by Liz Carlyle
“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, a
nd 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.
Ten
The Magic Ring.
A t a quarter past five the following afternoon, Quin found himself standing at his sister’s door and listening to the soft murmurings beyond. Inside, if he knew Alice, there was a beehive of feminine activity, with discarded dinner gowns flung into a heap upon her bed and a rainbow of shoes strewn across the carpet. But surely she was at least halfway dressed by now?
Softly, he rapped on the door with the back of his hand. Alice opened it herself, her hair still down and her feet still bare. “Quin!” she said brightly. “Oh, how handsome you look! I so rarely see you in dinner dress.”
He smiled wryly as she motioned him in. “Don’t be silly, Allie,” he said. “You see me every night at dinner.”
“Well, not looking like that,” said Alice, returning to the bench before her dressing table. “I do not think I’ve such crisply starched linen in my life—and is that a new frock coat?”
Quin did not answer. No one had ever accused him of being even remotely foppish, but tonight he had exerted perhaps a little more effort in his toilette than was his custom. Yes, he had wished to look his best. He would just as soon not consider why. Behind him, Lily, Alice’s maid, was plucking gowns from the pile on the bed, and shaking out the wrinkles as she returned them to the dressing room.
“Do sit down, Quin,” said his sister, leaning nearer the mirror to dash a little powder on her forehead. “You make me nervous looming about. Has Mamma already come down? Am I late?”
“Not yet, no.” Quin grinned, and took the dainty chair Alice offered. “It is just that I am early.”
Alice looked up from her powder box and grinned. “Nervous?”
Quin did not find the question humorous. “Do not be ridiculous,” he said. “Tell me, Allie, is Herndon coming tonight?”
Her chin came up a notch and was energetically dusted with powder. “Good Lord, Quin. How should I know?”
“I think you do,” he said quietly.
Coyly, Alice smiled. “I know he was invited, along with every other gentleman and near gentleman in the village,” she said, picking up a plate of cheese and sliced apples from her dressing table. �
��Uncle Ches is as much an egalitarian as Mamma is a snob. I sometimes wonder if they were really born into the same family. Here, will you have a little bite? It is Mrs. Chandler’s best.”
“Good Lord, Allie,” he said, surveying the near-empty plate. “We’re to dine at eight, and you’ve eaten a half pound of farmhouse cheese?”
Alice’s expression turned defensive. “Only the tiniest bit!” she said. “I was perishing of hunger. I hadn’t any breakfast this morning.”
“You are going to plump up on us, old thing, if you don’t have a care,” Quin chided. “That dress you are wearing could stand to be let out a notch or two as it is.”
“Perhaps I have gained a half a stone. What of it?” Alice made a moue with her mouth and dotted it with something she scooped from a little pot on the dressing table.
“You are right,” Quin admitted. “You look lovely—better than you have in years, actually.”
Alice put the little pot back down. “Surely, Quin, you did not come in here just to quiz me about Mr. Herndon and watch me paint my face?”
Quin felt his mouth turn up in a slow, wide smile. “Actually, that is precisely why I came in,” he said. “That, and to ensure your heap of discarded dinner gowns didn’t slide off the bed in an avalanche and bury poor Lily alive.”
Lily tried to suppress a snort of laugher, and snatched the last dress. “We’ve got to get that hair up, my lady,” she said over her shoulder. “Best settle on which shoes.”
“The rose satin, then,” said Alice, shooting Quin an irritated look. Then, turning halfway around on her bench, she leaned over to pick up a pair of dainty pink slippers. Her hair slithered over one shoulder in a shimmering, golden brown curtain as she thrust the first foot into its shoe.
“I hope Mamma’s mood is better than yours, Quin,” said Alice, fastening the buckle. “Or it will be a miserable evening, and never mind Henry Herndon. The new curate and his sister are coming, and those two can make one wish to watch paint dry. And then there is—” Alice jerked up straight. “Was that a knock at the door?”
