Two Little Lies by Liz Carlyle Page A

cradling the warm coffee in one palm as the wintry air radiated off the glass, cold and bracing on his face. He drew the air deep into his lungs, hoping it would clear his mind as well. This was a fool’s errand. He knew it now. He half hoped Viviana would not come.
    But she would. Not because she feared him, but because she was proud and stubborn and sometimes even foolish. And she would come, he supposed, from the direction of the trees. Someone, surely, would direct her to the shortcut? At this hour, the wood would be gloomy but penetrable. The path was clearly marked. The walk would take less than half an hour. But Chesley kept a good stable. Perhaps Viviana would ride. Did Viviana ride?
    It struck him as odd that he did not know. There had been a time when he had believed he knew everything one could know about Viviana. But his had been a young man’s confidence, born of arrogance and naïveté. In truth, he had known nothing of her, save for the beauty of her body and the taste of her mouth beneath his.
    Just then, he saw her. She had tied her horse just inside the wood, he guessed. She was sauntering across the grass, a riding crop in her gloved hand, and a square-crowned, almost masculine hat set slightly to one side, as she always preferred. Her riding habit, too, was plain to the point of mannishness; a skirt and jacket, cut snugly to her figure and absent the almost comically full sleeves currently in vogue with English ladies. She did not bother to pick up her skirts in one hand, but instead let them trail across the dry, stubbled grass.
    She did not knock, either. Instead, she simply opened the door and stepped inside. “Buon giorno, Quinten,” she said in her rich, throaty voice. “I have come. What do you want of me?”
    Suddenly, the anger rushed at him again, propelled by her dark beauty and haughty disdain. “I want to know the truth, Viviana.” His voice was cool. “I want to know why you are here.”
    She cocked one slashing black brow, and looked at him as if he were a simpleton. “I am here because you bade me come,” she responded. “I am in England because Lord Chesley wishes it. And I am in this village because I had no notion your estates were adjacent. You may believe that or not, as you please.”
    “Why?” he demanded. “What does Chesley want?”
    Viviana pursed her lips for a moment. “I do not think, Quinten, that I need tell you more,” she answered. “But for old times’ sake, I tell you that Chesley has commissioned an opera, a very grand bel canto opera, and he has asked my father’s help.”
    “Ah, yes!” said Quin. “The great composer, Umberto Alessandri, and his Cyprian daughter. You have a lot of nerve coming back to England, Viviana.”
    Her backhanded slap caught him squarely across the cheek but Quin did not so much as flinch. “Tell me, Viviana,” he growled. “Does your beloved Papà know about us? Does he know what you were to me?”
    Finally, he saw raw anger sketch across her face. “Bastardo!” she rasped. “My Papà knows what he needs to know. And if you take it upon yourself, Quinten, to tell him one word more, I swear to God, I will kill you with my bare hands!”
    On that, she turned and yanked open the window as if to leave.
    Quin grabbed her and almost dragged her back to the desk. “You still haven’t explained why you are here, Viviana,” he growled. “You are a singer, my dear. Not a composer. Do you think me too stupid to know the difference?”
    “I came because my father needs me,” she returned. “Your uncle asked a favor of us, and we were glad to do it. God knows I owe him that much.”
    He set both hands roughly on her shoulders and held her eyes. “And my betrothal had nothing to do with it?” he demanded, giving her a little shake. “Tell me the truth, Viviana! I have a right to know.”
    She looked at him contemptuously. “Per amor di Dio, Quinten, what did I know of this betrothal?” she snapped. “What can it