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“It is in solitude that a man meets his conscience, and in temptation that he proves whether he has one.”

Impressions of England by an Unrepentant Foreigner

Marco was restless, pacing the small drawing room attached to his bedchamber. It was an elegant space, appointed in green and blue, with landscapes of Scottish lochs and soaring mountains upon the walls. He dropped into the ivory chaise lounge, leaning back against the green and blue tartan cushions, and accepted that sleep would not come easily.

Perhaps he ought to read through the copious notes Simon had left regarding the management of the barony’s holdings. His uncle must have devoted considerable time and care to the matter, if the neatly written pages contained in the simple leather-bound notebook resting upon the writing table under the window were any indication.

Marco dismissed the notion at once, his thoughts too unsettled to do the task justice. After promising Simon he would give the work proper consideration, this was plainly not the moment to begin.

Remain in England? It is madness.

Staying in this strange country felt impossible. He had anticipated discomfort from the past rising up to meet him, but the addition of a lurking menace, someone intent upon his harm, had rendered the island positively inhospitable.

His thoughts refused to settle. The notion that someone sought his death was difficult to absorb. Not a vague ill-will, but deliberate intent. What sort of mind pursued such a course? What grievance could inspire such persistence?

And then there was another complication, one that refused to be silenced by reason or resolve. The memory of Molly. Her nearness, the warmth of her presence, the scent of cinnamon that lingered with unsettling clarity, rose unbidden, making rest impossible despite the late hour. The impulse to seek her out was constant, yet he kept it firmly in check. She was a young lady, and if he did not intend to remain in England beyond the resolution of his obligations, he had no right to encourage an attachment that could lead only to disappointment.

He was tempted. Dangerously so. She was tempting, but yielding would not be the conduct of a man of honor.

At the height of his impatience, Marco rose and strode from the room in search of distraction. The corridors lay in shadow, the dim sconces casting uncertain light as he made his way through the silent house. Only the occasional creak of settling timbers broke the stillness as he descended the main staircase.

Reaching the ground floor, he turned toward the library and flung the door open with ill-contained frustration, only to be met by the soft glow of an oil lamp and a startled cry.

“Molly?”

She sat in a wingback chair near the hearth, wrapped in a belted night robe, a book fallen slightly askew in her lap. The sight of her there, unexpected and unguarded, gave him pause, and he forced his gaze upward at once.

Maledizione! Compose yourself.

“I … yes … it is I,” she said, gathering herself. “I was reading.”

“And why are you not reading in your bedchamber?” The words escaped before he could restrain them, and he winced inwardly, aware that he had strayed into improper territory. There was already far too little formality between them, when restraint was essential.

“Miss Dubois … my drawing room has been turned into her bedchamber because …” Molly explained, coloring faintly. “Because of all the unmarried gentlemen in residence.”

“What of it?”

“She growls and yaps in her sleep like a—” She stopped herself with a huff. “It is difficult to ignore.”

“You cannot be here!” he snapped, more sharply than he intended. His irritation was not directed at her, but at himself for the persistent, unwelcome awareness of her presence and the effort it required to keep his thoughts within the bounds of propriety. He had lectured himself only minutes before, yet temptation had followed him regardless.

She swallowed and set her book upon the end table before rising to her feet. His gaze fell to her naked feet, so dainty on the rug where she now stood, and he groaned low in his throat in protest. He drew a slow breath through his nose, mastering the surge of feeling that threatened to undo him.

This was folly. Dangerous folly.

He knew he ought to address what had passed between them beneath the winter sky, but this was the worst possible moment. They were alone, and the late hour lent an intimacy he could not afford. He had lost command of himself once already. He would not allow it again.

Before his resolve could falter, Marco crossed the room, deliberately placing distance between them. When he turned back, he found, to his dismay, that Molly had followed him as silently as a wraith.

“Are you angry with me?” she asked softly. “Is it because … of what happened … earlier?”

“No.” He forced calm into his voice. “I am not angry with you. I am angry with myself, for permitting things to go too far.”

“Oh.” Her disappointment was plain, and it struck him harder than reproach.

He realized then that the kiss they had shared might well have been her first, and the thought weighed heavily upon him. Whatever passion had overtaken them, he had sullied it with confusion and regret.