"I'm sorry, Hugh. That could not have been easy."
He grinned, the wicked and teasing gentleman once more. "What is not easy, my dear, is leaving you alone in this bathhouse to bathe without me. If you think my soul is tortured, it is, but only because of you and not because of a parent who may have had two sons, but only required one."
* * *
Hugh shut the door on the bathhouse and forced his legs to move toward the villa. The sanctuary of his tablinum. He supposed Molly would be curious about his past, his life when he lived in England. He'd not been prepared to answer such questions, not when he didn't want her to know he was the infamous Lord Hugh Farley, who had ruined a young debutante's life before fleeing to the continent.
Or so everyone thought.
Now the Duke of St. Albans, he supposed he could return to London, lift his nose to anyone who would naysay him, but it wasn't to be borne. He would not give the rats the gloating rights to curse his name and give him the cut direct. Not that they would. Not as one of the highest-ranking and wealthiest peers in England.
With the death of his mother and brother now too, all ability to clear his name was lost. There would be no redemption for him back in England, no matter how much he would like to return. To take up his duties for his father's sake, if no one else's, but he could not. His brother had ensured his name was mud.
Hugh strode into his library, closed the door, and went to the settee that sat before the unlit hearth, sinking into its plush cushions. With Molly intent on returning to England he would have to make a choice. Ask her to stay, to marry him, but therein itself was a problem. He could not marry her under false pretenses. Should he do so, any heirs they produced would not inherit his title, which left him with one choice.
To tell Molly the truth of who he is and the real reason he lived in Italy.
Unless, he could sign the marriage register in his real name without Molly being aware… Even so, he would have to check the legality of the marriage before any children were born.
What a conundrum.
He rubbed a hand over his jaw, the thought of admitting his lineage, his shame, not the feigned one his brother and mother had heaped on his head, but the shame of letting them force him to take the fall left a sour taste in his mouth.
Should he tell Molly the truth, he wasn't certain he could face the horror, the hurt that would shadow her pretty visage. He never wanted her to look at him as if she did not know who he was. To imagine her think him a cad who ruined a young woman's life was a shame he could not bear to see from her.
Why, however, was uncertain. They had known each other for such a short time, but the fire and the chemistry that burned between them were undeniable. Molly was a woman who had friends in high places. There would be little doubt in his mind that she would've heard of Miss Laura Cox and the wicked Lord Farley's ruination of her.
Hugh clasped his hands before his face, leaning on his knees, staring at the blackened hearth in thought. He would be better off leaving her be. Stop all flirtation, all clandestine trips to the bathhouse such as the one tonight. Stop the stolen kisses in the carriage and merely become the host he was supposed to be. Or even better, leave Rome and return to his country estate near Naples. Remove himself from the temptation that was Molly.
He swore, throwing himself back into his chair. The idea of leaving Molly was no more palatable than telling her the truth and watching her leave for London. It was a hopeless case and one he would have to think upon more. Tonight he could not decide his course of action. What he could decide upon, however, was that he needed a stiff drink. Or perhaps, many.
Chapter 8
The following evening Molly once again stole down to the courtyard of the villa and snuck into the bathhouse. The room appeared prepared for use at any time, the sconces burned against the walls, the mosaic floor warm under her feet. Molly sighed, luxuriating in the most opulent space she'd ever experienced in her life.
Back in England at her family's small cottage, she had only ever bathed in a hip bath, and the one they had had not given her the ability to swim in warm, fragrant water. Whatever sweet flower oils they were putting in the water were delightful, and other than Hugh himself, she would miss this Roman bath more than anything else when she returned to England.
She had now been in Rome for almost a week, and so much had happened. Not only with her tours of the city, but here with Hugh. They had become friends instantly, and that attraction she felt for him had only grown with each moment she spent in his presence.
Today, however, he'd not been at the villa. The housekeeper had been at a loss as to his whereabouts.
Molly slipped off her robe and untied the small ribbon at the front of her shift, letting that too fall to the floor to pool at her feet. She sank into the water, careful not to slip on the steps before the warm bath engulfed her. Molly smiled, dipping under the water and swimming to the other end. She chuckled, knowing she was frolicking like some water nymph, and she was. Who would not when given such a gift of a Roman bath to use whenever they desired?
The door to the bathhouse opened, and she squealed, swimming to the side of the bath to stop Hugh from seeing her naked. He stumbled into the room and shut the door, seemingly oblivious to her being there.
"Hugh?" she asked. His head flicked up. His glassy eyes focused on her for the first time. Was he drunk?
"Molly," he panted. "I did not know you were in here. I thought everyone was abed."
"I was in bed," she started, watching as he moved over to a daybed, slumping down on the mattress. "But I grew hot and wanted to bathe. I thought it might help me sleep." She paused, watching him as he lay there, one arm slumped over his face, his legs off the side of the daybed as if he could not be bothered to lift them farther. "Are you well, Mr. Armstrong?"
"Do not call me Mr. Armstrong. Please."
He sounded tortured, ill even. Should she risk getting out and slipping on her clothes? He seemed to be only a minute or two away from sleeping. Her towel sat upon a nearby chair, but to clasp it, that too meant she would have to step out of the water completely to ensure her modesty was preserved.
Why had she not placed her towel closer to the bath?
"Are you well then, Hugh?" she asked again, moving along the side of the bath toward the steps.
"I am somewhat drunk, but not ill."
He seemed odd this evening. His words were hard and did not invite conversation. Was he angry at her? The reason for such a turn of character did not make sense. She had not seen him today and the last time they had spent time together, they had parted on good terms.
"What is it then?" she queried, wanting to know what ailed him.
"You."
"Me?" She stood on the bath floor, glancing at him over the side of the pool. He sat up, staring at her, and the desire that blazed in his ebony orbs fired her blood. It was dangerous for him to be in the room with her. She swallowed, her body tingling as his gaze dipped to her shoulders. Not that he could see beyond, but there was little doubt from his visage that he imagined what the rest of her looked like, naked and wet in the water.
"What have I done?" she queried when he didn't say anything further.
"You torment me."
Molly shut her mouth with a snap, unwilling to listen to such hogwash, and certainly unwilling to listen when he was foxed. She strode up the bath stairs, clasped her towel, and wrapped it about herself, ignoring the fact that her body burned. She could feel his attention upon her, scorching its way up and down her body as she covered herself with the soft linen.