And there’s that studio space waiting back in London, that golden chance for Pierce that seems to be slipping further and further away.
Lately, Mari has begun to wonder whether, if Noel can propel Pierce to greater heights, it means that the inverse is true, too. Should this all fall apart, is Pierce going to be hit by the shrapnel of Noel’s failure?
But Noel just ignores her, like she’d known he would.
“We oughta go into Orvieto,” Johnnie says. “The old part.”
Tilting his head back, Noel fixes Johnnie with a look. “And see what, exactly? A church? Some old ladies selling bread?”
Unlike Lara, Johnnie never flinches from Noel’s barbs, merely shaking them off like he does everything else. He’d clearly been a bit wounded by Mari not immediately throwing herself at him over the etched glass, but on the whole, he seems to have recovered, and she’s relieved. There are already too many romantic complications in this house without adding Johnnie’s crush on her into the mix.
He glances over at her now, his gaze warm, then turns his attention back to Noel. “Supposedly, they’ve got a well that goes down into hell.”
Noel perks up at that. “Really?”
“Well,” Johnnie amends, “it’s named after some place in Ireland that goes down into hell, but it’s still pretty fucking deep.”
Scowling, Noel sinks further into the sofa. “Think I’ll pass on seeing a very deep hole in the ground, mate. I’m not quite that bored yet.”
Johnnie may not mind Noel’s jibes, but it’s clear he enjoyed those few seconds when Noel actually appeared interested in something he had to say, so he tries again. “Also, the lady who runs the shop down the hill told me this villa is meant to be haunted. Apparently someone topped themselves up here back in the fifteen hundreds.”
“Whoever this unfortunate person was, I feel a kinship,” Noel says, sighing dramatically as he tips his head back, and Mari can’t bite her tongue any longer.
“Yes, what a hardship, staying in a gorgeous villa with all the food and drink you could want and no shortage of beautiful things to look at. However have you coped thus far, milord?”
It’s a nickname she’s given him over the past week, a pointed reminder that for all his decadence and rock-star pretensions, he’s still the son of an earl, and Mari suspects he loves it and hates it in equal measure.
Lara shoots her a dirty look, but Noel only laughs.
“Now, see? Pierce is right. Mari is neither bored nor boring.”
His gaze slides to Lara, upper lip curling slightly. “Some of you should clearly take notes.”
The hurt that flashes over Lara’s face is gone as quickly as it appeared, but Mari catches it. She feels sorry for her stepsister, truly she does, but she also can’t deny the primal satisfaction she feels, seeing Lara taken down a few notches. Mari knows she should be ashamed of herself, but she isn’t.
Noel stands, slapping his hands against his thighs. He’s once again thrown that garish dressing gown on over a pair of black jeans and nothing else, the rings on his fingers glinting in the candlelight. “I’ve changed my mind,” he announces, dark hair flopping over his brow. “Come, Sheldon, let’s give Mistress Mary what she’s commanded.”
Pierce stands up, guitar in hand, his gaze fixed on Noel, face bright. His free hand absentmindedly brushes over Mari’s hair as he goes to where Noel has set up his guitar near the window. They’d dragged over a couple of wooden chairs from somewhere else in the house a few days ago when they’d sworn they were going to write, only to get distracted by … lord, Mari can’t even remember.
There are so many distractions at Villa Rosato.
But now, finally, they’re sitting down, Pierce’s notebook is open on his knee, and Noel is actually listening to him.
Lara crosses the room to flop onto Mari’s sofa, leaning her head against Mari’s shoulder. “Aren’t they beautiful?” she says dreamily, her eyes fixed on Pierce and Noel. Pierce is already strumming his guitar, Noel nodding along, watching the placement of Pierce’s fingers.
And they are beautiful, but it irks Mari, that dreamy wonder in Lara’s voice.
“I’ve started writing a little myself.”
It’s Johnnie, who has taken a seat on her other side, his thigh pressed against hers, and Mari frowns in confusion.
“I saw you were writing,” Johnnie goes on, gesturing to the notebook on the other side of Lara. “And I thought I might try it. I play music, too, you know. Brought my guitar, but Noel never wants me to play with him, so maybe writing could be something I’m—”
“Right.” Mari cuts him off, her gaze drawn back to the two men in front of her, and though she knows she’s being a little rude, she doesn’t care, not right now. Right now, she wants to watch what she’s sure is history being made. The beginning of something great.
She feels Johnnie’s eyes on the side of her face, but she doesn’t turn to meet his gaze, and after a moment, he gets up with a sigh.
Mari hears the creak of the door, hears his footsteps as he leaves, a muted slam coming from somewhere upstairs.
“What’s his problem?” Lara asks in a low voice. Pierce is still playing, but he’s just repeating the same two chords, and Noel is shaking his head, reaching over to scratch something in Pierce’s notebook.
“Johnnie?” she answers, her eyes still on Pierce. “I don’t know.”
“He’s hot for you,” Lara whispers, and Mari frowns.
“He is not,” she says, even though she knows that he is, and Lara laughs, her head tipping back. It’s a real laugh, her real voice. She’s not playing a part for Noel or for Pierce right now, and Mari remembers that there was a time when she actually really liked spending time with her stepsister. Back when they were girls, sharing the same bedroom, sleeping in twin beds and whispering secrets in the dark.
“I have eyes, Mare,” Lara says, nudging her. “And he clearly has taste.”
She snuggles in close to Mari again, all easy affection because that’s Lara. Mari has always felt her own prickliness acutely, knows that she’s not easy to talk to or really get to know. Lara, though … it’s all out there with Lara, and there are moments, like now, that Mari is glad for it.
Still, Mari wishes things were different with her and Lara. That they could just be sisters, sisters who love each other, sisters who aren’t vying for the same thing.
For the same man.
But that was always their way, wasn’t it? Before Pierce, it was Mari’s father. Lara had been twelve, nearly thirteen, when her mother had married William Godwick, but that hadn’t stopped her from calling him “Papa,” from running to him every evening when he got home to regale him with some story from school or a new book she’d read or an album she’d listened to.
Mari had always thought it was a little sad, how eager Lara had been for William’s attention, but then her father always indulged it, always smiled fondly at Lara in a way he never did at Mari, no matter her accomplishments.
Maybe Lara was simply easier to love because she wasn’t a living reminder of the woman William had loved and lost. Or maybe it’s something in Mari herself that makes men she loves, be they father or lover, look for something else in Lara.