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.

It was as if he were fighting an internal war, and no matter which side of him won, she would lose.

He pushed himself from the table. “You wished to see the work I’ve already done. Come. I’ll show you.” He walked past her to the far end of the workroom and she followed. Squares of sunlight shone onto the ground from the windows, white dust swirling at their feet. He stopped where several large sheets of creamy white marble leaned against a wall.

“You brought all of these with you?”

“Yes. You must crate them carefully, but it can be done.”

“They’re beautiful,” she said truthfully.

She reached out to touch the marble, but he grasped her wrist, his fingers warm against her skin. “You shouldn’t touch the stone without first washing your hands. Fine marble can soak in oils, and as you’ve been wearing gloves that have been tanned, it could yellow the surface.”

She hoped he couldn’t feel her galloping pulse under his fingers. “You must wash your hands all of the time.”

He released her wrist. “Every time I work. I’ll seal this piece before I install it, but for now it needs protected.”

“How do you seal it?”

“With a waxy mixture Pietro will make once we’re ready to install the piece. The sealer can hold dirt, though, so it won’t be treated it until it is in place.” He nodded to the slabs of stone. “This marble is whiter than most. It’s mined from quarries near my home in Tuscany, near the town of Carrara.”

She leaned closer, noting that both slabs were white, but one was delicately veined with faint traces of blue and gray. “It’s beautiful.”

“It is the best marble for stonework.” Satisfaction warmed his tone. “The Romans used the same quarries. Michelangelo himself used it for his most important works.”

“Are there many types of marble? I haven’t gotten to that chapter in the book.”

He sent her an amused look. “There are more types, colors, and textures than you can imagine.”

“My father once mentioned a quarry near London that produced a pale orange marble. He was not fond of it, although the Duke of Buckingham was and had it displayed all throughout his new palace.”

“Taste does not come with money.”

“My mother says the same thing.”

“She is wise.” He picked up a dust cover and threw it over one panel of marble and carefully slid it to one side, revealing several large pieces hidden behind it, all protected with heavy covers. He tugged the tarp off a huge panel and then stood aside to let her see it. “This is the header. It goes directly under the mantel.”

He’d carved a set of figures in the center, Greek in design, and to each side he’d added a thick swag of entwined wheat. The detailing was exquisite. It was a beautiful piece, and she was instantly awed by it.

“It’s beautiful.” She tucked her hands behind her back to keep from running her fingers over the smooth figures. “How long did this take you?”

“Weeks. The smaller figures take more time as one wrong tap and it could be ruined.”

“It’s beautiful and much larger than I expected. Will it fit?”

“Easily,” he said. “The trim panels are substantial and will fill out the rest of the space.”

“Are those done, too?”

“Yes. And so is the mantelpiece.” He pulled aside more dust covers, revealing the trim panels, decorated with a rope braid carving. Nearby sat the thick mantelpiece, which sported a masterful crenelated edge in thick and heavy, but elegant line.

“Robert Adams couldn’t do better,” she said honestly.

“Adams? Pah. There is no originality in his work.”

“I’ll make a note of that in the margin of my book. Sadly, the author seems to think him a god of some sort.”

“Then the author is a fool,” Marco declared. “Have you see enough?”

“Oh yes. My mother will be pleased.” Charlotte certainly was.

“Good.” He threw the cover back over his work.

“What should I tell my mother about the pillars?”

“They will be near life sized and wonderful to behold,” he said shortly. “That is all she needs to know.”

She made a face and he laughed, his eyes crinkling. God, but she loved to make him laugh. When he laughed, her heart lifted. It was as if they were connected in some way.

Stop it, she told herself, frustrated with her wild thoughts, and somewhat amused, too. This is what happens when you’ve spent too much time reading about the art of sculpture. She was thinking about him, his smile, even that kiss, far more than she should.

Perhaps the truth of the matter was something simple. He was quite handsome, this dark-haired Italian. He should be modeling for statues, not making them. Normally, she wasn’t swayed by such things. In fact, she’d never been swayed by any man, including Robert.

The reminder of Robert chilled her thoughts. Yesterday, she’d finally received a note from him, one that was somewhat longer than a line or two. In three short paragraphs, he mentioned that he’d been busy meeting with his solicitor over matters of his estate, had bought a new horse with a fine gait, and that he should be at Nimway in a few weeks. As an afterthought, he’d added that he looked forward to seeing her.

At one time, the longer note might have eased her doubts and eased and assuaged her lonely heart. But although longer, it was highly impersonal, the tone more fitting for a distant cousin.

Still, he was her fiancé and she owed him her loyalty. She was no brazen flirt, and yet here she was, staring into the dark, mysterious eyes of a wildly handsome Italian sculptor for no other reason than she was madly curious about his untamed, romantic life.

And that was what she so desperately craved, she reminded herself. It was his life of adventure and passion, not the man himself.

His brows rose. “Scusi. Do I have a smudge of dust on my chin?”

Oh dear. I’ve been staring far too long. “No, no. I was just—” She clamped her lips closed and shook her head. “I should return to the house.”

His sensual mouth curved into a faint, lopsided smile. “I’m surprised you were allowed to visit.”

“Ah, that. My aunt might be taking a nap.”

“So she doesn’t know you are here?”

“Most likely not.”

“If I had to have a chaperone, I would want one who naps, too.” His eyes glinted wickedly and she found it difficult to swallow.

This man made her breathless, as if seeing him might, in some way, be wrong. Forbidden. It had been so long since Charlotte had tasted that particular freedom, of doing what she wanted rather than what was expected, that she was almost giddy over it.

It was sad life had change her so much, especially as that part of her had been her true nature. As Aunt Verity had pointed out, all of the Harringtons suffered from that particular flaw. Except Caroline. Caroline was perfect. Caroline had been everything good in this life, even—

A large, rough hand gently cupped Charlotte’s face and, shocked speechless, she looked up into Marco’s eyes.

His smile was gone, his brows lowered as he whispered, “Every so often, I see in your eyes a sadness so deep it seems that it would swallow you whole.”

“You can see that?”

“How could I not?” He slid his hand from her chin to her cheek, his thumb brushing her skin. “I cannot not stand to see your sadness.”

Tears clogged her throat. She wasn’t going to tell him her tragedies. She’d already revealed far too much. And yet, when she opened her mouth to deny him, other words slipped out. “My sister died ten months ago.”

His expression, already gentle, softened. “So that’s it. She is gone and you suffer.”

“Not as much as I did right after it happened.” Charlotte refused to think of those first weeks when she’d been so raw with pain. “I’m much better now. Now I’m just . . . waiting.”

“For what?”

For this. The words caught her by surprise, and she could only be glad she didn’t say them aloud.

Was this what she’d been waiting for? For this man? This moment? This feeling. One she’d never experienced before. Longing and lust, desire and excitement. But it was more than that. It echoed something she’d thought she’d forgotten, that of being alive.

His gaze narrowed. “What is it?”

“Can you . . . would you hold me?” Oh God, did I really ask him that?

“Of course.” He slipped his arm around her waist and pulled her against him, wrapping his arms about her without another word.

She was engulfed in a heady warmth, surrounded by his strength, her head cradled on his chest as his heart beat steadily against her ear. It was heavenly, and she closed her eyes, soaking him in.

“You fit into my arms, perfectly. That is why I call you ‘little one.’”

The embrace was improper and audacious, but Charlotte didn’t care. She’d asked for this and oh, how delicious it was. She burrowed deeper, slipping her arms around his waist as she breathed in the smell of ink, paper, warm stone, and sunshine.

Oh Caroline. If you could see me now. Charlotte smiled against Marco’s soft shirt, thinking about how scandalized Caroline would have been. Caroline, who never had the least urge to do anything other than what was right and proper, and had lamented that Charlotte spent far more time in trouble than out. Charlotte, why do you ride as if the hounds of hell were at your heels? Charlotte, why must you slide down the stair railing? Charlotte, why do you ride in the rain even though Papa has expressly forbidden it?

The old Charlotte, the one she’d so carefully packed away after Caroline’s death, had loved doing the forbidden. It made her heart race, her blood thunder through her veins, had colored her life with meaning.

She felt alive now, tucked into the arms of a stranger, his heart thrumming steadily under her cheek, his warmth pocketing hers. It was tempting to stay here forever, but the outside world would not let her. Aunt Verity would arise soon, if she hadn’t already. And who knew when Marco’s servant would finish dallying with Cook and return with lunch?

Collecting herself, she dropped her arms and reluctantly stepped away. “Thank you.” Her voice was so husky, she didn’t recognize it.

His dark gaze never left her face. “The pleasure was mine.”

“I . . . I should go.” She looked up into his face, searching his expression for she knew not what. “You have been so kind. I cannot thank you enough.”

His lips twitched. “Perhaps I was just being polite.”

But he was doing far more than that, and they both knew it. Impulsively, she lifted up on her toes and kissed his cheek.

It was a chaste kiss, meant only to express her gratitude. But the second her lips touched his stubbled cheek there was a long, silent moment. Neither moved, frozen in place, lips to skin.

And then, like a strike of a flint to a stack of straw, the flame burst into life.

He turned his head, his mouth ruthlessly covering hers, lifting her off her feet as he kissed her passionately.

She barely noticed that her feet were off the floor, she was so caught in the kiss, her arms tangled about his neck, her mouth opening under his, her body aflame as he—

Clunk.

He lifted his head and looked toward the door.

Cursing under his breath, he lowered her back to her feet and stepped away, his breath harsh. “That was – We should not have done that. I don’t know why I—” He raked a shaky hand through his hair and then cursed again.

Charlotte pressed a hand to her heart where it thundered against her chest. “What was that?” she managed to say between breaths.

“My servant. He came in the door, but then left again.”

He saw us. Oh dear. “I’m so sorry.”

Marco’s gaze brushed over her, taking in her flushed face and the way her fingers trembled where they were now pressed to her swollen mouth. His expression darkened. “Dio, I am a fool.”

The words struck her heart like bricks against a window, shattering and unforgiving.

“You must leave.” His face dark, Marco left her and strode to the table. He collected her hat and gloves and brought them to her. “Here.”

She took them unthinkingly, her mind racing back to life. “I’m sorry your servant saw us. I should never have—” She shook her head. “I—I didn’t mean to cross a line.”

“It’s not your fault. It’s mine.”

That was too much and the ridiculousness of his words brought her thoughts back in order. “It wasn’t anyone’s fault. It was a kiss, no more.”

His dark gaze never left her face. “You must go.”

“But I—”

“Go.”

“But—"

“Please.” He almost whispered the word. “And Charlotte?” His gaze burned into hers. “Do us both a favor and don’t come back.”

Blast it, what was happening? She tried not to take his harsh orders to heart, but she felt vulnerable and painfully rejected. Her temper slipping, she gathered herself and managed to say in a cool voice that only trembled a little, “Fine. I’ll go.” She knew to stop there but couldn’t. “I will return tomorrow to see your work on the pillars.”

“I’ll send word when there is something to see, but do not expect it for a few days. Perhaps a week or even longer.”

She bit her lip to keep it from quivering. Goaded by his flat expression, she said, “Fine. A week then. It’s good it will take that long, for I’ve so much to do. Far too much to come back here. I’ve a fitting tomorrow for my trousseau, and—and I’ve lunch with the vicar’s wife, and that’s just the beginning. I’ve got many, many other things – important things—on my calendar.”

His expression had darkened as she spoke, but he said in a dull tone. “We are both busy, it seems. Too busy to make a mistake like this again.”

A mistake. Her eyes grew hot and her eyelids prickled. “Exactly. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ll leave you to your work.” With a stiff curtsey, she swept out in the miserable sunshine, biting the inside of her lip to keep her tears at bay. It wasn’t until she reached the house that she realized that, in addition to her pride, she’d also left the moonstone behind.