“To imagine the roars of the people barracking for their favorite gladiator echoes still through this old stone. I adore history if you have not noticed already. It was one of the reasons why I wanted to come here.”
“What was the other reason?” he asked, enjoying himself more than he ought, especially for a man who had been notified of his brother’s death only the day before. Not that Henry ever cared about anyone other than himself. Even so, as a brother, one ought to feel something. Regret, sadness. He felt numb. He’d lost all respect and affection for his sibling when he’d turned his back on him in London and let him face alone the savage wolves that were the ton.
“My friends.” She smiled at him over her shoulder before leaning on the stone railing and studied what was left of the combat ring. “I love them, do not mistake me, but they’re determined to see me wed. Married off and happily situated just as they all are.”
“You do not wish to be married?” Today it would seem he was full of inappropriateness. He was talking to an unmarried maid of her love affairs. That was not to be borne. Even so, he was curious why someone would run thousands of miles away to evade marriage.
“If I fall in love and marry, that is all very well, but if I do not, that is all very well. I’m not a young woman, Mr. Armstrong. If you have not guessed already.”
“You are not old either, Miss Clare. There would be many a gentleman who would offer for you, I would think.”
She chuckled, shaking her head. The action caused a curl to fall loose from her motif and bounce upon her shoulder. His gaze dipped to the unblemished skin where the coil sat, a fine collarbone pulling the eye toward her sweet neck and ample bosom that her walking gown failed to conceal. Miss Clare was extremely appealing. The word lush floated through his mind, and he severed his inspection of her before she noticed.
“You would be wrong, Mr. Armstrong. I have not had one offer in all the years I have graced the London ballrooms. But I am happy for my friends, each of their husbands I adore and love like a brother. I shall never be lonely, do not fear, but I have come to accept that perhaps my time has passed, and so before my life does too, I must seize the day and see this wonderful world for myself.”
“I admire your will, Miss Clare. I wish more women had such a strong constitution. My sister certainly does. You would like her, I think.”
“You have a sister? Who is she? Maybe I have met her before?”
Hugh pointed to the stairs that led down into the bowels of the Colosseum, taking Miss Clare’s hand and pulling her toward the entrance. “Sarah is her name, but she is some years younger than me and for years has refused to attend the Season. She spends most of her time in the country with her horses and dogs.”
“I think then perhaps I shall like her very much.”
He chuckled. The morning drifted by pleasantly. They took an hour-long tour of the underground of the Colosseum. It was an agreeable day and Hugh found himself laughing a lot more than he had in years. They returned to the villa, dusty and weary after their excursion, just as the sun reached the hottest time of the day.
Hugh pulled Miss Clare to a stop in the atrium, not willing to relinquish her hand. “Will you dine with me on the terrace this evening? I feel I do not wish for this day to end.”
A light blush stole over her features, and the urge to reach out, touch her pretty face, was overwhelming. He had not thought to meet his house guest, nevertheless find her so sweet and charming. When the Duke of Whitstone had suggested that he help him in housing Miss Clare, he’d imagined a young, spoiled debutante. One who would simper and preen as they all did and drive his servants to distraction. He’d fled to Naples imagining such a visitor. How very opportune and fortunate he was that Miss Clare was nothing of the kind.
He liked her.
“That would be delightful, thank you, Mr. Armstrong. I shall rest for the afternoon and see you at dinner.”
He bowed, watching as she went up the stairs, admiring the sway of her hips in her pretty dress. He turned, rubbing a hand over his jaw and striding to his tablinum in need of a stiff drink. He’d offered protection for her for the few weeks she was in Rome. He wasn’t to molest her. Whitstone would beat him to a pulp should he seduce the chit, even so, sometimes, a good beating was worth it if the woman who warmed your bed was as delectable as Miss Clare certainly was.
With such thoughts, was it any wonder he was banished from England.
Dinner that evening was everything Molly missed from England. Mr. Armstrong's cook had outdone herself with a roast lamb, vegetables, and turtle soup. Dessert consisted of seasonal fruits along with jelly and cakes. Even so, no matter how delicious the fare, it did not make her one ounce homesick. She loved being here in Rome, visiting the ancient city and meeting its people.
She glanced at Mr. Armstrong, so very imposing, intelligent, and too good-looking to be unattached. Not that she knew much about his past, only that he was the Duke of Whitstone's friend, and therefore someone she could trust. There was probably a gaggle of women waiting about Rome for him to call. For all that she knew, he may have a mistress who was missing him.
Molly shifted on her seat, taking a fortifying sip of her wine. She didn't want to think of him with anyone else. The idea of Mr. Armstrong in a passionate embrace with another woman made her want to cast up her accounts. An absurd reaction since she'd only known him a day.
But there was something about him she liked. He was kind and attentive and did not mock her many questions regarding life here or the treasures the city held. Their day at the Colosseum had been marvelous, and he'd been patient with her as she had taken it all in, no matter how long that took her.
Not all men would be so thoughtful.
"Shall we adjourn to the tablinum? I have two chairs that sit before a fire in that room. I know it is warm during the day, but I still like a little heat at night. I suppose you may take the Englishman out of England, but you cannot take England out of an Englishman."
"That would be lovely, yes."
Mr. Armstrong stood and came and helped her with her chair. "Bring your wine. We shall have after-dinner drinks together."
She did as he bade, before he reached out, placing her hand on his arm to escort her from the room. The moment her fingers touched his shirtsleeve, heat threaded up her arm and settled in her stomach. She swallowed, schooling her features, not wanting him to see just how much he discombobulated her. He would think her a fool for reacting so, especially when they hardly knew each other.
"You're very brave," he said, guiding her toward a part of the house she had not seen as yet. "Not many women would venture abroad with a companion and not much else. Whatever possessed you?"
"Do you reproach me for such a journey, Mr. Armstrong?" she asked, sitting in one of the leatherback chairs before the hearth. Mr. Armstrong walked over to a decanter and poured himself a whiskey.
"Not at all, but I am interested. Women do travel, of course, but they're either widowed or traveling with their husbands. I'm curious, that is all."
Molly thought back on her cousin Laura, how she had suffered through the birth of her son and subsequently paid for that birth with her life. The child only hours later following his mama to the grave.
"Many years ago, I was told never to wait for what I wanted. That if we laid all our hopes on those of others, we were destined for sadness. I promised myself I would not settle for anything other than love if I married, and if that did not eventuate that I would resolve myself to be fulfilled with only me for company. That I would not miss out on the world's gifts merely because I was unable to be someone's wife."