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, and 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.
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?”
But Quin was still staring at his sister. Something about the way the light caught her hair was oddly familiar. But he hadn’t seen Alice’s hair down in years. He shook off the strange notion and looked up to see that his mother had entered the room. He jerked at once to his feet.
“Mamma. Please, have my chair.”
“Thank you, Quinten.” His mother pressed the back of her hand to her forehead, and sank into it dramatically. “I declare, I am quite faintish from exhaustion!” she complained. “Whatever can my brother be thinking to serve dinner at eight? It is unheard of in the country.”
Alice had returned to her mirror. “Uncle Ches keeps Continental hours, Mamma,” she said. “But at least he has invited us to come at six for sherry. I think that very hospitable of him. Have some cheese.”
Quin had drawn up a chair from the hearth and sat down again.
“It has nothing to do with the Continent,” said Lady Wynwood, cutting a suspicious glance in his direction. “It is because of
that woman
and her foreign airs.”
“Well, she is foreign,” said Alice, dotting some sort of cream onto her cheekbones. “So that would explain the airs, I daresay.”
Their mother pursed her lips. “Pray do not be impudent, Alice. It ill becomes you.”
“Besides, the contessa’s children dine at half past five,” Alice went on, as if their mother had not spoken. “She never misses it.”
“Actually,” said Quin, “I was just remarking on how fine Allie looks. I believe the country air has put a blush on her cheeks and given her a decent appetite.”
Alice grinned. “That blush just came out of a paint pot, Quin, in case you are blinded by my beauty.”
“Well, I had an interesting letter today,” said their mother, changing the subject, as usual, at her whim.
“Do tell, Mamma,” said Alice good-humoredly. “Some gossip from town, may we hope?”
“A lack of it, more like.” Lady Wynwood cut another quick glance at Quin. “It was from the Duchess of Gravenel,” she went on. “She tells me there has been no betrothal announced between Sir Alasdair MacLachlan and Miss Hamilton.”
“Well, I should hope not, Mamma,” said Alice. “It is early days yet. Besides, they do not mean to marry until spring.”
“They may not mean to marry at all,” snapped Lady Wynwood. “Really, Alice! Perhaps Miss Hamilton is having second thoughts about her impetuosity. Perhaps Quinten can yet effect a reconciliation.”
“Mamma, I thought your wish was to avoid any more scandal,” he replied from behind a copy of
Ladies’ Fashion Quarterly
which Lily had just uncovered on Alice’s bed. “At this point, a reconciliation would but fan the flames. Good Lord, Alice! Are these wide, fluffy frocks coming back into fashion? Looks as though they’ve got parasols stuffed under their skirts.”
Alice leaned over and wrinkled her nose. “Hideous, are they not?”
Lady Wynwood was frowning. “What are you saying, Quinten?”
“That these ball gowns do not become a lady’s figure,” he said dryly. “And that Miss Hamilton and I are through. She never loved me, and I never loved—
“Love!” interjected his mother. “What does love have to do with it?”
“Mamma!” Alice shot her a dark look. “Love has everything to do with it.”
Lady Wynwood’s lips thinned. “You did not love John, and look how well it turned out.”
“Yes, look indeed!” said Alice a little bitterly. “I am a widow at two-and-thirty, with three fatherless children and few fond memories to look back on.”
“Alice!”
“It’s true, Mamma,” she said, dropping her voice so that it would not carry into the dressing room. “I never wished to marry John. You know that.”
“But he was a splendid catch!” said her mother. “You were intended for one another from the cradle. Your papa arranged it all.”
“I know that, too,” answered Alice. “And I did my duty as I was told I must. So do not now deny me the right to grieve over the loss of my romantic ideals.”
“But you can marry again, Allie,” said Quin. “You will marry again, and this time, you will marry for love.”
“Quinten, don’t be a fool,” said his mother. “Who, besides a gazetted fortune hunter, would want a widow with three small children?”
The mood inside the room suddenly shifted. Quin flicked a quick glance at his sister. He could practically feel her unease ratcheting upward. “Someone will,” he said quietly.
“You are speaking, I daresay, of that upstart Henry Herndon,” said their mother impatiently. “He has always been far too familiar with Alice.”
Quin felt his temper slip. “I do not think either of us is in a position to advise Alice with regard to whom she might marry.”
His mother opened her mouth, but Quin cut her off.
“Neither
of us, Mamma.” He laid the magazine aside, and stood. “Alice is of age, and possessed of a fortune which she earned in the hardest of ways—by sacrificing her heart on the altar of family duty,” he went on. “She has earned the right to do as she pleases now.”
His mother’s lips had been pursed into a thin, tremulous line. And unless he missed his guess, Alice was blinking back tears. “I cannot countenance such a notion!” said his mother. “We are Hewitts, Quinten. We may not go about behaving as we wish.”
Quin went to the door and laid his hand on the doorknob. “I suggest you grow accustomed to my views in this regard, Mamma,” he advised, his back to the room. “As you are ever fond of reminding me, I am the head of this family now. It is my place to decide such things, and this is what I have decid—”
“But you don’t even know whom she will choose!” interjected his mother. “What if he is unsuita—”
“I know Alice,”
Quin interjected, returning from the door. “I know she is not a fool. I trust her to do what’s best for herself, and for her children. So that is the end of it, Mamma.”
“You married for love, Mamma,” Alice quietly reminded her. “It was a brilliant match, ’tis true. But a love match, nonetheless.”
Lady Wynwood rose to her feet. “It was my duty to love my husband,” she said. “And so I did.”
Alice shook her head. “It was not like that, Mamma,” she countered. “Uncle Ches remembers. You used to slip away to meet Papa.”
Their mother flushed with color. “Perhaps I did do, once or twice,” she admitted. “Now if you will pardon me, I think I shall exchange this shawl for something more substantial. Quin, you may send round for the carriage.”
And then, like the countess she was, Lady Wynwood swept past him and out of the room, her head held high. Quin looked at his sister and gave her a weak smile. They had won the battle, he thought. But the smoke had not yet cleared.
As soon as Alice’s hair was up, she and Quin went downstairs to the great hall. “Where are the children?” he asked. “Are they not to go?”
“Miss Bright took them over in the dogcart at four,” said Alice. “They were to have an early dinner in the schoolroom. They will return home long before we shall.”
That made sense, Quin supposed. He had been a little surprised when Alice told him the children were to go. But playmates in the country were rare, and the children had begged. They would be kept in the nursery, Alice had explained, to play games and romp whilst the adult guests enjoyed themselves in more sedate pursuits.
Lady Wynwood was on her best behavior during the short carriage ride to Hill Court. Quin wondered if he had made his point, or if his mother was simply lying in wait for her next opportunity.
At the well-lit front entrance, they were greeted by Lord Chesley, who made a great fuss over his elder sister, relieving some of the tension. In the parlor adjacent, Quin could see Signor Alessandri and Lord Digleby Beresford relaxing at the piano with glasses of wine. Viviana was nowhere to be seen.
“The other guests will arrive at seven,” Lord Chesley was explaining. “I am glad the family could gather beforehand.”
Signor Alessandri was bowing low over Lady Wynwood’s glove when a small herd of ponies—or something very like it—came tramping down the stairs.
“Uncle Quin! Uncle Quin!” said Christopher, bursting into the room. “Can you come upstairs with us?”
Quin cocked one brow in Alice’s direction. “I daresay I can,” he answered.
Diana was hopping up and down on both feet, her plump hands clasped before her. “There is a pig!” she said. “A pig! Felise is riding it. Come see.”
“Felise must be very brave,” said Quin, ruffling her hair. “Uncle Ches? Alice? Shall I shall go have a look?”
Chesley was already caught up in conversation with Quin’s mother and Signor Alessandri. Alice waved him away. “An old shooting trophy,” she explained. “The children like to play on the hideous thing.”
Cerelia Bergonzi fell in beside him as the children rushed back up the stairs. “The pig is dead now,” she said in a small voice. “But it still has tusks and looks very fierce.”
Quin grinned down at the girl. “I’ll bet Christopher likes that.”
Cerelia smiled as if glad to share his joke. “He says he is going to Africa and shoot one for himself,” she confided. “But for now, all he has is his slingshot.”
“I hope he is not using that inside the house?”
Cerelia pressed her lips together, then a giggle escaped. “He did do, once,” she admitted, as they turned onto the landing. “But Miss Bright smacked his hands.”
Unfortunately, as the gaggle of youngsters reached the schoolroom door, a frightful wail sounded from within. They burst into the room to see Miss Bright brushing the dust from a little girl’s skirts—the bold Felise, unmistakably. Tears welled in the child’s eyes.
Miss Bright flushed when she saw Quin. “Lady Felise fell from the boar’s back, my lord,” she said, motioning toward the hideous beast. “I turned away but an instant, and she decided to stand up on it.”
“I w-w-wanted to ride like an acrobat,” the child wailed.
Just then, another young woman burst into the room carrying a tray filled with mugs and a large silver chocolate pot, still steaming. “Oh, heavens!” she said. “Whatever has happened?”