The back of Alec’s neck tingled. Sir Alfred had always adamantly maintained that Lottie could never be involved in his work in any way. The risk was too great. Before he could ruminate on that further, Lottie continued: “I haven’t written my own in ages, though. I didn’t see the point.”

For there was no one to send them to.

She stared at the view with a wistfulness that, for a moment, made her seem years younger. Alec swallowed past the lump of guilt in his throat and turned back to the canvas. “Why not paint the sunset? I’m sure it’s magnificent.”

“It is, but my painting instructor said I had to master daytime first. Now, though…” Her voice trailed off. He would have given anything to touch her again, even a comforting pat on the shoulder, but he doubted she would appreciate the gesture. And Alec was, if nothing else, a man of his word.

“You’ll come back to finish your sunset. I promise.”

Alec disappeared into the cottage soon after, leaving Lottie to stew in her thoughts. Chief among them was the wish for one more bedroom. She sat down at the terrace table and flipped through the Italian pocket dictionary until she reached the Mar section. Lottie dragged her finger down the page and stopped at the entry for Marito: m. Husband. Spouse.

She pressed a hand to her forehead as her face flushed yet again. Her measly conditions had been a desperate bid to gain some control over a situation wildly spinning away from her. She had come here to show Uncle Alfred that he could not manage her anymore, but if her actions had contributed to his illness in any way, she wasn’t sure she could live with herself.

Of course, there was the chance it was all a lie, with Alec acting as an accomplice. But he had agreed to her terms. Hopefully that would be enough time to determine the truth. Then she would either return to England or slip away once again. She idly touched two fingers to her lips, remembering the sensation of his mouth upon hers. Alec kissed exactly like how she’d expected a man used to manipulating people would—with confidence, experience, and just a hint at the end of barely suppressed passion to make it seem genuine.

Lottie knew this. Knew it meant nothing to him. And yet that old, pathetic desire still coursed through every vein.

For goodness’ sake, get ahold of yourself.

She let out a defeated sigh and buried her head in both hands. It had been a mistake to stay in Italy, born of a maudlin girlhood wish to see this village. But she would not let maudlin sentiment guide her any longer. After this she would travel farther east. Perhaps to Palmyra. Not even Alec would think to look for her there. Like painting, her interest in exploration was relatively new. She had many idle hours to fill these last years, and Sir Alfred’s library was well stocked. The memoirs of Lady Hester Stanhope and Isabella Bird had been particularly inspiring. Lottie felt like she had found kindred spirits in these female explorers who had also yearned for lives beyond drawing rooms and dared to make them happen.