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Sir Alfred was her mother’s older brother by well over a decade, as the late Mrs. Carlisle’s conception had been something of a surprise to her parents. When Lottie’s parents died in a carriage accident, he was her closest living relative. But as Sir Alfred was a committed bachelor, there had been few guiding female presences in Lottie’s life aside from Mrs. Houston, his fiercely loyal Irish housekeeper. When she was younger, her uncle had been indulgent, or perhapsnegligentwas the better word. Despite the interventions of some well-meaning but weak-willed governesses, Lottie had run a bit wild—especially once she found a coconspirator in Alec. But her uncle, when he was around, seemed delighted by her impudence. When she demanded a pair of bloomers so she could ride astride a horse like Alec, Sir Alfred merely laughed and called for the tailor.
It wasn’t until Lottie was sent to school at thirteen that she realized how unconventional her upbringing had been. Her classmates were not impressed by her ciphers or her horse riding. They found it shocking that she could barely thread a needle or play the piano and whispered about her being “unnatural.” By then Sir Alfred was no longer quite so charmed by her willfulness. From then on, Lottie worked hard to win his approval by appearing more ladylike. The one person who hadn’t ever made her feel deficient was Alec. As the son of an infamous poet and his lowborn Italian wife, he was having troubles of his own fitting in with England’s elite.
We’re a pair of misfits, you and I, he had written to her once.
And misfits must stick together. Always.
But in the end, Alec had found his own way in the world. And there was no room for her on his path.
Lottie slammed the dictionary shut and headed for the cottage. The terrace had grown uncomfortably warm in the midday sun, but a nap would help to clear her addled mind. And provide fortification for the night ahead.
It promised to be a long one.
Chapter Four
That evening Marta insisted on preparing a feast to celebrate the return of Lottie’s waywardhusband. She brought out course after course from the kitchen until even the strapping Alec had to admit defeat.
“Please, Marta,” he groaned when the housekeeper set a tray bearing an impressive meat pie on the table. “Have mercy on a poor soul.”
She clucked her tongue in disapproval and gestured to his body. To anyone else, Alec’s lean, muscular frame was an ideal found in great works of art, but not Marta. “Mangia. You must eat.” She then began cutting him a generous slice.
Lottie had to bury her laughter in her napkin at Alec’s agonized expression. The cunning agent Gresham felled by a diminutive Italian woman. He had washed and changed before supper. Now freshly shaved and wearing a finely tailored dark jacket, he looked the very picture of a mysterious Italian count.
She should have insisted he wear a sack over his head as one of her conditions.
Alec caught her eye across the table and arched a brow. “Marta, I think my lovely wife wants some.”
Her heart spiked at the wordwife. “Oh, no. I can’t—”
“Even bigger than mine.” He gestured to the meat pie and then to Lottie.
Marta gave him a conspiratorial nod and whispered something. Alec flashed the woman a smile and shook his head, but a faint blush stained his cheeks. Marta laughed as she moved to cut Lottie an even bigger piece. Before today, the woman must have smiled a grand total of twice in Lottie’s presence. But then Alec always had that effect on people. Lottie envied that about him, even now. Even though it was all artifice.
He smiled warmly at her over his full plate, the candlelight bathing his rich olive skin in an alluring glow.
Anyone looking in on them would think this was real. Anyone.
Don’t ever forget that.
“For the bambino,” Marta pronounced as she slapped a hefty slice down.
Lottie jumped and clasped her hand to her chest. “Yes, thank you,” she said absently. “It smells wonderful.”
Marta shot Alec a knowing look. “See? Una donna sa sempre queste cose.” Then she patted Lottie’s shoulder and disappeared into the kitchen.
Lottie turned back to Alec. “What did she say?”
“‘A woman always knows,’” he murmured.
Lottie furrowed her brow, but Alec didn’t explain further. He managed a few more bites before he threw down his napkin and pushed his chair back from the table. “If I eat any more, I will burst. And I doubt Marta will appreciate the mess.”
“No, she would not.” Lottie had known this moment would come all evening, and yet her hands still began to tremble. She set down her fork before Alec could notice.
“Besides,” he began, “we should leave as early as possible tomorrow.”
Lottie glanced up at the sound of his chair scraping back. Alec took his time approaching her end of the table. His heavy steps echoed as ominously as they had earlier that day, until he loomed over her; it put her in mind of a big cat toying with his prey.
“Come to bed, Contessa.”
