Retired opera singer Countess Viviana Bergonzi returns to
England with her three children after a nine-year absence.
Viviana's memories of England, where she made her debut and
received raves for her magnificent operatic voice, are
bittersweet. Those memories are entwined with her love for
a young nobleman who could not control his jealousy. When
she proposed marriage, he rejected her, declaring English
nobleman do not marry their mistresses. Viviana fled to
Italy and entered into a difficult marriage with her
father's late patron.
Quin, the Earl of Wynwood, catches a glimpse of the woman
he fell in love with years ago. He'd given his heart away,
but he could not admit his love for the slightly older and
proud young singer. That reluctance, plus his
possessiveness, ended their affair with a furious and
emotional scene, leaving them both with deep festering
wounds. Now, Viviana reappears just as his betrothal is
announced. Quin's unresolved feelings make him approach
Viviana as he wishes to resolve the past.
The lies they told one another continue to haunt them and
neither will reveal what's in their hearts. Viviana has a
secret that could destroy her family if Quin discovers it.
Immaturity ruined their love nine years ago. Have they
matured enough to trust their hearts with the truth?
In the second book of her Sins, Lies and Secrets trilogy,
Carlyle continues her masterful storytelling with a
powerfully emotional tale. The compelling characters
enhance the passionate love story as it engages readers
into their lives. TWO LITTLE LIES is a book to reread and
enjoy through the years.
Handsome scoundrel Quin Hewitt has been living a devil-may-
care existence in London for years. But when his father
dies unexpectedly, Quin finds himself saddled with an
earldom he never wanted, a country estate that seems to
suck the very life out of him, and a mama who won’t quit
crying. Reluctantly, Quin faces up his family duty, and
decides to find himself a sensible, suitable wife so he
can beget a sensible, suitable heir. And who better to
marry than his best friend’s governess, the proud and
pretty Miss Esmée Hamilton?
But when Quin’s euphoric mother throws an impromptu
betrothal party, Quin finds himself faced with a very
unexpected guest. The beautiful Viviana Alessandri has
been called by duty back to England, the land she
loathes. No longer the unknown opera singer Quin once
kept as his mistress, Viviana is now the powerful Contessa
Bergonzi di Vicenza, worshiped throughout Europe for her
voice and her passion. But despite her new title and
wealth, to Quin’s eyes, his old love has not changed. She
is not suitable. She is not sensible. And she still
takes his breath away.
Excerpt
Viviana was near a state of nervous agitation by the time
she left Arlington Park, though she had schooled herself
carefully to hide it. After thanking Lady Alice for her
thoughtfulness, Viviana remounted with her groom’s
assistance, then reined her horse around to face him.
“Thank you,” she said to the young man. “You may return
to the stables now. I mean to ride on a good deal
further, and take the air.”
The groom furrowed his brow. “Are you sure, my lady?” he
asked. “I was told I was to wait.”
“And so you have,” said Viviana over one shoulder. She
had already started toward the bridle path. “But I would
feel guilty keeping you longer from you duties.”
With one last look of reluctance, the young man touched
his hat brim, and urged his horse on past her. Viviana
watched him go, slowly exhaling. For the first time since
leaving the stables this morning, she felt as if she could
breathe again. Inside, she felt as tight as a clock coil,
as if someone had stuck a key into her brain, and wound
her almost to the breaking point. She wanted to escape
Arlington—and Hill Court, too.
What she needed, she decided, was a thundering ride with
the cold air in her face. No one had need of her at Hill
Court. The children were at their lessons today. Lord
Chesley was meeting his steward. And Papà, well, he was
in another world altogether; the world of music, the only
place in which he was ever truly happy. Viviana had no
wish to disturb him. She remembered too well his misery
when, for a year and a half, he had had no work at all, a
deprivation which was due to her stubbornness—and to
Gianpiero’s cruelty.
But she would not think of Gianpiero now, and add that
trouble to those which already weighed on her mind. She
trailed slowly after the groom, who had all but vanished
into the trees. After a quarter-mile, she reached the
path which split to the north. This path, Chesley had
warned, was isolated. She would have to ride many miles
before reaching a farm or village. Perfect, then.
Isolation was just what she longed for.
The path, when she turned onto it, narrowed almost
immediately. Here, the branches hung lower, and the tree
trunks edged nearer, giving one the impression of being
embraced, almost sheltered from the temporal world beyond
the forest. Drawing the cold air deep into her lungs,
Viviana set her mount, a spirited bay gelding, at a brisk
pace and plunged into the shadowy depths. Here, the air
was still, the ethereal silence broken by nothing save the
muffled beats of the gelding’s hooves, allowing Viviana to
clear her head of all but the horse’s graceful movements.
But the forest’s embrace did not last. Some three miles
later, her humor much improved, Viviana felt the sun
dapple her face and looked up to see the trees thinning.
She could see that the path curved slightly, then melted
into a narrow farm lane but a few feet ahead. The
gelding, tired of trotting sedately through the trees,
danced sideways into the wintry sunshine, and tossed his
head with an impatient snort.
Narrowing her eyes against sudden brilliance, Viviana
looked down an undulating stretch of road which was as
close to straight as one was apt to find in this part of
England. To either side lay open pasture, dotted by an
occasional copse of trees. Far in the distance, the
dilapidated roof of an old barn or cow byre peeked over
the horizon.
Again, the horse tossed his head. Viviana could see his
point. It really was a very empty road. And in the end,
the temptation was too much. Viviana checked her grip on
the reins, then touched him lightly with her crop.
The gelding sprang like a shot, leaping from a dead-stop
to a thundering gallop so fast Viviana lost her breath.
Along the gelding’s powerful thigh, her skirts billowed
and whipped. Vaguely, she knew it was folly to give such
a horse his head, but prudence seemed to have escaped
her. The intensity of the horse’s raw physical power felt
liberating. The rush of cold air cleared her head and
tore at her hair.
Viviana leaned low over his withers, urging him forward.
On and on they went, the gelding flying over the rolling
hillocks, his powerful legs eating up the distance.
Viviana felt the cashmere scarf around her neck loosen,
then tear away. Her hat lifted buoyantly, but held fast,
caught by its pin. In the wintry air, the tang of horse
sweat was sharp, the chimera of escape exhilarating.
But alas, they soon reached the last stretch. The fantasy
was over. The old byre was nearing, and beyond it a bend
which even Viviana dared not risk. Gently, she reined the
gelding back on the downhill grade. He began to slow in
obedience, but in that instant, Viviana caught a flash of
movement to her left.
It was as if lightning struck. She was jerked violently
right, the horse shying wildly, nearly pitching her from
the saddle. But Viviana was an experienced rider. She
regained her seat neatly, and reined the gelding in,
crooning soothingly at him. His sidestepping ended in a
cloud of dust and a clatter of stones. The horse stood
shuddering beneath her, his head tossing, his nostrils
flared wide.
After slicking a hand down his neck, Viviana turned him in
the roadbed, and trotted back to see what the devil had
set him off. She wished at once that she had not.
Lord Wynwood stood at the corner of the dilapidated
building, reclining lazily against it, one boot propped
back on the stone foundation. He was dressed for the
country, in snug, buff-colored breeches, a coat of dark
brown, and riding boots just a shade darker. She could
still make out the weal across his cheek, though it looked
like little more than a scratch now. Behind the barn, a
big black horse tugged halfheartedly at the colorless
grass.
Wynood held a yellow apple in one hand, half of it eaten.
He appeared to be still chewing as his dark gaze shrewdly
appraised her. Finally, he swallowed. “Well, Viviana,”
he said dryly. “Fancy meeting you here.”
Viviana’s heart was still pounding. “Why, how dare you!”
she cried. “You—you did that deliberately!”
He tossed what was left of the apple to the black horse,
and pushed away from the barn. “Did what deliberately?”
he asked, approaching. “Made you go haring off like some
bedlamite down a narrow country road? No, you imbue me
with powers I do not possess, my dear.”
Viviana slid off her sidesaddle, and caught her reins in
one hand. “Good God, Quinten, this is not funny,” she
answered. “You spooked my horse! I could have been
killed. Is that what you wish? Is that what would it
would take to make you happy?”
He shot her a chiding look. “Viviana, you flushed a covey
of grouse,” he returned. “Don’t ride so damned fast when
you don’t know the terrain.”
Viviana felt her face heat.
“What, you didn’t see it?” he asked incredulously. “You
don’t believe me?”
“I do not know,” she admitted. “What . . . what is that,
a flush of grouse?”
He eyed her riding crop warily. “You frightened some
birds in the weeds beyond the cottage,” he
answered. “They burst into the air. Your horse saw them,
Viviana, even if you did not.”
He was telling the truth, she realized. Her attention had
been focused on the blind curve ahead, and on getting her
horse to slow. But she had seen something—a very
indistinct something—from one corner of her eye as she
passed.
Quin stepped closer, and lifted his hand.
Instinctively, she drew back. “Non mi tocchi!”
The gelding took offense, nearly jerking the reins from
her hand as he tossed his head and wheeled his
hindquarters restlessly about.
“Put away the crop, Viviana,” said Quin, reaching again,
more slowly. “I’ve learnt my lesson. What is this? A new
Continental fashion?”
She was a tall woman, but Quin was far taller. She felt
him tug on her hatpin, and lift the hat from her head.
She felt surprisingly lighter, and turned in some
embarrassment to see that her lost scarf dangled like a
banner from her hatpin.
“You looked a sight, Vivie, with this flying out behind
you.” Quin did not look up at her as he deftly
disentangled the mess, but she could see the faint,
familiar grin curving his mouth as he struggled. She
could smell him, too; warm wool, perhaps a hint of
whiskey, and the clean tang of soap—bergamot, she was
sure. It was her favorite scent in all the world, and she
was a little shaken to realize he still wore it.
“There,” he said just as her knees began to weaken. “The
pin is freed. You may put your muffler and hat back on.”
But when he lifted his gaze, he faltered. “Your hair,” he
said. “It is . . . it is coming down.”
“Non importo,” she answered, snatching her hat and
slapping it back on. “I fix it later. Grazie, Lord
Wynwood. I must be away.”
He caught her gently by the shoulder. “Viviana, I—” He
stopped, and shook his head. “Contessa Bergonzi, I owe
you an apology. Uncle Ches told me everything—why you are
here, I mean. That it was all his doing. I was . . . I
am just . . . well, I apologize.”
She surveyed him coldly. “Si, my lord, as well you
should,” she returned. “And me, I should not have been in
your study. That was my mistake.”
He dropped his hand, and smiled sourly. “I left you
little choice.”
Viviana did not drop her gaze. “You are ten times a fool,
my lord, if you believe that.”
He glanced at her oddly. “So my threat meant nothing to
you?” he murmured. “Then why, pray, were you there?”
Still holding the gelding’s reins, Viviana stepped back a
pace, then lifted one shoulder. “Perverse curiosity,
perhaps.”
He held her gaze steadily, as if waiting to see if she
would falter. Instead, she looked boldly back at him, and
pretended she did not see the pain in his eyes. Yes, let
him mourn for a lifetime the loss of his pretty fiancée.
Viviana did not give a damn. She had not lived ten years
of emptiness without learning how to harden her heart.
“You know that Esmée has jilted me?” he said. “Yes, I
daresay my sister will have told you everything.”
Viviana had led the gelding to an old gatepost, now half-
rotted away. “It is none of my concern, Wynwood,” she
said. “I am not responsible for it. But I am sure your
mother can yet find you a blue-bloodied, flaxen-haired
English miss.”
“I don’t know what you are talking about,” he said. “Miss
Hamilton is Scottish, and her hair is decidedly brown.”
“The bride of your dreams.” Viviana gave a muted
smile. “Do you not remember? You once told me what she
would be like.”
“You don’t know anything about my dreams, my dear, and you
never did,” he said. But there was little anger in his
tone.
Viviana stepped gingerly onto what was left of the post,
and mounted unaided. Lord Wynwood did not offer to help.
Instead, he looked up at her a little bleakly. She wished
he would not do that. She wished he would come out and
fight the fair fight over whatever it was that so angered
him. She could see it; not just the bleakness, but the
rage, too. How easily one recognized one’s own
shortcomings in another. And, oh, how she wished to
scream at him! How she longed for the merest excuse. But
he said nothing.
Viviana spurred the gelding halfway around. “Buona sera,
Lord Wynwood,” she answered. “I must be off.”
“Viviana, wait!”
She turned back. “Si?”
“You took luncheon with my mother today, did you not? I
hope . . . I hope that she was kind to you?”
“She was polite,” said Viviana. “Exceedingly polite.”
“Ah, I think I see.” His face softened
slightly. “Viviana, how long do you mean to be here?”
She bristled. “Until Chesley no longer needs my father.
Why?”
He shrugged, and dragged a hand through his hair, a young
man’s gesture. Her heart lurched. Ah, she remembered it
well.
“It behooves us, Viviana, to get along,” he finally said.
“You have been talking to your sister,” she
remarked. “Fine, then. We will get along—if we see one
another, which is not likely, is it?”
He did not answer. Instead, he offered up his
hand. “Then let there be peace between us, Viviana,” he
said. “We are too old now to make fools of ourselves.”
Viviana leaned down, and shook it. His hand felt warm and
strong, even through her glove. “Pax, Wynwood.”
Their hands slid apart. The touch was broken. Viviana
straightened in her saddle, and started to nudge her mount
around. Suddenly, she noticed for the first time that the
stone building was actually a small house—a cottage, he
had called it. The gardens were overgrown, but the place
must have looked charming at one time. The house had a
cow shed attached to one side, and it was this which was
collapsing.
But Quin was still looking at her, as if he had something
more to say. “Viviana, you look . . . different.”
“It has been almost ten years, Quinten,” she said
quietly. “Time alters us.”
“No, not like that,” he said. “Your nose, it—it isn’t
quite the same. Is it?”
Instinctively, she touched the slight hump with her gloved
forefinger. “This, you are asking?” she answered. “No, I
fell down the steps. I broke it.”
“When?”
Again, she shrugged. “Two years past, perhaps,” she said
vaguely. “Frightfully awkward of me, was it not? But now
my face has—what does your uncle call it?—yes, gravitas.
You English value that, I find. But as to me, well, I
would much rather have my nose back.”
And then she touched the brim of her hat with her crop,
spun her mount around, and cantered back up the country
lane.
Quin watched her go until she had vanished in the
distance; watched until even her dust had disappeared.
Then he returned to the little cottage, and shoved the
door open with one shoulder. Inside, he sloshed a little
water into the kitchen basin, and meticulously washed the
apple juice from his hands. A pity he could not wash away
the memories of Viviana so easily.
Bracing his arms wide on the sink base, he looked through
the small window at the dull green pasture beyond.
Viviana seemed wholly unaffected by him, almost as if
their months together had never been. For well over a
year he had courted her and pursued her and made love to
her, never entirely sure that she was his. Now he was
certain. No matter how desperately he had wished to
possess her, he had never even come close.
He wished to God he’d been just a little older, just a
little more experienced when he’d met her. He wished,
too, that she had not been so much older than he. Oh,
perhaps it was nothing now; a few years, no more. But
then, it had seemed insurmountable. It had felt to Quin
as if Viviana already knew the secrets of life. As if she
were watching him with veiled amusement as he struggled to
come to terms with his manhood.
Conte Gianpiero Bergonzi, it seemed, had been fully
confident of his manhood. And he had wanted Viviana, too;
had wanted her badly enough to make an honest woman of
her. Perhaps Bergonzi had simply had the backbone to do
what Quin should have done. Perhaps Quin should have
married her. Perhaps Viviana would have come to love him
in time. And perhaps he could have been the father of her
children.
She had three children. Not just the pretty little girl
he’d seen at Astley’s but another daughter, and a son,
too. It boggled the mind when he considered it. Her body
was so little changed. Oh, she was more voluptuous. And
yes, there were a few tiny lines about her eyes, and when
she frowned, about her mouth. But she had three
children. And another man had given them to her.
Another man had done what he had not the guts to do.
Another man had enjoyed the beauty and the pleasure of
living with Viviana every day, for the whole of his life.
Because Quin had given up the chance. That was the awful
truth.
The aching sense of loss nearly swallowed him up then.
The yawning emptiness of the last decade reached out for
him. And this time, there weren’t enough whores in all of
Christendom, or enough virgins in all of Scotland, to push
away the truth. His arms still braced wide on the sink,
Quin squeezed his eyes shut, and willed himself not to cry.
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