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The bedroom was a delightful surprise: large, bright, and airy with a set of doors that opened onto a small balcony. That obnoxious innkeeper hadn’t been exaggerating at all. The view reallywasmagnificent. It looked out across the tiled rooftops of Pistoia, offering a glimpse of the bell tower of the Cathedral of San Zeno. And the bed was indeed one of the largest he had ever seen, with an elaborately carved headboard that would put Catholic church pews to shame. There wasn’t much else in terms of decoration, but the room didn’t need it.
Alec turned to share it with Lottie, but she still stood in the doorway, staring at him in disbelief, as if he had pulled a rabbit from his hat. Then she gave a little laugh and shook her head dismissively. Annoyance spiked through him. Why couldn’t she just accept the compliment with a simper or blush, like every other woman?
“You doubt that you are?” The words came out more harshly than he intended.
Lottie shrugged as she crossed the room’s threshold. “I’ve always tried not to place too much importance on what some people think of my appearance.”
Alec cocked a brow. “It isn’t only ‘some people.’ I seem to recall you were once a celebrated debutante.”
“That was five years ago. And mostly on account of my mother’s pedigree and my father’s wealth,” she demurred. “Last I checked, the fashion plates were full of buxom blond ladies.”
The corner of his mouth lifted. “More’s the pity then,” he murmured, taking pains not to cast a sweeping glance down her form. “Most gentlemen can appreciate a wide variety of feminine attributes.”
She narrowed her eyes. “And most women would like to be valued for more than their looks.”
“Of course.” Alec grinned. “I would neverdaresuggest otherwise.” A dull note of warning began to buzz at the back of his mind. He was taking far too much pleasure in their exchange.
Then the indignant expression returned; he loved when she looked at him like that, as it usually precluded a delightfully sardonic comment. “That may be true in your case, but I’m sure I don’t need to explain that most men do not appreciate intelligence, or even the very illusion of it, in a woman.”
Alec then leaned forward conspiratorially. “And as a woman of intellect, I’m sure you already know that most men are idiots.”
Lottie’s color heightened and she pressed her lips together. “I’ve a third condition,” she began. “No more compliments. Ofanykind.”
“I’m not sure I can agree to that,” he chuckled. “But I’ll try.” At those last words her eyes warmed and Alec had a sudden, vicious craving to know her thoughts.
Damn. That wasn’t supposed to happen, either.
“Come.” He turned abruptly and moved toward the balcony. “You must see the view.”
Alec immediately regretted this decision, as the pair of them barely fit on the tiny balcony. The sky above had begun to flush pink from the setting sun, while the cathedral’s bell tower gently pealed the hour. It was as if the heavens and earth had conspired to design the perfect romantic moment. He longed to pull her to him once again and feel her side melt against his. She might not think she compared to the so-called buxom ladies in fashion plates, but to Alec her gentle curves had been the perfect fit. He settled for gripping the railing in front of him instead.
“My goodness,” Lottie breathed as she took it all in, entirely unaware of the direction of his thoughts. “Who would have guessed?”
“It’s one of the things I love about this country. You can be in a crumbling alleyway one moment, then turn a corner and you’re in the most beautiful, glowing square filled with life.” Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Lottie turn to him.
“Didn’t…didn’t your father write a poem about that?”
Alec gave a reluctant nod even though he knew he should be grateful for the subject change. Nothing dampened the mood quite like his father. Edward Gresham had found both fame—and infamy—writing about his beloved adopted country. “‘And as I stood in Saint Mark’s Square, with the pantomime of life all ’round, I saw how little I had lived before and how much was left unbound.’”
Lottie smiled. “That’s it.”
“I thought Edward Gresham was considered much too vulgar for proper young ladies.”
Lottie clucked her tongue. “Perhaps that was true a decade ago, but he’s considered something of a romantic hero now.”
Alec couldn’t stifle his derisive snort. He had seen firsthand the devastation that had come from such love. There was nothing remotely romantic about it.
“Besides,” she went on, “I refuse to limit my reading to what is considered ‘proper.’ That would be incredibly boring.”
“I can’t argue with that.”
Lottie tilted her head, considering him. “Did youreallynot know of his reputation?”
He shrugged and turned back to the view. “I left all that business to your uncle. What do I know about poetry?” It had been a relief to have someone else manage the copyright. Sir Alfred had always talked of putting together a collection of his father’s work, and Alec happily gave his blessing to keep Edward Gresham’s short, tragic life from being stripped of all meaning. As long as he had nothing to do with it.
“I’d say you know quite a lot. More than most people,” she added.
Alec’s hands tightened on the railing, but he didn’t respond.
