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“Our castello is really old,” Antonio said, licking his spoon. “So old.”
“It was built around the original square tower,” Matteo said. “You can see the tower if you look carefully. Rooms were added to the tower to create more living space.”
Suddenly Marcu was there in the dining room with them, drawing his chair out at the end of the table and taking a seat. “Not just living space,” he said, “but public space for conducting government business. The ballroom you visited today was originally a public meeting room, where the locals could come petition the nobleman for help.”
Surprised, but also pleased by Marcu’s appearance, Monet bit her lip and let him take over the conversation.
“Where can you see the original tower?” Marcu asked his children.
“The kitchen,” Matteo said promptly, “because it’s all stone, everywhere, and the walls are very thick.”
“The main entrance,” Rocca said, smiling shyly at her father.
“Your study,” Matteo added, “your bedroom and then the signorina’s bedroom. They all have the same beamed ceilings, fireplaces, and windows, too.”
“That’s right,” Marcu said, before thanking the steward who’d appeared almost immediately with a coffee and dessert for him. “You can tell the original tower from the newer additions by the change in building material, as well as the thickness of the walls and how the windows are placed within the wall.” He paused and glanced at his children, and then at Monet. “Did you have a good day today?”
The children nodded.
“What did you do?”
Monet noticed the children weren’t in a hurry to answer so she gave a quick recap of their day. “We walked a lot, and went to the village to look at the Roman theater, and then we came back for lunch, and read, and played games.” She lifted her coffee cup and gazed at Marcu over the rim, finding it impossible to look at anyone but him. Marcu had always been fit, but he was downright virile now. She wished he wasn’t so appealing. She wished she could sit here and feel nothing. Instead she sat here and felt everything.
Thank God she’d grown up these past eight years. She might still be physically attracted to him, and she might still be awash in emotions, but at least the past eight years had taught her self-control, and discipline. She would never let him know how she felt, unwilling to let her emotions or her inexperience make a difficult situation impossible. “What about you?” she said with a faint smile. “How was your day, Signor Uberto?”
“A busy day,” he answered in Italian. “I had a very full schedule of calls and meetings.”
“The world markets never sleep, do they?”
“No. And the New York Stock Exchange is proving to be very volatile this week, requiring extra calls and consultations.” His gaze swept the children, who were beginning to droop, and he switched to English. “They’re looking tired.”
“I think it’s your mention of the stock market. It’s enough to put anyone to sleep.”
“Unless you’re a financier or economist.”
She glanced at the children. The custard desserts were gone, or nearly gone, but they’d stopped eating. Antonio’s shoulders slumped and he was yawning broadly. “They do look sleepy,” she said, “but I hate taking them away now. You’ve only just arrived.”
“They’re used to it.”
“That’s not a good thing, Marcu—” She broke off, flustered to have slipped and used his first name in front of the children. “I’m sorry. I meant, Signor—”
“You can call me Marcu. It’s uncomfortable hearing you call me ‘mister’ and ‘sir.’”
“But Miss Sheldon...?”
“She’s my employee. You’re...” His voice faded. He frowned and gave his head a sharp shake. “I don’t know what you are.”
Monet flushed, growing warm all over. Her cheeks suddenly felt too hot, and her skin too sensitive. “A friend of the family?”
“Yes,” he said gruffly. “That would work.” And yet there was an indecipherable emotion in his eyes that made her feel as if he was saying something altogether different.
“It’s late,” he said abruptly, rising and abandoning his coffee and dessert. “You should take the children up before they fall asleep in their custard cups.”
“Of course.” Monet rose from the table. “Come, my lovelies,” she said to the children. “Let me walk you up and we’ll get ready for bed.”
The children kissed their father good-night and then Marcu added as she reached the doorway, “When you’ve finished putting them to bed, please come join me back downstairs in the smaller of the drawing rooms. I’d like to discuss my travel plans with you.”
CHAPTER FIVE
MONET HATED THAT her pulse quickened as she headed down the stairs to meet Marcu in the drawing room. She hated that butterflies filled her middle even as she fought down a sense of excitement and expectancy. She shouldn’t be feeling excited, or expectant. What did she think would happen? What was she hoping would happen? Ridiculous. This whole thing was beyond ridiculous. She was beyond ridiculous.
One of the housemaids had told her where to find the drawing room that Marcu favored for the evenings and she quietly opened the door and spotted him sitting in a chair near the fire reading from his stack of papers.
He looked up as she entered the room. “They are in bed?” he asked.
She nodded. “All sleeping soundly.”
“Was it difficult?” he asked, folding the newspaper and adding it to the pile at his elbow. “It was your first time putting them to bed.”
“They were talkative at first, so I let them talk and then I told them a story, and then we said prayers, and they fell asleep.”
“They are in two separate bedrooms—did you tell two separate stories?”
“I brought them together for the stories and then we said the prayers together before I tucked each into his or her own bed.”
“There wasn’t a lot of resistance?”
“Is there usually?”
He hesitated. “When I put them to bed, yes.”
Monet clasped her hands in front of her, feeling rather like a governess in a historical novel being called to explain her actions to her employer. She didn’t like the feeling. She didn’t like having to answer to Marcu. “May I sit?” she asked, “Or does Miss Sheldon not sit when asked to present herself to you?”
Marcu stared at her a long moment before the corner of his mouth lifted in a faint, wry smile. “You are not Miss Sheldon.”
“No, I’m not.”
“Please sit. Anywhere you like.”
She glanced at her choices and saw that there were overstuffed armchairs near his, next to the fire, and then another seating area at the opposite end of the room. She obviously couldn’t go sit at the far end of the room so she took one of the upholstered chairs by the fire. The fabric was soft, the cushions comfortable. She immediately felt better. “I could tell you why I think the children don’t want to go to sleep when you put them to bed, but maybe you don’t want to hear my opinions.”
“You’ve only been here one day,” he said mildly.
