Raising her hand to his masked lips, he murmured, “Indeed, the pleasure is all mine.”
Chapter2
Mary couldn’t help but be charmed by her mysterious gentleman companion. Who was he? What did he look like? He gave neither away with the silver mask he was wearing, but whoever he was, he had not thought her dull when she’d told him about her fondness for solitude or about her love of reading.
She considered him now as he sat beside her, his hand still wrapped around her own. A thrill of... something she failed to define... seeped through her, producing a most unusual sensation in the pit of her stomach. It was almost as if her insides had grown unbearably ticklish.
Inhaling deeply, she decided to make an attempt at more conversation—something concrete that she could relate to with greater ease than she could to the torrent of unfamiliar emotions coursing through her. “Since you are clearly not a fan of MissAusten, would you care to tell me which books youdoenjoy reading?”
“You must not misunderstand me.” His words were measured, as they had been throughout their conversation. There was a wariness about him—a distinct hint of uncertainty. Squeezing his hand, she hoped to reassure him. He flinched, but did not pull away. “I think MissAusten is remarkably talented and I commend her for turning her passion into a success. Furthermore, your assurance that her books can be enjoyed without women imagining that every moment of their lives should be filled with romantic walks and grand gestures, has helped ease my concerns.”
“That is not to say that romantic walks and grand gestures ought to be dismissed,” Mary told him lightly. “I am sure that most women would place great value on both.”
“Wouldyou?” he asked her softly.
An odd little flutter captured her heart. “Since I have no intention of marrying, it does not signify.”
He said nothing in response, but the look he gave her was so intense that Mary could not help but shift beneath his gaze. If only they could return to the sort of repartee they’d enjoyed earlier. It had been fun, not only in an entertaining way but in an intellectual one as well. Not at all the sort of silly conversations Mary often overheard other young ladies participating in. The superficiality with which most of them spoke had lessened her interest in trying to make friends. In fact, she could say with certainty that she only had one actual friend, and that was Lady Sarah, now Viscountess Spencer, after her recent marriage to Viscount Spencer. Through her, Mary had of course become acquainted with Lord Spencer’s sisters, but Mary couldn’t in good conscience call them friends yet, since she’d spoken to them on only a few occasions.
“When I was younger,” Signor Antonio said, breaking the silence, “I read a lot of non-fictional books on a number of subjects.”
“Did you have any favorites?” Mary asked, relieved by the change of subject.
“I liked Sun Tzu’sArt De La Guerrevery much.It is the only book that I have read more than once.”
“The Art of War,” Mary translated.
Signor Antonio nodded. “Have you read it?” he asked with interest.
“Not in its entirety. It was one of those books that I just happened to snatch off the shelf one rainy afternoon and never ended up finishing. As I recall, it was philosophical in nature.”
“Yes. In my opinion it is the most impressive work on military strategy ever written.”
She considered this before saying, “Some might argue that Machiavelli’s book,The Prince, is of greater value.”
“Hmmm... Another book that you happened to browse through on a rainy day?”
Mary couldn’t help but smile, aware that she’d probably surprised him once again.The Princewas hardly the sort of book that most young ladies would ever bother reading. Perhaps they should, so they could enjoy more meaningful conversations with men. “Something like that,” she admitted. She shrugged one shoulder. “As with theArt of War, I failed to complete it, but in this instance, it was mostly because I found it to be entirely too devious and self-serving for my liking.”
“Deception, as advocated by Machiavelli, can be a powerful tool when used correctly.”
Something about his tone—a hint of contemplative sharpness—sent a shiver down her spine. “Perhaps, but I believe that it will eventually corrupt the soul and that it is therefore a path best avoided.”
His hand tightened around hers, almost painfully so, and she instinctively drew back.
Releasing her, he abruptly stood and stepped toward the lake, offering her his back while he stared out across the moonlit water. “Forgive me,” he said when he faced her again after a long, drawn-out moment. “I am sorry if I frightened you just now, but our conversation... it prompted some unpleasant memories.”
His confession surprised her. “I do not understand,” she said.
“And you never will,” he told her grimly, “for you have not experienced the horrors of war. Nothing encourages a man to reveal his true nature quite as well as the possibility that he will not survive to live another day.”
Understanding dawned and she slowly rose to her feet. “You are a soldier,” she whispered through the darkness. He hadn’t read the books they’d been discussing for pleasure alone, but for a professional reason as well.
“I used to be,” he quietly murmured.
Curious, she couldn’t help but ask, “Did you kill anyone?” His eyes widened and she pushed out a breath before lowering her gaze to the ground. “Of course you did. I was not trying to—”
“It’s all right.” He waited for her to raise her head and look at him before saying, “Wars cost lives. There is no denying that. So yes, Lady Eleanor, I have killed.”
