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.”

“A finial?”

“For the posts. That might work although it’s so heavy, I can’t see how it would remain fixed in place.” She tilted her head to one side and squinted at it, hoping another view might help. “It could be an ornamental end for a staircase railing. But moonstones are notoriously delicate, so I doubt that. Maybe it’s a—”

“For the love of God, woman!” He arose with a lithe movement and strode across the carpet to where she stood. He held out his hand. “Let me see that blasted thing.”

It was an imperious gesture and she was tempted to refuse, but she wanted to know what the object was, so she handed him the stone.

He took it, hefting it one hand. “It’s could be a doorstop.”

She hadn’t thought of that.

“But no.” He shook his head. “It doesn’t weigh enough. Especially not for the doors in this house.”

He had a point. Like many very old houses, the huge oak doors had been designed to make enemies quake as they imagined giants walking the halls.

He flipped the object over and examined the base. “The carving is ornate.” His brows knit, he peered closer. “It’s old. Ancient even. But as many carvings and sculptures as I’ve examined, I’ve never seen this particular style before.”

She tried not to look at his hands and failed. They were large and calloused, beautifully formed and yet strong. As an artist’s hands should be, she decided. She hadn’t paid Robert’s hands much attention, but she was certain they didn’t look like these.

Until now, she hadn’t realized how disappointing that was.

He held the object up to the light and the moonstone gleamed anew, casting a warm shadow over his stubbled face. “I wonder . . .” He held it out, as if to visualize it in use. “I know what it is. It’s the head of a royal mace or scepter.”

A royal mace. Fascinating. She looked at it with wonder. “It’s beautifully made.”

“It’s well done, although I’ve seen better.”

As if it had been bumped by an invisible hand, the mace head flipped to one side, falling from Marco’s grasp. He tried to catch it, but it slipped through his fingers and landed squarely on his foot.

She winced at the solid thud of metal hitting his leather boot. Marco cursed through clenched teeth, muttering a string of Italian invectives that made her glad she only knew the barest rudiments of the language.

He left the mace head on the floor and limped a few steps away, shaking his foot as if to shed the pain. Every step or two, he’d cast a furious glare at the stone, still muttering vivid curses.

Fearful for its safety, Charlotte scooped it up and returned it to the mantel where they’d found it.

“That thing should be tossed into that lake you’re so fond of riding around!” he declared, his teeth still clenched.

“How do you know I’ve been riding the lake path?”

“It doesn’t matter,” he snapped, and then nodded to the moonstone. “You should toss that damn thing away. It’s of no use for anything.”

“You don’t know that. And you should be more careful how you handle it. It’s an antique, as you said, and moonstones are fragile.”

“That ‘fragile’ moonstone broke my toe.”

She cocked a disbelieving look at him. “You think it’s broken?”

He moved his foot in a careful circle. “Perhaps not,” he admitted reluctantly, though his scowl remained in place.

“Keep moving it,” she ordered. “A few more minutes and your toe won’t even hurt.”

Amusement softened his ire. “You don’t know that.”

“No,” she admitted. “But I’m hoping it’s true.”

“Hope has never cured a broken toe.”

“As far as you know,” she retorted.

He moved his foot again, wincing which made him glower anew at the stone. “Throwing that damned thing into a lake would be too nice for it. It should be burned.”

“No. I like it.” She glanced at the mace head where it sat on the mantel. “I just wish I had three more to use as finials. I’d rather have them mounted on my bedposts than the carved pineapples Mama has put there.” She made a face. “It’s a wonder they haven’t given me nightmares.”

“You think four scaled claws holding oddly gleaming stones would give you fewer bad dreams than pineapples?”

“Say what you will, I think this is a beautiful piece of art.” As if it liked her compliment, the stone caught the light from the window and sparkled even brighter. “And scaled claw or not, it’s far prettier than a pineapple.” She held up and admired it. “Perhaps you could use this as inspiration?”

“A claw holding a rock? No, thank you. Besides, that damned thing is bad luck. Ask my toe.”

She sniffed. “I think it’s very good luck.”

“Yes, well, you didn’t even know what that bloody thing was before I figured it out, so . . . .” He shrugged.

“I know now. It’s a mace head,” she said in a smug tone. “A royal mace head. I know because an art expert told me.”

Marco’s foot hurt too much for him to laugh, but he couldn’t help a reluctant smile. She was as charming and as fresh as the morning sun. But behind her occasional bravado lurked something more. A hint of sadness, perhaps. Whatever it was, mixed with her mischievous innocence, it was potent, and he found himself wondering what she’d do if he pulled her to him and kissed her smile from her soft lips, drinking from them like sweet wine. His body ached anew and he pushed the thought away.

“Admit it,” she said. “The mace head is beautiful.”

No, you are beautiful, not that ridiculous moonstone. “I am no expert on random metal and stone objects. All I know is that I don’t trust that blasted thing, and with reason.” He eyed it now. As odd as it sounded, right before it fell on his foot, it had twisted from his grasp as if leaping on its own power. Almost as if it hadn’t liked what he’d just said—

Good God, I’m conjecturing on what a vexatious hunk of metal thinks. What madness is this? What was it about this place, this woman, that made his mind leap to the most impossible thoughts?

Unaware he was now questioning his own sanity, she mused aloud, “I’ll ask Simmons how it came to be here. My butler knows everything that happens under this roof, so—” Her own words seemed to catch her, for she stopped and looked at Marco. “Simmons knew you were here.”

“Of course he does. Surely you didn’t think I’d snuck in through a window like a thief?” He could see from the pink rising in her cheeks that she’d thought exactly that. “I’ve been visiting at different times of the day so I can observe how the light moves through the room. Your butler’s only request was that I shouldn’t wander into the rest of the house, which I was more than happy to promise.”

“If you’d dressed the way I first saw you, I daresay he would have allowed you to go wherever you wished.”

God, but he loved it when she let her gaze roam over him, as warm and intimate as a touch. He found it especially gratifying when he remembered that she’d ignored him for nigh on three entire days now.

His pride had been pinched by that. After their kiss in the wood, he’d wrongly believed she would find a way for them to meet again, but as far as he could tell, she’d made no effort at all. Worse, every morning since that day, he’d watched from his workshop window as she rode out into the misty morning forest on the back of her white mare.

He’d come to hate that blasted window. God, but I’m being morose. He was glad he wasn’t home where his brothers and sisters would recognize his folly and tease him relentlessly.

They would be right to do so. As ugly as it was, he knew his pinched pride came from the fact that he wasn’t used to being ignored. Women loved an artist. And as an artist, he had an endless appreciation of the beauty of the female face and body, of the hollows and shadows, of the soft lines and graceful curves. He loved their shy and seductive smiles, their soft laughter, and – when the mood suited him – their heated embraces in a rumpled bed.

Women, young and old, never ignored him. Except this one. Even now, she was eyeing him with the cautious enthusiasm of a lamb facing a rabid wolf.

She turned from the mantel and walked away, limping as she went. He’d noticed that limp when she’d come into the room, but had forgotten it while examining that cursed mace head. “You’ve hurt yourself.”

She looked at him, her face suddenly pale.

He frowned, seriously worried now. “You’re limping. What happ—"

“Enough.”

The word cut him off as cleanly as a sharpened knife, her shoulders so stiff that he caught himself before he spoke again. “I’m sorry. Have I said something wrong?”

She continued to move away from him, toward the line of chairs near the wall which he’d just left. When she reached the chair holding his papers, she turned to face him, and he saw the struggle on her face.

After a long moment, she grimaced and said in a flat tone, “I limp. It is not an injury. That’s all you need to know.”

He thought back to when they’d met in the woods. She’d walked with an uneven gait then, he realized with some surprise, but he’d blamed it on the uneven forest floor. Aware she still watched him, he threw up his hands. “I won’t ask you any more questions. If you don’t wish to speak about it, then don’t.”

“Fine. I won’t.”

Yet he could see that she still struggled with herself. Was she wondering how much she should tell him? How much he deserved to know? Very little, he decided regretfully. “Miss Harrington – Charlotte, I’m sorry if I made you uncomfortable. I was just worried about you. Perhaps I shouldn’t have been.”

Some of the tension left her face. “You were just being kind. I know that, and I should have been politer. I—I don’t normally speak of this, but I suppose there’s no harm in it.”

“You don’t have to sa—”

“My spine is crooked.” The words ripped from her lips like wine from a too tightly stoppered bottle, quickly and with the rat-a-tat-tat of a hard rain. “I was not born this way, but as I grew, my back began to curve. My parents brought doctors and physicians and even charlatans to Nimway.” There was a haunted look to her eyes. “But nothing helped.”

“The treatments were difficult.” He didn’t ask, for her expression said it all.

She nodded. “They tried potions, oils, braces, and – Oh God, everything. It got a little worse each year until I stopped growing. That put an end to it. It has gotten no worse for years now, and the doctors have left. So I am what I am and I can live with that.”

She lived with it very well, he decided. “You didn’t need to tell me all of this, but I appreciate your trust.”

She gave him a curious look. “I’m not sure why I told you,” she admitted. “But perhaps it’s better that I did. People notice, of course. Most of the time they won’t ask, which I prefer. Some of them stare when they think I’m not looking, which I hate. Meanwhile others avoid looking at me at all, as I were invisible.”

“I can see you perfectly well, even when you’re telling me my toe is not broken, when I know it is.”

She chuckled, humor washing away her irritation. “Thank you.”

“For what?”

“For not saying a bunch of endless platitudes or pitying me. I can’t stand either.”

“I could never pity you. I’ve seen you ride that brute of a mare you call a horse.”

A hint of satisfaction warmed her smile. “Angelica can be a handful.”

“Not for you. I’ve watched you ride out each and every morning since I arrived, and you never falter.” He leaned forward. “You see, I know your secret.”

“Secret?”

“Oh yes. You might sedately trot that beast from the stables with you looking like a veritable maiden of meek and proper manners, but as soon as you’re out of view of prying eyes, you set her to a wild gallop and ride until it must feel as if you’re flying.”

Her eyes sparkled. “It does. I don’t limp when I ride.”

“No one does. If we’re to be honest, I must admit that I hadn’t noticed this curve you’ve mentioned. But then I was busy admiring other parts of you. Your eyes, your hair, the boldness of your nose—”

She slapped her hand over her nose.

He chuckled. “Don’t cover it. I find your nose fascinating or I wouldn’t have mentioned it. There are more parts of you that I admire, but sadly, as they were involved in a kiss that never happened, I can say no more.”

This time she was the one who laughed. God, but it was good to see the sadness disappear from her eyes.

Still chuckling, her gaze dropped to the discarded papers he’d left crumpled on the floor which were now at her feet. She bent to pick one up, but he was quicker, scooping up the crumpled pages and carrying them to the fire. Soon they were sputtering in the flames.

“Why did you do that?”

“If they were good ideas, they wouldn’t have been wadded up on the floor.”

She watched the pages turn to ash. “There were a lot of them. That doesn’t reflect well on your muse.”

“My muse is a vengeful wench who finds it amusing to mislead me repeatedly.“ Satisfied his ruined sketches were where they belonged, he crossed his arms and watched them waft up the chimney, nothing left but glowing ashes.

“You have no idea what you’re going to do with these pillars, do you?”

“Not yet, but I will.”

“I’m surprised Mama gave you so much leeway.”

Arms still crossed, he addressed the ceiling. “Do you hear the way this one insults me? She doubts me openly and will not even pretend she thinks me capable.”

“Are you talking to your muse?”

“No, to God. No one else would believe what nonsense I must put up with for my art.”

Her eyes twinkled with suppressed laughter. “I didn’t mean to suggest you were incapable in any way, especially not the son of a famous painter.” She shot him a curious glance. “Is that how my mother found you? Through your father?”

“Not at all. I met your mother a few years ago when she was traveling through Venice with your father. I’d just installed a number of statues for a garden, along with a large fountain. She admired them very much, although I didn’t hear from her until several months ago when she wrote to offer me this commission. If she likes my work, she will recommend me to the Queen. That is why I accepted the offer, although it was generous enough on its own. Such a recommendation will lift my reputation to a new level. And if I can fulfill a commission for the Queen, then I am made.”

“You are ambitious.”

“I have dreams,” he admitted. “And a family that depends on me.”

“Oh yes. All those brothers and sisters.” Her smile slipped, and her gaze dropped to the fireplace. A log shifted, the noise echoing in the silence as a large ember landed on the hearth.

She moved away, keeping her skirts a safe distance from the flames.

He watched, admiring her slender, graceful hands where they held the blue silk of her gown. Something about this woman pulled at him, something beyond a heated kiss shared in a mystical wood. The way she moved and spoke, both impulsive and quick, contradicted the caution he saw in her blue gaze.

There were many layers to this woman, and to his chagrin, he wanted to know them all. “Come to my workshop, I’ll show you the pieces I’ve already finished.” The words slipped from him as if pulled by a golden thread.

Good God, why had he offered that? He never allowed anyone to see his work until it was in place and perfect.

“I would like that, but I mustn’t slow you down. The fireplace must be installed by—” Her lips closed over the words as if they refused to be spoken aloud. After a strained moment, she said, “Soon.”

“Your mother gave me a month.”

She nodded. “We’ve an event, a formal breakfast. Hundreds of people have been invited.” With a sudden burst of restlessness, Charlotte turned away, her skirts rustling with each step. “I should go.”

“Charlotte?”

She stopped and then slowly turned to look back at him.

“What is this purpose of this breakfast?”

She smoothed nervous hands over her skirt, her eyes haunted. “It’s to celebrate a wedding.”

The words echoed in the large, nearly empty room. “Whose wedding?” he asked, although he already knew.

“Mine.” Her answer was almost a whisper. Without another word, she turned and left, closing the door behind her with cold finality.

He stared at the door, shocked at what she’d said, and even more shocked at his own reaction. His chest ached as if someone had kicked it. Who is this woman to me that I ache at such information?

He didn’t know, but even more than that, he couldn’t ignore the despair that had darkened her eyes. Was she being forced into this marriage? He couldn’t imagine that to be true, for he’d already witnessed her spirit. But shadows hung about this woman like silk scarves, and he knew there was much he had to learn before he understood her.

She was a conundrum, he decided. An enticing, beckoning, inspiring conundrum.

Sighing, he picked up his charcoal and paper, and resumed his seat. He stared at the fireplace for a long time, the forgotten moonstone no longer catching the light.

After a while, he forced his mind to empty, and he closed his eyes and drew. The charcoal raced across the page, the image blooming to life as his hand moved faster and faster.

Finally, his hand stilled and he opened his eyes.

The paper didn’t contain a magnificent design for the pillars. Instead, a young woman stared out at him, her lips soft, her eyes the saddest he’d ever seen.