How could he answer the question when he did not know himself? Did he cite family obligations? His desperation to forget how Ellie had married someone else, that he would never be enough for her? Or should he explain how Claire Brightling wouldn’t threaten his feelings for Ellie, thathis Eleanorwould remain the only woman in his heart? What about his desperate need to accomplish something,anything, in his waste of a life?
“It’s the right thing to do,” he said, his words cold.
Ellie blinked at him, her silver eyes taking inventory of every detail of his face, and he wanted to explain, wanted to tell her how foolish he had been, how perhaps he could fix this mess and find happiness with her, if only she would have him.
“Well, thank you for the clarification,” she said, taking a sip of her tea. “I am glad to know what to expect in bedroom etiquette. When I take my next lover, I will know the proper procedures.”
Jealousy, hot and cutting, pierced his chest.Like hell, you will, he wanted to scream before carrying her back upstairs and claiming her as his own.
But Ellie didn’t want him, not in any permanent capacity. She wanted someone else, someone who deserved her, and Henry’s responsibility was to prepare her for that eventuality. To make her smile and laugh, be a balm for her soul until she was ready to give her heart to someone else. This was all temporary, only as long as their time in Italy. She was destined for something greater than him.
You do not make a good husband.
“Have you finished? I thought you might bring your paints with you today, perhaps work a bit by the Spanish steps?” Ellie’s question broke into his thoughts and he blinked, taking in her soft features, eyes bright behind her silver spectacles.
He reached forward and lifted them off her nose, buffing the lenses on his handkerchief before sliding them back in place. “That would be delightful.” Henry stood and extended his hand to help her up, forcing a smile onto his face. “Are you ready for more adventure?”
“We’re going to an execution?”
Ellie sighed. She seemed to have reached her tolerance for his nonsense, and actions she would have found amusing days ago simply grated her nerves. “No,” she chided, “but the Campo d’Fiori was the site of executions in the past. It promises to be entirely bloodless today.”
Henry moaned in mock dismay, dragging his feet along the narrow Via della Cuccagna, the tall walls of the surrounding buildings echoing the sounds of his distress. The sun was not yet high enough to bake the streets, allowing them to walk without desperately seeking shade.
He can be such a child sometimes, she thought, opening her reticule to ensure she had sufficient lire to make purchases in the open air market. Henry had been jovial since they reunited after breakfast, his melancholy and pensiveness replaced by—she winced as Henry picked up a stone and skipped it along the street, cheering when it smacked into a metal pail with a resoundingclang—pure nonsense.
For a moment last night, and again that morning, Ellie thought she had glimpsed the truth beneath Henry’s facade, the slightest hint of the authentic man he kept closely guarded. His vulnerability had been palpable, surprising her with its clarity. And just as quickly, it disappeared behind shuttered eyes and an amiable smile.
Being in his presence for so long made it clear how Henry saw himself. Could his confidence be mere bravado, a mask to hide something deeper, something that he wanted to protect from her view?
But Henry was remarkable, handsome and kind andgood, the light in the lives of so many. What could he want to protect?
“I’m still hungry.” Henry jogged to catch up with her brisk steps. “You said there will be food at the market?”
“Yes,” Ellie said, uncharacteristically impatient with his need for coddling as she increased her pace.
“El, wait for me,” he called, having fallen behind again.
But she didn’t want to wait. Ellie was simply tired of waiting for everyone else to be ready for her. She had come to Italy to escape, to pursue something she alone wanted. A chance to see art in person, to experience Italy and travel. Spending time with her favorite person had seemed like an incredibly pleasant benefit, but now she doubted herself. Sleep had eluded her the night before, and as she stepped into the Campo d’Fiori and light flooded her eyes, she wondered how much of her attention she could continue to devote to Henry.
People packed the wide square, milling between a haphazard arrangement of tables shaded by sun-bleached canvas tarps. Each stall overflowed into the winding pedestrian paths, vegetables and fruits of every variety and color competing for attention with freshly baked breads and colorful handcrafts. The faint, pungent odor of a crowded city in summer tainted the heady floral scent in the air. At the far end, the statue of a long-deceased philosopher loomed over the market as though making sure everything was in order.
Henry looked down at Ellie before taking her hand and squeezing it. “This looks fun.”
Ellie nodded, overcome with the sudden need to be alone. She swallowed hard.
“El,” Henry murmured, his proximity startling her. “Are you well?”
“I-I am,” she stammered. She felt his gaze on her profile, almost tangible on her bare skin.
“I’m going to buy you something.” He infused confidence into his voice. “What would make you happy?”
Understanding what is going on in your bloody mind, perhaps?“A scarf would be lovely.”
He bobbed his head briskly, as though she he had assigned him a mission of the utmost importance. “Then we shall find the perfect scarf.”
They meandered through the market, navigating disjointed conversations with vendors and sampling cheeses, oils, and pastries, smelling flowers and sipping wines. Henry charmed everyone they met, always getting a slightly larger taste or a longer smile, leaving happiness in his wake. Henry’s hand rested in the small of her back as they moved, keeping her close as they traversed the square. Safety and security surrounded her, wrapping her in a protective shell of Henry.
A table bursting with colorful fabrics caught her eye, but Henry beat Ellie to it. She bit her lip, watching his fingers slide over the silks, as though the feel was more important than the color or pattern. He lifted a bolt of saturated azure, silver embroidery along the edges catching the light and sparkling like stars. “What do you think?” he asked, his voice slightly breathless.
