Two Little Lies by Liz Carlyle

pains to stay out of his way—after she satisfied her curiosity in this one thing.
    Viviana slid between the cool bedsheets, her wine in hand, and considered again Quin’s ugly accusation. He believed she had planned their meeting tonight. He was wrong—but perhaps not entirely so. It galled her to admit the truth. But intuitively, she must have been hoping to see him, or at least to hear news of him. There was no other answer, if she were honest with herself. She had had one whole day in which to ask Chesley which of his sisters they would be visiting. And yet, she had not done so. Chesley would have easily released her from her obligation. Or she could have pleaded a headache at the last moment.
    Instead she had learnt something she would as soon not have known. That her old love—her only love—was newly betrothed, and to a girl who was at least a dozen years younger than Viviana. A lovely young thing, fresh from the country, just as he had always said. An heiress who wore pearls in her hair. A pale, pretty child-bride whose breasts were still small and high, and whose belly did not yet bear the marks of childbearing.
    It was too much to think about. Viviana drained her wine, set the glass on the night table, and tried not to cry. It really was quite lowering to have such horrid, horrid emotions. She really had expected more grace and more pride from herself. Why? And, per amor di Dio, why now? Never once had Viviana mourned her lost youth. And yet now she wanted to weep for it.

Six

In which Contessa Bergonzi lashes out.
    Q uin made his way to the breakfast parlor just after dawn, in desperate hope of finding a cup of coffee and avoiding the rest of the household in the process. The latter was to be denied him. Aunt Charlotte had beaten him there and was flitting about like a frail bird, inspecting each chafing dish as the servants carried it in.
    “Good morning, Quin,” she sang from one of the massive sideboards. “The eggs are prepared just as you like them. Will you join me?”
    Quin had already gone to the coffeepot. “No, ma’am, I thank you,” he said. “I have work to do in my study. I shall just take a cup of coffee with me.”
    Aunt Charlotte’s small, dark eyes twinkled. “Yes, you will wish to spend the day with your Miss Hamilton, will you not?” she responded. “She is a lovely girl, my boy. Your mamma is quite overjoyed. Of course, I have reassured Gwendolyn many times over the years that you would do the right thing, Quin, when the time came.”
    Quin set his cup on a saucer and tried to smile. “I am glad I did not disappoint you, ma’am,” he said. “After all, I have been disappointing my mother with appalling regularity for at least two decades. Now, if you will excuse me, duty calls.”
    It was a long walk to the oldest wing of the house, where his study was located. Quin pushed the door open on silent hinges, put his coffee on the desk, and went to the French windows, which opened onto the back gardens. The servants had not yet come into this room to build up a fire or open the draperies. They had been told by his mother, he suspected, that everyone would wish to remain abed late into the morning. A pity he had not been able to do so. But he had known from the moment he set eyes on Viviana last night that sleep would elude him. And if he was to suffer, by God, she could suffer. In the past, she had been unaccustomed to rising much before noon, and he rather doubted that had changed.
    With a sweep of his arm, he pushed back the pleats of fabric to reveal the dawning day. The gardens were taking shape now; he could see his mother’s prized rose garden, brown and dormant, and beyond it, the Tudor knot garden, which had faded to a dull shade of green. The sky was turning purple, the horizon blushing a bright pink beneath. The half-moon which had been visible upon his arising had vanished, and beyond the gardens the west wood loomed, still steeped in shadows.
    He stood at the window,