Ellie chuffed his chin. “Well done, you.”
The hotelier cleared his throat behind them. “Your husband did well, yes?”
She brought her eyes back to him, their silver depths sparkling. “He did.” Her husky voice rushed through Henry and made his blood warm with a deep satisfaction.
Ellie lifted to her toes and brushed her lips to his cheek, with just enough pressure to feel the softness of her skin and breathe in her sweet scent. Her palm pressed against his chest, branding him with her heat as her skirts rustled against his legs. A craving took hold of him, sharp and persistent, and he pulled away, blinking at the power of his reaction. She returned his stare, eyes wide and searching, before turning to give the gentleman a wan smile.
He gave them a knowing smirk and a slight bow. “I’ll take my leave. You will tell me if you require any assistance,si?”
“Si,” Henry replied, his voice thick. Clearing his throat, he passed several lire to his host before the man departed.
By the time he turned back, Ellie had opened the doors to the balcony. The late afternoon sun silhouetted her curves, the sheer panels waving around her in the light breeze. Henry swallowed hard and moved to join her.
A young boy and girl raced each other across the piazza, stopping to hide behind the fountain before bursting out and dashing in the other direction. Their mother watched them with a hand on her hip as a man approached and wrapped his arm around her shoulders, kissing her cheek. She leaned against him, and Henry saw the woman’s chest rise and fall with a sigh of contentment.
Henry glanced at Ellie. Her eyes followed the children before she blinked and exhaled through pursed lips. The cathedral bells began ringing, and the heavy wooden doors opened, unleashing the sound of voices raised in hymns.
Bumping his shoulder against hers, Henry gave Ellie a mischievous smile. “At least we will have music to enjoy while we are here. Remember my mother’s hideous Christmas musicale?”
Ellie snorted. “How could anyone with ears forget?”
Chapter 8
Three years and six months earlier
“Imusthavedonesomething dreadful to my sister to be punished in this way.”
Henry tucked his mother’s hand into the crook of his elbow as he helped her down the marble stairs of their home into the packed foyer. They both winced at the sounds coming from the ballroom, mirroring the expressions of their guests fleeing the scene.
“What your cousin does to Handel should be outlawed,” Lady Fensworth whispered to her son. “But I promised my sister she could perform tonight.”
Henry smiled, thinking about his cousin Mathilda, who had debuted the year prior. While rich in social connections and charm, Lady Mathilda was decidedly lacking in musical talent. Unfortunately for the rest of London, no one was willing to tell her, or his aunt.
“Now Mother, if I declared an interest in, say, the mandolin, I’m certain you would invite all of your friends to hear me warble and strum over tea,” Henry remarked.
“That may be true,” she replied as they entered the ballroom and captured much-needed cups of mulled wine from a passing footman, “but you are better-looking than the poor chit.”
He laughed as they crossed to take seats in front of the stage constructed for the early entertainment, later to be replaced by an orchestra performing traditional Christmas songs.
“And will you be able to keep yourself out of trouble tonight?” his mother asked, her brows raised.
Henry gave her his best roguish smile. “I always find some way to keep myself in trouble.” In reality, he had tucked a sketchbook in his coat pocket and planned to sneak into the library to draw. Sitting still for such a lengthy amount of time would be nearly impossible. He was frequently reprimanded while he was young for his restlessness, and his teachers repeatedly made him go outside to expend his energy before coming back to class. Behavior deemed lazy or naughty as a child was considered delightful in an aristocratic gentleman, much to Henry’s relief. If he kept up the illusion, no one would expect him to be productive, and he could never disappoint them.
Sketching was the only thing to hold his attention for long enough to develop a talent in it. But what would a future earl who could barely write a complete sentence do with such a skill? Creating art required bravery, a willingness to sit with the discomfort of feeling exposed, of sharing the depths of his mind for the world to judge. Henry was too much of a coward.
When his mother moved to greet one of her friends, Henry quickly excused himself. If he greeted enough guests to be deemed officially “in attendance,” he could slip unseen into the library, and then—
“Lord Morley?” The slightly husky voice startled him as he nearly collided with a young woman clutching the program for the performance.
“Lady Eleanor, how are you?” A rush of unexpected pleasure passed through him at the sight of her. He stood frozen for a moment as he took her in. Her pale green dress, an explosion of ruffles and ribbons, must have been chosen to hide her figure, but only made her resemble a plump stalk of asparagus. Despite the bold clothing’s attempt to catch his eye, he was focused on her face, her sparkling silver eyes and rosy lips.Were they even fuller than he remembered?
She hesitated before answering. “Should I be polite or honest?”
He grinned. “Honesty is a virtue above all others.”
“Then I am considering feigning an apoplexy to avoid the next hour of my existence.”
“Then we are in the same state.”
