Gladly Beyond (28 page)

That made a sort of twisted sense.

“Did the Colonel say we shouldn’t be talking to each other or meeting like this?”

“No. He just seemed . . . concerned. Told me he would be watching to make sure I
behave
. His exact word.”

“Again, that’s—

“Weird, I know.”

I pursed my mouth, trying to shove worrying thoughts about the Colonel away.

Dante was still standing too close. Big and warm and so very male.

“What do you think about John Hawkwood’s monument?” I asked.

I used the question as an excuse to walk around him and down twenty feet to the enormous fresco on the wall.

Effectively changing the topic and putting some much needed space between us.

Granted, the fresco really
was
an excellent example of Paolo Uccello’s work from the mid-1400s. Hawkwood was staged on an enormous pedestal, seated in profile on his horse. The entire thing painted with a strong
trompe l’oeil
effect to make it look like a carved stone statue instead of merely a painting.

“It’s nice.” Dante came to stand beside me. So close our shoulders all but pressed against each other.

Figured.

Part of me wanted to draw a circle diagram for him explaining how personal space bubbles worked.

But . . . he smelled so good. Shower-fresh with just a hint of that cologne.

I held my ground.

“I always want to touch things like this,” he continued. “Skim through past scenes to see the original artist.”

I swung my head to look at him. “You’ve done that?”

“A time or two. A friend of the family let me set a finger on Michelangelo’s
David
once. He was a
remarkably
unattractive man. Michelangelo, that is.”

“Really?”

“Really and truly. Huge nose and matted, dark hair. I don’t think he ever bathed.”

“Wasn’t that just a sixteenth century thing?”

“Possibly, but I caught a glimpse of Raphael once too. Now there was a sophisticated, urbane
artista
.”

We studied the fresco in silence for a moment, necks arched to look at it.

“Still no regression.”

“Yeah.”

“Now what?” I asked.

“No idea.” He rubbed the back of his neck.

“Should we wander?”

“Sure.”

And so we did. Up the rest of the nave to the center of the cathedral—Brunelleschi’s enormous dome covered in a monumental fresco by Vasari. Dante maintaining a too-close distance the entire time.

Still nothing.

“How’s Sister Floozy?” I asked.

“Good. Settling in. Mom set her leg and said she’ll be fine in a week or two.”

“And Boney?”

“Bossy. He has definite opinions about everything.”

“Some people never change.”

“True. Though it’s cute in rodent form.”

“Context truly is everything.”

We strolled along the center aisle, past the chairs set up for Mass but roped off to deter the tired tourists looking for a place to sit.

I stopped and circled around, thinking. And then pulled out my phone.

“Okay, so when I saw Ethan in here . . .” I scrolled to the relevant photos. “The first one was over there.” I pointed to a spot just below the fresco. “But he’s not looking at me. See?”

I tilted the phone for Dante. He leaned over my shoulder, pressing his chest against my upper arm.

I ignored the sizzling sensation of his touch. Or, rather, tried super-duper hard to ignore it.

“But we were over there and no regression happened,” I continued.

Dante reached over my shoulder and swiped to the next photo. The one of Ethan staring straight at me.

“In this one, he was about right . . .” Dante studied the photo and then looked at the cathedral around us. “There.” He pointed to a spot twenty feet in front of us.

“Shall we?” He held out a hand to me.

I pocketed my phone. And, with a deep breath, took Dante’s hand.

Strong, warm fingers wrapped around mine. What was it about
us
that made me want to melt into him? This aching sense of familiarity. Rest my head against his shoulder and never pull away?

He led me forward.

Darkness blurred my vision.

This situation is so utterly impossible,
I thought.
How shall we ever come to a resolution?

Twenty-One

W
e risk too much meeting like this.” Caro pulled her shawl tighter around her shoulders, keeping her face impassive and neutral.

She
wanted
to throw her fists to the sky and rage about injustice and helplessness.

Instead, she calmly checked that Mary was following close at her heels.

Propriety was paramount.

All and sundry had to see Ethan walking at her side as a mere coincidence. A chance encounter.

Nothing more.

“I know. Yet, I canna help myself.” His low murmur shivered through her.

Just the
sound
of his voice . . .

Ethan tipped his hat to an acquaintance as they strolled up the nave. Proper. Polite. His simple wool coat clean and well pressed. Cravat neatly tied.

He was the handsomest man of her acquaintance.

This was the fourth time they had met in the Duomo. Not to mention the chance encounters in Piazza Santa Croce, near the Palazzo Vecchio, at the Countess’ salons . . .

All very proper and yet entirely not.

Caro walked at his side. Not touching, of course. Taking his arm without the Countess present would be deemed . . . inappropriate, given the difference in their rank.

But all of her longed for it. Yearned to claim him as her own.

Caro closed her eyes, trying to stem the ache spreading out from her heart.

She had fallen in love with him. A Scottish physician with not much more than his manners and education to recommend him, a mother and sister under his care.

Why did everything about him have to feel so . . . right? As if Ethan were a part of her very soul. And if they were cut off from each other, everything that was Caro would wither. Like a rose denied sunlight.

She had spent her life as a blank canvas. An empty space for other men to draw their hopes and dreams upon. She had learned long ago the safety of being deemed . . . vacant.

But now . . . there was something so incredibly painful in being
seen
. Known.

Which was why she risked these meetings. She was helpless to stay away. Despite her all-but-announced betrothal to the Duke of Blackford.

“I fear Lady Albany knows,” Caro said.

She felt more than saw Ethan’s sudden tensing.

“How so?”

“She told me a decidedly long story about a ‘friend’ who found herself in love with a—well, she used the word
unsuitable
—gentleman, but the lady was betrothed to a wealthy earl.”

Ethan shot her a decidedly grim look.

“I know, I know. Spare me your dark expressions.” Caro managed a weak smile. “The Countess continued saying that the lady married her splendid earl and then went on to conduct an affair with the
unsuitable
suitor for the next ten years.”

Ethan let out a harsh breath.

“My thoughts exactly,” Caro murmured.

“Did she say this woman was herself?”

Caro laughed, low and breathy.

“I think her meaning was well taken. Will you be offended if I say I am no adulteress? Unlike others, I would feel honor in my marriage vows. I am dreadfully bourgeois in that way.”

“Heavens! What sort of a man do you take me for? Offended? Exactly the opposite. I admire anyone who holds true to a sacred vow. Particularly you,
m‘aingeal
.”

“Hush. Others might hear.”

A pause.

“I would shout it from the rooftops, were I at liberty to do so.”

His warm breath brushed her ear, indicating how far he had leaned. The heat of him lapped her, causing her breath to hitch.

“Say the word, my love,” he continued. “I can leave Blackford’s service. He does not own me—”

“Perhaps not. But you do
owe
him. He saved you from poverty, paid for your education. And then there is the matter of your mother and sister.”

“I can send for them. We live in enlightened times. Surely Blackford would exact no revenge.”

“Are you so sure?”

Another beat of silence.

“He is the consummate collector, Ethan,” she continued. “He wants the rare and unusual. The brilliant Scottish lad plucked from poverty and transformed like Pygmalion. The granddaughter of the last Pretender, no matter my illegitimacy. The Michelangelo
modello
that is the dowry my great-uncle left me—”

“You misjudge Blackford, I think. He is weak and spoiled. If we left, he would soon find something else to amuse himself.”

“Perhaps. But he has seemed terribly insistent on the point of me marrying him—”

“Bah!” Ethan turned his head away. “It is all just a game to him. A fanciful sport to pass away the
ennui
of his privileged life. I do not mean to offend you, my love, but he does not see the beauty of your soul as I—”

“Be that as it may, he has been putting pressure on Lady Albany, who in turn has been pressuring me.”

“Patience,
mo chridhe
. If we are but patient—”

“My betrothal to him is all but secured. I fear time is not on our side.” Caro fought to keep her face calm. Serene to all those eyes in the Duomo looking at them.

“We will stall,” Ethan murmured.

“How is it to be done?”

“I shall think of a way. Remember what I have said?
Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks.
I shall remain true, love.”

Caro sighed, low and harsh. Most unladylike. “You omit the next line, I fear.
Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks/But bears it out even to the edge of doom—
”

“We are
not
doomed. We shall find a way—”

“Ah, Lady Caro. How remarkable to find you here.”

Caro startled at the voice at her elbow.

It was like the devil himself had summoned him.

Only a lifetime of practice enabled her to keep her expression calm and pleasant as she turned around.

Blackford stood before her.

Immaculately dressed in fawn breeches, tight blue coat and shining boots. His shock of brown hair carefully styled. Hat tucked under one arm, leaning on a walking stick with the other. A calculating look in his eye.

“Your Grace.” She curtsied. “I was just asking Dr. MacLure after you.”

Ethan bowed politely to his employer.

This was an unmitigated disaster.

Ostensibly Blackford’s physician, Ethan acted more the part of secretary and traveling companion than anything. Blackford’s health was ever excellent.

Ethan had been charged earlier in the day to visit the Duke’s banker in Florence.

Would Blackford remember he had sent Ethan on that errand? The Duke could be difficult to read at times. Warm and welcoming one minute. Cold and remote the next.

Caro was doing an excellent job of deflecting any concern.

“I had considered asking Dr. MacLure to see me home, but as you are now here, your Grace, perhaps you would be so kind?”

“I should be honored, Lady Caro.” Blackford offered her his arm. “I dislike the idea of you tarrying in less
suitable
company.”

Caro wrapped her gloved hand around Blackford’s elbow, head lowered.

Blackford caught and held Ethan’s gaze over her head. Eyes intent. Icy. Cold.

An electric shiver chased through Ethan’s limbs.

Blackford knew. The man absolutely knew.
How
hardly mattered at this point.

Blackford rolled his shoulders. A slight hint of Scotland had crept into the Duke’s speech as well. Ethan knew him well enough to understand both as a sign of his agitation.

Ethan and Caro should have been infinitely more careful.

But now . . .

Blackford was spoiled. He liked to get his own way. And when he set his sights on something . . .

Ethan didn’t stand a chance.

What was to be done? What
could
be done?

Love alters not . . . even to the edge of doom . . .

Caro glanced in his direction. “Doctor. I bid you good day.”

Politely, Ethan tipped his hat.

She shot him a forlorn look, so full of resignation—

Blackford tugged her back to his side.

Ethan watched them stroll down the wide nave, Caro’s maid, Mary, politely at their heels.

His future walking away . . .

Twenty-Two