Alec ran through the planned route with Lorenzo once again. It was a straight shot from here to Pistoia, but staring at the well-worn map helped settle his nerves—and his temper. When he drew Lottie into his arms earlier and felt the telltale quickening of her heartbeat while her green eyes glazed over, he had to fight against the fierce urge to hold her there. No matter her wayward suitor, Lottie was attracted to him. At least a little. It shouldn’t have mattered—it didn’t matter—and yet the thrill was undeniable. Until she revealed her true feelings.
Alec assumed that Lottie didn’t exactly trust him, but to hear her actually say it. To admit it seemed entirely plausible that he would lie about Sir Alfred’s illness as long as it got him what he wanted?
It was a shock to learn how very little she thought of him.
Alec wasn’t anything close to an idealist. He had spent most of his adult life toeing lines that were constantly shifting. The world wasn’t black or white; people weren’t good or evil. In his experience, anyone was capable of nearly anything, if given the right motivation. But there were certain things that even he swore to never do: harm a woman or child, double-cross someone who had risked their life to help him, and break the trust of those he was closest to. Abiding by those tenets mattered, for once a man started breaking his own rules, there was no telling where he would stop.
Yes, all right, he did lie in the course of his work when necessary. But he wouldn’t lie to Lottie. Not if he could help it. And not about something important. Unless lies by omission counted.
We never spoke of you.
That was the truth, and yet it hid so much.
When he had left, Alec arranged to receive regular updates on Lottie. He needed to know how she was getting on—for her own benefit, of course. Not his. Sir Alfred had politely suggested that any communication between them would only prolong the inevitable, to which Alec agreed, but he had his own methods for securing information. It was nothing that wouldn’t be printed in the gossip pages—he had no wish to invade her privacy—and at first he skimmed the reports with a decidedly clinical eye. But if she was heartbroken or disappointed by Alec’s sudden disappearance, she certainly hadn’t consoled herself by staying in. No, she was clearly enjoying her status as a celebrated debutante and made rather a grand splash that first season.
But as the comforting numbness that had allowed Alec to leave in the first place faded, and the reality of his Lottie-less future began to set in, he found that this approach wasn’t as clinical as he thought—it was compulsive. He read each report looking for the slightest indication of partiality, either on her part or a gentleman’s. Had she danced once or twice with Lord Crawford? Why did she go see that production of the insufferable East Lynne? Lottie hated melodramas. Mr. Wellesley had also been present at the Trenthams’ musical evening. That was the third event they both attended that week; it couldn’t be a coincidence, could it?
By the end of her first season, Alec’s stomach was in knots waiting for an engagement announcement. But despite the many proposals she received, none came. He shouldn’t have felt so relieved, as most of Sir Alfred’s prediction had come true—she was indeed admired by the cream of society. And she was still young. It was only a matter of time.
In order to spare his sanity Alec requested to be informed only of major developments. That was how he learned of her rejection of Ceril Belvedere last spring. The public nature of Ceril’s so-called jilting and his status as the Earl of Southdown’s heir caused a minor scandal. Alec had been in Greece on Crown business at the time and hadn’t been able to give it much thought. But now…
Sir Alfred was close to the Earl of Southdown both personally and professionally; he would have much to gain by uniting the families via marriage. Though he might have been publicly indulgent of his niece, Sir Alfred would not have borne her rejection of Ceril quite as easily as the others. He couldn’t force her now, as Ceril had immediately gone on to marry an American heiress, but perhaps he had found someone else. That could certainly explain why Lottie had decided to run off with a Florentine.
Alec’s stomach turned, but it was difficult to determine which was more sickening: that Lottie would have been forced into marriage or that she didn’t trust him enough to admit it.
Lorenzo must have noticed his stricken expression. “All right, signore?”
Alec nodded. “I’m fine,” he said briskly as he refolded the map and tucked it back into his bag.
Lorenzo gestured with his chin. “Signora comes.”
Alec scrubbed a hand over his face. Now wasn’t the time to ask questions. Though there was no telling if she would ever answer them. He turned as she came up behind him, and he took the basket and blanket from her without a word. When they were secured in the cart, he held out his hand and finally glanced at her. The irritation from earlier had vanished. Now she only eyed him warily, but this time she didn’t hesitate as she slid her palm against his. Alec helped her into the cart, and she uttered a soft word of thanks.
“No need,” he said as he climbed in beside her. “It’s the very least I can do.”
They passed the next several hours in an increasingly uncomfortable silence. Every time the cart went over a bump, which was rather often, Alec’s knee would nudge against hers. And every time that happened, he clenched his fist. Lottie almost wished she could take back what she had said at the riverbank. His anger was surprising, but how could he possibly expect her to think anything different? And yet, that nagging pang of guilt was still there. But more than that, more than anything, she wished she didn’t believe it.
Now and then Lorenzo would point at something—a crumbling monastery, a Roman ruin, a road that led to nowhere—and Lottie would nod with polite interest, but Alec barely spared her a glance until they rolled into the bustling city of Pistoia.
“The railway inn is up the road there,” he grumbled.
Lottie closed her eyes and let out a little sigh of relief. She couldn’t spend another minute in this cart. Then they pulled into the inn’s yard. It was nothing like the quaint, tidy pensionaries she had stayed in that catered to English tourists. She caught Alec studying her reaction. He probably expected her to throw a fit, like the fussy, spoiled blueblood she was.
Any remaining guilt she had carried from luncheon vanished. She smoothed her hands over her wrinkled traveling skirt. “How charming.”
Alec raised an eyebrow but said nothing as he climbed down from the cart. He handed her down without looking at her, then said a few words to Lorenzo and pointed toward the stables.
Lottie frowned. It was getting close to sunset. The boy would likely be spending the night here. Alec turned back to her and gestured to the inn’s entrance. “Lorenzo will bring the trunk in shortly.”
“Where will he sleep?”
Alec stopped in his tracks, surprised by the question. “The stables. He’ll want to get an early start home and leave by dawn.”
Lottie glanced back toward the stables. There were a number of rough-looking fellows hanging about. “It doesn’t look safe. Shouldn’t he sleep here, too?”
Alec held the door of the inn open and she stepped inside. It was dark, and the ceilings were low. “Lorenzo will be fine,” he said from behind her. “He’ll want to stay by his horse anyway.”
The innkeeper, a thin-faced man with a well-oiled mustache, took notice of them speaking English and his eyes lit up, likely already dreaming of how he could spend their money.
Lottie had seen that same expression on the faces of countless men over the years.
“Welcome to the Inn at Pistoia!” he said, opening his arms grandly. “I am Signore Garda, owner and proprietor. How can I be of service to you?”
Alec was not the least bit impressed by his simpering. “My wife and I require a room for the night,” he said gruffly and handed the man some coin. “And I’ve a boy who needs to keep his cart and horse in your stable.”
The innkeeper wasn’t put off by Alec’s short response. “Splendid, sir. I’m happy to inform you that the finest room in the inn is available. The views are magnificent. Some even say they are the greatest in all of Pistoia.”
Alec did not return his smile. “How fortunate for us. We’ll be fine as long as the bed is decent.”
The innkeeper nodded eagerly. “Oh, yes, sir. In fact, the bed is one of the largest in the city. It used to belong to the Rospigliosi family during the Renaissance. And, since we cater to so many English visitors here, let me assure you that we offer all the latest amenities.”
Alec arched a brow. “I’ve no doubt.”
Lottie tugged on his elbow. Now was not the time to be sardonic. He turned toward her but kept his gaze on her hand. “Please,” she whispered, then hesitated. “If it’s too costly to get Lorenzo his own room, I can—”
Alec shot her a scowl as he dug deeper into his pocket and thrust some more coins at the innkeeper. “We will need two rooms.” Then he glanced at Lottie and lowered his voice. “The boy will stay with me.”
There. A room to herself. Why didn’t she feel relieved?
The innkeeper shook his head with an admirable display of remorse. “I’m terribly sorry, sir, but there is only one room left. There are cots available in the stables, though,” he offered with a hopeful note in his voice. He did not want to lose their business.
Alec let out a frustrated sigh and began to tap his foot. The low light of the inn cast deep shadows on his face, making him look utterly exhausted. Or perhaps he simply was. Her guilt returned. Who knew how long he had been on the road. And all because of her. Lottie had the sudden urge to place her hand on his cheek and stroke away the tension there.
Instead, she leaned toward him and lowered her voice. “I’m sure you’re right that Lorenzo will be fine in the stables.”
But her words only seemed to upset him further. Alec pinched the bridge of his nose. “No, it’s not—you aren’t wrong…” He trailed off and shook his head helplessly. “Never mind.” Then he addressed the innkeeper. “We’ll take the room. And the cot.”
The man’s grin returned. “Perfetto. Here is the key. Your room is on the top floor.” He gestured toward the staircase. “I’ll have your luggage brought up straightaway.”
Alec took the heavy brass key. “Send a supper tray as well. And a tub with plenty of hot water. I’ve a mind to indulge in a few amenities this evening.”
Lottie followed him toward the staircase. Dining alone in their room and having a bath? She lowered her voice. “The tub isn’t necessary. I can wait until tomorrow.”
“I didn’t order it only for your sake.” He clapped the arm of his jacket and a puff of road dust came off. “Come. I want to see the ‘greatest view in Pistoia’ before dark.”
As they made their way toward the staircase, two men were descending, engrossed in a conversation that would pass as a vicious argument in England. One caught a glimpse of Lottie as they approached and shot her a wide grin. He was missing several teeth and the ones that remained were in bad shape. The other man, sporting a set of bedraggled black whiskers, did the same. “Buona sera, Signora,” he said with a grand bow. The courtly gesture would have been more effective if he weren’t covered head to toe in road dust.
Lottie instinctively drew back. Alec’s arm came around her waist and he pulled her close to his side, but she was rather grateful for this display of possessiveness. The men didn’t even try to hide their leers as they stepped closer. One gestured to her and said something that sounded complimentary to Alec in that joking tone men always use with one another. Lottie didn’t know a word, and yet she understood enough.
Men had shouted things at her nearly every day since her arrival in Italy. She didn’t like it, and one particularly aggressive flower seller had almost sent Mrs. Wetherby into a fit of the vapors on the Ponte Vecchio, but ultimately it was harmless. Lottie had experienced much worse behavior in London ballrooms from men who believed themselves to be highly civilized gentlemen.
Alec’s hold on her tightened. He did not respond, nor did he return the man’s grin.
The silence stretched between the four of them until it became painfully obvious that he would not engage at all. The larger of the pair’s face twisted in an ugly frown and he let loose a string of vicious Italian. Her shoulders tightened at the blows she expected Alec to unleash—men had dueled to the death over much less—but his only reaction was a slight tensing of his brow. The men hurled a few more words at him, which were met with the same grim silence until they gave up and walked away, already chattering on as if the confrontation had never happened.
Lottie hadn’t realized she was holding her breath.
“Come along.” Alec didn’t even give them a backward glance as he released her and headed up the stairs. The loss of his comforting hold was immediate. That she even noticed was particularly vexing.
“You should have joked back with them,” Lottie hissed when she managed to find her tongue. “They seemed very angry.”
He looked amused. “I assure you, I’ve been in far worse situations.”
By then they had reached the top floor. Alec stopped in front of the only door and fingered the edge of the key. “Besides, I wasn’t going to laugh along with those bastards,” he said softly.
Now she was curious. “What did they say?”
He watched her a moment. “They mostly discussed the various animals I was born of and what I could do with them.” He flashed her a smirk and Lottie let out a breath of laughter. Then Alec turned to the door and slid the key into the lock. “They managed to get one thing right, though,” he added as he pushed the door open. “You are very beautiful.”
Alec stepped into the room without waiting to see Lottie’s reaction. He would have readily said the same thing to any other woman during any other mission. Acting as the charming, carefree rogue had served him very well over the years. And it would do so once again.
The bedroom was a delightful surprise: large, bright, and airy with a set of doors that opened onto a small balcony. That obnoxious innkeeper hadn’t been exaggerating at all. The view really was magnificent. It looked out across the tiled rooftops of Pistoia, offering a glimpse of the bell tower of the Cathedral of San Zeno. And the bed was indeed one of the largest he had ever seen, with an elaborately carved headboard that would put Catholic church pews to shame. There wasn’t much else in terms of decoration, but the room didn’t need it.
Alec turned to share it with Lottie, but she still stood in the doorway, staring at him in disbelief, as if he had pulled a rabbit from his hat. Then she gave a little laugh and shook her head dismissively. Annoyance spiked through him. Why couldn’t she just accept the compliment with a simper or blush, like every other woman?
“You doubt that you are?” The words came out more harshly than he intended.
Lottie shrugged as she crossed the room’s threshold. “I’ve always tried not to place too much importance on what some people think of my appearance.”
Alec cocked a brow. “It isn’t only ‘some people.’ I seem to recall you were once a celebrated debutante.”
“That was five years ago. And mostly on account of my mother’s pedigree and my father’s wealth,” she demurred. “Last I checked, the fashion plates were full of buxom blond ladies.”
The corner of his mouth lifted. “More’s the pity then,” he murmured, taking pains not to cast a sweeping glance down her form. “Most gentlemen can appreciate a wide variety of feminine attributes.”
She narrowed her eyes. “And most women would like to be valued for more than their looks.”
“Of course.” Alec grinned. “I would never dare suggest otherwise.” A dull note of warning began to buzz at the back of his mind. He was taking far too much pleasure in their exchange.
Then the indignant expression returned; he loved when she looked at him like that, as it usually precluded a delightfully sardonic comment. “That may be true in your case, but I’m sure I don’t need to explain that most men do not appreciate intelligence, or even the very illusion of it, in a woman.”
Alec then leaned forward conspiratorially. “And as a woman of intellect, I’m sure you already know that most men are idiots.”
Lottie’s color heightened and she pressed her lips together. “I’ve a third condition,” she began. “No more compliments. Of any kind.”
“I’m not sure I can agree to that,” he chuckled. “But I’ll try.” At those last words her eyes warmed and Alec had a sudden, vicious craving to know her thoughts.
Damn. That wasn’t supposed to happen, either.
“Come.” He turned abruptly and moved toward the balcony. “You must see the view.”
Alec immediately regretted this decision, as the pair of them barely fit on the tiny balcony. The sky above had begun to flush pink from the setting sun, while the cathedral’s bell tower gently pealed the hour. It was as if the heavens and earth had conspired to design the perfect romantic moment. He longed to pull her to him once again and feel her side melt against his. She might not think she compared to the so-called buxom ladies in fashion plates, but to Alec her gentle curves had been the perfect fit. He settled for gripping the railing in front of him instead.
“My goodness,” Lottie breathed as she took it all in, entirely unaware of the direction of his thoughts. “Who would have guessed?”
“It’s one of the things I love about this country. You can be in a crumbling alleyway one moment, then turn a corner and you’re in the most beautiful, glowing square filled with life.” Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Lottie turn to him.
“Didn’t…didn’t your father write a poem about that?”
Alec gave a reluctant nod even though he knew he should be grateful for the subject change. Nothing dampened the mood quite like his father. Edward Gresham had found both fame—and infamy—writing about his beloved adopted country. “‘And as I stood in Saint Mark’s Square, with the pantomime of life all ’round, I saw how little I had lived before and how much was left unbound.’”
Lottie smiled. “That’s it.”
“I thought Edward Gresham was considered much too vulgar for proper young ladies.”
Lottie clucked her tongue. “Perhaps that was true a decade ago, but he’s considered something of a romantic hero now.”
Alec couldn’t stifle his derisive snort. He had seen firsthand the devastation that had come from such love. There was nothing remotely romantic about it.
“Besides,” she went on, “I refuse to limit my reading to what is considered ‘proper.’ That would be incredibly boring.”
“I can’t argue with that.”
Lottie tilted her head, considering him. “Did you really not know of his reputation?”
He shrugged and turned back to the view. “I left all that business to your uncle. What do I know about poetry?” It had been a relief to have someone else manage the copyright. Sir Alfred had always talked of putting together a collection of his father’s work, and Alec happily gave his blessing to keep Edward Gresham’s short, tragic life from being stripped of all meaning. As long as he had nothing to do with it.
“I’d say you know quite a lot. More than most people,” she added.
Alec’s hands tightened on the railing, but he didn’t respond.
Lottie cleared her throat. “The edition Uncle Alfred released of the collected poems sold out its entire first printing. The second went even faster.”
Alec vaguely remembered that his payments had increased for a time, but his focus had been on how the money would be spent.
“And I helped put it together.”
At that he faced her. “I didn’t realize you were such an acolyte.”
A faint blush stained her cheekbones. “I wasn’t. It was merely something to do at first. Something more interesting than making calls, anyway. But the way your father wrote about Italy with such passion, such love, as if he were writing about a person…” She paused and shook her head. “I had always wanted to visit the village, you know, because of my parents. But after I read his poems, I wanted to come here for the rest of the country as well.”
Spurred by her words, a memory suddenly surfaced: Alec traipsing over a bridge on a warm spring afternoon, his father’s large hand clutching his own. They were swinging their arms back and forth while Alec repeated lines of poetry back to him. It won’t stand up on the page if it cannot stand up to life, his father had explained. The conviction in his voice still rang out across the decades. They had spent so many days just like that: wandering around the city while his father worked out rhythms.
“And has Italy lived up to your expectations?” His voice had gone a bit thick.
Lottie gave him a soft, sad smile. “In a way.” Then she sighed. “But I hadn’t realized that he wasn’t writing about a country so much as the nature of love.”
Alec’s fingers gripped the railing even tighter. “Yes. My mother was quite a woman.”
She was immortalized in his father’s poems as a dazzlingly beautiful but humble laundress whose hazel eyes and silky, gold-spun curls had arrested him from across a canal. The pair had fallen deeply in love before they even spoke, and she was rescued from a life of hard labor.
A devastatingly romantic story. Not a word was true.
Lottie gave Alec a puzzled frown. “That was part of it, certainly,” she began slowly, as if she was choosing her words with the utmost care. “But I wasn’t speaking only of romance. He loved the both of you; the life you all had together. I found that most affecting.” She paused to take a breath. Or to gather her courage. Alec braced himself for what was coming. “And it helped me to understand later why he…he—”
“—drank himself to death.”
Lottie closed her eyes against the words. Only then did Alec realize he had practically shouted them. He heard Sir Alfred’s chiding voice, as he always did in moments like this:
A gentleman never breaks.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I didn’t mean to upset you.” When she opened her eyes, they glistened like two emerald pools.
Alec wanted nothing more than to sink into them, to be swallowed whole by their fathomless depths until he was enveloped in suffocating, comforting numbness. An impossibility. “I’m not upset. It was ages ago. I barely remember either of them.” He didn’t bother trying to mask the flat, hollow tone in his voice. For Lottie wouldn’t dare challenge him.
It was widely accepted that his father had died from “heartbreak” after his wife’s passing. This fitting, understandable, and, most important, sympathetic explanation likely contributed to his posthumous reputation as a romantic hero. Alec would always be grateful to Sir Alfred for covering up the truth—that his mother had actually been married to another man, had chosen to leave, and had died years after Edward Gresham, a rather important revelation Alec had not known until it was far too late.
“He did love you, Alec,” she offered. “You mustn’t ever think he didn’t.”
Now he understood the wisdom of Lottie’s second condition. Hearing her say his name in such a sweet, gentle tone sent a thundering shiver of longing down his spine that would have brought a weaker man to his knees. Her eyes filled with tender sympathy as she slowly reached for his hand, on the verge of breaking her second condition. But Alec would not let her soothe him as if he were a little boy crying over a scraped knee. He simply couldn’t. If she touched him now, he would never let her go. He would pull her down into the murky depths with him, and she deserved so much more. Even a Florentine con man was preferable to what little he could offer.
Alec whipped his arm away with such force that Lottie jerked back. “Dammit. I’m sorry,” he burst out and pulled a hand roughly through his hair. It seemed he couldn’t talk about his parents without going a little bit mad himself. He began to say more but was interrupted by a sharp rap at the door.
Lottie immediately moved to answer it. “That must be your amenities,” she said lightly, as if his outburst had never happened.
Alec could only stare after her, frustrated and helpless. Her cool mask had descended once again. And he must bear it.