“Why is that?” he asked, frowning and halting his progress at the top of the stairs. “Why would no one care what you do? I cannot believe such a statement.”
Molly stopped and glanced up at Mr. Armstrong, losing herself in his comforting stare. “While I may have friends who are well placed in society, I am not one of them. My family was good enough to help me achieve my dream of traveling to Rome, but there will not be another such venture. I’m not certain what I shall do when I return to England.”
“You do not wish to marry?” Mr. Armstrong ran a hand through his hair, cringing. “Apologies, Miss Clare. I should not ask you such personal questions. It is not my place.”
She smiled, reaching out and clasping his arm. The moment her hand touched the bare flesh, she knew it for the mistake it was. To feel his warmth, the sprinkling of coarse hair beneath her fingers shot longing through her body. Only made her want to touch more of him.
“I do not mind. If you’re to be here with me and we’re to spend more time together, you will learn soon enough that I am who I am and have no issues with being truthful. I cannot stand it when women dissemble, say things that one has to try to puzzle out. I think some women of my acquaintance think such a thing is amusing, whereas to me, it’s merely annoying.”
Mr. Armstrong barked out a laugh, taking her hand and placing it on his arm as they started back toward her room. “I think, Miss Clare, that you and I shall get along well. I, too, am opposed to disassembling and falsehoods. It is why I live in Rome. I could not live in London with the despicable gossipmongers who live to ruin other people’s lives.”
Molly stared down at the mosaic-tiled floor. His words held a hardened edge to them as if he were cut by the ton itself and knew firsthand what could happen to an unsuspecting or vague fellow in the ton.
“I hope your letter from home was not bad news, Mr. Armstrong. I should hate to be an inconvenience,” she said, hoping to change the subject away from London, and the pitfalls one could sink into without too much trouble.
He stopped at her bedroom door, and the scent of wisteria floated through the air. “You are not an inconvenience, not at all. I’m glad that you’re here and I intend to show you about Rome myself. It has been too long since I took the time to enjoy the city, the people. I will have no argument on the point, either. You’re my guest to spoil, and spoil you I shall.”
Molly stood before him, taken aback by his kindness. His sweetness toward a woman that he did not know. Perhaps his time in Rome had been lonely, and having her here allowed him to present his grand city to her. To spend time with a woman from his homeland who shared mutual friends.
“You’re too kind.” Molly opened her bedroom door, turning to face him. “I do not know how to thank you for having me here and being my escort. I shall tell Whitstone of your kindness. You can be certain of that.”
Mr. Armstrong nodded, stepping back and placing space between them. His eyes met hers and held. Molly’s heart sped up once more.
“No need for that. Your company will be thanks enough.”
Warmth touched her cheeks, and Molly prayed he thought her flush was from her tour of Rome and not his sweet words or company. Which, of course, was exactly why it was.
Chapter 3
The following morning, Hugh sat at his breakfast table that overlooked the gardens and read his mail that Marcus had brought in to him. Another letter from Sarah told him of Henry’s funeral and the outpouring of grief that the ton had managed to feign. He doubted anyone in society was honest and capable of any emotions other than greed and hate.
The sound of slippered feet caught his attention, and he looked up just as Miss Clare stepped up into the room, a small, welcoming smile on her pretty mouth.
“Mr. Armstrong. Good morning. What a beautiful day it looks to be.” She sat to his side, looking over the abundance of food to choose from that sat before her.
He had taken to serving himself since living in Rome, and having the food on the table instead of a sideboard was much easier for both him and his servants.
“It is going to be lovely, and because that is so, I have an idea.”
She glanced at him just as she placed a piece of bacon on her plate. “Even better. What is this idea?”
Her exuberance for life, for seeing the city he now called home, sent a kick through his blood. For years he had gone about with the same routine, rarely venturing out to socialize, keeping to himself and running his vineyard. To show off his home, his city to someone who did not know who he was, was liberating.
Made him feel like the young gentleman he once was in England that had his whole life ahead of him and little to worry about.
“You’ll need your best walking boots, for I’m going to take you to visit the Colosseum. We’ll return here in the early afternoon before it gets too hot.” He wanted to take her to the Colosseum, show her the majestic building, and, if permitted, take her into the building’s underground apartments where the gladiators waited to live or die.
Miss Clare’s smile lit up the room, and he found himself grinning back at her. “Are you certain I’m not taking up too much of your time? I do not want to drag you away from your work.”
He waved her concerns away, pouring her a cup of tea before finishing his own. “Not at all. I want to do this. Whitstone would never forgive me if I did not take care of you and show you about.” Not that he needed the excuse of his friend to make him escort her around. Miss Clare was a sensible, intelligent woman. It was no chore being in her presence.
The walk to the historical site took only half an hour, the stroll through the winding cobbled and paved streets pleasant on a warm morning. Behind them, Marcus and Miss Clare’s chaperone, Miss Sinclair, chatted and seemed to be getting along quite well.
The Colosseum had several arched doors to enter by, and Hugh pulled Molly through the first one they came across, walking into a large, curving tunnel, several degrees cooler than the air outside.
“What an amazing building this is.” Miss Clare stood looking out over the Colosseum, her mouth agape at the sight that beheld her. It was a common reaction and one that Hugh himself had had when he first visited the place.
They climbed stairs heading up to the tiered seat section that overlooked the central orchestra and stage. “This was all once marble-veneered, but over the years, people have stripped it of its precious decorations, and the weather has not helped. What a sight it must have made. Can you just imagine?” he asked, watching her. Warmth seeped into his bones at the unguarded pleasure that blossomed on her face. She took every ounce, every nuance of the building, no doubt imagining it in its prime.
“To think gladiators fought and died in the arena below us. And you said we might be able to go beneath?”
“Of course. It is no problem.” They walked along what was left of the seating areas that surveyed the central stage—the overwhelming magnitude of the place something he’d never forget. “I haven’t been here for some years. I’m glad that I’m here with you today, Miss Clare. To reacquaint myself with the city that I now call home.” And he was. She was a breath of fresh air into his life that had stagnated of late. He had his investments, his villa at Naples, and the vineyard, but no social life. Not when it came to attending balls and parties thrown by visitors from London to Rome. People who knew him and what he’d been accused of.