Quin laughed loud enough to make his horse to toss his head in protest. “A triumph of hope over reason,” he said. “But yes, Miss Hamilton is a very nice young lady.”
His sister gave him a long, sidling look which lingered. “But do you love her, Quin?” she finally asked.
Quin smiled. “I am fond of her, Allie,” he said. “I truly am. And we get on well.”
Alice surprised him by drawing her mount to a halt, and reining nearer. “Oh, Quin, do not let mother persuade you wrongly,” she said, covering his hand with her own. “You must not marry if you are not ready. And you certainly must not marry where you do not love. Oh, I beg you, my dear, to listen to me. In this, at least, I have more experience than you.”
Quin must have looked astonished, for his sister blushed immediately. “Mamma is not bullying me into this, Alice, if that is what you fear,” he answered. “With Father gone, I need to marry. I know that. I do not need Mamma to urge me on.”
Alice pressed her lips together, as if something pained her. “But why now?” she asked. “Why Miss Hamilton, if you do not love her? Why can you not take a few months and look about you? Perhaps you
will
fall in love, Quin.”
Quin studied her for a moment, then nudged his horse on. “I want what you had, Alice,” he said. “I want a marriage with someone who is compatible. With someone I can respect.”
“You are persuaded, then,” she said sadly. “There is nothing I can say?”
Quin shook his head and wondered what on earth his sister was thinking. His mother had hinted that Miss Hamilton would make him a worthy wife, yes. But he had been the one who had seized upon the notion. The announcement had already been printed in half the kingdom’s newspapers, and the ensuing ribald remarks in all of its scandal rags. Some forty friends, relations, and neighbors were coming to dinner tomorrow night in honor of his betrothal. There was no backing out of it now.
To his relief, his sister changed the subject. “Great-aunt Charlotte has moved up from the gatehouse for a few days,” she said with false brightness. “Mamma thought it would be more enjoyable for her to be in the midst of all the excitement.”
Quin was feeling a little like a bug beneath someone’s quizzing glass. “And so it will be, I’m sure,” he said. His great-aunt Charlotte was his grandfather’s sister, a prying, prodding, somewhat impertinent old lady whom he nonetheless admired, if for nothing more than her tenacious grip on life.
“Mamma is fretting over Aunt Charlotte again,” Alice went on. “She seems to regard her as some sort of living link to Papa. I do hope she lives a good, long life.”
“My God, Alice, she is ninety years old!” said Quin. “She has already lived a good, long life—two or three, by some counts.”
They were approaching the gatehouse now. Alice tossed him a speaking glance. “You know what I mean, Quinten,” she said. “Mamma could not bear another loss just now. But yes, you are right. Aunt Charlotte isn’t getting any younger. Her heart is weak, you know.”
“Charlotte shall likely outlive us all,” he muttered. Then, more loudly, “Look, Alice, at the size of that thing!” He pointed across the village road to the soaring roofline of the new mill, which sat behind the village, along the river.
Alice gave him a bemused smile. “Did you not notice it when you arrived?”
He had not. His mind, apparently, had been elsewhere.
Soon they were dismounting along the edge of the pond, which Herndon had dammed for his vast operation. The waterwheel was turning at a brisk pace, making a rhythmic
shush, shush, shush
sound, whilst the deep vibrations of the grist wheels seemed to make the very earth tremble. The great mill had been designed to serve not just the estate, but the village—which also belonged to the earldom of Wynwood—as well as anyone in the surrounding countryside who wished to use it. For a small fee, of course. Thus the mill, Herndon had calculated, would pay for itself in five short years.
Herndon was observing the carpenters as they made some finishing adjustments to the hinges of the double doors—doors wide enough to permit a cart to be backed fully inside the mill. Upon seeing Quin, however, Herndon touched his hat brim and came up the slope toward him. When he noticed Alice, however, his demeanor changed. He snatched off his hat and softened his normally businesslike expression.
“Lady Alice. Wynwood.” He nodded to them in turn. “Come for a tour of the new mill?”
“We have indeed,” said Quin.
They went down the hill and entered the shadowy depths of the mill. Inside, the air was thick with dust, the floorboards were covered with grit, and the very soles of Quin’s boots seemed to vibrate as the stones ground effortlessly.
The tour did not last long; the ancient process of the water-driven shafts and stones was a simple one. When they came back out into the daylight, Alice looked down at the skirt of her habit and gave a cry of dismay. “Oh, look! Lud, what a mess I’ve made!”
To Quin’s surprise, Herndon snatched a starched white handkerchief from his coat pocket, and knelt to brush the mill dust from her hems. Herndon, it occurred to him, was a fine-looking man, if a little steely-eyed and sober-minded. He had also been extraordinarily fond of Alice during her girlhood, though he would have seen little of her after her marriage.
Quin hadn’t seen much of her either, save for the occasional holiday. John, her husband, had not approved of London society, and he had distinctly disapproved of Quin’s. Still, it had occurred to Quin from time to time that he ought at least to write his sister. Instead, he had told himself that there was little in his life a lady would wish to be privy to. It was a choice he now regretted. He had the feeling that perhaps his sister had been lonely in her marriage.
Herndon was on his feet by then, and tucking away his handkerchief. Quin had wondered before why a man of Herndon’s background had not married. He had a fine house not far from the village. He was a third or fourth or perhaps even fifth son of an Oxfordshire baronet. He had attended university. He was well established in his career. But he must be all of forty now, and if ever he’d looked at a woman, Quin knew nothing of it.
Herndon and his sister were making small talk. “Will you be long at Arlington, Lady Alice?” the estate manager was asking.
Alice cut a shy look at Quin. “We are thinking—the children and I, I mean—of staying on through the New Year,” she confessed. “Though I have not yet been invited to do so.”
“Don’t be silly, Alice,” said Quin. “Arlington is your home, and always will be. If you mean to hang out after an invitation, you’ll likely die of old age.”
“And a pity that would be,” said Herndon. It was the closest the man had ever come to humor.
One of Herndon’s carpenters was leading their horses up the slope now. “Morning, m’lord,” he said, passing over Quin’s reins. “Happen a fine traveling coach just turned up th’ park.”
“Ah!” said Alice with a smile. “Thank you, Edwards. That will be Miss Hamilton and her aunt. Hurry, Quin. We will ride fast and take the shortcut through the woods.”
Herndon had cupped his hands to take Alice’s boot. “My congratulations on your upcoming marriage, Wynwood,” he said. “I should have said so earlier.”
“Thank you, Herndon.” Quin was whacking his crop thoughtfully across his boot top. “You will be attending tomorrow evening’s festivities, will you not?”
The estate agent seemed to hesitate. “Well, I had thought…the mill is not quite—”
“It will be dark, Herndon,” said Quin impatiently. “And I shall feel mightily hurt if you cannot trouble yourself to attend my betrothal dinner.”
Herndon’s eyes seemed a bit more steely now. “I would not miss it for all the world, then, my lord.”
“Excellent!” said Quin, smoothly remounting. “Sirs, I give you both good day.”
Sir Alasdair to the Rescue.
L
ord Chesley and his houseguests were the first to arrive for his sister’s dinner party the following evening. They were so early, in fact, that Chesley’s sister had not yet come down. They were greeted at the door instead by a beautiful young lady who kissed Chesley with great affection.
She introduced herself to Viviana and Signor Alessandri as Lady Alice Melville, Chesley’s niece. Lady Alice was a trim, tall brunet who appeared to be just past thirty. Her eyes, however, looked far older. Viviana sensed that this was a woman who had known both joy and grief, and felt an immediate affinity for her.
After a few pleasantries, Chesley and Lord Digleby drifted off to visit the cook, Mrs. Prater, to make sure she was serving her famous curried crab.
“How kind of you to come to our little family affair,” Lady Alice said. She took Viviana by the arm as if they were the best of friends, then smiled at Viviana’s father. “Have the two of you been in England long?”
“We arrive just—ah, what is the word?—
si,
a se’night hence,” said Signor Alessandri.
“Past, Papà,”
said Viviana gently.
“Si,
a se’night past,” he agreed. “We come, my daughter and I, with her…her
bambini,
to the
porto
of Southampton. It is my first time, Lady Alice, to see your beautiful country.”
She had led them into a glittering, elegantly appointed drawing room which had been thrown open to the two small parlors on either side. Everywhere Viviana looked, polished silver and fine crystal gleamed, reflected in the candlelight by the floor-to-ceiling mirrors tucked between each exquisitely draped window. It was all rather grand, she mused, for a simple neighborly gathering.
Apprehensively, she took the glass of wine which Lady Alice pressed into her hand. “I understand you know my uncle well,” Lady Alice was remarking to Viviana’s father. “And I know he admires your work,
signore.”
“Ah, Lord Chesley and I go back very long years,” he said in his heavily accented English. “He is a great man, your uncle. All of Europe knows this.”
Lady Alice’s smile deepened. “And what of you, Contessa Bergonzi?” she asked. “Are you enjoying your visit to England?”
Viviana was beginning to feel a little ill. Everything looked so formal, so elegant. She had a sudden premonition of having made a grave misjudgment. Indeed, she had suspected it almost as soon as she accepted the invitation.
Chesley’s sister!
Was she mad? But Chesley had many sisters, she had consoled herself. Six or seven, it was said. What were the chances that—
“Contessa?” Lady Alice Melville’s voice came as if from far away. “Are you perfectly all right?”
“Scusi?”
Viviana’s head whipped around. “Oh, how rude of me! But this fresco around the drawing room, and the gilding on the ceiling—I think it quite the most elegant design I have ever seen.”
Lady Alice beamed with pleasure. “Then you are in luck,” she answered. “The architect who designed it is a friend of my brother’s. Merrick MacLachlan. He will be here tonight, and you may tell him so yourself.”
“A friend?” echoed Viviana. “Of your brother?”
Lady Alice snatched another glass of wine for herself from a passing waiter. “Yes, but Mr. MacLachlan is frightfully moody, as most people in the arts can be, of cour—” Then, as if realizing what she had just said, she flushed. “Oh, I do beg your pardon!”
Viviana managed to smile. “Ah, but a mere architect cannot hold a candle, I do assure you, to a
prima donna
in a black rage,” she admitted.
Just then, Lord Chesley returned from the rear of the house, followed by four men in dark coats, all of them carrying stringed instruments. “Gwen has hired a quartet!” he said to no one in particular. “Look, Alessandri! We must help them set up.”
Viviana’s father looked relieved to have something to do which did not require a command of the English language. The three gentlemen were well occupied in their task in the back of the room when a small but sprightly old lady entered, hastening toward them. Out in the great hall, Viviana could here more guests arriving, and cheerful voices ringing down the grand staircase. Her anxiety began to ratchet sharply upward.
“Alice, my dear,” said the old lady, regally presenting her cheek for a kiss. “How glad I am to see you out of those dreary blacks and back into a proper gown. You look lovely.”
“Thank you, Aunt Charlotte,” she said. Quickly, the introductions were made. Viviana exchanged a few pleasant words with the old lady, who then espied Lord Chesley and the gentlemen in the rear of the room and went haring off in that direction.
“I beg your pardon, Lady Alice,” said Viviana when her aunt had gone. “May I collect that you are recently widowed?”
Lady Alice looked instantly pained. “I—yes, just over a year ago,” she said. “It was sudden.”
“My sympathies,” said Viviana. “I know the difficulties you must suffer. I, too, am widowed, though not so recently.”
Lady Alice gave a watery smile. “One hates it for one’s children’s sake,” she said. “Mine are so very young. They do not quite understand why their dear papa has been taken from them.”
Viviana could have made the argument that her children were no worse off—certainly, Cerelia was not—but she said nothing of the sort. Instead, she set one hand lightly on Lady Alice’s arm. “But children are very resilient,” she said. “I know this firsthand. I have three, and all are well.”
“I have three also!” said Lady Alice. “How old are your children, Contessa?”
“My daughters are eight and six,” she said. “And my son is four going on ten. Perhaps you know what I mean?”
Lady Alice nodded with alacrity. “They are almost the same ages as mine,” she said. “We really must visit.”
“I should like that,” said Viviana truthfully.
“My children will be pleased to find new playmates so near at hand.”
“Yes, it is but a short drive,” said Viviana. “Will you be staying here long?”
“Six or eight weeks, I daresay,” said Alice. “And it is a short drive, but a far shorter walk if one comes through the wood in between. There is a well-marked bridle path which we all use to go back and forth to Hill Court. I am told my parents wore it to a rut when they were courting.”
The quartet was tuning up, and black-clad footmen were everywhere. Some two dozen guests were drifting through the drawing room now, greeting one another with handshakes, and even kisses. There were no strangers here. Viviana was feeling very much out of place, and even more uneasy when she saw Chesley approach.
“My dear, you really must come with me,” he said, setting a hand on her arm. “The cellist is playing a Guadagnini!”
“Is he indeed?”
“Yes, can you believe it? Here, in a backwater like Buckinghamshire!”
Viviana flashed her new acquaintance a parting smile.
“Piacere,
Lady Alice!” she said. “You must call on us at Hill Court.”
Alice brightened. “Tomorrow, then?” she suggested. “Would that be too soon?”
Viviana looked at Chesley expectantly.
“My home is yours, Alice,” said her uncle impatiently. “You may move in if you wish.”
Alice laughed. “But you are taking away the most interesting person in the room, uncle!” she protested.
Chesley’s gaze, however, had turned toward the entrance to the withdrawing room. “Oh, I think not tonight, my dear,” he said quietly. “I believe our guest of honor has arrived.”
“The guest of honor?” said Viviana. She had not realized there was one.
Chesley was staring at a young lady in a silver-gray silk gown who had just stepped hesitantly into the room. She was slender, and almost diminutive, but elegant in her simplicity. Her light brown hair was twisted into an artful arrangement, and entwined with a strand of pearls. A second strand encircled her throat. She looked lovely. She looked, in fact, like the perfect English miss.
“Behold Mamma’s long-sought prize,” Alice whispered. “Miss Esmée Hamilton, Quin’s bride-to-be.”
“She is an heiress, too, is she not?” murmured Chesley.
“Yes, Lady Tatton’s niece.”
The words were sinking slowly into Viviana’s brain.
Quin. Bride. Heiress.
Oh, dear God. Viviana’s knees almost buckled.
“Well, she’s pretty enough, I’ll warrant,” Chesley grumbled. “But she looks nothing at all like his usual type.”
Alice laughed. “Oh, come now, Uncle Ches!” she said. “You are a man of the world, are you not? Men may keep company with one sort of woman, but they wed a different sort altogether.”
Viviana felt herself begin to tremble with inner rage, but it was not Alice with whom she was angry.
“Oh, I daresay,” said Chesley. “By the way, Vivie, you do remember Quin, do you not? My nephew Quin Hewitt? He once had quite a tender for you, as I recall.”
“Quin Hewitt?” Viviana managed. “Why, I…yes, I remember him well.”
Alice shot her a sharp, curious look. “Is it true?” she asked. “Was Quin in love with you?”
Chesley, damn him, barked with laughter. “Oh,
he
thought so!” said the earl. “For a time, I feared I’d be obliged to pack the puppy up and send him back home to his papa. But Vivie here kept spurning him, and Quin eventually sought an introduction to the many pleasures of Town.”
“Yes, and they became closely acquainted, too!” said Alice dryly.
“Indeed.” Chesley gave a weak grin. “Always a reliable distraction for bored young blades, eh?” He winked at Alice, but she did not spare him a glance. Instead, she was studying Viviana, her expression unreadable.
“You and my rakehell brother!” she said musingly. “How romantic and intriguing this sounds, Contessa.”
“It was neither,” Viviana returned. “It was silly. I was an opera singer, Lady Alice. Do you understand what that means?”
“Why, I daresay it means you sing well,” said Alice with a muted smile. Then, casually, she lifted one shoulder. “In any case, Quin is Lord Wynwood now, and Mamma is keen for him to marry. I collect it was she who chose Miss Hamilton.”
“Well, of course she did!” said Chesley impatiently.
“Quin swears she did not.”
“Oh, Quin wouldn’t come within a mile of a parson if he hadn’t a pistol to his back, the title bedamned,” said the earl. “Now, come along, Vivie, do. You really
must
see this cello. Now, it is by
Lorenzo
mind. Not the son. But Umberto says he has never heard the like.”
She went, because she had little choice. And because it was better to be in the rear of the room than in the front; better to put as much space between her and Quin’s pale, pretty fiancée as was possible. Viviana was shocked and appalled. Shocked by her own stupidity in coming here, and by her physical, very visceral reaction to the news. And appalled by the awful, ugly feeling of jealousy surging in her chest. She could have yanked the pearls from Miss Hamilton’s mouse brown hair, and cheerfully strangled her with them. It was irrational, and it was unfair. But there it was; petty envy, the ugliest human vice, laid bare. And after nine long years! How mortifying.
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.