by Liz Carlyle
Mechanically, she offered her hand to the cellist, who seemed overawed to meet her. They exchanged a few words, which she barely heard, then Chesley intervened with a question about strings or tension or some damned thing. Still quaking inside, Viviana turned to set her wineglass on a small side table, before she dropped it altogether. In that instant, however, from the corner of her eye, she saw him.
Quin. Oh, dio! She should have turned away, but she could not. Her heart had begun to trip. The air in the room seemed to vanish. She felt as though the entire crowd watched her. But she, fool that she was, could watch no one but Quin.
He was no longer the beautiful boy she remembered. Oh, no. He was larger and harder and harsher and every other masculine superlative she could think of, in either English or Italian. His heavy dark hair was just a little too long, and his face was hard and unsmiling.
But he smiled when he joined the young lady—his fiancée—at the entrance to the room. Of course, he towered over the girl. She looked up at him gratefully and took the arm he offered. In response, he laid one hand protectively over hers—a gallant, artless gesture.
He was fond of her. Even a fool could see that. Viviana swallowed hard, and felt something hot and horrifying well up behind her eyes. Men may keep company with one sort of woman, Lady Alice had said. But they wed a different sort altogether.
Oh, this girl was a different sort, to be sure. She and Viviana could not have been more dissimilar.
They were making their way around the crowd. Quin was introducing her to his friends and family, smiling and nodding to each person in turn as he did so. Dear God. It was just a matter of time.
Viviana felt for an instant as if she might faint. Then, on her next breath, she cursed herself for her cowardice. Good God, he was nothing to her now! He was just another arrogant, insufferable Englishman. In the years since her ill-conceived relationship with Quin had ended, she had molded herself into a different person. She was rich, successful, and—so she was told—still very beautiful. She was but thirty-three years old. The best of life might yet lie ahead of her.
Somewhat fortified by those recollections, Viviana steeled her expression and pushed her shoulders very rigidly and very stubbornly backward until her chest was open and her chin was up. She looked every inch a diva now, a pose she reserved for only the hardest of roles. Well, they came no harder than this. She would be damned before she let Quin Hewitt see her falter.
She realized the instant he saw her. His eyes flashed, dark and hard. Oddly, he did not look twice, as one might have expected. Indeed, he barely looked surprised. Her chin still lifted, she shot him a calm, vaguely condescending look.
Quin did not look calm. He hesitated but a moment, then set his hand over his fiancée’s. After speaking a few low words near her ear, he returned her to the attractive, middle-aged woman with whom she had arrived, then turned on his heel and walked out. Viviana exhaled the deep breath she had not realized she was holding.
Viviana spent the next quarter hour going through the motions of meeting Chesley’s friends and neighbors and endeavoring to say something witty and charming to each. It was not difficult. She had become adept at the mundane these last few years and able to veil her true emotions with a practiced ease.
Just then, Chesley touched her lightly on the elbow. She turned, and was introduced to a tall, slender woman of uncertain years. She knew at once it was Quin’s mother. She had the same dark blue eyes, and looked very like Lady Alice in the face.
Lady Wynwood. Yes, Wynwood was the name of the title Quin was to inherit. She remembered it now. Viviana gave a slight curtsy, though by rights and by rank, she need not have done so. Lady Wynwood was warm, if a little distant. She quickly turned her full attention to Chesley, fussing over him if she were his mother instead of his elder sister.
To Viviana’s horror, however, she had no sooner departed than Alice’s elderly aunt, Lady Charlotte, approached with Quin’s fiancée in tow. After speaking a few teasing words to the young woman, Chesley slid a hand beneath her elbow and steered her in Viviana’s direction. Viviana held her breath again.
“My dear, may I introduce my nephew’s intended bride, Miss Hamilton?” he said. “Miss Hamilton, the Contessa Viviana Bergonzi di Vicenza.”
The young woman curtsied very prettily. “It is an honor, ma’am.”
Viviana refused to let herself falter. “My felicitations on your betrothal, Miss Hamilton,” she said. “I wish you many years of happiness in your marriage.”
The young woman looked at a spot somewhere near Viviana’s hems. “Thank you, my lady.”
“You must forgive us for intruding on what was obviously meant to be a family celebration,” Viviana continued. “Chesley did not perfectly explain the occasion.”
Miss Hamilton lifted her gaze, eyes widening. “Oh, don’t rake me over the coals, Vivie,” said the earl. “I can’t keep up. What difference does it make?”
Viviana looked at Chesley. “Why, none at all, I’m sure,” she said coolly. “Miss Hamilton seems all that is amiable.”
Just then, they were called to dinner.
“Thank God!” said Aunt Charlotte. “I’m famished. Come along, girl. You can acquaint yourself with the others after dinner. Oh, I do hope Mrs. Prater has made her curried crab tonight.”
Knees still wobbly, Viviana brought up the rear, following Chesley and the other guests into the corridor. Everyone was chattering gaily as they made their way toward the dining room. Suddenly, from the shadows, a hand grabbed her arm. Viviana found herself jerked into an unlit alcove. She looked up into Quin’s angry eyes and lifted her chin.
“Madam, you have a great deal of nerve,” he said icily. “How dare you try to ruin this?”
Viviana tried to jerk her arm from his grasp. “Don’t be a fool, Quinten,” she said coolly. “Release my arm this instant.”
Instead, he pulled her closer, his nostrils flaring with rage.
“Quin, basta!” She tore from his grasp. “The others are leaving us.”
“I know how to find the goddamned dining room, Viviana,” he rasped. “It’s my bloody house.”
“Si, caro mio, and I suspect you never let anyone forget it.”
He set his hand on the opposite wall and leaned into her. “I shan’t let you forget it, that’s bloody certain.”
“Oh, trust me, Quinten,” she whispered darkly. “That is one thing I have never forgotten. Your rank. Your wealth. Your unassailable British privilege. I did, however, make the mistake of forgetting your title, and now I see I’m to pay for it.”
His face contorted unpleasantly. “You liar! You never forgot a damned thing you thought you could use to your advantage.”
Suddenly, his meaning dawned on her. “Oh, Dio! You aren’t simply mad!” she said. “You are disgusting, and you are delusional. I could buy and sell you twice over, Quin Hewitt. Trust me, you have nothing I want.”
True anger flared in his eyes then. “What I want, my lady, is to see you in private,” he growled. “Tomorrow morning. In my study.”
Viviana lifted both brows, and stared at him in haughty disdain. “Veramente, Quin?” Her voice was coolly disdainful. “I think you forget I am no longer yours to command.”
“Eight o’clock,” he growled. “Or I shall come to you, Viviana. Will your precious Papá wonder why?”
Viviana’s eyes flared wide. “You bastard,” she whispered. “Are you threatening me?”
“My study is on the ground floor,” he said, moving as if to leave her. “In the back, sixth window from the left. Use it, Viviana. Else I shall be knocking on the door of Hill Court and rousing every bloody one of you dilettantes from your beds, the venerable Alessandri included.”
Just then, a shadow fell across the corridor. “Quin, old chap,” said a dry, masculine voice. “Have you forgotten that your dinner guests are being seated?”
Viviana looked up into the eyes of an extraordinarily handsome blond-haired gentleman. He tilted his hea
d in her direction. “Contessa Bergonzi, I believe?” he said quietly. “Sir Alasdair MacLachlan at your service. I think you’d best take my arm, don’t you?”
Five
In which Mr. MacLachlan gives Good Advice.
S ir Alasdair MacLachlan was waiting, both barrels loaded, in the dining room after dinner. After sending Esmée upstairs with her aunt, Quin joined him there. There was, after all, no avoiding it.
Alasdair’s brother, Merrick, poured all three of them a brandy, then sat back on one of the worn leather sofas as if anticipating a great entertainment. Alasdair was pacing back and forth before the fire, his face dark as storm clouds. In the room, anger smoldered like green kindling. Quin could not claim to be surprised. Alasdair had looked daggers at him all throughout the meal. And if Alasdair was looking for a quarrel tonight, Quin was of half a mind to oblige him.
But Scots were sly, and Alasdair especially adept. “A fine meal, Quin,” he began. “And your Mamma’s toast! So touching. I think Lady Tatton actually shed a tear.”
Quin sat down opposite Merrick and exchanged glances with him. “Yes, Mamma is quite in alt,” he replied, wondering what Alasdair was getting at. “It is a relief, to be sure. She has not been happy in a very long time.”
Alasdair turned on one heel and went to the window. The servants had not yet drawn the drapes against the evening’s chill, and, for a long moment, he simply stared out into the night and sipped at his brandy. “Correct me if I am wrong, Quin,” he finally said. “But was that not Viviana Alessandri you had cornered in the alcove near the library?”
“Contessa Bergonzi, yes.”
“Your mistress.” The words were flat.
Quin hesitated. “She once was.”
“Well, if the look in your eyes was any indication, old friend, you very much wish she still was.” Alasdair dropped his voice to a whisper. “And I’ll tell you here and now, Quin, I won’t have it.”
“You won’t have it?” Quin’s voice was incredulous. “I should like to know what business it is of yours if I have a dozen mistresses?”
Quin watched Alasdair’s form quake with rage. God damn it, it wanted only this! He had an overwrought, meddling mother, a perfect fiancée who seemed suddenly not so perfect, and a coldhearted mistress who had picked the world’s most inopportune moment to stroll back into his life. Wasn’t his existence complicated enough without his best friend throwing more thorns in the thicket? And what the devil was wrong with Alasdair, anyway?
Finally, Alasdair turned around. “So help me God, Quin,” he said, “if you take up with that Italian Jezebel again whilst you and Esmée are affianced—or worse, married—then you and I will be meeting at Chalk Farm one cold dawn. Do you understand me?”
“What I understand, Alasdair, is that my marriage is none of your goddamned business,” he returned. “But I wouldn’t have that spiteful bitch if she crawled to me on her hands and knees—and she was far from doing that, I do assure you.”
Alasdair turned nasty then, setting his glass aside with an awkward thunk. “I heard you, you lying bastard,” he answered, stalking toward him. “First, you all but ignore Esmée. Then I hear you arranging to meet Contessa Bergonzi in secret.”
“I want to talk to her, yes,” Quin responded. “We’ve things to sort out, she and I. But again, that is none of your bloody business, is it?”
Alasdair grabbed him by the coat collar. “You are betrothed to a good and gentle girl,” he growled, dragging Quin to his feet. “And tonight you could barely spare her a glance. Humiliate her, hurt her, or even just mildly annoy her again, and so help me God, I will kill you.”
“Oh, sod off, Alasdair! This is beyond the pale.”
From the sofa, Merrick made a sound of disgust. “Need I remind you two addlepates that this house is full of guests and servants?”
Quin didn’t give a damn about his guests and servants. Instead, he wished Alasdair would just take a swing at him. Why wait for Chalk Farm? He wanted desperately to pound the living hell out of something, and he was growing increasingly indiscriminate about who or what that something might be. Roughly, Quin shoved back.
Alasdair planted five fingertips in Quin’s chest. “Name your second, old chap.”
Merrick was on his feet now, wedging an arm between them. “Oh, for God’s sake!” he said. “Alasdair, you are acting like a loutish schoolboy.”
“Aye, that I am,” said Alasdair, giving Quin a hearty push with both hands. “And perhaps I’ll just black his eye now to make him mindful of my shortcoming, eh?”
Quin’s every nerve was on edge. He shoved Alasdair back. “Have at it, then, you thickheaded Scot!” he growled. “If you wanted Esmée Hamilton, why the hell didn’t you marry her?”
At that, something in Alasdair seemed to snap. He thrust Merrick aside and had Quin by the throat before he knew it. Somehow, Quin shoved him away, got an arm back, and swung. The blow caught Alasdair beneath the chin, snapping his head back.
“Oh, for God’s sake, you fools!” Merrick was still trying to push them apart.
Bloodlust surged through Quin then, hot and compelling. He drew back again, swinging for all he was worth. It was a solid uppercut to the left jaw, which sent Alasdair reeling. He hitched up against one of the high-backed chairs, arms wheeling. Deftly, Merrick snatched a vase of tulips from his path. Alasdair righted himself and came at Quin again.
Another exchange of blows, and somehow, Alasdair got his arms round Quin’s waist, hauling him into the floor. The fistfight was reduced to schoolboy wrestling, including a great deal of grunting, flailing, and kicking. Over and over they tumbled, like bad-tempered curs after a bread scrap.
Somehow, Quin got Alasdair by his cravat and tried to bloody his nose by pounding his head on the carpet. Alasdair responded with a ruthless jerk of his knee, nearly rendering the debate over Quin’s marriage moot. Quin yelped with pain, and Alasdair scrabbled to his feet.
“You son of a bitch!” Quin caught him by the ankle and managed to pull off one of Alasdair’s shoes. Alasdair was hopping about for balance when Merrick burst into laughter and fell back onto the sofa, still holding the tulips.
Quin leapt up, hurled the shoe toward the fire, and went after Alasdair. He backed him up against the dictionary stand, sending it crashing. Merrick, who was getting up from the sofa, tripped over the book. Alasdair tried to seize the moment, and let fly a lame left hook, boxing Quin’s ear.
“Ouch, damn you!” he said, just before Alasdair came after him again, both fists swinging.
Finally, Merrick got an arm round his elder brother’s waist and dragged him away. “Enough, gentlemen!” he ordered. “This is pathetic. Quin, go up to bed.”
“No.”
Merrick’s eyes flashed. “If the two of you wish to beat one another to a bloody pulp, Quin, do it tomorrow,” he ordered. “And for God’s sake, do it where your servants won’t be listening.”
“I think we ought to finish it here and now!” Alasdair growled.
“Oh, aye, and you profess such concern for Miss Hamilton’s welfare!” said Merrick sarcastically. “How typical of you, Alasdair! This ugly little set-to will stir more gossip and do her more harm than anything Quin has done tonight.”
Alasdair’s face flooded with color at that. The fight went out of Quin. Merrick let his brother go. Alasdair jerked at his lapels as if to neaten his coat, but he looked beaten.
“The two of you are squabbling like children over nothing but pride,” said Merrick accusingly. “Never in my life have I seen such a sorry excuse of a fight between ostensibly grown men. And it leaves me to wonder if either of you give a damn about Miss Hamilton.”
Quin felt suddenly ashamed. The awful truth was, he wasn’t fighting over Miss Hamilton. Indeed, he was not at all sure what he was so angry about. Ill luck? Ill timing? Certainly, it had little to do with Alasdair.
“You are quite right, Merrick,” he quietly admitted. “Alasdair, you have been a complete ass tonight, but I d
aresay I have topped you, and for that, I apologize.”
“Apology accepted,” Alasdair gritted. “And go bugger yourself.”
Quin bowed stiffly. Good God, his jaw hurt. “Gentlemen, I shall say good night,” he managed. “Please make yourselves at home.”
Merrick had replaced the tulips, righted the dictionary, and found his abandoned brandy, which he now polished off in one toss. “I believe I will join you, old chap,” he said, setting the empty glass on the sideboard. “Alasdair, I’d suggest you do the same. Neither of you are fit company for civilized society tonight.”
“I want another drink,” his brother snapped.
Merrick just shook his head. They went quietly up the stairs, Quin and Merrick, neither speaking. There seemed nothing left to say. It had been the second-worst day of Quin’s life, and he would be glad to see the end of it. With a curt good night to Merrick, he entered his bedchamber, stripped off his clothes, and hurled them across a chair. Blevins could deal with them tomorrow.
But the elegant, half-tester bed looked very large and very empty when he drew back the covers. He sat down on the edge of the mattress and tried to envision Esmée beside him, naked and waiting. Tried to imagine what it would be like to make love to her, this young woman who was to be his wife. But tonight, it seemed an oddly bizarre notion, like trying to have sex with a dainty china doll. Mere days ago, he had been almost eager to bed the girl. Tonight, he had barely been able to look her in the eyes. What had changed?
It was Viviana. The bad taste her reappearance had left in his mouth. She had come back, and at a most inopportune time.
Well, it was a free country, he supposed. Perhaps he had overreacted. Nine long years had passed, and he was well beyond the bitterness. Why had he demanded to see her again? What could they possibly have to discuss after all this time? He had meant it when he had said he wouldn’t have her if she crawled back on her knees.
But Viviana had looked disinclined to go anywhere on her knees. She had looked as prideful and as spiteful as ever. Certainly she did not look like the kind of woman who would ever beg anyone for anything. Indeed, the one thing she had most wanted—a wealthy, titled husband—she had never begged for. Oh, she had asked him to marry her. Once. He had said no, and that had been the end of it. Viviana had promptly exercised her prerogative to move on to greener pastures. And her Italian count had been very verdant indeed.
