by Liz Carlyle
Quin had been angry at first, yes. And terribly hurt, more than he had ever admitted to anyone. It had taken him a long while to admit that Viviana’s decision had been for the best. It had been time, really, for their relationship to end. He had been growing increasingly discontent with his secret mistress. And the word mistress was perhaps an overstatement. The truth was, he had paid Viviana’s rent—after he’d badgered her out of her respectable, but not very private, ladies’ lodging house—and he had given her gifts of jewelry, which she had never asked for and had promptly sold.
He now understood that that was not quite the same thing as employing a practiced courtesan, a far more costly affair. But then he had been young and foolish.
Yes, perhaps tonight he had simply overreacted. Seeing her again, in her sumptuous red silk gown, with that black cashmere shawl which kept sliding to the crooks of her elbows almost invitingly—yes, all of it had hurled him back nine years in a mere instant.
It was astonishing how little she had changed. She had even worn those ever-present rubies dangling from her ears. Strikingly tall and stunningly voluptuous, Viviana had worn her raven hair drawn back in its usual sleek, unfashionably formal arrangement, and carried herself, as always, with a queenly grace. But her face—something about it had changed somehow. It had seemed to possess just a shade less elegance, but a great deal more strength.
In the past, Viviana had always put him in mind of some Renaissance madonna, come to life from an artist’s altarpiece. Vibrantly hued, yet pure and sacrosanct. Above his, or anyone else’s, touch. But all that had been an illusion. Anyone with enough money could touch Viviana. If her affaire with Quin did not prove that much, her marriage to Conte Gianpiero Bergonzi di Vicenza certainly did. Bergonzi was a man known for his wealth and his power and his worship of beautiful things—but never had he been known for his benevolence. Perhaps he and Viviana had deserved one another.
Or perhaps she had regretted her choice.
For a moment, he considered it. Had Viviana loved her husband? Had he enticed her back to Venice to be with him? Or had Quin simply driven her away? Well. He would never know, would he? Certainly he was not going to ask her, no matter how much the question ate at him. Feeling suddenly weighed down by it all, Quin bowed his head, closed his eyes, and quietly cursed beneath his breath.
The carriage ride back to Lord Chesley’s country house was uneventful. The gentlemen amused themselves by rattling on about the Guadagnini cello. Musically, Viviana did not favor the cello, so she sat quietly in her corner, peering out into the moonlit gloom of the countryside and considering the thing which Quin Hewitt had demanded. She could have refused him, of course. She was not afraid of him. Not really. The trouble was, simple curiosity was overcoming her better judgment.
“Chesley,” she said when the conversation lulled, “I should like to go riding tomorrow.”
“By all means, my dear,” said her host.
Lord Digleby brightened. “I shall accompany you, Contessa,” he said. “I adore a brisk autumn ride.”
Viviana tried to look grateful. “Grazie, Lord Digleby, but I mean to go very early,” she said. “I wish to see the sunrise and should not want to disturb you.”
Lord Digleby did not look like the sort of fellow who rose before dawn. “Another time, then?” he suggested, covering a yawn. “I shall need my rest, I am sure. Your father and I mean to begin work on Nel Pomeriggio in earnest tomorrow.”
“And you must put the opera first, by all means,” said Viviana, turning to her host. “Chesley, I believe I should like to ride in that little wood to the east of the house. Do I understand you have a bridle path there?”
“How will you see the sunrise through all the trees, Contessa?” asked Digleby innocently.
Viviana smiled tightly. “First I shall watch the sunrise. Then I shall ride in the wood.”
“There are bridle paths everywhere, my dear,” said Chesley with a vague wave of his hand. “Just avoid the one that branches due north, or you’ll be halfway to Wendover before you see another living soul. Ask one of the grooms to direct you.”
Once inside the house, Viviana kissed her father, then left the gentlemen in the drawing room with a bottle of porto and a fistful of fine cheroots. Her father looked content and comfortable. That was reassuring.
Upstairs, Viviana checked on the children, all of whom slept soundly. As usual, Cerelia had pushed all her bedcovers onto the floor and lay curled in a tight ball. She was cold now, of course. After creeping quietly round the bed, Viviana shook out the covers and gently replaced them. As she bent over to tuck the counterpane round the child’s neck, she noticed the faint glint of metal. With a rueful smile, she gently lifted the gold chain away. Cerelia did not stir. Viviana dropped the weight of it into her pocket, then set the backs of her fingers to the girl’s check.
She marveled at the warmth and the softness. Cerelia was such a lovely child, inside and out. But Cerelia was not her favorite. No, not exactly that. Viviana loved all her children with an equal ferocity. And yet Cerelia was special to her in a way she could not quite explain, even to herself.
She wondered if she had made a mistake in bringing the children to England. The choice had torn at her heart. Stay with her children in Venice and leave her father to travel alone? Or surrender them to the care of servants whilst she followed him to England? Neither alternative had been acceptable. And so Viviana had compromised, just as she had been doing all of her life.
She wondered how long it would be before the children became bored with the cold English countryside. At present, the gardens and the surrounding woodlands were new and exhilarating. But soon they would wish for the familiar, and for playmates, too, no doubt. Lady Alice Melville and her brood would not likely be calling now. Quin would surely put a stop to that. He probably did not consider the children of an Italian opera singer fit companions for his fine English family.
Impulsively, Viviana went round the room, kissing each child on the cheek. Nicolo had his thumb in his mouth again. Gently she pulled it out. The boy slept on. Felise stirred faintly, but did not awaken. They were beautiful, her children. And she dared anyone to suggest otherwise within her hearing.
“Buona notte, my darlings,” she whispered, pulling the door shut.
Once inside her own bedchamber, Viviana did not ring for her maid. Instead, after tucking Cerelia’s necklace safely away, she stirred up the fire and lit the branch of candles atop the mantel. Then slowly she undressed before the gilt cheval glass, dropping her clothes into puddles of black and red across the floor and studying her body as it was revealed. It had been a long time since she had studied her figure naked. It had not seemed to matter very much. She was not perfectly sure why she bothered to look now.
At last, the final undergarment fell away, leaving Viviana in nothing but her black silk stockings. She let her gaze run slowly up her body. No man had seen her thus since Gianpiero’s death. And for the last six years of their marriage, they had more or less lived emotionally apart; separate people living separate lives beneath one roof. But no matter how she begged, Gianpiero had refused to let her leave him. He had demanded his son. His heir. She had owed him that, she supposed. And so she had suffered his coming to her bed in the dark, and forcibly joining his body to hers. She had suffered other things, too. Things she would sooner not remember. Perhaps it was what she deserved. Perhaps it was the price one paid for marrying a man one did not—and could not—love.
Calmly, almost detached, Viviana slid her hands beneath her breasts and lifted them as she watched herself in the mirror. Assuredly, the years had changed her. But she was still a beautiful woman. Wasn’t she? Countless men had told her so. But when one was wealthy, one could never be sure of sincerity. Since Gianpiero’s death, she had received more proposals, both honorable and otherwise, than she could count. Some of them had even seemed heartfelt. Gaspard had merely been the most recent.
But naked in the candlelight, the truth was plain to
Viviana. She was thirty-three years old. She had borne three children. And it showed. Yes, she was still a beautiful woman. But she would never again be the woman she had been nine years ago. Viviana turned from the mirror, picked up her nightdress from the chair, and swiftly drew it on. She did not like looking at the imperfections time had wrought.
She went to the dressing table and poured herself half a glass of Barolo from the decanter she kept at hand. Then she reconsidered and filled it to the brim. Slowly, she sipped it, and recalled the evening’s events. It had been almost cathartic to see Quin Hewitt tonight, once the initial shock was over. She had rather enjoyed their little spat, loath though she was to admit it. They had always quarreled passionately—and made love passionately, too. But he was in her past. Tonight had served as a harsh reminder of that. And really, what did she care? She was no longer that rash, romantic young woman.
In the years since leaving him, her whole existence had changed. Viviana had married into the pinnacle of Venetian aristocracy. She had borne three beautiful children. She had brought half of Europe’s royalty to tears with her voice and her passion; that same passion with which she had once loved. And she had learnt too well that opera was a better and far safer outlet for that sort of unrestrained emotion.
And now the mighty Lord Wynwood wished to speak with her. Well, she would go to his study at eight o’clock tomorrow, just as he had demanded. Not because she was afraid of him. She was not. She was just inordinately curious. She really did not believe Quin would tell her father any of the ugly truths he had threatened her with. He would realize soon enough that Viviana meant him no ill. Indeed, he would soon forget she was nearby, for she would take great pains to stay out of his way—after she satisfied her curiosity in this one thing.
Viviana slid between the cool bedsheets, her wine in hand, and considered again Quin’s ugly accusation. He believed she had planned their meeting tonight. He was wrong—but perhaps not entirely so. It galled her to admit the truth. But intuitively, she must have been hoping to see him, or at least to hear news of him. There was no other answer, if she were honest with herself. She had had one whole day in which to ask Chesley which of his sisters they would be visiting. And yet, she had not done so. Chesley would have easily released her from her obligation. Or she could have pleaded a headache at the last moment.
Instead she had learnt something she would as soon not have known. That her old love—her only love—was newly betrothed, and to a girl who was at least a dozen years younger than Viviana. A lovely young thing, fresh from the country, just as he had always said. An heiress who wore pearls in her hair. A pale, pretty child-bride whose breasts were still small and high, and whose belly did not yet bear the marks of childbearing.
It was too much to think about. Viviana drained her wine, set the glass on the night table, and tried not to cry. It really was quite lowering to have such horrid, horrid emotions. She really had expected more grace and more pride from herself. Why? And, per amor di Dio, why now? Never once had Viviana mourned her lost youth. And yet now she wanted to weep for it.
Six
In which Contessa Bergonzi lashes out.
Q uin made his way to the breakfast parlor just after dawn, in desperate hope of finding a cup of coffee and avoiding the rest of the household in the process. The latter was to be denied him. Aunt Charlotte had beaten him there and was flitting about like a frail bird, inspecting each chafing dish as the servants carried it in.
“Good morning, Quin,” she sang from one of the massive sideboards. “The eggs are prepared just as you like them. Will you join me?”
Quin had already gone to the coffeepot. “No, ma’am, I thank you,” he said. “I have work to do in my study. I shall just take a cup of coffee with me.”
Aunt Charlotte’s small, dark eyes twinkled. “Yes, you will wish to spend the day with your Miss Hamilton, will you not?” she responded. “She is a lovely girl, my boy. Your mamma is quite overjoyed. Of course, I have reassured Gwendolyn many times over the years that you would do the right thing, Quin, when the time came.”
Quin set his cup on a saucer and tried to smile. “I am glad I did not disappoint you, ma’am,” he said. “After all, I have been disappointing my mother with appalling regularity for at least two decades. Now, if you will excuse me, duty calls.”
It was a long walk to the oldest wing of the house, where his study was located. Quin pushed the door open on silent hinges, put his coffee on the desk, and went to the French windows, which opened onto the back gardens. The servants had not yet come into this room to build up a fire or open the draperies. They had been told by his mother, he suspected, that everyone would wish to remain abed late into the morning. A pity he had not been able to do so. But he had known from the moment he set eyes on Viviana last night that sleep would elude him. And if he was to suffer, by God, she could suffer. In the past, she had been unaccustomed to rising much before noon, and he rather doubted that had changed.
With a sweep of his arm, he pushed back the pleats of fabric to reveal the dawning day. The gardens were taking shape now; he could see his mother’s prized rose garden, brown and dormant, and beyond it, the Tudor knot garden, which had faded to a dull shade of green. The sky was turning purple, the horizon blushing a bright pink beneath. The half-moon which had been visible upon his arising had vanished, and beyond the gardens the west wood loomed, still steeped in shadows.
He stood at the window, cradling the warm coffee in one palm as the wintry air radiated off the glass, cold and bracing on his face. He drew the air deep into his lungs, hoping it would clear his mind as well. This was a fool’s errand. He knew it now. He half hoped Viviana would not come.
But she would. Not because she feared him, but because she was proud and stubborn and sometimes even foolish. And she would come, he supposed, from the direction of the trees. Someone, surely, would direct her to the shortcut? At this hour, the wood would be gloomy but penetrable. The path was clearly marked. The walk would take less than half an hour. But Chesley kept a good stable. Perhaps Viviana would ride. Did Viviana ride?
It struck him as odd that he did not know. There had been a time when he had believed he knew everything one could know about Viviana. But his had been a young man’s confidence, born of arrogance and naïveté. In truth, he had known nothing of her, save for the beauty of her body and the taste of her mouth beneath his.
Just then, he saw her. She had tied her horse just inside the wood, he guessed. She was sauntering across the grass, a riding crop in her gloved hand, and a square-crowned, almost masculine hat set slightly to one side, as she always preferred. Her riding habit, too, was plain to the point of mannishness; a skirt and jacket, cut snugly to her figure and absent the almost comically full sleeves currently in vogue with English ladies. She did not bother to pick up her skirts in one hand, but instead let them trail across the dry, stubbled grass.
She did not knock, either. Instead, she simply opened the door and stepped inside. “Buon giorno, Quinten,” she said in her rich, throaty voice. “I have come. What do you want of me?”
Suddenly, the anger rushed at him again, propelled by her dark beauty and haughty disdain. “I want to know the truth, Viviana.” His voice was cool. “I want to know why you are here.”
She cocked one slashing black brow, and looked at him as if he were a simpleton. “I am here because you bade me come,” she responded. “I am in England because Lord Chesley wishes it. And I am in this village because I had no notion your estates were adjacent. You may believe that or not, as you please.”
“Why?” he demanded. “What does Chesley want?”
Viviana pursed her lips for a moment. “I do not think, Quinten, that I need tell you more,” she answered. “But for old times’ sake, I tell you that Chesley has commissioned an opera, a very grand bel canto opera, and he has asked my father’s help.”
“Ah, yes!” said Quin. “The great composer, Umberto Alessandri, and his Cyprian daughter. You have a lot of
nerve coming back to England, Viviana.”
Her backhanded slap caught him squarely across the cheek but Quin did not so much as flinch. “Tell me, Viviana,” he growled. “Does your beloved Papà know about us? Does he know what you were to me?”
Finally, he saw raw anger sketch across her face. “Bastardo!” she rasped. “My Papà knows what he needs to know. And if you take it upon yourself, Quinten, to tell him one word more, I swear to God, I will kill you with my bare hands!”
On that, she turned and yanked open the window as if to leave.
Quin grabbed her and almost dragged her back to the desk. “You still haven’t explained why you are here, Viviana,” he growled. “You are a singer, my dear. Not a composer. Do you think me too stupid to know the difference?”
“I came because my father needs me,” she returned. “Your uncle asked a favor of us, and we were glad to do it. God knows I owe him that much.”
He set both hands roughly on her shoulders and held her eyes. “And my betrothal had nothing to do with it?” he demanded, giving her a little shake. “Tell me the truth, Viviana! I have a right to know.”
She looked at him contemptuously. “Per amor di Dio, Quinten, what did I know of this betrothal?” she snapped. “What can it possibly mean to me? I fear you think too well of yourself if you imagine I have spared you a thought these last many years.”
The derision in her voice was too much. He felt a powder keg of old emotions explode in his head. And then, somehow, his mouth was crushing hers. Viviana tried to shove at his shoulders, but reality had spun away, and there was only his frustration, raw and visceral. He drew in her scent, exotic and still too familiar, and urged her back against the desk.