The Truth Behind Their Practical Marriage. Marguerite Kaye
I assume?’
‘For the most part, and all of the utmost good character. Why is it that good character seems to go hand in hand with boring character?’
‘I sincerely hope that once again I’m an exception to your rule?’
‘You are indeed, though I notice you didn’t deny having something to hide when we were discussing dark secrets earlier.’
She was teasing, but her smile faded at his expression. ‘Everyone has regrets,’ Aidan said, ‘I am no different.’
Would Estelle see him in a very different light if she knew the truth? Fortunately, he’d never know. There would be time enough to face up to the past when he returned to Ireland, but for now he wanted to savour this welcome respite, a chance to remember the person he’d once been, and to enjoy being that person again. It was just a pity that he’d not met her earlier, for the clock was already ticking on their day-old acquaintance.
‘Don’t look at me like that,’ he said, covering her hand with his. ‘My only recent crime is that I’ve been less than assiduous in my studies this last month or so, and frittering away my time. I reckon I’ve been waiting on you turning up.’
‘The fates must have conspired to bring us together then. Though I didn’t realise it until we met yesterday, I’ve become rather bored with my own company.’
They had arrived in a little piazza on the outskirts of the old town. There had been a food market earlier, judging by the tatty bits of greenery that were strewn around. Water spouted from a worn lion’s head into a small fountain in one corner. Estelle cupped her hand to drink from it, yanking it back when she remembered that she was still wearing her gloves.
‘Here, let me,’ Aidan said, making a cup of both his hands.
She hesitated only for a second before dipping her head and drinking. Her tongue brushed against his palm. He exhaled sharply. She stopped drinking. Their eyes locked. Water dripped down his fingers on to the cobblestones. A droplet glistened on the indent of her top lip. He brushed it away, heard her exhale as sharply as he had done. She stepped towards him. His heart was pounding. Her hand fluttered up to his cheek. He dipped his head, she lifted hers, and their lips met. Icy cold water, warm flesh. He felt dizzy with the delight of it, allowed himself a moment to relish the sheer pleasure of it, before stepping back.
Her face, shadowed by the brim of her bonnet, reflected his own feelings—wide-eyed, flushed, uncertain, as if she had imagined it. ‘Estelle,’ he said, then stopped, for she shook her head, and he had no idea what to say anyway.
‘Do you like churches?’ she asked. ‘Not grand cathedrals but workaday churches, I mean, like that one, that smell of incense and candles and the congregation. Do you like them?’
At this moment, he reckoned if she’d asked him if he liked pickled herring he’d have told her it was his favourite food, but in fact he did like churches, the sort she’d described, very much. ‘I do,’ he said, taking her arm again. ‘Shall we go and take a look?’
It was a lovely church, as far as Estelle was concerned, with no cavernous nave or fresco-adorned ceiling, but a simple affair with plain wooden pews, a scrubbed flagstoned floor, and a wooden altar. The icons on each of the side chapels were not painted by any master, though they were so old that the painted panels were cracking, but the flowers were fresh, and the church had the peaceful atmosphere of a place well used by the devout.
She wandered off on her own, trying to calm her racing pulses. She’d been kissed before. A good many kisses had been snatched from her or pressed upon her, during her early travels, before she’d become adept at spotting the warning signs, but she didn’t count those as kisses. Received and never freely given, they had variously disgusted, repelled or angered her. But Aidan’s kiss was very different. Firstly this, her first real kiss, had been as much her doing as his. She’d wanted him to kiss her, and he had duly obliged. Secondly, she was certain he wouldn’t have, if he’d thought for a moment he was forcing himself on her. Which was why she wanted to kiss him again. That, and the fact that it had been too brief, that first kiss. It had made her feel as if she were flying and melting at the same time, and that was the most important reason of all.
Was it wrong of her to want to kiss him again? Aidan had been on the brink of apologising. Yet he had been the one to end it before it had really begun. He doubtless worried that he had taken advantage of her innocence. Which he hadn’t because she’d wanted him to kiss her and he knew that, because otherwise he wouldn’t have.
She was going round in circles. Exasperated, Estelle rolled her eyes at herself. For goodness sake, it was just a kiss! A delightful kiss, but hardly one fraught with danger, not in broad daylight in the middle of a piazza. A delightful moment in a delightful day that she refused to spoil by analysing it any further.
She’d made a full circuit of the church now, and joined Aidan where he was standing beside a rather battered harpsichord.
‘Well,’ he asked her, ‘is it to your taste? The church, I mean?’
‘Very much. In the cathedral of Santa Maria del Fiore, in any of the big churches in this city actually, you feel as if God is so remote as to almost not be present. Here, you feel He is so much more approachable, as if you could just sit down there and talk to Him. Do you think that’s an odd thing to say?’
‘If it is, then that makes oddities of both of us for I feel exactly the same. Clodagh fears that I’ll return to Ireland a convert to Catholicism. I told her that it would be no bad thing,’ Aidan said, ‘for it would give me something else in common with the majority of my tenants. But my sister, though a liberal in many ways, is very much a traditionalist when it comes to the subject of religion.’
‘Are you likely to become a convert?’
He shook his head, smiling wryly. ‘That would require me to have strong feelings on the subject, and I don’t. Look at this now. You claimed to be able to play almost any instrument, a church harpsichord should present no challenge.’
Estelle sat on the stool and opened the lid reverentially. The keys were worn, but when she struck some experimental soft chords, she discovered that the instrument was perfectly in tune. Her fingers twitched, feeling the connection, as if the harpsichord was begging to be brought to life. ‘I shouldn’t, not without permission,’ she whispered.
‘There’s no one around,’ Aidan replied, ‘go on, I dare you.’
Bach’s French Suite flowed from her fingertips to the keyboard, and she was quickly lost, playing her favourite movement, the fifth, meaning to stop there but finding her fingers flying on to the next and then the next as the music swooped and soared around the small church. She brought the seventh to a flourishing close, resting her hands on the keys and breathing deeply with the kind of intense satisfaction that only music could provide.
Aidan’s applause made her eyes fly open. She blushed deeply. ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean…’
‘Please don’t apologise. That was quite breathtaking.’
‘You told me you’d not a musical bone in your body.’
‘Estelle, you made me feel as if I had heartstrings that were being plucked. You have a rare talent.’
‘Raw talent, perhaps. I’ve never really had any lessons.’
‘Then you’re even more talented than I thought. You played for almost fifteen minutes without sheet music and as far as I could tell you didn’t make one mistake.’
‘I should think not, the number of times I’ve played that piece. We had hardly any sheet music when I was little, so the few we had, I played over and over again. That was one of them.’
‘You’ll think this sounds fanciful, but it was as if the music poured straight from your heart through your