“Maria, will you show me to my room, please?”
The housekeeper bustled down a wide passageway until she came to a room that overlooked more of the villa grounds, lawns, and gardens that swam with a variety of colors. The tinkling sound of water carried up to her, and she looked for the fountain but could not see it from her room. She would have to go downstairs to find it herself.
Her room was a tiled mosaic floor that was made out in a variety of blossoming flowers. Her bed was large, opulent with its coverlet and abundance of pillows. She, too, was partial to lots of pillows on beds. It somehow made them look complete. Perfect.
A small writing desk occupied the space before one window, and a large settee sat before her fire. Although she did not believe she would need that at all while she was here in Rome. Not with it being so warm.
“There is freshwater and linens behind the screen for you, Miss Molly. When you’re ready to go out, come downstairs, and I shall fetch Marcus for you. He will keep you safe and show you all the best sites Rome has on offer.”
“Thank you so much. I cannot tell you how thrilled I am about being here.”
The housekeeper smiled before leaving her to her ablutions, the sound of Miss Sinclair’s voice as she was taken to her room echoing down the hall.
Molly walked to the small balcony her room had and glanced down at the garden. She raised her face to the sun, breathing deep. What an idyllic location to live. One could get used to such a place and never return home to rainy, dreary old London.
Chapter 2
He wasn’t supposed to be in Rome. He’d promised his close friend the Duke of Whitstone that he would leave Miss Molly Clare alone for the month she was visiting the ancient city. But he could not. Not because he wished to meet the chit—he’d long thrown away any notion of making a grand match or even trying to court a lady.
Business brought him back to Rome a month earlier than planned. A letter from his brother’s steward in London never bode well. What had his brother done now that was so very bad that the black sheep of the family had to be notified?
Lord Hugh Farley, younger brother to the Duke of St. Albans, pushed through the small door off the street that led into his Roman villa and strode through the gardens, headed for his office. He waved to a couple of his staff who were picking vegetables, ignoring the fact they looked a little shocked at his return. His housekeeper Maria doubly so when he strode into the atrium.
“I shall have lunch brought into my office, please, Maria.” He half-laughed at the woman’s expression. “Do not look so shocked at my being here. I do live here as you well know.”
The housekeeper made an awkward chuckle before following close on his heels. “You have Miss Molly Clare here, Signore Hugh. Do you not remember she is to stay a month?”
“I have not forgot, but I received a letter from my brother’s steward that I must attend to.” His man of business in Rome had sent word to him, telling him to return from Naples as soon as possible. It was unfortunate that Miss Clare was here at the same time as he, but this was his home, and she had a companion, it would not be too scandalous, surely.
“I do not intend to ruin her, Maria. Do amend your distress.”
Another awkward laugh from his housekeeper rent loudly in the room. Hugh glanced up at her, not missing that she was now wringing her hands in her apron. “You disapprove.”
“She’s unmarried, Signore. You, too, remain unmarried. We could weather any storm of her being here when you were not at home, but now that you are, tongues will wag. Whether those tongues are in Rome or London.”
“Let them wag. I have business to attend to, and she has a companion. There is little we can do about it. I shall not allow society to rule my life.” God knows he’d allowed enough of that in London along with his family. The thought of his brother, his mother, soured the taste in his mouth. He picked up his penknife and sliced open the missive.
“Lunch, Maria. If you please.”
As if remembering herself, she bobbed a quick curtsy and left the room. Hugh opened the parchment and read. His blood ran cold at the black, cursive words that lay out before his eyes.
His Grace, the Duke of St. Albans, had passed away after a carriage accident. We here inform Lord Hugh Farley that you are now the Duke of St. Albans, heir to St. Albans Abbey in Kent, Brentwood House in Surrey. and Clare Castle in Ireland.
The rest of the missive blurred at the thought of his brother no longer living. This letter was already a month old. Hugh leaned back in his chair, staring blankly at the wall before him.
It could not be.
Henry was dead? His only brother. Another letter sat on his desk, the neat, flowing script that of his younger sister, Sarah. He tore it open, not bothering with the penknife. She was less diplomatic, having never been very good at making her words less blunt and to the point. Her letter contained details about their brother’s demise, of his foolhardy bet with the gentleman who formed his London set. They had planned to race a curricle from London to Southampton, and Henry had overturned the vehicle, killing himself instantly. She implored him to return to London post-haste and take up the position as the Duke of St. Albans.
Hugh scrunched up the letter, throwing it onto his desk. London could go hang. The fickle ton may very well forgive him the scandal that dogged his every move in that city, but he would never forgive London.
The bastards.
The amused, excited voice of a woman flittered downstairs before the boots on his staircase echoed in the foyer. From where Hugh sat, he could see who came and went in the atrium outside his tablinum. In the past ten years that he’d lived in Rome, he realized that there had never been a woman under this roof, save the servants of course.
He watched the threshold of his door, wanting to see what this Miss Molly Clare looked like. His friend, The Duke of Whitstone, one of only a few he had left in the world, had written to him asking for assistance in housing Miss Clare. He could not refuse.
Every year, Hugh traveled to Naples to his vineyard there, so there were no problems offering his Roman villa while he moved to his estate in the country.
A woman in an azure-colored dress stepped into his line of sight, and the breath in his lungs seized. She wasn’t a young woman as he thought she may be, but a woman, her figure filling out her day gown in the most promising way.
Her hair was inky black and tied up into a motif of loose curls, some of which had already fallen out and bounced about her slender shoulders. A bonnet hung from her wrist from a vivid-blue ribbon, and a pelisse lay over her arm. Everything about her embodied what he had left behind in London. Had he stayed in England, he could now be married to a woman as appealing as Miss Clare. Had a family, children playing about his hessian boots. A pang of nostalgia thrummed through him over everything that he had lost by leaving London to live in Rome.
By following the rules and doing what he was told.
Not that it was his fault that he had to come away, his brother Henry had ordered him to take the fall for his wayward actions. Hugh had refused of course, until both his mother and brother had told him his ruin was done. That the ton would not accept him from that moment onward. His choice was clear, leave England or face being cut off socially and financially.
A younger son of a duke, he had money, of course, but not enough that would keep him for long. He had not studied law or the church as one might to live. A stupid mistake.