Marco returned to his workshop to find Pietro sweeping the floors. The stonemason, unaware that Marco had just spent an enjoyable hour with the woman he shouldn’t have spent an enjoyable hour with, didn’t notice that his master was in a better than normal mood.

But he was. A much better mood, and all because of a beautiful, secret grotto in the heart of Balesboro Wood.

That was why he felt like whistling as he set back to work. Naturally, none of his cheerfulness had to do with the fact Charlotte was no longer marrying–

Marco squinted at the ceiling. What was that man’s name again?

He shrugged. Oh well. No matter. He is gone. Marco angled the chisel and tapped it lightly, a chip flicking off the statue and falling to the floor.

Pietro put away his broom and watched Marco worked. The stonemason grunted his approval. “It goes well.”

Marco, who’d been working on a dimpled elbow, sat back on his heels. “There are two types of statue. One of them will fight you as you try to draw it from the stone. There are chips and broken rock, hard spots that cannot be smoothed, and smooth spots that cannot be carved. The stone and the statue struggle against one another, and the artist is caught between.”

“I know those well. What is the other kind?”

“The statue is strong and the stone knows it is beaten before the fight begins, so it steps aside. It allows the statue to emerge unscathed. These pillars are the second type of statue. I can see the figures so clearly that the rest of the stone is already dust.”

“They will be some of your best work.”

“They will be magnificent. You’ll see.” He went back to work, while Pietro, after stoking the fire, announced he’d been invited by Davis and the other grooms to play cards, but would go only if Marco didn’t need him.

“Go,” Marco said. “I won’t need you any more today.”

“Are you sure—”

“For the love of Zeus, I am positive! Just don’t lose. I’ll not have you returning to Italy as naked as the day you were born because you lost all of your possessions in a card game.”

Pietro grinned. “I promise to cheat as hard as I can and to never wager my final pair of breeches.”

“You are a man of great sense.” Marco waved the servant away. “Enjoy yourself.”

Chuckling, the stonemason left, and Marco continued his work, carefully tapping away at the white marble. Today had been a good day. Of course, he was still angry at that damned owl. The sketch was still gone, and Marco’s hands still scratched, his knee was still stiff, but as painful and humiliating as his foray into the woods had been, it had been worth it to spend an hour in a beautiful grotto with an intriguing and seductive woman.

She was all of that and more, he decided, fitting the chisel to the fold of the caryatid’s inner elbow. He wondered if Charlotte’s elbow would be as dimpled. She didn’t seem the least remorseful that she’d ended her engagement. He smiled. As it should be. He’d been relieved at that.

He paused, the hammer cocked, the chisel in place, and wondered why he cared. Even though Charlotte was no longer engaged, she was still the daughter of his patron, and when her mother learned her daughter was no longer engaged, plans would be made for another marriage.

Another suitor would be found.

And if that didn’t work out, then there would be another.

And another.

And ano—

He slammed the hammer onto the chisel’s head so hard that a loud ring echoed. An awkwardly shaped chunk of marble fell to the floor with a thunk. Cursing, he examined the spot he’d hit, and was relieved to find that although he’d removed more than he’d meant to, his error hadn’t destroyed the lines of the statue.

Good God, he had to be careful. He turned from the statues and dropped his tools on the table as if they were hot.

Of course, Charlotte would have other suitors. God knew she deserved a swarm of them. And he was well aware that marriage was the goal of well born women. Such was life. The problem was that he couldn’t imagine a man worthy of her. She was a genuinely good person. So funny. So fascinating. So complicated and spirited and—

And not for me. He closed his eyes. He was having too much trouble remembering that.

He gritted his teeth and picked up his hammer and chisel again. Damn all this thinking; I need to work. For the rest of the day, that’s all I’m going to think about.

Soon the tap tap tap of the hammer filled the room, and the chips flew. Dust clung to his clothing and skin. As the hours passed, his hands and shoulders ached with his efforts. It was difficult, but every time thoughts of Charlotte threatened to return, he would mercilessly tap tap tap the thought away, letting the chips drop into a pile at his feet.

Marcus worked through dinner and into the night, pausing only when Pietro came staggering home, coins jingling in his pockets. The stonemason mumbled an incoherent story about an eight of spades, and then fell as he tried to climb into his cot. Pietro ended up on the floor, laughing hysterically, until – finally – with a mumbled oath, he rolled onto his side and fell asleep. Marco stopped long enough to put a pillow under the old man’s head before returning to work.

Hours later, Marco stepped back and examined his work, rolling his shoulders where they’d knotted. The features were now clear, the arms and legs almost done, as were the graceful folds of the toga. Tomorrow, he would leave the chisel and hammer behind, and start smoothing the stone.

His gaze flickered to the faces and he growled under his breath. Soon, my muse, you will have to reveal them to me.

No muse answered, so – tired and aching – he went outside to the well to wash before he stumbled to his bed to sleep.

* * *

He awoke late the next morning to a soft rain thrumming on the roof. He sat up and stretched away the familiar stiffness of his arms and shoulders. That done, he arose, put on clean breeches and a fresh shirt, tugged on his boots, and raked his hands through his hair. Stretching mightily, he made his way to his workshop and found the fire freshly stoked, warding off the chill brought by the rain. On his work table sat a plate holding an apple, a wedge of cheese, and some bread. Pietro, however, was nowhere to be seen. No wonder Simmons has decided he dislikes you, old friend. You have taken up permanent residence in the kitchens, and no one likes a distracted cook.

Famished, Marco ate, his gaze wandering to the statues. Today he would begin smoothing the lines made by his chisel. He would smooth those, and then polish them until they were silky and shiny. Where should be begin, he wondered. On the arms, perhaps. They provided the most movement in both pieces. Eager to begin, he pushed his empty plate aside and found his tools.

He worked for several hours, and slowly, slowly, the lines of his chisel were erased, leaving only the sheen of milky white, polished marble. It was laborious, but the beauty of the end result pushed him onward.

Still, the blank faces irked him. What are they supposed to look like? He tried to imagine them, but his stubborn muse wouldn’t answer his call.

Muttering to himself, he set aside his tools and repaired to his worktable. He found some foolscap and a stick of charcoal, and began to sketch, trying various shapes for the faces, different noses and lips, different curves for the cheek. Anything to unlock his imagination.

He’d just sketched a series of eyes when the stable door was thrown open. He looked up, expecting to see Pietro, but instead, Charlotte rushed inside, a blanket held over her bonneted head, water dripping from every surface. “Goodness, it’s coming down!” She threw off the blanket and tossed it over a barrel sitting near the door and grinned. “It’s raining hard. The drops are splashing like marbles in a tea cup.”

She was here, and he was painfully glad to see her. But that same happiness was tinged with a cold whisper of despair. He’d been living in a dream, ignoring reality. He wondered bleakly how he’d allowed such a thing to happen.

She wore a yellow gown decorated with a spill of frothy white lace at her neckline and from each elbow, and she glowed as if lit by a thousand candles in a room darkened by the rainy gray of the outside sky. Her wet hem dragged on the ground, and mud had spattered over her boots, yet she managed to still look like what she was – a beautiful young lady of the best birth, rich in heritage, destined to carry on an ancient family name.

She untied her bonnet to reveal slightly mussy hair. “I hope you don’t mind my stopping in, but I was out taking a walk and it began to sprinkle, so I was forced to take refuge here.”

“It’s been raining for hours.”

“It was a long walk,” she replied smoothly, as if she’d expected his comment.

Damn it, why did she have to make him laugh? It made it impossible to stay cross, and he needed his anger. “Fortunately for you,” he said in a pointed tone, “it is a short distance to the Hall. If you leave now, you will be there in time for lunch.”

“I don’t want to return to Nimway. I want to be here.” She untied the ribbons of her bonnet and tugged it free, shaking her head to loosen her curls. “I love rainy weather, don’t you?”

“I prefer sunshine.”

“I like sunshine, too. Just not all the time.”

He pushed himself from the worktable and faced her, his arms crossed to keep himself from reaching for her. “Charlotte, we must talk.”

Her smile faltered. “Why?”

She already knew, then. He could see it in her eyes, in the faint quiver of her bottom lip. “Our time in the woods yesterday was . . . I will never forget it. But it doesn’t change anything.”

“Did I say it had?” Her voice was defiant.

“No, but you came here today and are acting as if everything is well and good, and you know it isn’t.”

“You’ve been thinking. And thinking too much, in my opinion.”

“You had the same thoughts. Don’t deny it. I can tell. I’ve been trying to pretend that we’re just playing a game. But it could easily be more than that for both of us. Charlotte, I’m on the verge of falling in love with you. I think you’re feeling the same.”

She bit back a sign, her eyes searching his face. “You’re worried.”

He did worry; he worried about how enraptured he was over her already, and it had only been a few short weeks. He worried about how much more enthralled he’d be if he continued to see her.

But most of all, he worried about her, and how she would survive the weight of another loss.

He sent her a bleary look. “We can’t do this.”

She placed her bonnet on his worktable, making sure she didn’t set it on any papers that might absorb the dampness. “I didn’t come here to talk about any of this. I came to see your work."

He swallowed a frustrated sigh. “It’s not finished yet. Now please, go back to Nimway Hall. I can’t—"

“Yes, yes. You’re shy about sharing your accomplishments. That’s very commendable of you, but I—Ah!” Her gaze found the statues, and she was there before he could stop her.

Damn it, I should have covered those blasted things.

She stood before them, a note of awe in her voice. “I’d heard you’ve been hard at work, but this . . . You will finish them early if you continue at this pace.”

“Who told you I’d been hard at work?”

“Pietro told Cook, who told Simmons, who told me, but not before he’d complained about the amount of time Pietro has spent in the kitchens and how Simmons is certain the missing ham is now residing in Pietro’s rather large belly.” She frowned. “There was also something about pickled eggs, too, but I didn’t quite catch it all.”

“Good God. I’m going to skin Pietro alive.”

“Not if Simmons gets to him first.” She bent and picked up a marble chip and turned it over in her hands, smoothing it as she did so. “To think that something so beautiful came from a plain block of stone.”

He tried not to watch her, but he couldn’t help himself. Her hands were as beautiful as the rest of her, slender and narrow, and as graceful as the fall of water over a smooth rock.

He watched her examining the stone and he realized how much she’d changed in the few weeks he’d been here. When he’d first met her, she’d had a tight, frozen exterior. Over the last few weeks, her facade had given way and the real Charlotte had been revealed. And that is the Charlotte I am falling in love with, the one tightly tucked away, afraid to be seen.

She picked up more chips of marble, holding them to the light.

His fingers, still wrapped around a stick of charcoal, itched to sketch her. He wouldn’t sketch her the daughter of a wealthy scion, a maid of virtue and the utmost respectability as her blood demanded. No, he’d follow instead the wildness he sometimes caught in her gaze, the sensual line of her mouth that bespoke the carefully protected life she’d led. He would capture the fullness of her breasts, and the delicate hollows of her shoulders, both of which begged to be explored and tasted. He would have her reclined on a chaise, nude except for a silk shawl, which he’d drape over her bared thighs—

Snap. The charcoal stick broke between his fingers. He stared at the splintered charcoal, his mind still spinning with the image he’d captured.

The marble chips clattered as she returned them to the pile. She nodded at the half-carved pillars. “These are quite tall. Almost my height.”

“Almost.” Marco tossed the broken charcoal onto the table. “The fireplace is to be the focal point for the room, after all.”

“That will be is a lot of marble.”

“It’s a big fireplace.”

Her lips twitched. “True.” She turned from the marble and walked toward him, her gaze flickering past him to his work table. “So many sketches! What were you working on these when I came in?”

He stepped between her and the table, even though it put him far too close to her for his comfort.

She smiled up at him, and he was surprised to see flecks of gold in her blue eyes, reflected from the gray, rainy light. Overhead, the rain thrummed, while the scent of lavender filled the space between them.

His heart thudded harder and he rammed his hands into his pockets. “You can’t—”

She darted around him, grabbed a handful of sketches from the table, and dashed away before he could do more than curse.

He yanked his hands from his pockets and stalked after her, but she sprinted around a pole in the center of the room, her skirts fluttering as she whisked herself to the farthest corner where she stopped near a window and looked at the pages she’d stolen.

“I don’t like people to see my sketches!”

“I don’t know why,” she said, her gaze still on the pages. “They’re wonderfully done.”

“They’re not wonderfully done when your father is a world-famous painter.”

She looked up from the papers. “Ah. A critic, is he?”

Marco shrugged. “He has standards. As an artist must.”

“I can’t imagine he’d have anything negative to say about these. They’re beautiful.” She held up the sketches he’d made of several different types of mouths. “I never knew there were so many types of lips, and they’re all beautifully drawn.”

He tried to drag his attention from her mouth and failed. There may be a hundred different types of lips, but only one set beckoned him, tormented him, bewitched him.

She lowered the pages. “You’re trying to design the faces for your pillars.”

“I’m trying, yes.”

“You’ll figure it out.”

He held out his hand. “If you’re done with those?”

She made a face, but brought him the pages.

He carried them back to his worktable and slid them back into the folio before he turned to her. “Why are you here?”

She shrugged, and he thought she lost a little of her color. “I came to see you. There’s nothing wrong with that.”

“Isn’t there?” he said grimly.

She lifted her chin. “No, there isn’t.”

He sighed, raking a hand through his hair.

“Fine. If you must know, I came to see you and for no other reason.” Her gaze met his. “Marco, please,” she said softly. “We only have a week or so left, if that. We’d be foolish not to enjoy what time we do have.”

“We’d be more foolish to expose ourselves to more pain. For us, a few weeks would be too many.”

“Perhaps. But I’d rather say I had the best week of my life, than the worst.”

Dio, he hated it when she made sense. He rubbed a hand over his face. “I don’t know if I can just—stop. And that’s what you’re asking me to do. To continue seeing you, talking to you, being with you. And then, I am to just walk away and pretend I can continue as if nothing happened?”

She wet her lips nervously, and he had to bite back a moan. “You . . . you think we’re falling in love. Maybe it’s just passion.”

“I don’t know what it is,” he answered honestly. “I only know that every time I see you, it’s not enough. I know that I think about you constantly when I’m awake and when I’m asleep. I know that I’m already aching with wanting you and aching at the thought of leaving you. I don’t know if this is love or passion, or if it will last to the end of the month or carry us forever.” He spread his hands wide. “All I know is that seeing you more and then leaving you will cut my soul until it begs for release.”

“No, no, don’t say that! I—” She rubbed her temples, and took a short walk around the room, returning to where she began. “It’s so confusing! Right this instant, I want to kiss you and to run away at the same time.”

“Which is why we should end this now, before it’s too late.” He took a deep breath. “If it’s not already. Charlotte, we can’t fall in love. My career . . . but worse than that, your family would not approve. You could lose them. We would have to give up more than we have to give. And I fear, if we made that decision, we’d regret it. I think—” He took a deep breath. “No, I know it would be best to end this now.”

“But—”

“No, listen to me. As hard as this is, we can do it. We can stop this now. But we cannot see each other again, because every time we talk, every time we touch or kiss or just sit beside each other and watch sunshine playing on the surface of a pool, we’re making it that much more difficult.”

She nodded, her eyes bright with unshed tears. “Damn you.”

Surprised, he waited.

“You’re right,” she whispered. Her eyes shiny with tears, she looked about the room as if trying to remember where she was. “I should go.”

His throat ached with tightness, but he nodded.

She collected her things, leaving her bonnet untied, the strings trailing over her shoulders, the blanket hanging over her arm.

He watched her, the lump in his throat growing until he couldn’t breathe. His heart begged him to stop her, to say something and say it quickly, while his head reminded him of the life he’d be condemning both her and his family to if he stole away with her. No love could survive that. Not even this one.

Lightning flashed, followed by a boom of thunder that made the ground tremble. Rain roared down.

“Wait!” He took a step forward. “You shouldn’t go out in that. Stay here until—”

He spoke to an empty room. With a final teary-eyed look, she’d whisked her blanket over her head and left, the empty doorway standing open behind her.