Two Little Lies

Twelve

In which Contessa Bergonzi tells yet Another lie.

T he following day, Viviana went out in the early afternoon for her ride, slapping her crop a little impatiently against her thigh as she walked along the corridor to the back door of Hill Court. She had wasted her morning anxiously awaiting the sun which never broke, and the guest who never came. And so she had decided to go for a ride; a hard, thundering gallop, despite the dreary skies and the skiff of snow which tipped the grass with white.

She was but partway down the hill, however, when she saw Quin emerge from the shadows where the bridle path left the woods. He rode alone, mounted on a large bay horse which was still tossing his head with stable-fresh impatience. He had come straight from Arlington Park, then.

She watched as Quin quieted the horse with a stroke of his hand, then smoothly dismounted and passed the reins to one of Chesley’s grooms. There was no leaving now, she realized. There wasn’t even any point in going back into the relative safety of the house. Confined by walls and the civilizing influence of fine furniture, Quin would still seem just as large and just as ominous.

But somehow, she would handle Quin Hewitt and his questions. She could not afford to let him shake her again as he had done last night. So she stood her ground, and waited.

Quin saw Viviana in the distance as soon as he set off up the hill from the stables. She looked as beautiful and as fiery as ever in her plain wool habit and jaunty hat. With resolute steps, he ascended the path, still unsure of the wisdom of his decision yet perfectly certain of what he meant to do.

They had agreed on “just once.” Well, once was not enough. He wanted Viviana, and he was determined to either have her, or to be rid of her. They could not go on as they had last night, making idle social chitchat, and pretending that there was nothing more between them. There was more. Much more. And if she persisted in saying otherwise, then she was a damned liar—or worse, a tease.

Quin did not think she was either. He was beginning to wonder if she was hiding something, but what? There was a coolness and a distance to Viviana which he neither liked nor recognized. Even his sister did not seem to know what was on Viviana’s mind, and he had quizzed Alice quite thoroughly this morning.


Only in his arms did Viviana seem herself to him. And then, when the barriers went down between them, she was again the girl he’d loved. The solution, therefore, was to keep her in his arms. And in his bed. So he meant to do what he ought to have done a decade sooner. He was going to marry her. And he really did not care what price had to be paid in the doing of it, either. He did not care if Arlington Park fell down about his ears, or his mother had a damned apoplectic fit.

But even from a distance, he could see that Viviana was already tapping her crop impatiently against the skirts of her habit and looking at him with barely veiled suspicion. “You have an affinity for that damned thing, don’t you?” he said, eyeing the crop as he topped the hill.

“One never knows, cara, when it will come in handy.”

At that, he threw back his head and laughed. “You are a hard woman, Viviana Alessandri.”

At those words, Viviana dropped her gaze, and turned away. “I am sorry,” he said at once. “Did I say something wrong?”

“Alessandri,” she murmured. “I have not been called that in a very long time. And if I am hard, Quinten, it is because life has made me so.”

Quin offered her his arm. “Come,” he said quietly. “Walk with me. There is something I wish to ask you, Vivie, and I don’t wish to do it in the house.”

Viviana looked at Quin’s arm, so strong and unwavering, and knew that the conversation they were going to have was unavoidable. His resolute expression told her that much, though his eyes were not unkind. So she took his arm in one hand and caught up the skirts of her habit in the other, the crop swinging from her wrist. “Chesley’s gardens are lovely in December,” she said mordantly. “Shall we stroll there?”

His mouth twitched with humor, and they set off.

Chesley’s house was but a small manor property, but his gardens were some of the most talked-about in Buckinghamshire. In the spring and summer, they were flooded with guests. His late mother, he had once said, had possessed a passion for formal French gardens, Italian statuary, and freshly cut flowers. He had honored her memory by maintaining all of them as she would have wished. Only the maze was less than perfect.

“Good Lord,” said Quin when they reached it. “This looks moth-eaten.”

Viviana smiled vaguely. “There was a blight,” she said. “It had to be cut back by the gardeners.”

It was a large maze, and they circled its outer edge slowly and without another word passing between them. He seemed strangely content just to walk with her hand on his arm. Viviana cut a swift, uneasy glance up at him. Quin’s boyish charm was definitely gone, replaced by the implacability and strength of manhood.

He looked not so much beautiful today, but determined. His jaw was set in a hard line, and his dark blue eyes were cooler, absent the heat of emotion which she had seen in them last night. Indeed, he looked altogether a different man from the one who had gripped her hand and sworn to see her today.

She did not wish for this meeting. She feared too much what he might ask and what she might be tempted to say. And if he knew the truth, he would hate her.

Viviana was a little unsettled by how much the years had changed Quin. She had once believed she knew him; knew what he would want, how he would react. Not so long ago, she had told Quin that she could not bear to question the choices she had made. That answer was growing more honest with every passing day. What if she had been wrong all those years ago? What if?

It would mean that all of her sacrifices had been for naught. Everything she was, and everything she had done, had been predicated on that decision. She could not afford to second-guess herself now. And so she steeled herself, as she had done so many times over the years, and drew a deep breath.

“You wished to see me,” she prompted him. “What is it, Quinten, you wished to ask?”

He looked down at her with a muted smile. “Trust you, Vivie, to get right to the point,” he responded. “What did I wish to say? I hardly know.”

“Then you have come a long way for nothing,” she said.

“Have I?” He stopped on the path, his eyes holding hers. “It does not feel like nothing, Viviana, walking with you like this. It feels…well, a little like old times.”

“We never walked this way, Quinten,” she coolly reminded him. “We fought. We had sex. And then we fought some more.”

“Well, that is a cold, clear-eyed assessment of a relationship if ever I heard one,” he admitted. “Is there nothing of the romantic left in you, my dear?”

“Very little,” she answered. “Romance, cara, is for men. Women can ill afford it.”

He lifted one brow and resumed his pace. “I suppose, in hindsight, that it was not much of a relationship anyway,” he said. “And yet it has loomed large in my life, Vivie, all these years. Why do you think that is?”

“I cannot say.”

“I think it is because we left unfinished business,” he said pensively. “Did you ever feel that way, Vivie? Or did you just…never look back?”

Viviana focused her eyes hard into the distance, toward the long row of outbuildings which rimmed the house’s rear gardens. “I never looked back,” she lied. “I could not. I had a life to live.”

“A life without me,” he said flatly.

“You made your choice, Quinten,” she whispered. “Do not dare to try to make me feel guilty for it now.”

“Ah, you are speaking, I daresay, of that marriage proposal you once made me,” he said, his tone darkening. “I have found myself thinking about that a great deal lately. Why, Vivie, could you not simply tell me that it was all or nothing? Why could you not just be honest? Perhaps I…perhaps I would have answered you differently.”

She snatched her hand from his arm. “How dare you?” she asked, her voice low. “How dare you come here now and accuse me of dishonesty after all that has passed. Was I to hold a gun to your head? A knife to my own throat? And if I did not, is it now all my fault? Well, damn you, Quin Hewitt. Damn you straight to hell. There. I have said what I have long wished to say to you—and in English, so that you may plainly understand it.”

He held up one hand. “Viviana, wait,” he said. “I never accused you of dishonestly.”

“It is precisely what you said,” she answered. “Have you no idea, Quinten, how it humbled me to have to ask you such a thing? Have you any notion how you hurt me with your eyes and your words? And now you claim to wish that I had threatened you into agreement?”

He lost a little of his color. “I just wish, Vivie, that you had been honest,” he said. “I just wish you had told me precisely what was at stake.”

“Oh, si, you wish that I had begged!” she hissed. “Is that it? And what kind of husband, Quinten, would that have won me? A husband who woke every morning seething with resentment? A husband who felt as if he had been trapped or cajoled into lowering himself, and disappointing his oh-so-fine English family? I should sooner die.”

She moved to turn around, but he seized her by the arm. “Now, wait just a minute, Viviana.”

“Andare all’inferno!” she hissed.

His grip quite ruthless, Quin hauled her back. “I’ll be damned if I mean to stand out here in the garden where anyone can hear if we’re to quarrel like a pair of fish-wives,” he gritted, dragging her down the path. “What’s that up ahead? The greenhouse?”


“How should I know?” she snapped. “Release my arm, you arrogant ass.”

“Shut up, Vivie,” he said. “I guess we are going to have this out once and for all, you and I. And I don’t need an audience to witness my humiliation.”

“Your humiliation!” Viviana had stopped struggling, because she looked like a fool, and he clearly did not mean to release her. “You do not know the meaning of the word.”

Quin pulled open the heavy wooden door, and shoved her inside, into a world of muted light and cotton-wool warmth. She blinked and looked around. The smell of damp earth surrounded them. They had entered a large, low-ceilinged shed, but beyond it lay row upon row of wooden beds filled with lush, growing greenery under arching gables of glass.

“Thank God.” He let her go, and stripped off his coat and gloves. “At least they have the fires kindled in here.”

She set one hand on her hip, and glowered at him. But even in her agitated state, she could see that whilst the anger remained, much of the fight had gone out of him. As if disgusted, he flung his hat onto the table where he’d tossed his coat, then dragged a hand through his too-long hair. “Why is it, Vivie, that you can still get to me so?” he asked, his voice frustrated. “Why is it that after all these years, you can still tie me up in knots and make me feel like a goddamned green-as-grass boy again?”

She did not quite follow. “Well, I have no wish to tie you up or make you into grass,” she said regally. “And I certainly have no wish to squabble, Quinten. I thought…I thought we had finished this business two days ago. At the cottage. I do not know what you want of me now. Be so obliging as to explain it, per favore, and let me go.”

“I just want to know—” His words seemed to catch in his throat.

“What?”

“I want to know, Vivie, why you left me.”

The boyish uncertainty had returned. Viviana looked at him, and let the question sink in, fighting the almost overpowering urge to go to him, and envelop him in her arms. “I left you, caro mio, because it was time,” she finally answered, her voice a little sad. “I had a life which I had left behind, and it was time for me to return to it. I had a father whom I loved with all my heart. I would sooner have died than let him see what I had become. A rich man’s mistress. I did not wish to leave you, Quin. I did not. But it was time to make a choice. And so I made it. Can you not understand?”

He closed his eyes and pinched hard at the bridge of his nose. “And if I had said yes, Vivie, would you really have married me?” he asked quietly. “Would you have braved my family’s wrath? And what if my father had cut me off and left us to starve? Would you have seen that through with me, too?”

“I—I do not know,” she lied. “All I know, caro, is that it is easier to marry a man whom you do not love than to marry a man who does not love you.”

He dropped his hand and tried to smile. For a long time, he said nothing. “Well, it is all in the past,” he finally responded. “I suppose there is no point debating it now.”

She shook her head. “No. There is not.”

He set both hands on his hips and paced back and forth across the flagstone floor of the workroom. Amidst the rough-hewn worktables and racks of gardening tools, he looked like a caged animal. She should have taken the opportunity to excuse herself and go, but, inexplicably, she did not.

“Was he good to you, Vivie?” he finally asked, his back turned to her. “Was he a good husband, Bergonzi? Were you happy?”

“It was a marriage, like any other,” she said. “We managed.”

He turned to look at her then, his eyes bleak. “But I think, Viviana, that most marriages are happy,” he said. “Or at least, they should be. Am I the only person in the world who believes that? Am I just…pathetically naive?”

Viviana clasped her hands tightly in front of her. “I do not know about most marriages,” she said. “I know only that I tried to make the best of mine.”

“He must have loved you,” said Quin. “He must have been very proud.”

She shrugged ambivalently. “Perhaps.”

Quin did not take his eyes from her face. “Why else would a man of his wealth and position allow his wife to keep singing publicly?” he asked. “It was because he wished to show you off. To show the world that he had won you.”

Viviana suppressed a wince. Quin’s words hit closer to the mark than she liked to think. “Gianpiero was obsessed with opera,” she said. “To him, I was but another means to an end. And yes, he liked to show me off.”

“And you have three children now,” he said quietly. “Three beautiful children. I still cannot get over it, Viviana.”

“Did you never think of me as a mother?” she asked. “Was I never anything more to you than just a woman to be bedded?”

He flashed a crooked smile. “I often thought of you as a mother,” he admitted. “You had that look, Vivie. Like some sort of marble madonna come to life, so serene and lovely. Sometimes…sometimes, Vivie, when you would walk across the floor, so naked and beautiful, I would imagine…I would imagine that—” His words broke away. “But we were speaking of your children, were we not? They are lovely. You must be proud of them.”

Somehow, she managed to smile. “Si, very much.”

He had begun his pacing again, this time with one hand set against the back of his neck. She wished to God he would stop. There was a grave sense of uncertainty churning in her stomach. A doubt—no, a fear, clinging to her heart like some insidious cobweb. What if she had been wrong about him, all those years ago? And why, now, did she remain here with him? Clearly, Quin would not try to stop her from leaving. And yet, he held her mesmerized, enthralled by his almost cathartic questions.

“I remember now, Viviana, what I meant to ask you last night,” he said out of nowhere. “It was about that trinket Cerelia wears round her neck.”

Viviana stiffened with fear. “I beg your pardon?”

She got her wish. He stopped pacing. “Do you remember that ring I once gave you?” he asked, turning to face her. “The large ruby?”

“I fear I have many ruby rings, Quinten,” she answered. “I cannot remember one from the other.”

His smile faded. “Yes, no doubt you are awash in them now,” he said. “And how could it be the same one? After all, you sold every piece of jewelry I ever gave you.”

She kept her face a mask of implacability. “They were mine do with as I wished, were they not?”

He shrugged. “But that misshapen chunk of gold with the red stone set into it,” he went on. “The one which Cerelia wears about her neck. I just thought it looked a little bit like a ring I once gave you.”

“Did it?” she asked, her voice surprisingly calm. “Which one?”

His mouth curved bitterly. “The one I gave you on our last afternoon together,” he said. “As I said, it was a rather unusual stone—a square-cut ruby. They are mostly rectangular or oval, are they not?”

“I daresay,” she answered. “I never thought about it.”

“So it is not the same ring?” he pressed.

She shook her head. “Paste and pinchbeck, more likely,” she said. “Something Cerelia found. I cannot think where. She has an unnatural attachment to it. Children are like that, you know.”


He shrugged, and seemed to accept her answer. “Did you sell it, then?” he asked. “That last ring I gave you?”

Quin was not cruel enough to remind her that he had made her promise never to sell it. And so Viviana lifted one shoulder and told another white lie. “I cannot recall,” she said. “Do you wish it back? If so, you are welcome to pick through my jewel case and take it if you can find it.”

He shook his head. “No, it is long gone, just like the others, I am sure.”

She had no wish to hurt him. Not really. And yet she wanted—no, needed—him to understand. “No doubt you are right,” she said quietly. “But you saw those gifts, Quinten, as payment to your mistress for services rendered. If I treated them as such, is it fair for you to cry foul over it now?”

“It was not like that,” he said. “I never saw them that way, Vivie. They were gifts from the heart. And I am not crying foul.”

She gentled her tone. “Then what are you doing, pray?”

“Viviana if you had duns or gaming debts, why did you not come to me?” he demanded. “I would have taken care of you. I would have paid them for you.”

She turned her head and gazed out into the depths of the glass greenhouse beyond. “I had no wish, Quinten, to be further beholden to you,” she said. “Besides, I did not have debts. I did not live beyond my means. I could not afford to.”

“What, then?” he prodded. “Why can you not tell me? What difference does it make now?”

But it seemed to make a great deal of difference to him, she realized. Yes, after all these bitter years had passed, perhaps such simple, silly things still mattered.

Viviana exhaled, a slow, steadying breath. She already knew she was going to regret this. “I sent the money to Papà,” she finally answered. “Every month, I sent him what little I could spare. And pathetically little it was, too. Especially in the beginning.”

“But Vivie, that makes no sense. What need had he of money? Your father was a renowned composer.”

“Oh, si, a famous artist!” she said. “And like most of them, he served at the whim of his patron.”

“Bergonzi, yes?” said Quin sharply. “Is that whom you mean?”

Viviana nodded tightly.

“But Bergonzi employed him for many years, did he not?”

“After I left Venice, they quarreled,” she admitted. “Papà was told that there would be no further commissions for him. Not from the powerful Conte Bergonzi—and his displeasure meant, of course, no one else dared hire him.”

“But they later reconciled,” said Quin.

“Yes, later they reconciled,” she answered.

“Christ Jesus,” said Quin. “This is unbelievable.”

“Unbelievable?” she echoed softly. “What part of it, Quinten, do you disbelieve? Why did you think I was singing my heart out night after night? Why did you think I was fighting and scrabbling for every part I could get? It was for the money, caro. To make something of myself.”

Quin could not miss the ache in her words. “I believe you, Vivie,” he answered. “And had you told me this nine years ago, I would have believed it then, too. I—I would have done something.”

“Would you, Quin?” she whispered. “I wonder if that is so. I really do.”

Quin did not answer that remark. She had reason, perhaps, for her doubts. As a young man, his foremost concern had been an almost petulant wish to have his own needs met and his own insecurities assuaged. He had loved Viviana, yes. But he had been unable to see very far past that fact. Perhaps he would have seen or felt no obligation beyond it, either.

“Why did they fall out, Vivie?” he challenged. “Was it something to do with you?”

She shot him a dark, sidelong look, and said nothing.

“Was it over you, Vivie?” he repeated, his voice more demanding.

She pushed a hand into her hair almost wearily, and leaned back against the rough wooden wall of the work shed. “I really do not wish to answer that,” she said quietly. “And frankly, caro, it is none of your business.”

He took a step toward her. “I’m not sure if I believe that any longer,” he answered, his tone low and ominous. “I begin to think, Viviana, that there is much you are not telling me, and I mean to have the whole truth from you.”

Viviana felt a stab of panic. “I do not have to answer your questions,” she said, pushing away from the wall and heading for the door. “You are nothing to me. Nothing but a memory.”

He was faster. He turned, refusing to let her push past him. “This is not finished, Viviana.”

“Go to hell,” she snapped.

Somehow, he snatched her crop from her wrist. “You are wearing that expression out, my dear, and in two different languages,” he returned. “Why don’t you just call me a pig again?”

Her eyes widened. “You are a pig,” she said. “You are despicable.”

“Oh, don’t play the innocent with me, Viviana!” he said. “I understood a little more than you think I did that day in my study. And I understood something else, my dear. I understood your mouth was not entirely indifferent to my kiss, no matter what your riding crop said.”

She moved to snatch it back, but he jerked it from her reach. “Oh, I waste my time with you!” she said. “There must be another door.” On that, she turned and strode into the musky warmth of the greenhouse.

She strode down the straw-covered aisle between the elevated beds of lilies and asters. Farther along lay the tables of green, potted plants and rooting vegetables, and beyond that, almost hidden by a swath of lush palms, another exit. But she was nowhere near it when Quin caught her, snaring her by the elbow, and spinning her around to face him.

She brought up her hand to slap him, but he caught it and jerked her against him. His mouth came crushing down on hers, already hot and uncontrollable. He bound her to him, one arm about her waist, driving her head back as he tasted her. Viviana’s battle ended as it began, quickly, in a flash of unrestrained emotion. She gave herself up to it, opening her mouth fully beneath his.

Quin surged inside, twining his tongue with hers until her knees literally went weak. She felt her hat go tumbling into the straw. His mouth moved to her cheek, then skimmed hotly along her jaw with a soft groan. Her head swam with the scent of warm, damp earth, flowers, and Quin.

“Let me,” he whispered. “Let me, Vivie.”

She tried to shake her head. “No.”

His hand had slid beneath her riding coat, urgently seeking. Through the layers of linen and silk, he weighed her breast in the warm cup of his hand. Her nipple hardened traitorously to his touch, and a small whimper escaped her mouth.

Quin slid his mouth down the length of her neck, and she shuddered. “Stop, Quin. Please. I—I cannot. Don’t…don’t make me.”

Lightly, he thumbed her nipple through her shirt. “Do you like that, Vivie?” he whispered. “Tell me.”

“You—you know I do,” she answered. “Please. Not here.”

“Where, then?” His voice was a tempting whisper.

“Tonight,” she managed, trying to buy herself time—and sanity. “I shall…I shall come to you tonight…somewhere. Anywhere.”

“Will you?” His hand was slipping loose the fastenings of her coat, then pushing it away. “Anywhere?”


“Anywhere,” she whimpered, her resistance fast failing. “Anything.”

“Anything,” he returned. “I like that, Vivie.”

His mouth settled over her breast, suckling her through the layers of shirt and chemise. He slid his broad palm over her buttocks, and made slow, lazy circles through her skirts, urging her closer. He drew her nipple into his mouth, sucking none too gently, and it was all too much. Viviana felt that old, familiar spiral of lust bottom out in her belly and tug at her very core. Her breathing ratcheted up. Too fast. Too shallow.

His hungry mouth left her breast, only to be replaced by his hand. “Must I, Viviana?” he whispered, his lips hot against her ear. “Must I wait?”

Viviana mumbled something inarticulate. Somehow, he drew her away from the aisle and pulled her down into one the piles of straw which lay in mounds between each bed. She came down on top of him, straddling one of his thighs. Roughly, he pushed her coat from her shoulders. She let it slide off, eager to be free of it in the hot, musky air. Madness. Oh, this was madness!

But she let him pull her down to him, and kiss her again, slowly and sweetly, his tongue plunging almost lazily into her mouth now, as if he had all the time in the world. She returned his kiss, unable to resist the urge to ride down hard on the wide, solid muscle of his thigh. Oh, she wanted him! Wanted and wanted him. In all the years, the wanting had never seemed to end. She kissed him again, opening her mouth hotly over his, aware that this was foolish beyond words. Knowing she would regret it.

His fingers slid into her hair, stilling her movements so that he might kiss her more intently. Part of her hair fell down, and went slithering over her shoulder. Her hands found his shirt, and tore it from his breeches.

“Good God,” he whispered when her palms slid up his belly, all the way to his chest, and over his strong, broad shoulders, bringing her body almost fully against his. “Good God, Vivie.”

She felt his hand fumble between them, felt the pressure of his hand as he tore at the buttons. She sat back and watched as he struggled with the last. Never had she felt so wanton. So desperate to do something foolish. “Let me,” she said, releasing it. She pushed down the fabric of his breeches and drawers. His throbbing erection sprang free from the crumpled clothing, and she took it in her hand. She drew her fingers down his length, amazed at the heat and hardness.

Quin made a sound in the back of his throat. Viviana closed her eyes and stroked him again. She was in too deep to stop. She was aware that they might be caught at any moment. That they lay in a pile of straw, with nothing but glass between them and the heavens. And still, she did not stop. Instead, she slid back, stroked one hand up Quin’s chest again, and bowed her head to take him into her mouth.

He cried out, another choking, inarticulate sound. Already, sweat had beaded on his brow. The heat of the sun seemed to beat down on them, roiling up the damp from the moist beds of green. She held his throbbing heat in one hand and drew her tongue all the way along its length.

He had taught her this one lazy, rainy afternoon; how to make a man almost mad with her hands and her mouth. Apparently, it was a lesson she had not forgotten. Quin was almost shaking beneath her. “Christ Jesus, Vivie,” he panted. “Stop. Stop.”

She did as he asked. His hands went to her skirts, dragging them up. He found her drawers, and slipped one finger into the slit. Viviana felt her desire flow forth, and moaned as she rode down on his hand.

“Get on me,” he ordered, tormenting her with the ball of his thumb. “Now, Vivie.”

She opened her eyes and looked down at him, half-mad with lust. “We could be seen,” she whispered. “Quin, we could be caught.”

“Good God, Vivie, I don’t care,” he answered. “Let them watch. Let them envy us.”

“I’ve gone mad now, I know it,” she whispered, taking his cock in both hands. “But I burn for this. Dio, Quin! We are like animals together. We have no business being near—”

“Later,” he interjected. “We’ll sort it all out later. Come, love. Take me deep.”

Still in her boots and skirt, she pushed away her drawers and mounted him, taking him fully with one smooth stroke. “Oh, wicked, wicked girl,” he said on a groan. “Oh, holy God.”

She rose onto her knees and let the pace of his body take her. Never in her life had she felt so wanton. Never had she wanted anything so much. The rich, earthy scents of the greenhouse surrounded them, and grew hotter. She pushed the fabric of his shirt all the way up as she rode him, and watched the muscles of his abdomen flex and relax. Closing her eyes, she let the rhythm wash over her, until time seemed indefinable, and regret seemed so ephemeral.

Oh, this would not last. Not for either of them. It had come on too fast. Too hot. Another few strokes, and she cried out, feeling perfect ecstasy edge near. Beneath her, she felt Quin surge, felt him set his hands on either side of her hips, and thrust one last and perfect stroke. Viviana shattered as he trembled beneath her, her voice sobbing softly in the heat.

She came to her sense to find she had collapsed onto Quin, her face buried in the dampness of his neck. She drew a deep, unsteady breath, rich with the scent of sweat, soap, and bergamot. Quin. Always, always Quin.

“Oh, God, Vivie,” he whispered, his voice soft with wonder. “You are a dangerous woman.”

Viviana pulled herself from the sensual fog, and sat up a little. “It isn’t me,” she whispered. “It…it is us, I think. Together, we are like…like polvere nera. Like gunpowder.”

“Yes,” he agreed. “And may it always be so, Vivie. I should rather endure your temper and your horsewhip a thousand times over, just to have one moment like this with you.”

She said nothing but simply pressed her lips to his forehead, praying he would say no more.

He crooked his head to look at her. “There could be many more days like this, Vivie,” he whispered. “Did you ever think of that? Do you ever wonder whether…whether it really is too late for us?”

She had thought that nine years with Gianpiero had been payment enough for her sins. But she had had no idea what a just price truly was. For an instant, she considered telling him everything. On her next breath, she realized what an unforgivable mistake that would be. The truth would make him hate her. And so she said nothing. Instead, she lifted herself off him and turned away to right her clothing.

“Vivie?” His hand came up to cup her cheek. “Vivie, look at me. Is it? Is it too late?”

She turned and looked at him, just as he asked. “It is too late,” she whispered. “Too late for anything more than this, Quin.”

“Why?” he demanded, rolling up onto one elbow. His face had gone suddenly bloodless. “Why does it have to be that way?”

She could not hold his gaze. Blindly, she pulled on her jacket. “We have separate lives now, Quin,” she answered. “Yours is…here. Mine is not.”

“Vivie, you cannot deny what we have,” he began.

“Chemistry,” she interjected. “Pure, physical…magic, Quin. Yes. I know what we have. What we have always had. But life is not so simple as you make it out. Life is filled with hard choices.”

“My choice is how and where to live my life, Vivie,” he answered. “I’m tired of wasting it. I want to be with you.”


“It is not possible.”

“It is,” he countered, his voice firm. “I have never wanted anything else, Viviana. I know that now. I am willing to do what I must to have that. Do you understand me?”

She rose to her knees in the pile of straw, and slowly tidied her shirt and coat. “In a few weeks or months, Quin, I must return to Venice with my children,” she said. “You will forget me then as you forgot me all those years ago. And I will forget you.”

His eyes flashed with anger. “Will you, Vivie?”

“I will try, si.”

“And it’s just that easy for you, is it?” he growled. “Well, by damn, it’s not like that for me.”

She looked at him with hurt in her eyes. “How many tears, Quin, have you shed for me these last nine years?” she asked.

“I won’t dignify that with an answer,” he said.

She touched him lightly on the cheek, and gentled her tone. “Quin, caro, your life is here,” she said. “You are Lord Wynwood now. You have responsibilities.”

“Nothing Herndon cannot manage,” he returned. “In less than a week’s time, he and Alice will be married. He will be a part of my family.”

Viviana looked at him incredulously. “You would actually go away with me?” she whispered.

“I am willing to do whatever is necessary,” he answered. “I said that, and I meant it. I want to put an end to this foolishness which has separated us all these years. Viviana, I…I want us to marry.”

Viviana found herself blinking back tears and swiftly turned away. She had waited a long time to hear those words, and now they were bittersweet indeed. How could she wed Quin, knowing he would inevitably discover what she had hidden for so long? She dared not do it. Indeed, she would not.

She jerked awkwardly to her feet. “I am too old for you, caro mio. I have three children, and many responsibilities. Find someone your own age, and be happy.”

He made a sharp, incredulous sound. “Too old? Oh, Vivie, that won’t wash. And I adore your children. It cannot be easy for you, raising them alone.”

She shook her head. “Think of your mother, caro,” she said. “A marriage between us would kill her. No, Quin, I won’t do it. Stop asking me.”

He rolled up onto both elbows and watched her as she mechanically picked the straw from her clothes. His shirt was still rucked up, exposing an expanse of lean, taut belly, and his hair was tousled almost boyishly. But his expression—oh, she knew it well.

Quin rose almost languidly to his feet. “What a liar you are, Viviana,” he said, stabbing his shirttails back into his riding breeches. “Yes, I heard all about that little bucking-up you gave my sister last night. You told her, I believe, that Mamma’s wishes could not come first. That there were more important things.”

“Alice is with child,” said Viviana.

“As you may well be, too,” said Quin. “Did you ever think of that, Viviana? Did you?”

Viviana felt the blood flow from her face. The panic rose like bile in her throat.

Quin leaned into her. “What if you were, Viviana?” he rasped, seizing her arm. “What then?”

Viviana jerked away. “I would not marry where I did not love,” she said. “I have already made that mistake once. I shan’t make it again.”

“Conceive my child, Viviana, and you will be making it again,” He gripped her arm so hard she wondered he did not bruise it. “Besides, I don’t believe for one moment, Vivie, that you don’t love me. A woman cannot make love as you do and not feel love, too.”

“Believe it, Quin,” she answered, pushing his hand away. “What we have is pure lust. I do not love you, and you do not love me.”

“There they are again, Viviana,” he answered. “Those two little lies that ruined our lives. I wasn’t confident enough to disbelieve them the first time. But I sure as hell don’t believe them now.”

“Then you are a very arrogant man,” she said, scooping up her hat. “I am leaving now. And if you are any manner of gentleman at all, Quin Hewitt, you will not follow me. You will not press your suit where it is not wanted. You will stay away from me, my children, and Hill Court in general. Do I make myself plain?”

His eyes hardened to small, black slits. “Quite plain.”

Stiffly, she inclined her head. “Then I bid you good day,” she said. “I wish you well, Quin. I will leave you to find your own way out.”