THE LEGEND OF NIMWAY HALL_1794_CHARLOTTE Page 8

  Most of the ink came off, and he took grudging solace in the fact that the rest would disappear in a day or so. But the accident was a sign. Pietro was right; the time had come to focus on the real task at hand.

  He returned to his worktable and cleaned it as well as he could. That done, he moved the moonstone to a less polluted corner of the table. “Not that you deserve to be rescued from a mess of your own making,” he told the cursed carving. “But God knows what ink might do to a moonstone—”

  Charlotte’s voice lifted through the open windows.

  He leaned forward to catch her words. She was telling a groom that Angelica needed to be brushed, and something else he couldn’t quite hear. He held his breath, waiting, and then caught sight of his reflection in the moonstone.

  His expression was intense, hopeful, almost hungry. Damn it all. What am I doing? “Enough!” he announced angrily, shoving the mace head far away. He found a clean piece foolscap and a new stick of charcoal. It took all of his self-discipline, but with more determination than vision, he forced himself to focus on his work. “I must finish this,” he told himself grimly. “Or else.”

  “Or else what?”

  He turned.

  Charlotte stood in the doorway, the sun lining her shoulders and making a nimbus of gold around her auburn hair. “Good afternoon.” She stepped into the darkness of his workshop and looked about her with an air of curiosity. “I hope I’m not interrupting.”

  Chapter 6

  What are you doing here?” Marco winced at his voice, which was far harsher than he’d intended. He’d been expecting her, but the tension she raised in him crackled along his words like lightning over water.

  Charlotte’s expression, which had been open and even amused, instantly changed. It was as if a shutter had been drawn, for her smile disappeared, and her lashes dropped over her expressive eyes. She said in a cool tone, “You invited me, remember?”

  He had. But he was finding that expecting her and seeing her were two different things. Expecting her was like knowing someone would be serving his favorite berry torte after dinner. Seeing her was having the flavors of that berry torte melting in his mouth, the buttery crust lingering on his tongue, the sweet scent of warm berries overwhelming his senses.

  He tried to ignore his overwrought senses. “I’m sorry if I sounded unwelcoming. I was just dealing with an irritating ink spill.”

  “That would irritate me, too.” As she walked farther into the room, she took off her hat and tucked it under one arm. The hem of her habit and her fine leather boots were mud splattered, while her cheeks bloomed. “I came to see the portions of the fireplace that you’ve already finished.”

  “Of course.” Some of her silky auburn hair had come loose from its pins, and long tendrils fell over her shoulder and clung to the lace at her neck. He wondered if could replicate the line of that curl into one of the figures he was carving.

  “I hope the ink spill didn’t harm your sketches.”

  “Actually, it was more of an ink dousing.”

  “That’s even worse! Was anything ruined?”

  “Nothing of consequence,” he lied.

  “Good.” Her gaze slid past him to the dark corners of his workshop and then back. “Where is your servant?”

  “Pietro went to the kitchen. Ostensibly, he is fetching our lunch, although I think he’s more interested in seducing your cook.”

  She laughed. “I must meet this servant of yours. He sounds like quite a character.”

  “He is more of one than he should be.” Marco slipped his sketches into the folio so that they were out of sight. “So . . . you’ve come to see what I’ve accomplished so far. I’m happy to show you what’s already done.” Which was true, he found, rather surprised.

  “Mama will be glad for news of your progr—” Charlotte came to an abrupt halt. “How did that get here?”

  Marco followed her gaze to the moonstone. “Ah yes. That.” He looked back at her. “To be honest, I was going to ask you the same question.”

  “I didn’t bring it here, if that’s what you mean. I haven’t seen it since I left it on the mantel in the dining room. I assumed Simmons had put it away somewhere.”

  “Apparently he put it away here, on my work table. But please, feel free to take that thing with you when you leave. It’s been misbehaving and has already had a tantrum and knocked over a pot of ink.”

  She laughed, making him do so as well. “So that’s what happened to your ink pot.” Amusement warmed her eyes. “I hope you protected your toes.”

  “I did. That cursed claw ruined some old sketches and left ink stains on my hands. As you can see, I have evidence of its perfidy.” He held up his hands.

  “Oh no!” She placed her hat on the table, and then crossed to him and took one of his hands between hers, her skin as soft as her touch was gentle. She examined his ink-stained hand, rubbing her fingers over one stain as if hoping to banish it then and there. “I fear that won’t come off any time soon.”

  He looked down at her bent head and wondered why his heart was thundering in such a way. “That’s quite all right. There is nothing on my social calendar this week.”

  She sent him a surprised look, although she kept her hand between her own.

  “You don’t think I attend social events? I assure you I do.”

  “You forget I saw your fine clothing when you arrived. Besides, no matter your lack of a fine coat and vest while you’re working, your boots are not those of a common laborer.”

  “Ah, my boots. My biggest weakness. I have far more pairs than I should.”

  “So do I,” she confessed. She ran her thumb over the largest scar on his hand. It lined the edge of his thumb from his wrist to the nail. “Where did this come from?”

  “The slip of a very sharp chisel. As you can see, my chosen career is not gentle.”

  She shook her head. “So many callouses and scars.”

  “Stone can be unforgiving.” He thought she might release his hand then, but instead, she held it tighter and glanced up at him, a question in her eyes.

  He was astounded once again at the color of her eyes. He’d seen many people with blue eyes, but none as dark as hers. In a certain light, they seemed almost purple.

  “I wonder . . .” she began.

  He waited. His hands felt as if they were afire, her touch both temptation and torture. He tried not to breathe too deeply of her scent, that of sunshine and lily, which went straight to his head like the richest red wines of his home. He cleared his throat. “What do you wonder?”

  “My Aunt Verity’s maid knows many ways to get stains out of garments. She might know of a solution that would help your poor hands. I’ll ask her.”

  “Thank you.” But he didn’t want help, especially not with inconsequential ink stains. What he wanted was this woman in his arms, her lips under his, her heart beating against his own – All of which you cannot have.

  Damn reality. He tugged his hand free, picked up a rag, and rubbed his hands again. He knew it wouldn’t help, but the movement gave him the space he needed to clear his head.

  She wandered a few steps away, picking up a chisel from his work table and pretended to examine it. After a moment, she dropped it back on the table. “You confuse me.”

  He threw down the rag. “Me? How so?”

  “You are an artist, but your clothing and boots, the quality of your horse, the fact you have servants . . . I know your father is a painter, but I wonder if perhaps he is also of the nobility.”

  “My mother’s family is one of the oldest, wealthiest families in Italy. She died when I was young.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Do not be. I don’t remember much about her and even less of her family.”

  “Her family? Not yours?”

  “They disinherited her when she married my father. They thought him a lowly artist when he was, in fact, incredibly talented.” He leaned against the work table and crossed his arms over his
chest. “My grandfather did what he could to destroy my father. The old man spread vile rumors and kept others from purchasing his work. It slowed my father’s rise to fame by decades and made life for our family very difficult. But still, when my mother was alive, my father was a happy man. He says those early years were like heaven, that the sun shone every day and the birds sang only the sweetest of songs.”

  “Your parents must have been happy to have had so many children.” At his surprised glance, she flushed. “Seven is a lot.”

  Marco smiled. “Not in Italy. Sadly, my mother died shortly after giving birth to my youngest sister. My father was devastated, although he continued to paint. But as an only parent, he found it more difficult to be gone from home. Slowly, despite my grandfather’s continued efforts, success began to appear.”

  “His talent could not be ignored.”

  “No. My father worked so hard. Eventually, an art dealer from Milan offered to sell his paintings for a simple commission. My father was happy with the arrangement as he had no head for business and it allowed him to stay home. But the dealer was a thief and stole most the profits. We did not find out until it was too late.”

  “How old were you when this happened?”

  “Too young to be of help. We faced some horrible years where just finding food was a hardship.”

  “Couldn’t your father just paint more pictures and sell them himself?”

  “Shortly after he discovered the perfidy of the dealer, he grew ill. I believe it was because of his anguish over what he’d lost. He’d never truly recovered from his illness. Now his hands shake too much for him to control a brush.”

  “Oh no! I hope that scoundrel was brought to justice.”

  “Eventually, but the paintings and money were gone, so—” Marco shrugged. “We were left without.”

  “What a betrayal.” She started to say something, and then stopped. After a moment, she said in a hurt tone, “Life can be cruel.”

  “At times. But life isn’t all happy or all sad. It is a fascinating mixture of both. And now my father helps with my career and keeps me from making the same mistakes he’s made. Thanks to him, I am now the main caretaker of my family.”

  “That’s quite a burden.”

  “At times, although we all work. Two of my brothers are horse breeders, one has just harvested the first crop from his new vineyard, while the youngest is studying to be a physician.”

  “Those are your brothers?”

  “Yes. One of my sisters dedicated herself to the church, while another married a farmer who owns acres of olive trees. So you see? Except for my father’s health, life holds no ugliness for us now.”

  “It’s nice your father can assist you.”

  “He’s a better manager for me than he ever was for himself. He helps me decide which commissions will increase the value of my work and further my career. One of the things he’s insisted upon is that I should always dress as what I am, a born member of nobility.”

  “You are one, despite the meanness of your mother’s family.”

  “Italians like a good fight. Only the Scots equal the Italians in their love of a good centuries-long family feud.” He chuckled. “In fact, my father used his father-in-law’s hard heart to our advantage. My grandfather was unkind to almost everyone he met so there were a great many noble families in Italy eager to – How do you English say it? Ah yes. To put my grandfather’s nose out of joint. Those were some of my first commissions, and they paid very, very well.”

  “That was very wise of your father.”

  “It was. Still, as he’s pointed out time and again, as welcomed as those families have made me, inviting me to their supper tables and soirees, I’m not a truly accepted member of society. An artist must follow the rules of comportment, and never put himself on a level with his betters. There will be no forgiveness if I cross that line.”

  “That seems unduly harsh.”

  He shrugged. “It is life. But I’ve seen it happen to others. My experiences and those of my father have taught me well. So long as I have my carving and can answer the call of my passion, I will be content.”

  She frowned, her delicate eyebrows lowered. “Your passion. That is what sculpting is for you.”

  “It isn’t just what I do, but it’s who I am.”

  She nodded, her brow still furrowed. “I haven’t found my passion yet.”

  “You will.”

  “I hope so,” she said wistfully.

  He watched her, wondering what she was thinking, and yet knowing she wouldn’t answer if he asked. He was struck anew with the desire to kiss her. God, but never in his life had he been so beset with a mixture of curiosity and longing. What was happening to him?

  He was a fool to even think of this woman in any way other than the daughter of an employer. He’d only met Mrs. Harrington once, but he knew from the level of pride she took in her ancestral home, that she would not welcome an untitled artist into her family. If he crossed the line of propriety with Charlotte, he was risking far more than he was willing to.

  He wasn’t the sort of uncaring cad who could throw his career and the future of his own family into the dirt for nothing more than the touch of a woman he had no business speaking to, much less longing after. She is not for me. Never for me.

  His expression must have darkened with his thoughts, for a hurt look crossed her face. “What is it?”

  He shook his head, unwilling to put into words the thoughts that left his mouth tasting of ash.

  Her gaze searched his face. After a moment, she said abruptly, “We all have secrets, don’t we?”

  The hurt in her voice chipped at his heart. He wanted to reach for her, to sweep her against him and vow to never have a secret from her of any kind, but he remained where he was, glued in place, his heart so heavy it felt as if it were made of lead.

  She turned and walked away, her hem leaving a trail in the white marble dust that coated the ground.

  Charlotte stared into the dark corner of the workroom where a fire crackled in an iron stove. She didn’t know what to think of this man. Everything about him confused her. He was ambitious, passionate, determined, and creative. His eyes glowed when he spoke of his family, his face suffused with a warmth that made him look young and approachable. But in the blink of an eye, that warmth would flee and all that would be left in its place was a mixture of icy fury and passion so hot she could sometimes taste it. What made him look like that? And why did it affect her so?

  Ever since their conversation in the dining room, she’d found herself wanting to know more about him, the work he did, but why he did it. Whether she was having dinner with Aunt Verity, riding in the forest on Angelica, or abed waiting to fall asleep, a thousand questions had drifted into Charlotte’s mind and refused to leave her. She’d asked some of them just now, and his answers had been as interesting as she’d expected. But she had more. Many, many more. What was Italy like? What countries had he seen? Did he ever travel with his brothers or sisters? What was the life of a sculptor like? Did he love it? Hate it? Were there things he’d change?

  But the truly unsettling thing about her curiosity was that the more she knew about Marco and his life, the less satisfied she was with her own. She would soon be married, her duty limited to her husband, his life, and eventually their children. Meanwhile, this man who even now watched her from across the room was accomplishing something that would be treasured for centuries, something that would inspire others with its beauty, something that could change the way people thought and lived.

  Charlotte knew her life was missing something, a fact which had become only more painfully obvious after Caroline died. For years, Charlotte had been restless and unsatisfied, but she’d told herself that she had plenty of time to find whatever it was she was supposed to do and be.

  Caroline’s death had rudely ripped that falsehood away. Now Charlotte knew the brutal unpredictability of life. Of the need to grasp life, and chances, and experiences, and savor
them for all they were worth.

  And talking to Marco was making her wonder if she would ever be able to do any of that without turning her back on everything she knew – Robert, her family, the safety of Nimway Hall. Were there adventures awaiting her that she’d never have if she did what was expected of her?

  She had no idea, but while she searched for answers, she would take the time to learn what she could from this amazing and gifted man. She turned to him now. “There’s a library at Nimway.”

  He raised his brows. “I assumed as much.”

  “There are many, many books there, and last night I happened on one – quite by accident, of course – called The Methods of Sculpting, A Study in the Classical Art.” She searched his face. “Have you heard of it?”

  “Of course. It’s a notable tome.”

  “Last night, when I was having trouble sleeping, I read a little of it.” Seven chapters, to be specific, which she wasn’t planning on being.

  “I see. Did you learn much?”

  “A few things. I now know what a tooth chisel is.”

  His mouth twitched. “Impressive.”

  “And I read something about a ‘riffler,’ as well. Those are used for smoothing, in case you didn’t know.”

  “I know.” His mouth curved into a smile, his dark eyes gleaming.

  Encouraged, she added helpfully, “You may borrow the book, if you’d like. When I’m done, of course. Just in case you need to refresh your memory.”

  That did it. He laughed, the sound rich and deep. And she smiled in return, as happy as if she’d accomplished a miracle.

  When she’d first walked into his workshop, he’d greeted her with a heated look so powerful that it knocked the wind from her. A look that made her feel as if he’d happily devour her. A look that made her own body leap in awareness and desire. But before she could process that, his face had hardened into ice, as if he were infuriated with her and himself.