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 perhaps negligent was 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 wayward husband. 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.