Two Little Lies

Nine

In which the Contessa has An Assignation.

V iviana was chilled to the bone by the time she reached the old cottage the following afternoon. A freezing rain had fallen during the night, icing the trees and weighing down the hedgerows which lined the last of her route. The clothes which she had brought with her from Venice—the very warmest things she possessed—were woefully inadequate to the Buckinghamshire winter. She wished desperately for some thick stockings and a habit of good Scotch wool; indeed, she should have ordered them from the village seamstress yesterday.


Instead, she had let herself be distracted by Lady Charlotte. And this, apparently, was where her foolishness had taken her, she mused as she surveyed the scene beyond the rotted gateposts. The ramshackle cottage looked as abandoned and unkempt as ever. With grave unease, she slid off her saddle and somehow landed on both feet, which felt like torpid blocks of ice.

After leading her mount around to the back of the cottage, she secured him in the rear of the shed—the half which had not yet buckled under the weight of its roof—and looked about. Obviously, the collapse was not recent. The former Earl of Wynwood must have been a dreadful old pinchpenny to let one of his properties come to this.

By the time she returned to the yard, the wind had picked up afresh. She knocked, and, getting the response she had expected—nothing—lifted the latch and pushed on the door anyway. It was stuck, but not locked. Stubbornly, Viviana set her shoulder to the wide planks and gave it a hearty shove. The hinges squalled, and the door swung inward, the bottom edge dragging on the flagstone floor.

Inside, the cottage had an air of forsakenness about it, but was not without charm. There was a smell, a hint of the mustiness one associated with old wood and a cold hearth, but there was another, more familiar scent, too. Viviana drifted about the place, wondering at it, and pausing from time to time to blow warm air down her gloves for heat. The cottage’s plain, roughly plastered walls reached up to a low ceiling which was supported by three broad, age-blackened beams. The flagstone floor had been swept clean, and the hearth was already laid with kindling. Yes, the place was vacant—but not entirely abandoned.

The cottage appeared to consist of two rooms with a kitchen across the back. There was a rickety little contraption which might charitably have been called a staircase, but was really just a ladder, ascending into a hole between the beams. The front room was fitted with an old chest, a deal corner cupboard, and a pair of sturdy armchairs. She tossed her hat onto one of the chairs, then peeked into the tiny bedchamber adjacent. In the gloom, she could see a rough-hewn bed covered with an old wool counterpane.

Viviana drifted into the back room, which was more or less empty save for an old-fashioned kitchen basin lined with zinc, and an ancient Welsh dresser, still filled with blue-and-white dishware bearing the cracks and chips of age. A peck basket of apples and two pails of fresh water sat near the sink. How very odd.

Just then, she heard the door scraping open again. She whirled around to see Quin stooping low beneath the lintel. He carried something in on his shoulder and was stomping the slush from his boots as he came. Viviana cleared her throat. He looked up, his eyes widening in surprise.

“It was freezing,” she said, her voice tart. “I had no wish to wait in the wind.”

He smiled coolly and tossed down the bundle which had been balanced on one shoulder. “I’m late,” he admitted. “Mr. Herndon, my steward, detained me. I apologize.”

Viviana drifted back into the front room. “Whose house is this?”

“It was occupied until recently by the widow of an old tenant farmer,” he answered, shucking his heavy coat and gloves. “But she has gone to live with her daughter in High Wycombe. Herndon cannot let it again until some repairs are made.”

“Yes, the shed is falling in,” she said crossly.

Quin’s smile thinned. “It seems my late father did not believe in making any repairs unless they were urgent,” he answered. “And the shed, I collect, was not used by the widow.”

“I sheltered my horse there.” She looked at him sharply. “Will he be safe?”

“Safe enough,” he answered, kneeling by the hearth. “You are cold. Let me start a fire.”

“Don’t trouble yourself,” she returned, her tone impatient. “I cannot stay.” She chided herself at once. Good Lord, she was nervous as a cat. How did Quin get under her skin so easily?

He said nothing more but drew a dented old vesta box from his pocket and struck a match on the hearthstone. It flared to life, its unpleasant stench wafting through the room. He held the match to the kindling, which began to smolder, and finally, to burn.

“The new French matchsticks are not so malodorous,” she complained. “The tobacconist in the Burlington Arcade sells them a ha’pence a dozen.”

He did not answer, but instead stared into the incipient fire. “I am sorry, Viviana, that it is so cold out,” he finally said. “And I’m sorry that my shed is about to collapse on your horse. And that I was detained by Herndon. And that my lucifers are stinking up the room. In fact, I’m beginning to be sorry I bothered to come here at all.”

Viviana drew back an inch. “Si, I am being a—a—what is the English word?” She paused to glare at him. “Una crudele strega. A bitch? A witch? I forget how to say it.”

“Either will do,” he said dryly.

“Well, I shan’t apologize,” she answered. “I did not wish to come here. Not really.”

“And I did not wish you cutting up my peace,” he retorted.

“Cutting your peace?” she answered, not entirely sure what he meant, but unwilling to give an inch. “What about my peace? Is it not cut, also?”

“The peace of this cottage,” he clarified. “It felt like the only tranquil place in the county until five minutes ago.” He was on his feet now, his glossy riding boots set stubbornly wide.

She put her hands on her hips and looked past him, to the bundle he had dropped in one of the wooden armchairs. It looked like blankets. “Someone has been living here,” she said. “It is you, is it not?”

He lifted one brow, and said nothing.

“Your scent, it is in the room,” she challenged.

“Perhaps it’s just the stench of my matches,” he said sardonically. “Perhaps you cannot tell the difference anymore, Vivie.”

Viviana narrowed her gaze and wondered what to say next. Why was she trying to goad him? She did not know this implacable, steely-eyed man who looked as though ice water might run in his veins. In the old days, Quin had always been hot-tempered and eager for a fight—and eager to make up afterward, too. And she—well, she had been little better. Like cats in heat, she thought again. Emotional. Fiery. Passionate. Well, the passion was obviously gone now—thank God.

She resisted the urge to stamp her foot. “Well, let us get on with this, Quentin,” she said. “Let us ‘get our stories straight,’ as you insist we ought.”

He took a step toward her. “Firstly, I should like to know what you have told my sister.”

“I?” she snapped. “What I have told? Niente affatto! Nothing! You dare suggest otherwise?”

He looked at her grimly. “I just think it behooves us, Viviana, to say as little as possible about…about the past.”

“Andare all’inferno!” she spit.

Oh, he knew how to interpret that one, thought Quin. Go to hell. Too bloody late for that. It felt as if he was already there. Somehow, he caught both her hands in his. “Oh, Viviana, for pity’s sake,” he said. “I only meant that—”

“I know what you meant,” she snapped, jerking her hands from his. “Do you think, Quinten, that I am not ashamed of what I was to you? I did not choose it, no. But I gave in to you. And I am still ashamed. More than you will ever know.”


“I am sorry to hear you say it,” he answered quietly. “I was never ashamed of you, Viviana. I was always proud that you were my—”

“Silenzio!” Viviana’s face had gone taut and pale. “I was never yours, Quinten. Never! Can you not comprehend? And you may thank your uncle Chesley, not me, for what little your sister does know.”

“Uncle Ches?” Quin was bewildered. “What did he tell her?”

“That you once pursued me, no more,” she answered. “What else would he say? He knows nothing.”

That was probably true. Quin had taken great pains to hide the relationship from his uncle, in part because Viviana had begged him. But in part because…well, because he had feared Chesley’s wrath. He had known, had he not, that his uncle would not approve? Chesley had treated Viviana almost as a niece or goddaughter. That very fact should have told Quin something.

But there was something else in Viviana’s tone which Quin did not like. He lifted his head, and pinned her with his gaze. “What did you mean, Viviana, when you said you ‘did not choose it’?”

Viviana dropped her eyes. “I just meant that I did not—” She swallowed hard, then glanced back up at him almost accusingly. “That I did not wish to—”

He set both hands on her slender shoulders and gave her a little shake. “What are you saying?” he demanded. “That you did not wish to be my lover?”

She closed her eyes. “I did not wish it,” she whispered. “I told you so, Quinten. I told you so a hundred times.”

His hands tightened on her shoulders. “Oh, don’t play the martyr with me, my dear,” he said. “Perhaps I pursued you rather determinedly. But you wanted it, Viviana.”

“Determinedly.” Her gaze flicked up again. “Si, caro, that is one way of putting it.”

“Are you saying, Vivie, that you didn’t want me?” He looked at her incredulously. “That just won’t wash, my dear.”

She looked weary and a little ill now. “I am not trying to wash anything,” she answered. “Please, Quinten, I must be going now. I think there is nothing for us to settle after all.”

But a distinctly unpleasant suspicion was creeping over him. “Viviana, good God! Are you…are you claiming that I—that I violated you?”

The hurt in her eyes deepened. “No, not that.” Her voice was so soft now he could barely hear. “I did not scream, did I? I did not kick or strike you, or—or…” The words fell away.

“Viviana.” His voice was hollow, even to his own ears. “Viviana—that first time—I did not force you. Do not you dare try to claim that now, after all that you have put me through.”

“Force?” Her eyes widened. “I never said it was that.”

“What then? What the devil are you saying?”

She looked away. “I just did not wish it to be like that,” she answered, sliding her hands up and down her arms. “Can you not understand, Quinten? Not the first time. Not on a divan in some tawdry backstage dressing room, with my skirts hiked up and the filth of the stage still on me. And I wished to be loved. To be married. Even the bourgeoisie, caro mio, have dreams and principles.”

Dreams? Principles? Good God! He dropped his hands and turned away. The walls of the little cottage seemed to shift unsteadily.

He thought back on that night, his brain whirling, his palms beginning to sweat. He had been drinking, but no more than usual. He had been frustrated, yes. He had been growing increasingly desperate for Viviana and beginning to fear he would never win her. And halfway through her amazing performance, he had realized, just as everyone in the theater had, that Viviana Alessandri’s life as a mere understudy was over. He had realized, too, that the admiring glances which had driven him to near madness were about to increase tenfold.

But underneath all the anxiety, he had been so very proud. He had known how hard she had slaved for her success. He had awaited her return to her dressing room with an awful mix of delight and nervousness, pacing the floor and waiting for her to make her way through the throng of admirers which always crowded behind the stage. She had arrived utterly aglow with the light of success. Giddy from the thunderous applause. She had thrown herself into his arms with wild abandon. And he had believed that it meant something, something more than it apparently had.

He turned and walked into the shabby kitchen, where he could brace his hands on the old sink and stare through the window as he fought to collect himself. He felt, rather than heard, her follow him in. “You never desired me, Viviana?” he whispered. “It was just me, pushing you into something…something you did not want?”

“I was inexperienced, Quinten,” she whispered, lightly touching his arm. “How was I to know what I wanted? Did I desire you physically? Yes. You know that I did. But I let my…my exuberance get out of hand. I let things go too far.”

“How far, Vivie?” he rasped. “How far was too far for you?”

She hesitated, as if measuring her response. “I was not sure, Quinten,” she said. And then she answered the question he was afraid to ask. “I had lain with no man before you, caro. I did not know—did not even think about the fact that there was a point, emotionally and physically, at which one could not so easily turn back. Did you…did you not understand?”

He dragged a hand through his hair, and said nothing.

“I thought it was obvious,” she went on. “Obvious, I mean, that I did not know what I was doing. I had always assumed that the first would be my husband.”

Quin opened his mouth, then closed it again. “I…I never dreamt…,” he finally said.

She had circled around the narrow room and into his field of view. She looked deathly pale but almost frighteningly composed. “You never dreamt what, Quinten?” she went on, no anger in her words now. “Did you simply believe that all singers were whores?”

Yes, he had believed it. It was what everyone said. But who was everyone? His new, ramshackle London friends? “I don’t know, Viviana, what I thought,” he lied. “I just…wanted you.”

“And damn the cost?” she finished. “Well, it has cost us both, Quinten. I was a good Catholic girl, but I did not count on the terrible temptation you would present. My resistance lasted all of what—? Two months?”

“But you never said anything,” he managed. “You seemed…to want me as I wanted you.”

“One often wants what one oughtn’t have,” she answered softly. “You were as beautiful, caro mio, as the devil in angel’s wings.”

He had believed her reticence a game. He had believed that she teased and tormented him deliberately. Hadn’t he? With her lush figure and dark, seductive beauty, Viviana had seemed so much older than he. So worldly and sophisticated. He had supposed that she knew what he did not. How to make love instead of just have sex.

Good God, it all seemed unfathomable to him now. Had they both been green as grass? He had been so nervous. So desperate to have her. And he had wondered afterward if she had laughed at him, at his inability to wait. Yes, he had taken her there on the shabby leather divan in her even shabbier dressing room. She had still worn her costume and that hideous wig.

Quin bowed his head and pinched the bridge of his nose until the pain calmed him. “I am sorry, Viviana,” he said quietly. “I was nothing but a green boy just up from the country. It is no excuse, I’ll warrant, but…”


She was looking at him with a worried expression now. “Non importa,” she said quietly. “It is just some water under a bridge, si?”

He laughed, a sharp, pathetic sound. “Yes, my dear, it is just some water under a bridge.”

They remained thus for a time, her hand resting lightly on his arm, his gaze focused blindly through the window. Eventually, he drew in a ragged breath and straightened up. “Well, Viviana, I am sorry it has come to this,” he said, without looking at her. “I am sorry for all the mistakes I made. But they were the mistakes of youth and inexperience, if that matters.”

“I, too, made mistakes,” she admitted.

He let his shoulders fall. “We just need to decide, you and I, what we are going to tell people when they go prying into our business—as my sister is wont to do. So…so tell me what it is you wish me to say, Vivie, and I shall say it.”

“I did not come here to embarrass you, Quinten,” said Viviana. “You have always been free to deny everything if that was your wish.”

At last he turned and looked down at her. “I never imagined, Viviana, that you came to embarrass me,” he answered. “You are a respectable widow. You have three children. I think you have far more to lose than I.”

He meant it, too. What did he have to lose, truly? Esmée had already left him. And sadly, he had scarcely thought of her since. In Town, his reputation was already black as pitch and likely getting worse. He remembered those awful first days following Viviana’s return as if they were some sort of dream. Indeed, he wondered if he’d been a little mad.

In the years since they had parted, the breath of scandal had not touched her, so far as he knew. Why would she wish to throw away her respectability? She did not want revenge. Indeed, she had not even wanted him. He would do well to remember that it had been she who had left, and not without reason. Her marriage to Bergonzi ate at him, but it was a pain best kept to himself.

He tried to smile at her but it was a rueful, half smile at best. “We will keep to the story we told at Aunt Charlotte’s,” he said. “We met once or twice, and I tried to court you. You spurned me, and that was the end of it.”

Viviana’s expression was still unreadable.

“It will work,” he said reassuringly. “There is no one who can contradict us, save for Lucy Watson, and she can be trusted.”

At last, she nodded. “Si, it will work,” she echoed. “Grazie, Quinten. I should go now. It is a long ride back to Chesley’s.”

He stepped away and bowed his head. “Yes, of course.”

She turned as if to go, sweeping the longer hem of her habit over the kitchen threshold. But at the last minute, she turned around, her eyes suddenly wide and sorrowful. “I have often wondered, Quinten,” she said quietly. “After I left, did you…did you miss me? Even a little? Or was I just another whore to you?”

He crossed the little room in two strides and snared her hand in his. “Don’t say that, Vivie,” he growled. “Don’t ever use that word again.”

She blinked as if startled from a dream. “A Cyprian, you called me,” she murmured. “Is that not a whore?”

He bowed his head, and carried her gloved hand to his lips. God help him, but he had said it—and not that long ago. And then he had kissed her, quite rapaciously and cruelly. He was fortunate his mother and his uncle had been able to hush up the worst of the damage.

“Forgive me, Viviana,” he managed. “I did say it, but I was wrong. I was angry. You were never that to me.”

“Why?” Her voice was plaintive now. “Why, Quinten, were you so angry?”

Inexplicably, he wanted to tell her. To unshackle himself from the awful truth. “Because, Viviana, when you left me, I did miss you,” he answered. “Very much.”

“In what way?” she asked. “How? I need to know. I need to know that that part of my life was not entirely wasted. That it meant…something. To someone.”

He dropped her hand, his smile bitter. “It probably was wasted, Vivie,” he said. “But it meant something to me, if that helps. I don’t think I ever deserved you. And when you left, it was as if someone had stripped my very soul away.”

She started to reply, but he set a finger to her lips. “You were never a whore, Vivie. Never a Cyprian. You were my light and my life.”

Gently, she pushed his hand away. “Oh, Quinten, would it have been better for the both of us if we had never met at all?” she asked, her voice suddenly unsteady. “Would our lives have been easier? Our hearts less damaged?”

He shook his head. “You cannot look back, Vivie,” he answered.

She surprised him then by lifting her hands to his face. “I know,” she whispered. “I don’t look back. I cannot let myself. I cannot bear to question the choices I have made. But today, I—I just don’t know.”

He closed his eyes and turned his face into the palm of her glove. He could feel her ever-comforting warmth beneath the supple leather. “Your touch is like a dream to me,” he whispered, almost unaware he spoke the words aloud. “So many times I have awakened to this, only to find…that it was not this at all.”

“Quin, I—” She stopped, and shook her head. “I never meant to hurt you. I never even knew that I had. I am sorry. I regret we could not part as friends.”

“It would not have been possible then, Viviana.” He set his hands on her shoulders and tried to resist the urge to pull her into his arms. “My feelings for you were not so simple.”

“Is it too late now?” she asked. “Oh, Quin, I don’t want to be like this. I don’t want to die old and bitter. I want to remember my first lover with happiness and not regret. Is there any little scrap of fondness or friendship that we might salvage from this mess we’ve made?”

He felt a little piece of his heart crumble again. It was not fondness or friendship which he felt for her. It never would be.

Later, he could not have said if Viviana came against him of her own accord, or if he pulled her into his arms. But somehow, his hands were spread wide across her back, and his face was buried in her hair. “I don’t know, Vivie,” he whispered. “I don’t know what is left of my heart. Nothing, I sometimes fear.”

“You hurt me, Quinten,” she whispered. “I will not pretend you did not. But I think I did not comprehend that I had hurt you.”

He drew a deep, unsteady breath. “You spoke of happiness, Viviana, and not regret,” he said. “Perhaps we parted on terms so bitter they poisoned us. Perhaps we will look back on this visit of yours and know that we tried to make peace.”

“I would like to be rid of the bad memories.” Viviana let her eyes drop shut and set her cheek against his chest. “A thousand times, Quinten, I have thought of this. Of what it would be like to have your arms round me again. To feel no anger, but instead, only peace.”

He set his lips against the top of her head, and inhaled the soft scent of her hair. “I wish, Vivie, that I could live that time over again,” he said. “I know we cannot turn back the clock. I know our ways have parted and will likely never merge again. But I cannot say I won’t think of you often.”

She looked up, and he felt her shiver in his embrace. Her eyes softened in that too-familiar way he had once loved. And suddenly, it seemed the most natural thing in the world to lower his lips to hers. This time, however, he was slow and patient. This time, he gave her every opportunity to refuse him. She did not. Instead, she lowered her sweep of long, black lashes, and sucked in her breath on a little gasp. Delicately, his lips brushed the swell of her bottom lip.


“Vivie, let me—” he rasped. “No, let us, Vivie—let us wipe away the bad memories with a memory of something sweet and good.”

He felt her hands move uncertainly to his waist, then felt them settle there, pulling him incrementally nearer. His mouth molded fully over hers, and he kissed her deeply as he drew in the scent which had so long haunted him.

Good God, he had thought never to do this again! Perhaps he oughtn’t be doing it now, but Viviana’s mouth was softening beneath his, and her lips were parting in sweet invitation. After a moment’s hesitation, he answered her, stroking his tongue along the seam of her lips, then sliding gently inside. For long moments he held her, thrusting slowly into her mouth, and reveling in the way her breath caught and the way her body came fully against his.

They came apart breathing rapidly, both of them thinking the same thing, he would have sworn. “Oh, we should not,” she whispered, her eyes holding his quite unflinchingly. “Quin, you know where this is going. We never possessed an ounce of restraint between the two of us.”

“No, not an ounce,” he whispered, pulling her back, and tucking her head beneath his chin. “Is that so bad, Vivie?”

She set her lips against his throat. “Oh, Quin! Oh, God, is this…is this wise?”

He felt his own hands begin to shake. “Vivie, I don’t know,” he admitted. “But who will ever know? How can it be wrong if we agree to it? Just once more, and then perhaps we will…we will be able to part in peace. Perhaps we will be erasing the bad with the good—and bringing back the memories of a time that was so fleetingly sweet.”

Viviana’s mouth opened against his throat, then skimmed along his collar. He felt her whole body shudder against his. She knew what he was offering, then. What he wanted. And dear God, she was going to do it. Relief and joy and desire ran through him like a lightning strike. She returned her mouth to his and kissed him hungrily—the kiss of his dreams. His heart literally skipped a beat.

“Then do it, Quin,” she said when she tore her mouth from his. “Leave me with a good memory and wipe away the bad.”

His hands went to her shoulders, and he squeezed them gently. “Vivie, are you sure?” he choked. “Be sure. I have to know it is something you want.”

She shook her head and pressed her eyes tighter still. “It is something I want,” she whispered.

And then, somehow, Quin had her in his arms, her long skirts draped across his coat sleeve, and he was carrying her back through the little parlor. The fire was blazing there, radiating warmth into the room. He swept past and into the dark, narrow bedchamber. He laid her down and set one knee to the mattress, making the bed creak beneath his weight.

Viviana reached up, and lightly embraced his face with her hands. Her gloves, he realized, were gone. “We will not regret this, amore mio?”

“We won’t let ourselves regret it,” he answered. He shucked off both his coats, and let them slither to the floor. His boots followed, then he sat back down on the bed.

“Vivie, we will tell ourselves this is just for old times’ sake,” he said, sliding the backs of his fingers across the infinitesimal softness of her cheek. “That we left something undone all those years ago.”

She reached up, and he felt her fingers run through his hair, gently stroking him from his temples, all the way back. It was one of his favorite touches, one which left him shivering with delight. This afternoon was no exception.

“Just for old times’ sake, then,” she whispered. “Just once more. To make good memories instead of bad.”

Viviana’s heavy cloak had fallen away and slithered half-off the bed. His hands went to the throat of her habit, and slowly he began to undress her. Not once did she hesitate, or move to stop him. Every button, every hook, revealed something indescribably sweet. An inch of lace. A patch of creamy skin. A scent. A gasp. Like tiny drops of water in a drought, they quenched an emotional thirst, as though he were parched to his very soul.

She watched him through eyes half-closed as her body was unveiled. Her throat, so long and so perfect. The neat, round turn of each shoulder, and her still slender arms. Her heavy skirts. Her boots so small they fit across the length of his hand. Even her drawers, which she untied herself, almost bashfully. All of it fell away until she lay stretched out before him in her thin chemise of fine lawn and lace. So fine he could see her dusky aerolas, and her nipples already hard—though whether from the cold or from desire, he could not say.

Lightly, he brushed one finger over the peaked fabric. Viviana’s eyes closed fully, and her head went back into the softness of the old feather bolster. “Quin.” She paused to swallow hard. “Quin, don’t…don’t torture me. Not this time.”

He smiled, and remembered how it used to be; how, after those first few weeks of uncontrolled lust had been sated, he had learned to go slow. So slow he could make Viviana writhe and beg. What a feeling of power that had been; a feeling he had not enjoyed—or even tried to enjoy—with any woman since. Then, there had been no mistaking Viviana’s desire for him. He took comfort in that now and lowered his mouth to her breast.

Viviana gasped, her hips surging upward and he sucked the hard, perfect tip of her breast between his lips. He listened in satisfaction as her breath ratcheted slowly upward. She shifted one leg restlessly, and Quin set his palm against the inside of her calf and began slowly to push the fine lawn chemise higher and higher, until he reached the tender flesh of her inner thigh. For long moments, he simply caressed her there, suckling her gently with his mouth as his palm circled and stroked.

When he sensed the restlessness growing in her again, Quin eased his hand higher still, stroking one finger deep into the softness which he found there, and eliciting a small, weak cry of pleasure. Forcing himself to be gentle, he touched her in the way he remembered. The way she liked, the tip of his finger gently grazing her sweet feminine nub.

Viviana began to tremble a little. Her hands, light and warm, settled on his shoulders. “Come into the bed now, caro mio.” Her voice was husky now. “Give me your warmth and the hardness of your body.”

Quietly, he rose from the bed. He found it strange that he felt no need to rush. He had dreamt of this moment a thousand times. And always, it had been a dream which turned into a nightmare upon his awakening, for his bed was always empty. In the weak afternoon light which permeated the tiny room, he undressed. Viviana had never been shy, but this time, her eyes never left him. When at last his shirt had been dragged off over his head, and his hands went to the tie of his drawers, he saw her swallow hard. Quickly, he tore them away, half-fearing that the blatantly aroused state of his body might yet give her pause. Viviana’s eyes widened, and she moved to throw back the old wool coverlet and the heavy bedcovers beneath.

He went to the bed, and reached for her. A little desperately, he stripped away her chemise. The fabric breezed up, baring her breasts and teasing her nipples. Quin made a little growling sound in his throat. “Oh, holy God,” he whispered. “Oh, my God, Vivie.”

“I—I am not the same, Quin,” she answered. “I have aged.”

He leaned over her, and set his right hand on the turn of her waist, then slid it slowly up and over her ribs, until her breast was cradled in his hand. “No, you have ripened,” he whispered. “You are a lush, lovely woman, Vivie, instead of just a pretty girl.” Gently, he ran his thumb around her nipple. But Viviana wanted more. She moved restlessly in the bed, silently pleading for him. Quin felt suddenly humbled by it all. He pushed back the bedcovers and slid in beside her.


Viviana felt the heat radiating from Quin’s body and drew to it like a moth to flame. She wanted to lose herself in him, to be enfolded in his embrace until they were one—at least for a few sweet, perfect moments. She snuggled against him, pressing her body to his from chest to knees and trying not to question her own judgment.

She wanted, oh, how she wanted this man. Nothing had changed. He made her feel alive with her every fiber. He thought she was lush, and lovely. He was temptation in the flesh, and his touch sent a sweet, hot need spiraling through her, tugging her toward him. She yearned to be pressed down into the softness of bed by the weight of his body. She fought an urgent, wanton wish to be impaled by him. Her body craved the perfect pleasure which only Quin could arouse. Yes, long after leaving him, she had ached for this, until the need had been numbed by the years of bitterness. How quickly and how hotly it could spring to life again.

The old bed creaked more loudly as he pushed her onto her back and dragged his weight over hers. His heavy, dark hair fell forward to shadow his face as his mouth closed over her breast again. Her every tactile awareness came alive to him. His legs felt hard and rough splayed over hers. His beard softly abraded the tender flesh of her breast as he suckled her. The muscles of his arms and thighs weighed her down, held her tight, left her captive to his desire.

His tongue laved and circled her nipple, and the white-hot need twisted in her belly again. Viviana became dimly aware of his teeth closing over her nipple, biting and sucking until her desire was drawn taut. Impatient, she pushed him away. He lifted his head, smiled, and allowed her to push him onto his back.

Eagerly, she mounted him, then sat back on her knees to drink in the beauty of his body. Even before she had loved him, she had loved to look at him. And again, nothing had changed. Oh, he was bigger. Heavier. And broader, too. The light was beginning to fade ever so slightly, casting a beautiful warmth to his skin. Though she would not have believed it possible, he was more handsome as a man than a boy.

Gone were the dark, often accusing eyes. Instead they were warm, and slightly crinkled at the corners. There was no softness to his face now; it was all hard planes and angles. His arms were thicker, and taut with power. His chest was sculpted with muscle and dusted with dark hair—something else she did not remember. He really had been so very young, all those years ago.

She set her hands on his wide, hard chest, and leaned over him. “Ah, caro mio, you grow more beautiful with age.”

He smiled up at her. For the first time, it struck her that she was naked and astraddle him, her every shortcoming—well, save for that slight sag in her rear—fully exposed. It had not, however, lessened his interest. That was readily apparent. Impulsively, she took his erection in her hands, finding joy in the sleek, hard strength of him. His body pulsed with suppressed power and promised her pleasure well remembered.

She stroked both hands up the full length of him, and beneath her, Quin shuddered. “Oh, Vivie,” he half groaned, half laughed. “You always get right to the point, don’t you, love?”

She said nothing, but instead rose up on her knees, and slowly took him, inch by sweet, hot inch, until he was groaning in earnest. Then clenching her muscles tight, she rose onto her knees again. Twice. Three times. Over and over, until Quin set his hands on her hips, and urged her to move more slowly. She gentled her pace, but not the intensity.

“Oh, God!” he choked. “Minx. Wanton. Stop.” A little roughly, he literally lifted her up.

“Quin, no!”

“Come here,” he growled, more serious now. He urged her forward until her knees clasped his upper rib cage. “Quin, caro, what—?”

With his hands still set at her waist, he plunged his tongue deep into her most sensitive place. Her eyes opened wide and her breath seized. Oh, for so long she had yearned for this. Quin’s tongue touched and teased, sliding through her flesh until her breathing became audible. He stroked again, deeper, more intimately. Viviana gave a sharp cry of pleasure and reached out to grasp the rough wooden headboard.

He held her there, a prisoner to his ravening tongue, his hands firmly clasping her buttocks. It was wicked, almost embarrassing, to be touched so. But she had little time to consider it, for she was drowning in pleasure. She felt her climax teasing, inching nearer. Oh, too soon. Too fast.

Quin sensed it, and drew back a little, soothing her more gently until her breathing had calmed a little. Then, with a sound of impatience, he slid his hands around until his thumbs touched the folds of her flesh and urged them fully open. Then his tongue touched her again, a sweet, searching circle. With his strong hands, he urged her thighs apart until she was fully exposed to his mouth’s ravishing demands. At last, she came apart, shattering into slivers of crystalline pleasure as she clung to the bed and trembled.

When she returned to her senses, Quin was kissing her; kissing her curls, her belly, then nuzzling higher. She moved as if to sit back, and he caught her breast in his mouth, suckling her yet again, like a desperate man.

“Vivie,” he rasped. “I need you. On your back, love. The old-fashioned way.”

Viviana smiled inwardly and did as he commanded. She loved the feel of Quin atop her. He followed her, dragging himself fully over her, and the years fell away. He was again her beautiful boy, thrusting himself home on one awkward, enthusiastic stroke.

“Ah, Vivie!” he managed, as he began to move inside her. “Oh, so good.”

In response, Viviana tilted her hips to fully take him, and set her feet firmly against the mattress. It had been a long time, too long, since she had been taken with such joy, such raw, unbounded enthusiasm. She was oddly glad that Quin had not changed. Like a cat being stroked, she arched her back, lifting her hips to move with and against him.

It was just what he wanted. Indeed, she always knew what Quin wanted. In bed, they spoke without words. On a guttural sound, he thrust deeper. Viviana held herself perfectly against him, and he moved and thrust inside her.

“Ahhh, God almighty—!” she heard him moan, his mouth buried in her hair. “God. Viviana. Am I…hurting you?”

Softly, she laughed. It felt wonderful to be pinned beneath him, so thoroughly impaled by him. He lifted himself off ever so slightly, then his hand slid between them, down her belly, his fingers urgently seeking the swollen nub of her sex. It had been a long time, Viviana thought, since a lover had so concerned himself with her pleasure. Not since Quin. And nothing had changed.

With a practiced hand, he touched her, making her gasp. But she did not need his touch. Not that way. Already she was eager. She whispered in his ear, and told him so in very wicked words, a passionate mix of Italian and English, for she could no longer think straight.

He understood, and slid his hands around to cradle her hips, stilling her to his thrusts. His urgency was like a match strike, setting her afire, and soon she was sobbing and whimpering his name as she struggled for yet another release.

She could feel his chest, damp with perspiration. She could hear the raw hunger in each breath as the air bellowed in and out of his lungs. Suddenly, she cried out sharply. Quin buried his face in her neck and sank his teeth into the tender flesh of her throat, rocking and rocking his hips with that sweet, perfect rhythm until she was crying out his name and shaking beneath him.

For an instant, he drove harder and deeper. He fell against her, the warm heat of his seed pumping deep into her body as his erection pulsed again and again, then fell still.


“God, Viviana.” His hands tightened on her buttocks. “Oh, dear God. It will never be so good again. Never again, not as long as I live.”

She could find no words. She could only caress him, long, soothing strokes down the length of his back, now damp from exertion. After a long moment of silence, he lifted himself off her, his expression almost sheepish. She followed, rolling onto her side and tucking herself against him. Oh, dio, what a mistake this had been! A mistake to think she could ever forget him. And a mistake to think she could take mere comfort from his body.

It was more. So much more. She prayed it would be enough to sustain her through the lonely days to come. Weakly, she smiled. “Have I changed, Quinten?” she whispered. “Have I lost my touch?”

He made a sound, something between a laugh and a cry. “Honed it to a razor’s edge, more like,” he answered. “Lord, Vivie. There’s no one like you.”

She propped her head on one elbow. “Have we done it, then?” she asked. “Have we made a pleasant new memory? One good enough to push away some of the old and painful ones?”

He dragged one arm over his eyes, as if he meant to drowse. “I don’t remember any pain,” he murmured. “I remember only this.” And then, to her shock, he did indeed drift off to sleep.

Viviana knew it was unwise to linger, but she had neither the heart nor the will to wake him. Instead, she allowed him to doze for a time, and allowed herself the pure luxury of watching him do so.

He had missed her. It was a rather pathetic notion to cling to, after all the anguish she had suffered. And yet, it did help to know that she had not been the only one left miserable. He had thought of her at least a little bit over the years. Oh, tomorrow, she would doubtless regret what she had done today. But it was not yet tomorrow, and in this small, sweet moment, she regretted nothing.

On impulse, she reached out and stroked his cheek, a gesture from the past. “Oh, I have missed you Quinten,” she whispered. “With all my heart.”

After a few moments, he roused, looking up at her with heavy, half-open eyes. “Vivie,” he whispered. “Come snuggle against me.”

She set her hand on his chest. “I should be away,” she said softly. “It is a long ride. The children—I am expected.”

He circled an arm about her waist, and half pulled her down anyway. She conceded defeat by tucking herself against him. “You love them very much, don’t you?” he murmured against her hair. “It was obvious when you spoke of them at Aunt Charlotte’s yesterday.”

“I love them very much,” she agreed. “They are my life now.”

“Cerelia is a beautiful girl,” he said. “I like her, Vivie. She reminds me of you.”

Viviana had stiffened in his arms. “Cerelia?”

Quin had set his lips to the turn of her shoulder. “I walked her home last night through the wood,” he murmured. “Did she not tell you?”

“N-No, she did not.” Viviana tried to still the sudden panic. “She should not have been there alone. I—I shall speak to her.”

“She wasn’t alone,” he answered. “She was with Chris and Lottie. She was fine, Vivie.”

“Yes, I am sure.” Viviana paused to swallow hard. She had been afraid, very afraid, that he was going to say something else altogether. Indeed, she was sometimes afraid of what Cerelia herself might say. Gianpiero had too often been cruel to the girl, and Cerelia was old enough now to start asking hard questions.

“What do the others look like?”

“Scusa?” She turned to look at him.

He was smiling at her innocently. “The younger two,” he clarified. “Cerelia looks like you—except for that unusual hair of hers. Whom do the other two resemble?”

“Oh.” Viviana forced herself to relax. “Felise looks much like Cerelia, but darker. Like me. Nicolo…he looks like his father.”

“I see.” Quin rolled up onto one elbow, and began to toy with a strand of hair which had escaped its pin. “Vivie, may I…may I ask you something?”

“Si?” She looked up at him expectantly.

He would not quite return the gaze. “Your husband,” he said. “Did you love him?”

She hesitated. “No. I did not.”

“Not…not even at the first?”

“No.” She spoke the word quietly. “Not even at the first. Now, you owe me a question, caro.”

He gave her a weak, bemused smile. “Turnabout is fair play, I suppose.”

Her head was nestled deep in the pillow. Quin was still on his elbow, looking down at her a little apprehensively. “Why do you stay here, Quinten, in this little cottage?”

He lifted one shoulder. “I don’t stay here.”

“But you spend a good deal of time here.”

“Sometimes I have a late night up in Aylesbury,” he answered. “I dislike disturbing the servants at such an hour.”

It was a weak excuse, thought Viviana. And Quin looked a little embarrassed, too, as if he knew how feeble it sounded.

“Sometimes, Vivie, I just want a little time to myself,” he went on. “Buckinghamshire isn’t like London. There, a chap can hold on to a little anonymity if he pleases. Here, I am the Earl of Wynwood, and everyone knows it. My mother, in particular, knows it.”

Viviana lifted one brow. “Ah!” she said softly. “You are trying to make a point to her?”

“Yes, and I have made it,” he answered. “Where I go and what I do is no one’s business but mine. Besides, I like this little cottage in the middle of nowhere. No one else has need of it just now. If I wish to have peace and quiet, I can come here. Herndon knows where to find me if I am wanted.”

The afternoon sun was slanting low through the narrow window now, casting a soft glow across Quin’s shoulder. It reminded her again of how late the day was growing. She had no business lingering here. By the time she rode home, changed from her habit, and bathed, she was apt to miss the children’s dinner.

Viviana smiled and rose onto her elbows. “I have to go, Quin,” she said. “I really must. This has been—I don’t know—lovely, I daresay, is the word I want.”

He sat up now, his elbow on one knee, the bedcovers pooling about his taut, still-slender waist. Viviana cut her eyes away. He still looked far too tempting, with his dark shadow of beard and rumpled hair. But when she looked back, his deep blue eyes were searching her face as if he sought an answer to some unasked question.

“How long, Vivie?” he finally said. “How long until you must return to Venice?”

She shrugged one shoulder. “The opera progresses quickly,” she said. “Chesley wishes to cast it as soon as possible—probably in Paris. He is already negotiating with theaters.”

Quin watched as Viviana rose from the bed and began to shake the wrinkles from her clothes. Dear God, he had not lied to her. The years had only ripened her beauty. And as he watched her pull on her drawers and rummage about for her chemise, he had the awful sense that something beautiful and precious was slipping from his grasp.

For a long moment, he watched her, realizing that had life turned out differently—had he chosen differently—he could have had the pleasure of watching her dress like this every day these past nine years. “They will open the new opera in Paris?” he finally said, his voice hollowly. “Not London?”


She looked up from the stocking she was rolling deftly up her leg, and flashed him a muted smile. “London has not quite the cachet of Paris, caro,” she reminded him. “Not in the vain world of opera.”

He watched her intently. “And what of you, Vivie?” he asked. “Am I to assume you will be going to Paris with them? Shall you sing the lead role?”

Swiftly, she shook her head. “I shan’t be singing,” she said. “Papá will wish me to attend the opening, no more.”

There was a strange little catch in her voice, he noticed. “And after that?”

“After that, we go home.” Her voice was firm. “To Venice.”

“Yes, and you sound as if you mean never to leave again,” he said teasingly.

“Perhaps not.” Hastily, she dragged her riding coat on. “I am not certain.”

“Surely, Viviana, you will soon be singing somewhere again?”

Her eyes softened, but not, he thought, from joy. “No,” she said swiftly. “I think I will not sing again. My children—they need me. A long production is too demanding.”

Quin turned to sit on the edge of the bed. “But there are other options, are there not?” he asked. “Full operas are not the only opportunities open to a soprano of your fame and talent, are they?”

“My children need me,” she said again. Then she looked at him and smiled, but it was a smile brittle in its brilliance; beautiful, but easily cracked, he thought. “Quinten, this has been such a special afternoon to me, but I must go. And please do not spoil our sweet, new memory with talk of work. It is so very dull, is it not?”

How odd it seemed to hear her speak so. In the past, Viviana had not thought the world of opera dull. Instead, she had lived and breathed it. She had fought and worked and driven herself to a near collapse until she was the best. He knew that. He had seen it firsthand. He did not for one moment believe she had given it up. Not willingly.

But she obviously thought it no business of his. And it wasn’t, was it? Reluctantly, Quin stood, and began to gather his clothes. He did not miss the heated gaze which slid down his length.

Well. Perhaps this had not been simply for old times’ sake. He would try very hard to take comfort in that fact tonight, when he was tossing and turning alone in his massive bed at Arlington Park. He would look back on these moments of pleasure he had enjoyed in this shabby little cottage, in this old and rough-hewn bed, and think only of how glorious it had been. He would not allow himself to think of what might have been.

He watched her finish dressing, her movements neat and quick, and tried to think clearly, but it was hard when his head still swam with the scent of her.

Viviana was swiftly repinning her hair by the small, cracked mirror which hung on the wall opposite the bed. “There!” she said when finished. “Now, what have I done with my hat?”

Quin left the bed, twining the sheet about him as he rose, then retrieved the rather dashing little hat. “Will I see you, then, tomorrow evening, Vivie?” he asked, passing it to her.

She turned around, both brows aloft. “Tomorrow?” she said sharply. “Oh, Quin—no, I do not think we should…I mean, this was just for…”

He tilted his head to one side. “My uncle has invited the three of us to dine at Hill Court,” he said quietly. “Mamma, Alice, and I. Did you not know?”

She looked as if she had not, then suddenly, her confused expression cleared. “A dinner party!” she said. “Yes, yes, he did mention such a thing. But I did not think…”

“Do you wish me to refuse the invitation, Vivie?” His voice was very soft. “I shall, of course, if you wish it.”

She opened her mouth, then shut it again. “Do not be silly, Quinten,” she finally answered. “Yes, I shall see you tomorrow night.”

He felt suddenly like the young man he had once been. Callow. Angry. How could she be so distant? So dismissive? Moments earlier, she had been like fire in his arms. Well, by damn, he would not beg her for her companionship. For a moment, he considered ignoring his uncle’s invitation. He had the feeling it was going to be painful indeed to see Viviana after all that had passed between them on this fateful afternoon.

They had meant to make a new memory to displace the bad, and they had succeeded well. Perhaps too well. He exhaled on a sigh and tossed the sheet onto the disheveled bed. Beyond the bedchamber’s entrance, he heard Viviana open the front door and slam it shut behind her.