by Liz Carlyle
Viviana moved as if to kick him, but he let his weight bear her down onto the desktop, and caught her wrists. It was as if a driving madness possessed him, compelling him to kiss her, possessively and openmouthed.
Beneath him, she shuddered and it felt, fleetingly, as if she relaxed. Quin plunged inside her mouth again, and felt lust go spiraling through him, stealing his breath and sending blood rushing. He felt as if he were drowning in her. Desperate for her. Every sense came alive, as if too long dormant. But beneath him, Viviana stiffened, and bit down on his lip. Pain snapped him back to reality.
With one last desperate jerk, she tore her face from his. “Fa schifo!” she spit, jerking up her knee as if to do him serious injury. “Sporco! Get off me, you bastard English pig!”
On a quiet curse, Quin shifted his weight away. Too late. Viviana had drawn back her hand and lashed her riding crop hard across his face.
Suddenly, there was a terrible thud. A short, sharp scream. Quin turned to see Aunt Charlotte lying across his threshold, her eyes rolled back in her head. Esmée stood in the corridor, her hand over her mouth. Two housemaids pressed in behind her, eyes agog.
Everything happened in a blur. Viviana shoved him away. She bolted across the carpet to Charlotte, the hems of her habit almost sending her sprawling. Esmée fell to her knees, the blood drained from her face.
He started toward them, but Viviana cried out, forestalling him. “Quin, you fool!” she said, stroking the hair from Charlotte’s face. “Basta! Basta! Now you have killed your aunt!”
Esmée had her fingertips on the old woman’s throat. “Her pulse is fluttering,” she said. “But she is not dead.”
Quin stood, frozen in horror. Good God, what had he done now?
Esmée looked over her shoulder at the gaping housemaids. “Shut the window,” she snapped. “Wynwood, send someone to fetch a doctor. For God’s sake, hurry!”
Quin was halfway to the door when Aunt Charlotte emitted a pitiful groan. “No…no doctor,” she managed.
“Oh, poveretta!” Viviana murmured, rhythmically stroking the old lady’s face. “Oh, non ci credo!”
Viviana looked stricken. Quin plunged into action, pushing his way past the housemaids and bolting for the great hall at a run. Dear God. His life was over. His servants had likely seen everything. Esmée would hate him. Viviana already did. And now he had killed Aunt Charlotte.
Quin lived much of the next half hour in turmoil, pacing the floor in his mother’s private sitting room as he waited for the worst to happen. The footmen had carried his great-aunt to his mother’s suite, the nearest to hand, and the immediate family had slowly gathered there, one by one, their words whispered, their expressions stricken. The aura of death seemed to surround them all, and Quin knew it was his fault.
But Aunt Charlotte, as it happened, was made of sterner stuff.
“Nothing is broken,” pronounced Dr. Gould when at last he came out of the bedchamber. “But her pulse is still erratic, as it has often been this last decade or better. I wish her to have a day’s bed rest, and her usual heart tonic. Tomorrow she’ll be her old self, I hope.”
Quin sagged with relief. “Oh, thank God!” said his mother, clutching a crumpled handkerchief to her breast. “Oh, I feared the worst!”
Quin’s elderly aunts and uncles commenced a recitation of Charlotte’s many ailments, including her lifelong propensity to faint at the slightest sight of blood—and blood there had been, drawn quickly and viciously by the lash of Viviana’s whip. Reflexively, Quin ran his finger along the wound on his cheek. It was then that he noticed his sister Alice, scowling darkly at him from her corner of the room and twisting her own handkerchief into knots.
“Remember, Helen, how Charlotte fainted and fell out of the dogcart that time we ran over a squirrel?” one of his uncles rattled on.
“Oh, heavens yes!” said Great-aunt Helen. “She needed six stitches for that one!”
Suddenly, Esmée cleared her throat. “This was a terrible accident, too,” she remarked in a clear, carrying voice. “Really, Wynwood, you ought not creep up on people like that. The contessa jerked instinctively, just as anyone would do.”
The room fell deadly silent. Quin’s mother was watching Esmée very oddly over her handkerchief. “Yes, a dreadful accident!” his mother finally echoed. “We are lucky Aunt Charlotte did not break a hip, Quin. Do have a care next time!”
“I’m sorry,” he said for about the tenth time. “I’m just so bloody sorry.”
The doctor scrubbed his hands together. “Well, I’d best be off then,” he said. “I’ll look in on Lady Charlotte tomorrow, just in case. She isn’t getting any younger, you know.”
Quin barely noticed when his family began to trickle from the room. His mother was still watching him warily, an unasked question in her eyes and a wounded expression on her face. The rumors were already out, then. The housemaids had assuredly seen something—and that which they’d not seen, their imaginations had likely supplied. His mother meant to rake him over the coals for it, too.
Well, she could hardly do worse than that which he wished to do to himself.
But he was to be spared his mother’s ire, at least for the moment. Alice, God bless her, propelled her from the room after the others, murmuring something about seeing the children before breakfast.
He turned to stare through the window, looking out across the knot garden toward the trees, the same view he had held so intently this morning as he awaited Viviana’s arrival. Viviana. Good God, what had he done? What had he been thinking? The damned woman still drove him insane!
But she had not come to England to torment him. Indeed, she really could not have cared less, and Quin did not know which notion angered him more.
She had vanished from his study this morning as soon as he had returned with the two footmen, giving Aunt Charlotte one last pitying look over her shoulder as she departed. She had not spared Quin so much as a glance.
Suddenly, a hand touched his shoulder, recalling him to the present. Quin’s head whipped round, and he saw Esmée standing by his side. Good Lord, he had not realized that she had remained behind after the others left. No doubt that was why Alice had dragged his mother away. It was not her sympathy for Quin; it was her sympathy for the woman he had so publicly humiliated. The tittle-tattle was likely halfway to the village by now.
But Esmée looked surprisingly composed. “I fear there will be gossip, my lord,” she said as if reading his thoughts. “But perhaps we can counter it. We must continue to assert that silly accident story.”
He returned his gaze to the window, unable to look her in the eyes. “Esmée, I can explain.”
“No, don’t,” she said hastily. “I would really rather not discuss it.”
“I don’t blame you,” he whispered. “I am such a fool—and worse, I’ve humiliated you. Can you ever forgive me?”
“ ’Tis not a matter of my forgiveness,” she said, her Highland accent soft.
“If you think that, my dear, then you are a fool, too.”
Esmée drew a deep breath. “I ought to explain, Wynwood, that I came looking for you this morning to tell you…to tell you that I cannot marry you,” she went on. “I made a grievous error in accepting your offer. I apologize.”
At that, he laughed bitterly. “I am not surprised you’d wish to cry off now,” he answered. “What an embarrassment this will be! And I believe it is I who owes the apology.”
“You are not listening, my lord,” she said firmly. “I was coming to tell you I wished to cry off the betrothal. I am sorry I interrupted you in…in whatever it was you were doing—”
“Ruining my life,” he interjected. “That’s what I was doing.”
Esmée shrugged. “In any case, it had nothing to do with my decision. I mean to tell your mother so as well. I would not have her think you responsible for my choice.”
It seemed Esmée had indeed noticed his inattentiveness last night. Damn it, Alasdair had not been wr
ong, had he? He had not meant to wound the girl so. “I will send a notice to the Times this afternoon,” he said, dragging a hand through his hair. “No one will be surprised. My dear, I am sorry this has ended so badly.”
“Don’t be so sorry,” she whispered. “Trust me, I never should have said yes. Something…something happened last night to convince me of that.”
Yes, he had ignored her. That was what had happened. The sight of Viviana had disordered his mind. Quin was barely aware that he had begun to pace the room again.
“I thought it a good match, Esmée,” he said, his tone almost mystified. “I persuaded myself we could make a go of it, you and I. I was a fool to imagine I could—or would ever—oh, damn it, why didn’t I just listen to Alasdair?”
“To Alasdair—?”
“He told me from the very first I was not good enough for you,” Quin admitted. “And I knew, even then, that he was right. I thought perhaps you might make a better man of me. But it isn’t working, is it? Even Alasdair can see it. Last night, he read me the riot act, then threatened to thrash me into a bloody pulp.”
“Alasdair? But…but why?”
“He thought I wasn’t paying enough attention to you,” Quin admitted. “He thought you looked unhappy. He wanted me to call off our wedding, but I refused, of course. How could I? A gentleman may not do such a thing.” He flashed her a crooked, bittersweet smile. “But now you have done it for me.”
Esmée refused to look at him. “Aye, and I think it best,” she said. “We do not perfectly suit after all.”
For a time, he simply watched her without speaking. “Are you a secret romantic at heart, Esmée?” he found himself asking. “Do you believe there is but one perfect partner for all of us?”
“I—yes, I begin to believe that might be so,” Esmée admitted.
He turned again to the window and braced his hands wide on its frame. He stared into the distance, wondering how to make his point without further hurting her. “I do not know, Esmée, what there is between you and Alasdair,” he finally said. “Certainly it is none of my business now.”
She began to interrupt, but turned, and threw up a staying hand. “Please, just let me speak.”
Esmée nodded. “Yes. Of course.”
He lowered his hand and looked her in the eyes. “All I am saying is that if there is even a scrap of sincere regard between the two of you, I urge you not to let it go,” he whispered. “Not until you are sure nothing more can be made of it. For once you let it go of that tiny scrap—by accident or by design—it is sometimes gone forever.”
Esmée was staring at the floor again. “That is good advice, I am sure,” she answered. “Now, if you will excuse me, I must go and tell my aunt what we have decided.”
“I shouldn’t wish her to be angry with you,” he said hastily. “Tell her the truth, by all means.”
“The truth is that we do not suit,” she repeated. “We never did. We are meant for other things, you and I. We were fools ever to think otherwise.”
He looked at her wistfully and wished to God he wanted her. It would have been so easy. But he didn’t want her, not really. His actions this morning, and the embarrassment he had caused her, could not have made the truth more plain. She was wise, very wise, to be rid of him now, before he got her to the altar and doomed them both to a life of bitter dissatisfaction.
“Little Esmée,” he murmured. “Always the wise one. Why is it that we cannot love one another? It would make life so much easier, would it not?”
She returned the smile ruefully. “Aye, but I begin to think we do not get to choose whom we love,” she answered. “And that life was not meant to be easy.” Then she stood on her tiptoes and lightly kissed his cheek.
Her father was already at the piano in the parlor with Lord Digleby when Viviana returned in a headlong rush from the stables. The men were bent over a piece of music scrawled across a scrap of paper, experimentally plinking out notes.
“Buon giorno, Papà. Lord Digleby.” She kissed her father on the cheek and hastened out again, barely noticed. The great Alessandri was once again absorbed in his work, and for that Viviana was grateful.
She was not grateful—at least, not initially—when she ran straight into Lord Chesley exiting his library. “Vivie, my dear!” he said, catching her by both shoulders. “You are about to bowl me over—and not with your charm and beauty.”
Viviana felt her cheeks heat. “Scusi, my lord,” she murmured, moving as if to pass. “I was not attending.”
Chesley was looking at her in concern. “No, my girl, you were not,” he agreed. “Come into the library, won’t you? Basham has just brought coffee.”
Viviana pulled the pin from her riding hat, and lifted it off. “Grazie, Chesley, but I should change first.”
Chesley waved his hand in obviation. “Nonsense! Now come in, sit down, and tell me what is wrong. Did you not enjoy your grand adventure this morning?”
Grand adventure was not quite the word for it. For an instant, she weighed not telling him, but that would not have done. Better Chesley should hear it from her lips. “I—I rode over to Arlington Park,” she answered, unable to hold his gaze. “I went to see Lord Wynwood.”
Chesley’s brows went up, and he pushed open the library door, motioning her in with a tilt of his head. “To see Quin, eh?” he said when she was seated and he had poured her a cup of strong black brew. “Was he expecting you, Vivie?”
She nodded, and took a fortifying sip of the coffee. “He—he asked me to come,” she said. “Well, ordered me, really. I thought merely to humor him, you see. But…but there was an accident.”
“An accident?” the earl echoed. “Of what sort?”
Viviana shook her head, not entirely sure she could explain. “We quarreled,” she began. “And he—he took certain liberties which I did not appreciate. I was very angry, Chesley, and I struck him. With my crop.”
“Gad!” the earl interjected.
“Indeed,” said Viviana witheringly. “We did not realize Lady Charlotte had come into the room with Miss Hamilton. Oh, Chesley! It was an ugly scene. I drew his blood.”
“As well you should have done, devil take him!”
“Oh, no, I should not have!” Viviana cried, leaping from her chair. “Lady Charlotte swooned, and Miss Hamilton—well, I think she saw everything. I am not perfectly sure. And there were servants.”
Chesley groaned and shook his head. Viviana was roaming restlessly about the room now, sliding her hands up and down her arms. She was cold, she realized, despite the fact she still wore a wool habit. It was her nerves, she supposed. She really had suffered something of a shock. She had gone to spar a bit with Quin, and to put him in his place. And now innocent people were left to suffer the consequences of her temper. Would she never learn?
“Damn Quin for a fool!” Chesley finally muttered. “Gwendolyn will likely give herself an apoplexy over this. I’d best get over there and find out which way the wind blows.”
“Oh, it blows very ill,” said Viviana. “Lady Charlotte looked most unwell. The doctor was being sent for when I left.”
“Hmph,” said the earl. “Never mind Charlotte; she’s tough as an old hide. What, precisely, did the servants see?”
Viviana sat down again, careless of her skirts. “I cannot say,” she admitted. “I was in one of my diva rages.”
“Yes, yes!” said Chesley. “One can only guess.”
“Still, I think they cannot quite have seen everything,” Viviana continued. “But I am not at all sure they needed to. Dio, I feel so sorry for that poor girl. And I can only imagine what she thinks of me.”
“Miss Hamilton?” asked the earl. “Yes, there will be gossip. Ah, well! The child did not look resolute enough to keep Quin on a leash anyway. Still, we must endeavor to keep the servants quiet.”
Viviana set down her cup, and pushed it a little away. “I am sorry, Chesley,” she whispered, dropping her face into her hands. “I am your guest here.
This reflects very badly on you, I fear.”
“The deuce!” said the earl again. “It reflects badly on my rogue of a nephew, and that is all. He has come to believe every fetching female under the age of forty is his for the taking. I should like to take my crop to the handsome devil.”
“Miss Hamilton may beat you to it,” said Viviana mordantly. “I do not believe she is as meek, Chesley, as you seem to believe. And afterward, I expect she will jilt him.”
“And so she ought,” said the earl, rising. “You must pardon me, my girl. I shouldn’t waste any more time. Let me go over to Arlington and unruffle Gwen’s feathers and see how Charlotte goes on. Then I’ll call upon Mrs. Prater, and discover what tittle-tattle the housemaids are passing and what can be done to stop it.”
“Oh, Chesley!” said Viviana, coming swiftly to her feet. Impulsively, she kissed him on the cheek.
He looked at her with a hint chagrin in his eyes. “I only wonder,” he finally said, “what Quin was thinking, Vivie. You did discourage him quite thoroughly all those years ago, didn’t you, my girl?”
Viviana swallowed hard, and hesitated. “Perhaps, Chesley, I ought not answer that,” she finally answered. “I have the right to avoid self-incrimination, have I not? That is the English law, I believe?”
“Hmph,” said the earl for the third time. “It is the letter of the law, yes, if not the spirit. Keep your secrets, my dear, if you must. But I sometimes begin to wonder if you haven’t kept just one or two too many.”
By the early afternoon, Lord Chesley still had not returned to Hill Court. Mrs. Douglass sent plates of cold meat and cheese to the parlor in some hope, Viviana supposed, that her father and Lord Digleby would actually stop working long enough to eat. It had fallen to Viviana to smooth the housekeeper’s feathers when they did not.
Viviana dined in the schoolroom with Miss Hevner and the children. The governess, who was looking rather frazzled, expressed a need to do some shopping in the village. Nurse Rossi could no longer handle all three at once. Viviana offered to take the children to play in the gardens for the rest of the afternoon. Better that, she decided, than simply sitting and stewing whilst she awaited Chesley’s return.
