As she removed the folded lap rug that protected the contents of the basket, she asked, “Shall we see what Sofia has given us? I think we are going to benefit from her Christmas baking.”
“There’s enough food for an army, or at least a platoon.” Randolph reached in the basket and removed the shallow oval bowl. After investigating the contents, he said, “Eel pie?”
“Very likely. The day before Christmas is meatless, and eels are a tradition,” Elizabeth explained as she unpacked the basket. “We also have fresh fruit, two cheeses, braided bread, three kinds of Christmas cakes, pizza rustica—you’ll like that, it’s sort of a cheese pie with slivered ham, among other things—and enough red wine to wash it all down.”
Randolph blinked. “If the laborers are worthy of their hire, I suppose this is an indication of how much she values her olive oil.”
“That, plus the fact that she is continually trying to fatten me up. She thinks you are too thin also.” Remembering what else Sofia had said about the English milord—all of it complimentary and some of it decidedly improper—Elizabeth concentrated on laying food out on the cloth.
What was wrong with her? A simple picnic with a gentleman and she was behaving like one of her own hot-blooded, romantic charges, with every thought revolving around the man at her side.
The incredibly handsome, amiable, interested, courteous man at her side.
Stop that!she scolded herself. She was glad to see that her hand did not tremble as she poured wine into the clay goblets provided.
The meal was a leisurely one. As they chatted amiably about the day, Elizabeth’s nervousness subsided. She considered asking Lord Randolph how much longer he intended to stay in Naples, then decided she would rather not know. Later would be soon enough.
After they had eaten, Elizabeth pulled out her tablet and began sketching the temple, though she despaired of doing justice to it. Having seated himself downwind of her, Randolph smoked his pipe in apparent contentment.
Eventually the lengthening shadows caught her attention and she glanced up. “Heavens, it’s getting late. You should have stopped me earlier. I lose track of time when I’m drawing.” She closed her tablet and slid it and her pencils into the picnic basket. “The weather is so warm that it’s hard to remember that this is one of the shortest days of the year, but it will be dark by the time we reach the city.”
“Miss Walker . . . Elizabeth . . . there is something I want to say before we start back.”
Startled, she sat back on her heels and looked at Lord Randolph. Though he was still seated on the ground, his earlier ease was gone and his lean body was taut with tension. He looked down, fidgeting with his pipe, and she realized that he was using it as an excuse to avoid her eyes.
Taking out his penknife, he started carefully loosening the charred tobacco. “I have enjoyed this last week immensely.” He gestured vaguely with his left hand, as if hunting for words, and instead spilled cinders on his fawn-colored breeches. Ruefully he brushed them away, then glanced up at her. “I’m sorry, I’m not very good at this. I had a speech memorized, but I’ve entirely forgotten it. Elizabeth, I am very partial to your company, and . . . and I would like to have more of it. Permanently.”
If breathing was not automatic, Elizabeth would have expired on the spot. At first she just stared at him in disbelief. Then his eyes met hers, hope and uncertainty in the depths, and she realized that he meant what he said.
A stab of pain cut through her, anguish as intense as when she had heard of William’s death. Amazingly, Lord Randolph wanted her to become his mistress. It was the best offer she would ever get—and she, Elizabeth acknowledged miserably, was too much a child of the vicarage to agree.
Tears started in her eyes and she blinked fiercely, refusing to let them overflow. Her voice a choked whisper, she said, “I’m sorry, my lord, but I couldn’t possibly accept.”
The hope in his eyes flickered and died, replaced first by hurt, then withdrawal. He had never worn the mask of the cool English gentleman with her before, but he donned it now. “No, of course you couldn’t. My apologies, Miss Walker, it was just a foolish fancy.”
He put his pipe and penknife in his pocket and stood, then lifted the basket. “Pray forgive me if I have embarrassed you. Come, it is time we left. The afternoon is almost over.”
It wasn’t just the afternoon that was over, but their friendship; Elizabeth knew from his expression that she would never see Lord Randolph after today. She scrambled to her feet unassisted, ignoring his proffered hand. Desiring him and racked with her own loneliness, she daren’t touch him, for doing so would cause her to break down entirely.
Wordlessly she led the way back to the path, waging the battle of her life with her conscience. She was sure that his offer sprang not from casual immorality but from a lonely man’s yearning for companionship. If he were free to marry, he would ask a younger, prettier woman, but she guessed that he was too honorable to destroy a marriageable girl’s chance for respectability.
There was no risk of that with someone like Elizabeth, who had been on the shelf for years. Yet he must care a little for her as well, for he could have his choice of a thousand more likely mistresses.
She had known that she loved him. She hadn’t realized how much until now, when she found herself seriously considering abandoning the training of a lifetime so that she could give him the comfort he sought. But as Elizabeth picked her way along the narrow path, Lord Randolph silent behind her, she knew that her motives were only partly altruistic.
Yes, she wanted to ease his loneliness, but she also wanted to ease her own. She wanted his kindness and wry humor and beautiful body. And almost as much, she wanted to resurrect the Elizabeth Walker she had been before “the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune” had worn her hope away.
Intent on her despairing thoughts, she did not feel the first warning tremor, did not take the action that might have saved her. Her first awareness that something was wrong came when she staggered, almost losing her balance. For an instant she wondered if she had drunk too much wine, or whether her thoughts were making her light-headed.
Disaster unfolded with excruciating slowness. The ground heaved and a low, terrifying rumble filled the air, the vibrations so intense her skin tingled.
The path began to crumble beneath her feet. Elizabeth tried to scramble to safety, but it was too late, there was nothing left to cling to. She screamed as she pitched sideways from the cliff, falling helplessly. How far was it to the rocks below? And would she feel the shattering of her bones?
Randolph’s deep voice shouted, “Elizabeth!”
Between one heartbeat and the next, powerful arms seized her and dragged her back to solid ground. She slammed into the rocky path with rib-bruising force.
As she gasped for breath, Randolph pulled her farther from the edge. Then he threw himself over her, his body shielding her from a torrent of falling earth and gravel. In the midst of chaos and confusion, her sharpest awareness was of Randolph’s closeness, the warmth and strength that enfolded her. If they were both going to die, she thought dizzily, she was glad that it would be in his arms.
