Until You (28 page)

“I do not stint those who serve me faithfully and well,” Rosamund replied. “Now, go and find Annie. I am sure she is anxious. You will both return to me when all is settled, and we will consider the date together with his lordship.”

“Yes, my lady!” Dermid bowed and almost ran from the garden.

Rosamund smiled, watching him go. If only all of life were that easy, she thought. If only . . . She sighed.
If
was the most difficult word in the English language. Then she heard footsteps on the gravel path, and looking up, smiled at Patrick. “They will be back shortly, and we will help them choose a date,” she said as he sat down on the marble bench next to her. “Let us make it as soon as the church will allow. I would have them enjoy San Lorenzo without guilt, as we are, my lord.”

“You have a romantic heart, sweetheart,” he told her, taking her hand in his. He lifted it to his lips and kissed the back, then each finger in turn, and finally the palm.

She smiled at him. “I surely must, for I fell in love with you at first sight, Patrick.”

“And I with you,” he responded. “Ah, Rosamund, sometimes my heart aches at just the sight of you, for I love you so.”

Quick tears rose in her amber eyes. She blinked them back. “I still sometimes fear to waken from this most marvelous of dreams to find Logan Hepburn pounding on my door and demanding that I sire a son for him,” she half-laughed. “Still, I hope he is happy with his Jeannie. I think his family chose well for him.”

“You think of him?” Patrick found he was jealous, though he knew he had no reason to be.

“Not really,” she answered quietly. Her tone bade him to leave the issue, for to question her loyalty to him would be unforgivable.

And before either of them might pursue it further, Annie and Dermid returned to stand before them. Both had rather foolish smiles upon their faces.

“It is settled, then,” the earl said to them.

“Aye, my lord!” Dermid replied, grinning. “Annie has agreed to be my wife.”

“The marriage must be celebrated as soon as the church will allow,” Rosamund told them. “I shall speak with the bishop today.”

“Oh, thank you, my lady!” Annie cried. “And Dermid has told me how generous you are being to me. I thank you again!” She caught up her mistress’ hand and kissed it fervently. “We don’t deserve it, either of us, after we was so bad. But I swear it was only that one time, and we couldn’t help it!”

“The likeness, as caught by the maestro, was most remarkable,” Rosamund murmured.

“He’s a bad man, that one!” Annie said indignantly. “And speaking of the devil, he is awaiting you on the terrace, my lady. He says you should have been ready in your costume, for his time is valuable. The nerve of the fellow!”

Rosamund laughed at this, as did the earl. “I completely forgot he was coming,” she admitted. “Annie, you and Dermid may have the rest of the day off to celebrate your betrothal. His lordship will keep us company while the artist works today.”

“Thank you, my lady!” Annie said again. “I’ll tell the bold fellow you will be with him shortly.” Then she and Dermid hurried off, chattering as they went.

“I will enjoy watching the Venetian work,” the earl said, amused. “I doubt he will be pleased to see me.”

Rosamund laughed again. “Nay, he will not. He is always attempting to get Annie to leave me on one pretext or another. He has obviously not given up his intentions to seduce me. I am proving a great challenge to him.” She arose from the bench. “Come along, Patrick. I should not keep him waiting any longer. While I change into my costume you must tell him you have decided to view him at his work today.”

The earl chuckled. “The fool would never appreciate you, Rosamund, as I do. He just wants to crawl between your luscious thighs.”

“I know,” she responded. “I have to admit I enjoy teasing him about it, but today, my lord, with your presence in mind, I shall be a model of decorum.”

They returned to the villa, and Rosamund hurried to their apartment to change. She found that Annie had laid out her costume. She looked at it critically for the first time. She had not considered that Patrick might actually see her in the garment. It was, the artist had told her, called a chiton. It was of sheer lavender-colored silk and fastened on one shoulder by means of a heart-shaped golden broach, leaving her left breast exposed to view. The garment fell in graceful folds, the waist girded by a delicate twisted golden rope. Still, every line of her body was visible, Rosamund now realized. She might as well be posing naked for the maestro, which was, she suddenly understood, just what he had wanted in the first place. The entire circumstance had amused her so that until now she hadn’t been aware of what a fox Paolo Loredano truly was.

But to admit her naivety at this point would be a defeat, and she did not intend to suffer defeat at the hands of this wretched artist. Rosamund stepped out onto the terrace where the Earl of Glenkirk was even now seated, engaging Paolo Loredano in conversation. “My dear maestro, I do apologize for keeping you waiting,” she cooed, and she saw Patrick’s dark eyebrow quirk with his amusement. She realized that her lover knew her well enough to understand that she had become fully aware of the situation. There was still an innocence about Rosamund that delighted him.

“My darling,” his voice boomed. “How charming you look. I congratulate you, maestro, in your choice of costume. But should her hair not be loose about her shoulders?”

“Sì! Sì!”
Paolo Loredano exclaimed. “You have the artist’s eye, my lord. I have not yet concentrated upon her hair, as I have been busy sketching in the delightful rest of her. When we are finished today I shall show you, but I shall not allow you, Madonna, to see the painting until it is complete.”

“Of course, maestro,” Rosamund replied. She had heard all this before. She took her place on a small platform that had been erected on the terrace and placed her right hand upon a faux column, turning slightly. “Is my position correct, maestro?” she asked him sweetly. “I am never certain that I remember.”

“You are
perfecto
, Madonna,” he assured her, and he began to work.

For some minutes he painted in silence while the earl and Rosamund exchanged passionate glances. Paola Loredano was more than aware of it, and he found himself jealous, though he had no right to be. He wanted this exquisite Englishwoman more than he had wanted any woman in a long time. He was also painting the voluptuous Baroness Von Kreutzenkampe now, and he was bedding her as well. She was proving a lusty tumble, but he still wanted Rosamund Bolton. He had discovered at an early age that he was a man of vast appetites.

After some time had passed, Rosamund protested. “The sunlight is beginning to burn my skin, maestro.” Without another word, she stepped from the platform. “Come tomorrow,” she said, “but you must come earlier. My flesh is delicate.” Then she left him, returning to the apartment from which she had come.

“She is
magnifico
!” the artist said, forgetting the earl was in his company.

“If you touch her with disrespect,” Patrick said, “I shall be forced to kill you, Venetian. You do understand that, do you not?”

“You have much passion in your soul for a Northman, for a man of your years, my lord,” the artist said.

“I also have a skilled sword arm, especially for a man of my years,” the earl answered him. “Your talent is great, Paolo Loredano. Do not waste it, or your life, over a woman. Any woman. But most especially my woman. You come from honorable folk. If you give me your word, I shall accept it.”

The artist shook his head regretfully. “I cannot,” he said with a sigh. “Alas, my lord, my cock more often than not overrules my head.”

Patrick chuckled. “I was the same in my youth,” he admitted. “But I love this woman as I have never loved another. Insult her, and you insult me.”

“I understand, my lord, and I promise to try to behave, but I cannot guarantee it. Besides, the ladies have a tendency, indeed a weakness, where I am concerned. It is often not my fault. They seduce me,” the artist said with an infectious grin.

“But Rosamund will not seduce you,” the earl replied. “That much I can guarantee you. And if you make an attempt on her honor, she will probably retaliate in a manner not to your liking.” The earl rose from his seat. “Now, let me see what you have done so far,” he said, walking over to where the easel was set up. He looked, his eyes widening. “You are amazing, maestro,” he complimented the artist. “Your skin tones are incredible! I can almost feel the softness of her beneath my fingertips.”

“What is it that you possess, my lord, that has drawn this woman to you?” the artist asked the earl frankly. He understood that but for Rosamund he and Patrick Leslie might be friends.

“I am as surprised by my good fortune as you are, maestro,” the earl answered honestly. “All I can tell you is that our eyes met, and we both knew.”

“Knew what?” Paolo Loredano was puzzled.

“Knew that we were meant to be together,” came the intriguing reply.

“Yet you do not marry,” the Venetian remarked.

“That is not meant to be. Our love, yes. But naught else. We have both understood that from the beginning,” the earl explained.

The artist nodded slowly, finally understanding.
“Tragico,”
he said. “To be loved by a woman like that, knowing you must one day be parted. How do you both bear it, my lord? I know that I could not.”

“We are grateful for the time we are given, maestro. Surely you understand that nothing in our lives is permanent. Everything is in a continuous flux around us,” Patrick said quietly.

“But to have no hope!” the artist cried dramatically.

The Earl of Glenkirk laughed. “But we do have hope, maestro. We hope that each day of bliss we share together will lead to another. All things eventually come to an end. Most people refuse to accept that truth. Rosamund and I do. We may be together for years. We may not. When the time comes that we must be separated, we will part reluctantly, sadly, but we will be happy for what we have had together and for the memories we will both always carry with us no matter where our paths in life take us.”

The artist sighed gustily. “You are a braver and nobler man than I, my lord. I could not accept the knowledge so sanguinely as you have. But that said, be warned I shall continue my attempts to seduce the
bella
Rosamund. Women do not resist Loredano for long.” And he grinned his engaging grin at the Scotsman.

“You will undoubtedly come to a bad end, maestro, killed by an outraged father or husband,” the earl chuckled. “I bid you good day, then.” And he ushered the artist from the terrace, through the dayroom, down the stairs, and out into the courtyard. “When will you begin my portrait?” he asked.

“Tomorrow,” the artist answered him. “I shall paint the beautiful lady early, and you afterwards.” Then Paolo Loredano mounted the horse being held for him by a groom and rode off.

The earl turned to go back into the villa only to be met by Rosamund on her way out. “Where are you going?” he asked her, for a moment suspicious and jealous.

“We are going to see the bishop,” she replied. “I want Annie and Dermid wed quickly.” She turned to the groom. “Fetch our horses, Giovanni,” she told the man.

He felt foolish, but he kept his feelings to himself. “Aye, it is best we go together,” he agreed. She was so beautiful. Today she wore a wonderful pale green silk gown, embroidered with darker green and gold threads. Her beautiful hair was covered by a dainty lace veil that had been dyed to match her gown. Had there ever been a lovelier woman than Rosamund Bolton?

The animals were brought, and they mounted them, riding through the embassy gates and down the hill to the main square of Arcobaleno, then to the cathedral. The bells in the old church began to toll the noon hour, and after tethering their horses they entered the stone edifice where the bishop would be celebrating the noon mass known as sext. They joined the other congregants, kneeling on the velvet cushions provided for the gentry as they prayed. A choir of boys sang sweetly, their young voices piercing the quiet atmosphere of the cathedral heights. The air was fragrant with frankincense and myrrh as the priest assisting the bishop wafted the censer about. Tall pure white beeswax candles in ornate gold candlesticks decorated the altars, the delicate flames flickering in the afternoon light that streamed in through the stained-glass windows making multicolored patterns on the gray stone floors. Looking up at the windows about the cathedral Rosamund remembered the first time she had seen stained glass and her silent vow to one day have such glass at Friarsgate.

When the mass was over they approached the bishop, requesting a moment of his time. The elderly man was the same cleric who had performed Janet’s betrothal ceremony to the duke’s son years ago. He was quite frail now, and he looked at Patrick and said, “I should admonish you and the lady for your behavior, my lord, but I shall not. What is it I may do for you?”

“We would like you to waive the banns of marriage for our two servants, my lord bishop. It is best they marry soon,” the earl said.

“Is there a child involved?” the bishop asked.

“Not that we are aware of yet, my lord bishop, but it is best they are married quickly. The air of San Lorenzo seems to be conducive to romance,” Patrick responded.

The bishop chuckled. “I will waive the banns for them. Bring them to me tomorrow before sext, and I will marry them myself. Would that I might do the same for you and your lady, my lord.”

“Would that you could,” the earl replied.

The bishop turned and peered at Rosamund. “Have you run away from your husband, my child?” he inquired of her.

“I am widowed, my lord bishop,” she answered him quietly.

“Then there are other reasons that cannot be overcome,” the old man said, nodding. “Kneel before me, my children.” They knelt, and the elderly bishop blessed them, making the sign of the cross over them.