AllFreeNovel
Share Us
Chapter One
1897
A village near Pistoia, Italy
Ihave all the time in the world now.
It still felt strange to Lottie Carlisle to have every day stretch endlessly before her, especially with the season starting in a few weeks. But there was no rigid schedule to follow now. No social calls to uphold, no days at home to maintain, no balls, or picnics, or musical entertainments. No more stilted conversations with vapid young men trying their hardest to talk about anything other than her money. And, especially, no more sneering matrons and supposed friends asking why, ohwhycouldn’t she make her poor old uncle happy and find a husband. The man did worry so.
Poor old Uncle Alfred indeed.
Now on the cusp of his sixth decade, Sir Alfred Lewis was considered a veritable pillar of London society, a renowned collector of antiquities whose travels as a young man had once taken him to nearly every corner of the Empire. He had even published a popular memoir on the subject. This garnered him the admiration of many and a knighthood from the queen, but very few knew that Uncle Alfred was also involved in the highest levels of government. He delighted in playing the role of a mild eccentric in public while ruthlessly protecting the Crown’s interests in private. Even Lottie barely knew the full extent of his activities—and never would.
Lottie paused to assess the canvas before her. She had been trying to capture the soft, golden light of the Tuscan hillside that surrounded her for days now, and not once had she come close to doing it justice. She managed to eke out a few more sickly clouds, then set down her paintbrush. Hopefully that was enough progress to please her painting instructor, Signore Ernesto, when he came for their lesson tomorrow. She could already hear him chiding her hurried brushstrokes.Pazienza, signora. Pazienza.
Patience. A word Lottie had always had little use for. But now time was all she had.
She walked over to the balustrade that separated the cottage’s terrace from the steep hillside’s drop and placed her palms against the sun-warmed stone. Lottie had fallen in love with the view on sight when she first came to the village more than a week ago. The owner had been reluctant to let it to a lone woman—even one who claimed to be a respectable young widow—but was not foolish enough to turn down a full year’s rent in advance. Now Lottie woke up to this view each morning, while the large back terrace with its vine-covered pergola provided the ideal spot to work on heren plein airpainting.
The air was ripe with young spring. She closed her eyes and tilted her head toward the April sky, smiling as the sun kissed her face. No doubt her fair skin was freckling even more with each passing second, but it hardly mattered now. For the first time in her twenty-four years, Lottie was free.
And all it took was complete and utter ruination.
“Signora, tu hai un visitatore,” Marta, the housekeeper, said as she bustled onto the terrace. The older woman didn’t know very much English, and though Lottie had engaged a tutor to help her brush up on Italian before leaving England, nothing could prepare her for the rapid cadence of natural speakers. Luckily, even Lottie could pick outvisitatore.
Strange. Visitors never called at lunchtime, and Marta usually guarded the front door as fiercely as a hound of Hades. “What, now?”
Marta raised her eyebrow. “Un uomo bellonobile.”
She shot the woman an exasperated look. “Really, Marta.” As Lottie had explained many,manytimes already, she was not lonely and certainly hadn’t any need foraffetto. Marta had probably arranged the visit herself, and this “handsome nobleman” was actually the son of her butcher. The housekeeper gave a dismissive little shrug and then, oddly, seemed to hesitate. Lottie only understood half of what she said at any given time, but Marta never dithered over anything.
She looked over her shoulder and then gestured for Lottie to come closer. “Lui dice che è tuo…marito.” She whispered the last word, as if relaying some terrible secret.
Marito?
Lottie frowned. It was reminiscent ofmari, the French word for “husband,” but that didn’t make any sense. She most certainly didn’t have a husband. Lottie didn’t have anyone. She glanced at the Italian dictionary on the terrace’s lone table. Hopefully the man’s English was better than Marta’s, or else this would be a very short visit.
“All right. You may show him out here, I suppose,” Lottie said with a sweep of her hand.
Marta broke into a rare smile and nodded. “Ah, bene, bene. Una riconciliazione!” She clasped her hands against her chest, as if this was the most wonderful news. Then her eyes sparked with that all-too-familiar determination. “I bring youtea,” she declared and hurried back into the house.
“No, Marta!” Lottie called after her. This wasn’t a social call, for heaven’s sake. But it was useless. She might be the mistress, but Marta ran the house. Lottie crossed her arms and leaned against the balustrade to wait for this “handsome nobleman” to appear. The thought was mildly intriguing, given that she had barely spoken to a man under fifty since the Pension Bertolini in Florence. He had been a remarkably bland German named Hans who was traveling with his father. Hans was polite, spoke excellent English, and didn’t remotely interest her. But her chaperone, Mrs. Wetherby, was undeterred: “Imagine! You could haveblondchildren!”
The odious woman had viewed Lottie’s light auburn tresses as an affront to common decency. A foul blemish that needed to be snuffed out before it could taint another generation. But Lottie cherished her hair. It was just like her mother’s had been. She pulled her long braid over her shoulder and absently fingered the end. Her uncle’s pompous secretary, Gordon Wetherby, had maintained that his aunt excelled in managing young ladies with “high spirits.” Lottie could still picture the way his nose wrinkled as he said the words. Lottie wasn’t proud of it, but she had taken some pleasure in imagining both his and Mrs. Wetherby’s reactions to her disappearance. Though perhaps she should be thanking him instead. After all, if Mrs. Wetherby had been the least bit pleasant, Lottie might have been tempted to amend her plan.
The sound of approaching footsteps drew her attention. They were slow and heavy. One might even say portentous. This uninvited visitor was clearly in no great rush and expected her to wait.Belloor no, this was not the way to ensure a good first impression. Lottie fixed her most disapproving frown on the doorway, where the shadow of a rather imposing man now came into view. The doorway itself was low, and he had to stoop slightly to reach the terrace. Lottie’s breath caught at the familiar movement even while her mind tried to reason otherwise.
No. He would never come here. Not for someone as trivial asyou.
But before the light even touched his face, a part of her already knew. From a place deep within her bones. A place she could never erase, no matter how hard she tried.
And oh, how Lottie hadtried.
Her arms fell by her sides as Alec Gresham, her uncle’s ward turned protege, dedicated agent of the Crown, only son of the late English poet Edward Gresham, and, indeed, verybello, stepped out onto the terrace.
“Well hello, Lottie,” he said evenly. “What a charming cottage you have here.”
No wonder Marta mistook him for a nobleman. He certainly held himself like one, even though nearly every inch of him was covered in road dust. Then the man had the audacity to twist that full mouth of his into a smirk. At her.
