Page 31

“Ah … you are concerned about Miss Dubois?”

“I am.”

The reply stirred a quiet suspicion, and Marco frowned as they moved between the neatly clipped yews. “Did you know she would refuse to enter?”

Molly hesitated, pressing her lips together before answering. “I am not certain what you imply. How could I have known such a thing?”

“It strikes me that you have made a great study of your shadow.”

She glanced at him briefly but continued their ramble with the same determined focus that reminded him of his friend Lorenzo. “And what of it? What would you do if Miss Dubois followed your steps like an ill-tempered French poodle, yapping and snarling even when there is no one to fight?”

With that, she swung them around a corner, and the center was revealed. Marco stopped, momentarily taken aback by such an installation in so unexpected a place. For a modest country estate, the effect was astonishing. What riches the Blackwood title must command.

It was a magnificent fountain, drained for the winter, yet striking all the same, even to a Florentine accustomed to beauty. Diana, the goddess of the hunt, was captured mid-motion, horn raised as if to summon the spirits of the woods to follow her. She wore a short, flowing tunic that revealed strongly sculpted limbs, sandaled feet set in purposeful stride, her gaze fixed upon the distance where her quarry must be fleeing, whether in fear or exhilaration, it was impossible to say. A stag ran beside her, alert and fleet.

As Marco studied the stone features, a recognition stirred. He glanced down at Molly, who stood transfixed by the sight, then returned his gaze to the statue.

The resemblance was disquieting rather than flattering, and a chill traced his spine as a thought took shape. Perhaps he was not merely an observer here, but caught within the momentum of her intent. There was something resolute about Molly, a steadiness of purpose that did not easily yield.

The notion unsettled him further, and he forced himself to turn away from thoughts that threatened to stray beyond prudence. He was ill-prepared to bind himself to a life so distant from all he knew. There was no denying her appeal, nor the way her presence lingered with him, but temptation was not the same as readiness. Would England, and the determined young woman at his side, release him if he chose to return to Florence as a bachelor? Or had he stepped onto a path from which retreat would not come easily?

Yet … what might it be like to walk beside a woman of such conviction? A partner possessed of resolve could make even the most uncertain future seem attainable.

The visit to Elmstead had only deepened his confusion. Was he truly contemplating a life he had never sought? Within a matter of weeks, everything had shifted, not least the fact that someone still meant him harm back in London. How was he to weigh the future when the present remained so precarious?

And what of the risks of giving away his heart a second time? Watching Catherine fade had undone him. He did not know if he could endure such loss again, if affection were once more entwined with the specter of death. Was it not safer to remain unattached, to return to Florence as he had been, and preserve the hard-won peace he had built after grief?

Clearing his throat, Marco resolved to anchor himself in honesty before his thoughts carried him too far. “Molly, you understand that I do not yet know if I shall remain in England?”

Her gaze met his, confusion flickering there, and he realized that while his own thoughts had been in tumult, she had been unaware of the storm they had stirred.

“I know.”

“Then you understand that we cannot come to any agreement, you and I?”

She lowered her eyes, her disappointment evident despite her effort to conceal it. When she spoke, her voice was subdued. “I know.”

“There is much for me to consider. This title. Florence. I cannot say what the future holds. We must first resolve this danger, and only then might I find some … chiarezza .” He paused, irritated by his lapse into Italian at such a moment, yet unwilling to pretend certainty where none existed.

“Clarity,” she echoed, her shoulders sagging slightly as the word settled between them.

“Sì. I need to find clarity, and we must not imagine things are something more than they are. I do not say this to wound you, but I cannot make promises, and it is best that we do not pursue anything while I endeavor to understand my course.”

She drew in a steady breath, her gaze lingering upon the empty basin of the fountain. “I know.”

Setting forth such truths ought to have afforded him some relief, yet it did nothing to ease the sensation that he stood at a crossroads, uncertain which direction might lead him toward peace. It was as though the choice before him carried unusual gravity, one path promising fulfillment, the other the quiet ache of regret, and he could not yet discern which was which.

He reached into his pocket and traced the familiar, etched surface of the timepiece he had once received from his father and wondered whether Peter Scott had faced a similar reckoning when he had defied the late baron over his intended marriage to Marco’s mother. What counsel would his father offer now, if he were present? Which course would he urge Marco to take after a life marked by struggle and ended too soon? Would he encourage him to assume his place in England, or advise him to hold fast to the life he had forged for himself in Italy?

Perhaps it was time to escort this party home so Angelo and he could resume the search for the journal and end this plot to kill him so he might be freed to consider his choices.