As the cart trundled slowly down the hill, the medieval village receded and the olive trees grew dense. The mild spring air was faintly scented with their woody fragrance, and Lottie made sure to inhale as much of it as she could. The hum of insects, the chirp of birds, and the crunch of the wheels on the dirt road only emphasized the silence stretching ever tighter between her and Alec. This road didn’t seem to have quite so many bone-rattling bumps as during the drive up the previous week. But then Lottie had been so elated that her plan had actually worked she might as well have been floating on air. Those feelings seemed utterly foreign now as tension practically clawed across her skin.
“So,” Alec casually began. “Besides tramping around Italy and taking up painting, how have you spent these last years?”
Lottie could only blink at him. The silence-shattering question was absurd in its…banality. He might as well have asked if she had ever been to the moon.
“We’ve a ways to go,” he explained without bothering to look at her. “Might as well make conversation to pass the time. I’m afraid I’ll fall asleep otherwise.” He punctuated this with a rather careless shrug, in case she had somehow missed that he was only bothering to talk to her in order to combat extreme fatigue.
Lottie managed to suppress a rather undignified snort. He could fall off the blasted cart, for all she cared. “I assumed Uncle Alfred would have kept you informed. Though I’m sure a man with your superior deductive reasoning can piece together the usual social schedule for a woman like me.”
Lottie attended another charity ball, turned down a proposal from a useless aristocrat, had tea at Lady Ashbury’s, went shopping at Harvey Nichols, etc., etc.
She was already bored.
Lottie then braced herself to hear of all the remote locales Alec had visited while she had been slowly ossifying in a London ballroom. She was obscenely jealous—and maybe just a tad curious.
“We never spoke of you.”
Lottie pressed her lips together against his blunt admission. Not once in five years? That stung more than she would have liked. “Well. I suppose I finally did something worth mentioning, then,” she said with a hint of satisfaction.
Alec jerked his head toward her. Their close proximity made the weight of his gaze even heavier than usual. “Is that what this was all about? A bid for Sir Alfred’s attention?” His lips curled into something close to a sneer on the last word. Goodness, he really did look like a haughty Italian count.
This time Lottie couldn’t hold back her snort. “Of course not.”
Alec pushed up the brim of his hat and leaned closer, lowering his voice. “Would you mind explaining it to me, then? For while it may be painfully obvious to you, I’m at a loss.”
Lottie matched his glare even while her heart beat furiously.
Why do you care? You were perfectly happy to go five years without one word between us. The retort nearly tumbled from her mouth. “I have a reason,” she snapped instead. “And it has nothing to do with wanting attention.”
“Then you should have taken more care instead of sneaking off like a thief in the night,” he ground out as he pulled away and turned back to the road. “When I received Sir Alfred’s telegram, I nearly—” He stopped himself and cleared his throat. “I went to Florence immediately.”
Lottie ignored the flush of shame that burned her cheeks and crossed her arms. “Fine. I suppose I did want attention, but not…not in the way you mean.”
She had wanted Uncle Alfred to listen to her for once. To understand that she could no longer live the shallow, stifling existence society demanded of a woman like her.
When Alec had first left, Lottie threw herself into the whirl of the season and sought to become the perfect debutante. She accepted as many invitations as she could, said yes to every man who asked to dance, and smiled until her cheeks hurt. Anything to distract from the constant ache in her heart that threatened to consume her. The more mercenary part of her had even fantasized about falling passionately in love with the mysterious heir of a dukedom. A man who had traveled the world and wore an eyepatch but decided to give up his life of intrigue to marry Lottie.
That would show Alec.
But of course nothing of the kind happened. None of the gentlemen she met were anything close to mysterious, and the only person she knew who wore an eyepatch was Abigail’s ninety-year-old grandmother. By the end of her first season, her efforts had led to several proposals, but she couldn’t keep the charade up any longer. Lottie rejected them all. And with no remorse.
Sir Alfred had supported her decision at the time. “I confess, I am not ready to part with you yet, my dear,” he said.
Though Lottie had been surprised to hear her venerable uncle admit to such a feeling, she did not question it. The next few years passed in a similar fashion, with Lottie attending fewer and fewer entertainments each season in favor of other, more stimulating pursuits. She visited a number of salons all over the city and became involved in the movement to secure women the vote. At home Uncle Alfred helped her practice her ciphering skills, and she even assisted him in publishing a collection of Edward Gresham’s poems.
But just as Lottie had come to accept—nay, enjoy—her burgeoning spinsterhood, Uncle Alfred became fixated on her marrying. And marrying well. He barred her from participating in anything that contributed to her growing reputation as a woman scandalously interested in intellectual pursuits, leaving her with nothing to do aside from mind-numbing society activities. Lottie did not care for balls or tea dances or interminably long musical evenings. She did not want to be another object d’art on the arm of a man who could be interchanged with any other, as long as he had the right pedigree. But her pleas had fallen on increasingly indifferent ears, until the night last spring when she publicly rejected Ceril Belvedere.
Then she had all of Uncle Alfred’s attention. Much more than she had ever wanted.
“Was it a man?”
Alec’s jarring question drew her from her thoughts. “What?”
His jaw was set and his brow furrowed, but his eyes flashed with an edge of something dark. Something dangerous. “I saw your trinkets. The flower and the note.” He wrinkled his nose as if the word itself had spoiled. “Mrs. Wetherby believed you had run off with someone.”
Lottie’s pulse raced. It had been rather distressing how easy it was to create the illusion of her own ruin. Strange to think that something that was given such power could be destroyed by nothing more than a scrap of paper and some dried flower petals. This had only further convinced her that she was making the right decision.
But if Alec discovered it was all a sham, Uncle Alfred would know as well, and she would have no leverage. “You—you do not approve of such missives?”
The darkness grew. “I think it should take far more than that to win your heart.”
The organ in question wrenched painfully in her chest. Did she dare take him into her confidence? This man who had once known everything about her? The confession trembled at the edge of her lips.
“But then you wouldn’t be the first young lady to fall victim to a few sweet words,” Alec said dismissively as he turned away. “And Florence is filled with conniving men who live to prey on English tourists. Especially women.”
The bitterness underlying his words was surprising. Even greater was how much they hurt. She had meant to create that exact illusion, and yet a part of her hoped Alec would see through it.
Lottie focused on the horizon and fought to control her breathing. “That is the only reason you can think of for me running away?”
Enjoy your time in Florence, my dear, and prepare yourself. Because jilt or no, you will be married by the end of next season.
“The only one that make sense,” Alec muttered.
Lottie closed her eyes and exhaled through the disappointment—the anger. But it was always better to be underestimated. She had been foolish to think Alec might understand. He was so like Uncle Alfred. The last thing she owed him—either of them—was her truth.
“Yes,” she murmured and continued to stare at the horizon: golden hills and blue sky streaked with clouds she still hadn’t mastered. “I suppose it is.”
So. It had been a man after all.
Alec had been prepared for this ever since Florence, and yet the force of his disappointment was still crushing. He checked the instinct to reach for Lottie. He had forgotten how powerful that old urge was. No, that wasn’t true…he hadn’t forgotten. It had been deliberate. An act of self-preservation.
Though she sat mere inches from him, it might as well have been an ocean. She looked so forlorn, so utterly alone, that it rattled something deep within him. A long-neglected corner he had locked up ages ago. And for good reason.
But she wouldn’t want anything he could offer, least of all his sympathies. Alec was merely a forgotten relic from girlhood. Not the man she was obviously still pining for—and had clearly been dreaming of that morning. Even a man with his superior deductive reasoning knew that. So Alec settled for gripping his knee instead. Hopefully the marks wouldn’t be as deep as the ones he left on his thigh yesterday. When she was safely back in London, he would hunt down the bastard that broke her heart. No matter how long it took, Alec would find him and make him pay.
“And what of your life?” she began, thankfully rescuing him from those murderous thoughts. Her voice was steadier now that she wasn’t speaking of her negligent suitor. “Have you spent this whole time as a Venetian professor?”
“Only for the past two years. Before that I was mostly traveling—Greece, Egypt, a long stretch in Turkey; but Venice…” Alec paused and absently rubbed his scarred shoulder. “Venice always felt the most like home.”
His permanent station in the city was also Sir Alfred’s way of apologizing after nearly getting him killed in Turkey.
“That’s understandable, considering you—” Lottie paused when he met her eyes. She seemed startled by her own words. “You lived there before, I mean.”
It was only the second time Lottie admitted to remembering something about him. Admitted that they had once been so much more. A torturous spark flared in his chest. One that felt dangerously close to hope. Alec could think of nothing to say beyond a stilted “Yes.”
His earliest years had passed quite happily in Venice, until his parents separated. Alec still didn’t know what led his mother to desert them so suddenly. All he could remember was receiving a brief, teary-eyed hug from her one morning and later finding his father well into his cups.
She’s left us, boy. We aren’t enough for her, he’d mumbled. Our love isn’t enough.
Alec was devastated, but his father was in no state to offer any comfort. Edward Gresham was too wrapped up in his own grief and hadn’t been sober since she left. His clever, creative, funny father had been replaced with a ghostly shell of a man. One who drank day and night, and who couldn’t bear the sight of his own child, for fear of seeing even a shadow of his lost love. Within the year he would go to the grave nearly penniless, and Alec was told of his mother’s death a few weeks later. After that, young Alec had been carted between distant relations of his mother who wanted nothing to do with him until, strangely, Sir Alfred, an old school friend of his father’s, agreed to take him in.
Even to this day, Alec had no idea what possessed the man to do it. He could no longer tell if it had been the greatest blessing of his life, or if he was paying for the many sins of his parents.
“Do you like it?”
The question pulled him from his tangled thoughts. “Like what?”
Lottie arched an auburn brow, as if he was terribly slow. “Teaching.”
“Right.” He gave himself a shake. “Yes, I do. It’s nice to have a bit of purpose. To feel like I’m helping people.”
Her eyes lost some of their hardness. “Doesn’t your work for the Crown involve helping people?”
Alec shrugged. “Sometimes.” If he was lucky.
Espionage was an ugly business, and not one he ever would have chosen. But there was no need to bother her with his many regrets on that subject.
Lottie’s rosebud mouth parted slightly in surprise and immediately drew his gaze. Her lips seemed to tense under his observation. Nerves, maybe.
Or maybe not. Maybe it’s something else. Something more.
Alec had long prided himself on his ability to read people, women in particular, but he knew well before he set foot in Tuscany that he would never be able to read Lottie accurately anymore. There was too much history. Too much pain. His mind would see things it wanted to see, not what was truly there. Since the fateful morning when he had barged into Sir Alfred’s study and declared his intension to marry Lottie, Alec had learned to be cautious. To wait for the right moment. To uncover the right information. He credited this approach to his success in the field. Other men were far too cocksure, convinced of their own brilliance. But Alec tread carefully and he was rarely wrong.
“And what of living in Venice? Do you like that as well?” Her voice had gone a bit softer.
If he didn’t stop staring at her mouth, she would think him a lecher. “Yes.” He forced his eyes to meet hers. “It’s…it’s a lovely city.” And now he would get to show her. Something else sparked in his chest. “The closest thing to experiencing true magic is Venice at sunset.”
“How poetic.” She broke into a genuine smile he couldn’t bring himself to share.
He could still picture his father in his prime—tall, hale, and happy, with his arms wrapped around his mother as they stared across the Grand Canal from the big window in their palazzo’s front parlor. His eyes were filled with childlike wonder, even though he saw the image nearly every day. But then, his father had known what he had. And how precious it was. That was why he couldn’t survive when it was all ripped from him. Edward Gresham knew life would never be the same. That the magic was well and truly lost. Forever.
Alec shrugged again. “Someone said that to me once years ago. I suppose there are moments when I still believe it.”
Lottie continued to study him. “Only moments?”
He swallowed past the lump in his throat. “I think a moment of magic is more than enough for me these days.”
Her eyes softened a little further, but they stopped short of pity before she turned back to the horizon. Alec let out a breath. If being in Lottie’s presence didn’t kill him, the memories she roused just might. Thankfully, Lorenzo turned around and mentioned that they would pass a brook with a shady spot perfect for a picnic lunch. “For signore and the signora,” he added in heavily accented English. His tender young gaze then fell on Lottie, looking for her approval, but she didn’t notice his attentions.
Alec felt a pang of sympathy for the lad. “Yes, that’s fine.” Then he addressed Lottie: “We’ll stop for lunch soon.”
“Oh, good,” she said, still looking at the horizon. “I was about to start rifling through Marta’s basket.”
“We’ll have time to rest here. Then it’s another few hours to Pistoia.”
Lottie nodded but her spine tensed ever so slightly. They would spend the night there before catching the early train to Bologna. Alec’s shoulder was already twinging at the thought of sleeping on the floor again. No doubt they would both be more comfortable in separate rooms, but he wouldn’t risk her safety. No, it would have to be one room.
One room for Mr. and Mrs. Gresham.
And there it was. That damned spark again.
After a little while, the cart trundled past a bend in the road and revealed a healthy swell of rushing water. A cluster of cypress trees on the bank would provide plenty of shade for their picnic. Lorenzo brought the cart as close to the little glen as he could manage. They were perched on a gently sloping hill that led down to the glen and the brook beyond. Alec was up and out as soon as the wheels stopped. He stretched his long arms over his head and took in the scenery. As his jacket stretched across his broad shoulders, Lottie pictured the shape of the corded muscles beneath, and how they would bunch and tighten with each movement. Like any respectable English tourist, she had spent many an afternoon filling a pad with pencil sketches of statues. He was as well built as any she had seen here, but Alec wasn’t made of marble. His skin would be warm, and smooth. It would give ever so slightly when touched. Maybe even tremble.
Lottie sniffed. No. Not Alec.
He probably had more self-control than the statue of David. And a heart to match.
The closest thing to experiencing true magic is Venice at sunset.
Alec’s stern expression hadn’t faltered while he quite obviously quoted his own father. But if he felt even a touch of nostalgia, he did not share it. But then, why would she think him capable of any sentimentality? His actions, or lack thereof, said more than enough.
Alec finished his stretch then came around to the other side of the cart and held out his arms. Lottie hesitated, but then he raised his eyebrows. “Can’t a man keep his wife from breaking her neck?” he asked innocently.
Lottie gave him a pointed look but relented. “I suppose.”
Alec’s hands encircled her waist as he helped her down. His touch was brief and entirely courteous, but Lottie’s knees suddenly buckled. Alec immediately pulled her to him while his warm, woodsy scent invaded her senses. Her palms spread over his chest and her fingers tensed against the urge to stroke the musculature that lay beneath his linen shirt.
“It’s—it’s from sitting so long,” Lottie hastened to explain. As she forced her hands to push away from him, her very cells seemed to cry out.
Alec released her. “Of course,” he said smoothly, his expression as unfathomable as ever. “You go on ahead.” He handed her the basket. “Find us a place to sit. I’ve a blanket packed away here somewhere.”
Lottie gave a dazed nod as she took the basket and walked toward the river. The swift, steady sound of rushing water helped to settle her overwrought nerves. She found a spot that was an ideal combination of both view and shade, then watched the patterns of sunlight glinting off the surface of the water until she was lulled into a kind of trance. She didn’t even hear Alec’s approach.
“This is perfect,” he said. She whirled around as he shook out a thick brown blanket and spread it over the earth. “Here. Have a seat.”
Lottie sat down on the blanket as far away from him as possible. A corner of Alec’s mouth lifted, but he said nothing as he sprawled across the middle of the blanket and propped himself up on one bent elbow. “And what did the lovely Marta send us off with?” He looked perfectly at ease now, as if they did this regularly. And they had. Once upon a time.
A ghost of a smile hovered on Lottie’s lips. They had picnicked often at Haverford, her uncle’s estate in Surrey. Her governess, Miss Newson, had initially barred Alec from joining them despite Lottie’s many fervent pleas. She didn’t like foreigners and, well, the boy was just so very Italian. But soon enough, even the stringent Miss Newson couldn’t resist Alec’s formidable charm, and he was granted permission to accompany them. Those lazy summer afternoons were some of the happiest of her life. But it was useless to remember them now. They were both much changed since then.
Lottie shook the burdensome memories from her mind as she removed the cloth from the basket and began to take out portions of smoked meat, a generous wedge of cheese, a loaf of crusty bread, a bunch of grapes, and, of course, a few more custard tarts. She placed each item between them while Alec silently observed. Lottie couldn’t tell for certain if he was looking at the food or at her, and she didn’t wish to find out. She kept her focus firmly on the task before her. But as the seconds ticked by, something inside wound tighter and tighter until it felt as though her very skin would burst.
She swallowed and looked into the now-empty basket. “A fine feast, but it appears Marta didn’t pack any utensils.”
“That’s no trouble.” His voice, as thick as honey, nearly startled her again. “I have a pocketknife. Will that do?”
Lottie fastidiously wiped her hands on the cloth to give her something else to do besides look at him. “It will have to.” She finally dared to glance up. Alec, still lounging on the blanket like some kind of grand Ottoman, handed her an ivory-handled switchblade. Lottie reached out and gripped the handle, but Alec held fast until she was forced to meet his eyes. Then he gave her a slow, lazy smile. “Careful now. I’m terribly attached to this one.”
Lottie responded with a look of mild exasperation, and Alec released the knife with a soft laugh. The handle was still warm from being nestled against his body, as if it was an extension of his person. Lottie pressed her lips together as a wave of heat rolled through her.
Honestly.
She sat up a little straighter and began to cut the cheese and meat with Alec’s knife. All the while she could practically feel his watchful gaze following her every movement. This would not do. She furrowed her brow and opened her mouth to tell him to keep his eyes to himself when Alec interrupted. “I nearly forgot!” He scrambled to his feet and took off for the cart. He returned nearly as quickly as he had left, but with a bottle of corked wine in one hand. “Marta gave us this. A celebratory bottle.”
Lottie’s frown deepened. “It will have to wait. We’ve no glasses.”
Alec settled back down on the blanket. “Come now. Where’s your sense of adventure?” He was already pulling out the cork.
“I think my sense of adventure is perfectly fine, thank you.”
“Well, I can’t argue with that.” He chuckled and held the bottle out to her. “But I do insist on ladies first.”
Lottie huffed. “I’ve never in my life taken a—a—swig from a bottle! I’m not a pirate!”
“You most certainly are not. And thank goodness. Here.”
She eyed the bottle, then let out a resigned sigh. “Very well.” Lottie took the bottle from him and brought it to her lips. She took a tentative sip and somehow managed not to dribble any down her chin. The wine was rich and surprisingly smooth. Lottie took another, more substantial swallow before handing the bottle back to Alec.
“A woman of many talents,” he quipped before taking a swig of his own. His eyebrows rose. “Hmm. That was better than I expected. Well done, Marta.”
“I think she may have liked the signore.”
He gave her a thoughtful look over the rim of the wine bottle. “Perhaps. But she was also happy. For us. For you. People like seeing a young lady safely married.”
Lottie let out another huff as she assembled a rather sorry-looking sandwich with a hunk of bread. “Yes, well. Thank goodness she’ll never learn the truth,” she muttered.
Alec was silent for a long moment. “It did no harm,” he said quietly.
She shrugged and took a bite. Of course he would say that. Thanks to Sir Alfred, Lottie was well versed in the “good” kind of lies and the “bad” ones.
But sometimes it was the good lies that did the most damage.
She met Alec’s eyes. He appeared properly chastened, just like a person with any kind of conscience. “Is my uncle even sick?”
Alec’s nostrils flared slightly, but otherwise his face went blank. “You think I would lie about that?”
“Yes. If it got you what you wanted.”
His brow tensed. “And what is it you think I want, exactly?”
She remembered him pulling her scandalously close at the end of a waltz on the night of her coming out ball. How dark and warm his eyes had been. No one had ever looked at her that way before. And she had been so sure, so certain, that something irreversible had passed between them. When she had teased him about leaving without saying goodbye, he had answered so readily, so firmly.
I could never dream of doing such a thing.
But he must have known, even then, what he would do.
“I haven’t the faintest idea,” Lottie said evenly while her fingers clenched around a bit of blanket. “It’s been a very long time since I had any inkling of what you could possibly want.” She then took a rather defiant bite.
Alec studied her. “I see.” Then he slowly raised the bottle to his lips and took another long sip while never breaking his gaze. A shiver ran down her spine, but she remained rigid. Alec set down the bottle and roughly wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. Then he raised an eyebrow, likely waiting for her to comment on his appalling lack of manners. But Lottie did not react. He could strip naked and dance a jig and she wouldn’t even blink.
He bared his teeth in a hint of a smile. “So if I told you what I wanted,” he began, his voice as thick as honey once again, “would you even believe me?” The question was posed like a challenge. As if he were daring her to ask him. To beg. His eyes flitted to her lips, briefly.
Lottie let out a slow breath. “No,” she murmured while a rebellious little corner of her heart protested. His brow tensed again, stronger this time. “I don’t suppose I would.”
Alec took another swig of wine in response and set the bottle down hard. One scarlet drop slipped down the side. “Well. It’s good to know at least one of us can be unfailingly honest.” Then he grabbed a custard tart and stood up. “I need to speak to Lorenzo. Come when you’re ready.”
The brook continued to rush behind her, strong and steady, but Lottie barely heard it. She was too consumed with watching Alec march up the slope toward the cart, his strides angry and determined.
If he were any other man, she would have sworn he was hurt.
And she would have been absolutely sure of it.