“Do not move.”
“I’m not moving!” Charlotte protested.
“You’re talking,” Marco pointed out, amusement in his dark brown eyes. “That’s moving.”
“I only spoke because you said something.”
“I said ‘Your parents are late as usual.’ There’s no need to respond to that.”
It took every scrap of control she could muster not to answer him, and she was reduced to expressing herself by rolling her eyes.
He chuckled and returned to his drawing.
It was a warm summer day and they were in Marco’s workshop, a large square room with huge windows thrown open to let in the warm, Italian sunshine. White silk drapes fluttered in the slow breeze, bringing with it the scent of olive trees and red clay. The house was abuzz as the servants readied for their guests.
She smiled, thinking of her parents. It would be good to see them.
“You’re smiling. You’re not to smile.”
“I was thinking of my mother’s reaction to the pillars you carved for Nimway.”
A wolfish grin warmed his face. “She never told me I couldn’t use her daughter as a model.”
“She didn’t say you could, either.”
He shrugged, obviously pleased with himself. “Many people compliment that piece. It will be there for centuries.”
Charlotte didn’t doubt it. Marco was becoming famous, his work in great demand. She and her family were proud of him.
Mama’s only disappointment was that Charlotte had decided to live in Italy with Marco instead remaining near Nimway Hall. But Mama had the mark of the guardian, too, and loved the Hall. It was well taken care of, and Charlotte felt the house knew it.
Outside, near the stables where Diavolo and Angelica held court, children laughed, the sound catching Charlotte’s attention. She wished she could lift up just a bit to see if she could spot Isabel playing with her many cousins.
“What is it, carissima? A shadow passed over your face.”
“I was just thinking of Isabel. I hope she doesn’t suffer from the same things I did. So far, her back seems fine, but so was mine when I was her age and I—”
“Charlotte, don’t worry. She is fine.” His gaze locked with hers. “And if she’s not, then we will address it together. To be honest, there are far worse things that could happen to her. Personally, I love your curves. All of them.”
She had to smile at that, and when he protested, she tried to wipe it from her mouth, and failed.
Complaining, he continued to draw, and she knew from the direction of his glances that he was now sketching her legs. She watched him from under her lashes, this handsome, successful husband of hers, who continued to surprise her each and every day. He was charming, handsome, a loving father, and an ardent lover. He’d taught her much, this one.
She wished she could move, but knew he wasn’t yet ready. To while away the time, she amused herself with all of the ways she was going to seduce him once she was freed from her pose.
“Now you’re day dreaming,” he announced with a sigh. “Your expression has grown softer.”
She sniffed. “I’m trying not to think about how cold it is.”
His gaze moved to her exposed breasts. He tsked. “You are cold, aren’t you? That will never do.” He put down his charcoal, and came to where she reclined upon the chaise, a scarf of the thinnest silk draped over her legs.
“Here. Let me warm you.” He placed his knee on the edge of the chaise and gently covered her body with his. “Ah. It is as I feared. You suffer from colpo di fulmine, the same as I.”
“Is that a disease?”
“It is love.”
“Ah. Well, then . . .” She slipped her arms around his neck and held him close. As they always did, they fit together perfectly. “I hope we never recover.”
“We never will.” Smiling, he nuzzled her neck. “Warmer, my love?”
She sighed happily. “Oh yes. Much.”