered the room, which was basic courtesy. But she rather like his casualness, for it allowed her to be the same. “I hope you find your inspiration soon.”

  “I will. Meanwhile, you needn’t fear I won’t finish in time. You mother was quite thorough and sent measurements. Before I even came, I completed the mantelpiece, the trim panels, and the header. All that is left are the pillars.”

  She had no idea what all of those things were – a header, trim panels, pillars – but she knew what a mantel was, so she nodded as if she understood. “How do you find your muse?”

  “You don’t. She must find you. All you can do is surround yourself with things that inspire her to speak.”

  Charlotte absently ran her thumb over the moonstone. For some reason the simple gesture soothed her jumpy heart. “I hope you find it soon, for this fireplace is sadly out of place in this room.”

  “I can see why your mother wished to replace it. It is wrong for the proportions of this room.”

  “Will the pieces you’ve already completed fit?”

  “Easily, but now that I see the room and have studied the light, I know that the pillars must be larger and more compelling than I’d originally thought.”

  The moonstone weighed heavily in her arms and she shifted it forward so it would no longer dig into her hip.

  Her movement caught Marco’s gaze. “What is that?” he asked.

  “I have no idea. I’ve never seen it before.” She raised her brows. “It’s not yours?”

  “It was on the mantel when I came in. I’d never seen it before today.” His eyes shimmered with humor. “You, meanwhile, were talking to it and staring into that stone as if finding life’s secrets.”

  “It’s pretty.” She looked down at it now, noting that the moonstone still glowed softly. “It could be a paperweight.”

  “That base would not work. It would mark papers.”

  Blast it. Practical people were so annoying. “So it’s not a paperweight. And I know it’s not a candlestick, as there’s no place to hold a candle. Maybe it’s a—Ah! Perhaps it’s finial for a bed.”