Читать онлайн книгу «The Forced Bride» автора Сара Крейвен

The Forced Bride
Sara Craven
When Emily Blake innocently kissed formidable Italian count Rafael Di Salis, she didn't know that she was bound by her late father's wishes to marry him. Emily agreed to be the count's wife until she reached twenty-one…. Count Rafael has bided his time. He's kept his passions under iron control for two years–his bride was young and he did not want to claim her until she was woman enough to handle him. But now she has come of age, she will be his!



The Forced Bride
Sara Craven



www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)

CONTENTS
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
Endpage (#litres_trial_promo)
COMING NEXT MONTH

CHAPTER ONE
‘NO,’ SAID Emily. She spoke with cool clarity, but her green eyes flashed at the two lawyers on the other side of the desk. ‘Not a divorce. You will kindly inform your client that I want an annulment.’
The younger man gasped audibly and received a reproving glance from his senior, Arturo Mazzini, who took off his glasses, wiped them and replaced them on his nose.
‘But, Contessa,’ he said gently, ‘that is surely just—a question of emphasis. The important matter must be the actual dissolution of your marriage, not how it is done.’
His placatory smile was not returned.
‘I can decide for myself what is, or is not important,’ said Emily. ‘A divorce—even the no-fault variety that your client is offering—suggests that a marriage really existed between us. I wish to make it perfectly clear to the world that it has not. That I am not, and never have been, the wife of Count Rafaele Di Salis—in the usual sense of the word,’ she added.
Signor Mazzini looked appalled. ‘Clear—to the world?’ he repeated. ‘But you cannot mean that, Contessa. Any arrangement between yourself and the Conte Di Salis must be a private one, its terms not meant to be divulged.’
‘I wasn’t responsible for the arrangement of my marriage,’ Emily told him stonily. ‘My father was. Nor did I offer any guarantees about the ending of it. And please don’t call me Contessa,’ she went on. ‘It’s hardly appropriate under the circumstances. Miss Blake will be just fine.’
There was an uneasy silence. Signor Mazzini produced a fine linen handkerchief and applied it to his forehead.
‘Is it too warm in here, signore?’ his antagonist asked more kindly. ‘Would you like me to open a window?’
Both men repressed a shiver. There had been a sharp frost that morning and the formal gardens around Langborne Manor were still silvered over. Indoors, too, the elderly central heating system left a lot to be desired, although, to Signor Mazzini’s certain knowledge, the Conte Di Salis had offered more than once in the past three years to have it replaced.
‘You are all goodness,’ he returned. ‘But no, I thank you.’ There was a pause, then he leaned forward. ‘Contessa—Miss Blake—I beg you to reconsider. The divorce would be a mere formality and the settlement terms my client proposes are more than generous.’
‘I want nothing from the Count.’ Emily lifted her chin. ‘As soon as I’m twenty one, he will no longer be in control of my affairs. My father’s money and this house will finally be mine. I need nothing else.’
She sat back in her chair, the low winter sun slanting in through the long sash window behind her striking fire from her auburn hair.
Young Pietro Celli pretended to busy himself with the papers in the file in front of him while he studied her unobtrusively. Too thin, too pale and altogether too tense, he thought, recalling with renewed appreciation the frankly sinuous curves of the Count’s latest mistress, which he had been permitted to admire on a number of occasions—although only from a discreet distance.
The slim hands were bare, he noticed, so heaven only knew what the Count’s soon-to-be-ex-wife had done with His Excellency’s wedding ring, or the Di Salis sapphire, which would have to be returned, of course, however the marriage reached its end.
But her eyes—Madonna mia!—they were amazing—the colour of emeralds, and with those long lashes too. However, the rest of the face—nondescript, he decided with a mental shrug.
And clearly a virago along with all her other faults. Small wonder, then, if a connoisseur of women like Rafaele Di Salis had opted for a marriage in name only. Who could blame him?
‘Unless, of course, your client has gambled my entire inheritance away on some dodgy financial deal,’ this impossible young woman was adding lightly. ‘Perhaps you’ve been sent here to break the bad news.’
Signor Mazzini bristled, while Pietro felt his jaw drop and had to hastily recover himself.
‘That is a most damaging allegation, signorina,’ the older man said at last, his voice icy. ‘Your husband has dealt with the trust in an exemplary manner, have no doubt of that. You will be a wealthy young woman.’ Much wealthier than you deserve, the note in his voice suggested.
Emily sighed. ‘I wasn’t serious. I’m perfectly aware that Count Di Salis is one of the stars of the world of finance.’ She added stiltedly, ‘And, naturally, I’m grateful for anything he’s been able to do on my behalf.’
The lawyer spread his hands, almost helplessly. ‘Then, if I may be permitted to ask, why not show your gratitude by acceding to the plan for a divorce?’
Emily pushed her chair back and rose. She walked over to the window and stood looking out. Her slender figure was clad in a cream woollen shirt tucked into close-fitting black cord trousers, with a wide leather belt reducing her waist to a handspan. The rich glow of her hair was drawn back to the nape of her neck and fastened with a black ribbon bow.
She said quietly, ‘Because, when I remarry, I wish the ceremony to be held in our parish church, but the vicar is a strong traditionalist and won’t agree if I’m divorced. I also intend to wear white for the occasion so that my bridegroom will know that he isn’t getting damaged goods.’ She paused. ‘Is that plain enough for your client?’
‘But your present marriage is still a fact, Miss Blake.’ Signor Mazzini’s reminder was brusque. ‘Is it not a little soon to be planning another wedding?’
‘There is no marriage,’ Emily said. ‘Just a business deal nearing the end of its shelf life. And I can hardly be bound by that when considering my—future.’
She turned back. ‘Now may I offer you both some tea?’ Her polite smile did not reach her eyes. ‘I’m afraid the coffee in this house would hardly appeal to you.’
Signor Mazzini rose. ‘I thank you, but no. I think we both need a little space—to consider. Perhaps we may have a further discussion tomorrow, signorina, in the hope you may have decided to—think again. Because, I tell you plainly, His Excellency will not agree to an annulment.’
‘But why not?’ The emerald eyes opened wide. ‘He must want to be rid of me, as much as I want my own freedom. And, anyway, I deserve some reward for three years of dutiful boredom,’ she added, shrugging. ‘I’ve acted as his hostess here and in London when required, and turned a blind eye to his notoriously public private life. A steep learning curve if ever there was one.’ Her tone stung. ‘Now he can oblige me for a change.’
‘In your English history, signorina, you have a custom, I think, of throwing down the gauntlet.’ Signor Mazzini’s tone held a touch of grimness. ‘In this case, such a challenge to His Excellency would not be wise.’
Emily’s laugh held a hard note. ‘Oh, dear, have I insulted Count Rafaele’s machismo? Dented his reputation by suggesting that there’s at least one woman in the known world who doesn’t find him irresistible—and that’s his alleged wife?’ She shrugged. ‘Well, any damage to his male pride is—just unfortunate, because I have no intention of changing my mind. Please make that—ultra-clear to your client.’
She moved to the fireplace, where a log fire was smouldering, and rang the bell beside the mantelpiece.
‘Also suggest to him that we begin proceedings to end the marriage without delay,’ she added crisply. ‘After all, my twenty-first birthday’s in three months’ time and I would really like to be single again by then.’
‘I will convey your wishes to His Excellency,’ Signor Mazzini said with a small stiff bow. Or, at least, a carefully edited version of them, he amended silently as the housekeeper arrived to show them out.
When she was alone, Emily dropped limply into the big leather armchair that stood to the left of the wide hearth. She’d presented a bold front to her visitors and only she knew that her stomach had been churning and her legs trembling under her throughout the interview.
But it was done and she’d taken her first shaky steps towards freedom. And now her visitors would be on their way back to Rome or New York—or wherever Raf happened to be at present—with the bad news.
If that was what it was, she thought defensively. Why should he care about one less notch on his bedpost among so many?
She curled up in the big wing-chair that had once belonged to her father and closed her eyes.
Oh, Dad, she whispered forlornly. You did me no favours at all when you pushed me into this farce of a marriage.
I should never—never have agreed to it, but what else could I do when you were so ill and made me promise?
But at least it’s not a life sentence. Raf’s keeping his word about that.
On the other hand, she reminded herself defensively, he’s doing me no favours either. He only agreed to marry me because he was in debt to my father and this was a way of paying it off.
Because I was certainly the last bride he’d ever have considered in ordinary circumstances.
Not that I cared at the time what he thought or what he wanted. Not when I was so miserable about Simon. When I really thought he’d gone for good.
At the time I felt so lonely and humiliated that if Count Dracula had proposed I’d probably have accepted him.
Not, she told herself, lips tightening, that Raf had any vampire qualities. He was more on the lines of a black panther, roaming the financial jungles to seek his prey. And how he’d ever become involved with her father was one of life’s great mysteries.
Emily had first become aware of him when she was seventeen and had just arrived home from school for the Christmas holidays.
She’d come flying into the house as usual, leaving the chauffeur to follow with her luggage, and gone straight to her father’s study, flinging the door wide with an exuberant, ‘Pops, darling, I’m home,’ only to find herself confronted by a tall young man, someone she’d never seen before, rising politely from his chair at her entrance.
She halted instantly, lips parting in surprise and embarrassment, her astonished gaze registering a confused but vivid impression of black, curling hair, tawny skin and lambent hazel eyes flecked with green and gold that, she realised, were studying her closely in return. And, at the same moment, she saw the firm mouth quirk as if some sudden thought had amused him.
She felt herself bristle instinctively and said quickly, stammering a little, ‘Dad, I’m sorry. I didn’t realise you were engaged with anyone.’
‘It’s fine, my dear. I’m sure Count di Salis will forgive your unceremonious arrival.’ Her father was smiling as he came round the desk to take her hands and kiss her, but his greeting seemed faintly muted and he didn’t sweep her up into the accustomed bear hug. ‘Isn’t that so, Rafaele?’
‘It was a charming interruption.’ The newcomer’s voice was low and resonant, his English flawless. He stepped forward, taking the hand she had awkwardly proffered. ‘So this is your Emilia, signore.’
His touch was light, but she felt a sudden jolt of awareness, as unexpected as it was unfamiliar. It was like receiving a minor electric shock, she thought, unnerved, and wanted to snatch her fingers from his clasp, at the same time telling him her name was plain ‘Emily’ and not some Italianised version of it which somehow made it personal to him. A notion she found oddly disturbing.
And in the same instant found her hand released, as if the Count had sensed her inner withdrawal and reacted to it instantly.
He said with perfect courtesy, ‘It is my pleasure to meet you, signorina,’ then looked across at Sir Travers Blake. ‘You are a fortunate man, my friend.’
‘I think so too.’ Her father’s hand rested momentarily on her shoulder. ‘Now, run along and get your unpacking sorted, my pet,’ he added quietly. ‘And we’ll join you for tea later.’
Normally, Emily thought, as she looked back, if Dad had been busy when I arrived home, I’d have kicked off my shoes and curled up in this very chair waiting for him to finish. Yet somehow I knew, even then, that I wasn’t going to be allowed to say a proper ‘hello’ and that everything was in the process of changing.
What I didn’t bargain for was the extent of that change.
When she’d reluctantly emerged into the hall again, she’d found Mrs Penistone, the housekeeper, hovering and looking anxious.
‘Oh, Miss Emily, I was supposed to tell you that your father couldn’t be disturbed,’ she said apologetically. ‘I hope he isn’t cross.’
‘He didn’t seem to be.’ Emily swooped on her last remaining bag and started up the stairs. ‘Don’t worry about it, Penny dear. We’re all having tea together later, so I guess I’m forgiven for blundering in. And I’ll apologise again when his visitor has gone.’
‘Oh, but he’s not going,’ Mrs Penistone informed her. ‘He’s staying for Christmas. Your father told me yesterday to prepare the Gold Room for him.’
‘He did?’ The news stopped Emily in her tracks. ‘But he never has guests to stay at Christmas. He’s always said peace on earth should start right here at home. He only gives the Boxing Day party on sufferance to the selected few.’
‘Well, not this year, Miss Emily.’ The older woman pursed her lips. ‘He’s invited everyone in the neighbourhood.’
‘Even the Aubreys from High Gables?’ Emily tried to sound casual. ‘Goodness, he is pushing the boat out.’
He must really want to impress Count Whatsit, she thought as she went into her room. But if that meant Simon Aubrey was coming to their party, then she could almost be grateful to this unexpected intruder.
My gorgeous, wonderful Simon, she whispered silently, and smiled as she began to conjure up his image in her mind. But the picture that presented itself was a very different one. Not Simon’s boyish good looks at all, but an older, darker face that watched her with a faint smile. A face that, while intrinsically and powerfully masculine with its taut lines, high cheekbones and aquiline nose, managed at the same time to be—somehow—beautiful.
And she found herself suddenly remembering her art teacher describing the subject of some Renaissance painting as looking like ‘one of the fallen angels’.
Now I know exactly what she meant, Emily thought. Because there was no hint of softness about this Rafaele Di Salis. On the contrary, there was an uncompromising toughness about his mouth and jaw and a cool arrogance in his glance that seemed to tell the world to beware. And she found herself giving a faint shiver.
As she unpacked, she made specific plans about what she would do if she ever discovered the Count di Salis was watching her again. Not that it was likely, she hastily assured herself.
But if—if it happened, then she would stare back, coolly and calmly, but, at the same time, with enough hauteur to make him realise his scrutiny was totally unwelcome and remember his good manners.
But she soon discovered that this careful planning was all in vain. Because it soon became apparent that, as far as the Count was concerned, she might as well have been invisible. And, on the few occasions when he seemed to notice her, he treated her with a distant politeness that chilled her with its formality—a reluctant adult dealing with a child, she thought, seething.
To make matters worse, her father seemed unusually preoccupied. In fact, she hardly saw anything of him because he seemed closeted in his study with Count Di Salis for hours at a time.
This wasn’t the normal run-up to Christmas by any means, Emily thought wistfully, although she’d told herself repeatedly that she was just being silly and selfish. That her father had a perfect right to invite anyone he wanted to his own house, at any time of the year.
But she’d grown accustomed, since her mother’s death five years before, to having him all to herself during the school holidays, and she wished that the Count di Salis had paid his visit at some other time.
As it was, she was beginning to feel as if she was, in fact, the interloper here. That her presence was an obstacle to all these ongoing discussions.
She told herself that there must be some big deal brewing, but she knew better than to ask and did her best not to feel resentful.
Sir Travers had never discussed the ramifications of his property development empire with her, invariably telling her she was too young to understand. However, she was sure in her own mind that it would have been different if she’d been a boy. That her training as his successor would already have begun in earnest.
But he’d made it equally apparent, kindly but firmly, that his only daughter would have no role to play in the future running of the company.
Daddy the Dinosaur, she thought with a small sigh.
Instead, with his total approval, she’d been nudged by her teachers into studying Fine Arts at university. And while she wasn’t opposed to the idea, she wasn’t ecstatic in her enthusiasm either.
On the other hand, now Simon was in her life, her future might take a very different path, she thought, as glowing excitement rose inside her.
The Aubreys and the Blakes had never been on particularly close terms, and while Simon, who was Mr Aubrey’s nephew, had been a frequent visitor in the past, he’d not taken much notice of Emily until the previous summer, when she’d been asked over to High Gables one glorious Sunday afternoon to play tennis on the new all-weather court they’d just had installed.
The invitation had come from Jilly, the Aubreys’ only daughter, a cool, leggy blonde, three years older than Emily, who’d made it languidly clear that she was only being asked to make up the numbers, because someone else had dropped out at the last minute.
It had been an unpromising beginning, but when Simon had smiled at her and claimed her as his partner, offering a charming apology in advance for being rusty, Emily had felt much better. And when they’d won, she’d found herself basking in his admiration.
After that, Simon had made sure that she was invited over nearly every day to play tennis or swim in the Aubreys’ pool, although Jilly had not been best pleased by this turn of events and had made no effort to hide it.
But Emily told herself that Jilly’s quiet malice didn’t matter. Because she was falling in love and she didn’t care who knew it.
And—heaven of heavens—Simon seemed to feel the same. Everything he said to her—each time he took her in his arms—was a promise for the future.
Naturally, there could be no formal acknowledgement of their relationship for at least another year, and both of them had recognised this and discussed it.
For one thing, she had to coax her father into becoming firstly accustomed and then receptive to the idea. And this, she knew, would be no simple matter, especially as Simon was between jobs and editorial positions on magazines did not appear to be easy to find.
‘I don’t want to go to him cap in hand,’ Simon had told her ruefully on more than one occasion. ‘Especially as I get the impression no one is ever going to be good enough for his lovely girl.’
Emily had to, reluctantly, agree. But she consoled herself with the certainty that once her father got to know Simon properly he would like him. And the Boxing Day party would be an ideal opportunity for them to begin their closer acquaintance. She was sure of that too.
But first she had to negotiate Christmas Day, which was easier than expected because her father, as if aware he’d been neglecting her, made a determined effort to be the affectionate and jovial companion she was used to.
There was one tricky moment, however, when she was thrown completely by Rafaele Di Salis thanking her politely for the book on local history she’d apparently given him. Knowing full well that she’d neglected to buy him anything at all, and that this was her father’s doing, Emily stammered an awkward response, blushing vividly under his ironic gaze.
He himself had presented her with a dozen exquisite hand-kerchieves, trimmed with handmade Italian lace.
Correct and so—bo-ring, Emily decided. A duty present if ever there was one, which made her feel slightly better about the book.
But she was grateful when he absented himself during the afternoon to go for a long walk, leaving her alone with her father to play backgammon, an annual needle-match with no quarter given, or expected.
‘So what do you think of Rafaele?’ her father asked suddenly as she set up the board for the game.
She shrugged. ‘I try not to think about him at all,’ she returned nonchalantly, reaching for the dice box.
For a moment she thought her father had frowned, but decided he was simply wearing his deep-concentration expression in honour of the event’s solemnity.
‘You’ve improved,’ he announced later as Mrs Penistone came in to draw the curtains and bring the tea.
Emily pulled a face at him. ‘You let me win,’ she accused as she put the board and counters back in their leather case.
‘Nonsense,’ he said robustly and got up to poke the fire.
The moment his back was turned, she became aware that the housekeeper was beckoning to her, and she followed her from the room.
‘Is something wrong?’
‘There’s been a special delivery for you, Miss Emily—at the back door.’
Mrs Penistone was looking roguish. ‘Brought by a nice young man.’
‘Oh.’ Emily coloured as the older woman produced a small flat package tied up in Christmas wrap. It had to be from Simon, she thought, her heart beating faster, so she would take it to her room and open it in private.
On her way along the gallery upstairs, she took the tiny card from its envelope and read the scrawled message. ‘For Emily—my fantasy girl. S.’
Unable to control her curiosity any longer, she tore away the wrapping and paused, staring down at what lay in the folds of paper.
It was underwear, she realised, but not like anything she had ever worn in her life. There was a bra consisting of two triangles of filmy black gauze joined by narrow ribbon and a matching thong.
For a moment she felt confused. So far, Simon’s courtship of her had been deliberately restrained, even though there were times when his slow kisses made her ache with frustration. He’d always said he was prepared to be patient—that she was worth waiting for.
Until now. Until this—astonishing volte face. Was this—really—how Simon thought of her? she wondered, her skin warming. How he saw her? And if so…
‘Emilia.’
She hadn’t heard the door of the Gold Room open, let alone the sound of his approach, yet there was Rafaele Di Salis, standing right in front of her. And, jolted out of her reverie, she started violently, her slackened grasp allowing the tiny scraps of lingerie and the accompanying card to fall to the carpet between them.
For a moment, Emily stood, stricken. Oh, God, she moaned under her breath, diving frantically to retrieve them. But Rafaele Di Salis was there before her, straightening with the bra and thong dangling incongruously from a fastidious forefinger.
His brows lifted. ‘A gift from an admirer?’ His tone was coolly dispassionate.
‘I don’t think that’s any of your business,’ she returned curtly. If she’d blushed before, she was burning now from head to foot. Oh, why hadn’t she waited until she was safely in her room to open her parcel? For him, of all men, to see Simon’s present. ‘May I have them back, please?’
‘Certamente.’ He dropped them back into their wrappings with an almost disdainful flick of the hand.
Emily bit her lip. All she really wanted to do now was walk away from him and die in a place where her corpse would never be discovered. On the other hand, she didn’t want her father to receive a full description of the incident, she realised resignedly. So—something would have to be done.
She said stiltedly, ‘I—I thought you were out walking.’
He shrugged. ‘Your father suggested I return in time for tea. He said it was quite an occasion.’ He glanced down at the bra and thong, his mouth twisting. ‘I see he was right.’
‘They were intended as a joke,’ she said quickly. ‘But I don’t think Daddy would find it very funny.’
‘Then, perhaps, we should not distress him by mentioning it.’
‘No,’ she said. Adding reluctantly, ‘Thank you.’
She waited, but he made no attempt to move, and she was aware of his gaze resting on her reflectively.
She cleared her throat. ‘I—I know what you must be thinking…’
‘No,’ he said quite gently. ‘You do not.’ And handed her the card with Simon’s message. ‘As a matter of fact, I too am enjoying a fantasy,’ he went on. ‘But mine does not involve clothing—of any kind.’
He gave her a cool, impersonal smile and walked on, leaving Emily gasping as if she’d been winded.
She spent a long time in her room, trying to summon up the courage to go down and face the tiny sandwiches, the featherlight scones with cream and the huge elaborate Christmas cake that Mrs Penistone had provided. Because she’d be expected to sample all of them under the sardonic gaze of their guest, and any loss of appetite would be noted and commented on by her father.
Which, in turn, would provide further opportunities for that appalling—that vile Rafaele Di Salis to amuse himself at her expense, she realised stormily.
Because that was all it had been. Yet another dubious joke, but one which he’d had no right to make.
Except that a girl who’d just received a secret gift of suggestive underwear from her boyfriend could hardly be prim about some mild sexual teasing. But, however she rationalised it, the memory still made her squirm uncomfortably.
I just wish he’d complete his business with Daddy and go, she told herself as she put the underwear back in its wrappings and buried it deep in a drawer, then went slowly and reluctantly down to the drawing room.

‘Well?’ Simon breathed into her ear. ‘Are you wearing them?’
Emily looked down at herself—at the demure white silk shirt with its deep Puritan-style collar, and the ankle-length velvet skirt in shades of dark blue and turquoise.
‘Er—no.’ She made her tone placatory. ‘They didn’t seem quite right—not under this.’
‘Well, maybe,’ he conceded moodily. ‘Tell me something, Em. Don’t you ever get tired of playing Daddy’s little girl? You’re past the age of consent, so isn’t it time you grew up and started being a woman? My woman, in fact?’
She gasped. ‘I thought we’d agreed to wait.’
‘And I’ve been waiting, for God’s sake. Have a heart, honey. I’m only human and I’m getting sick of walking away from you with just an ache in my guts.’
Her cheeks warmed and she looked round in embarrassment. ‘Simon—keep your voice down. People will hear you.’
‘What are they going to hear? That I want you? That’ll come as no surprise to anyone in the neighbourhood—except your father, maybe.’ He moved fractionally closer. ‘Isn’t there some way we can be together, sweetheart?’
‘You mean this evening?’ Emily was incredulous. ‘But I’m my father’s hostess. I can’t just—disappear. Besides, I’m under orders to make sure that our house guest meets everyone,’ she added with a touch of bitterness.
‘You mean the tall Mediterranean job who’s been roaming round the village lately?’ Simon snorted. ‘I wouldn’t worry about him.’
‘But I have to worry. I was in trouble yesterday for spending time in my room when I should have been dancing attendance on him. Daddy actually ticked me off about it, when I was on my way up to bed.’
She sighed. ‘So now I’m supposed to compensate for yesterday’s rudeness by looking after him tonight. Making sure he’s not bored—keeping his drink freshened and all that stuff.’
‘You could have a problem there,’ Simon informed her. ‘Because all the women in the room are clustered round him, drooling. You’d probably have to kill to reach him.’ His voice sank to a persuasive whisper. ‘Sweetheart, this is a big house. There must be somewhere we can go—just for a while?’
Emily bit her lip. Was that how he wanted their first time together? she asked herself, troubled. A snatched encounter in some empty bedroom with the threat of discovery hanging over them?
She said quietly, ‘Simon, I can’t. My father’s bound to miss me and we can’t take the risk.’
‘Later, then. When the party’s over and everyone’s gone.’ His voice was urgent. ‘I’ll give it a couple of hours, then I’ll come back across the garden, so leave the conservatory unlocked for me, hmm?’
He paused. ‘Please, darling. It would mean so much to know you’re ready to trust yourself to me.’
Emily hesitated miserably, then nodded. ‘If—that’s what you want.’
His grin was triumphant. ‘Oh, you’ll want it too, my pet, I promise you that. And wear my present, eh?’
Emily moved away, aware that her mouth was dry and her heart thudding uncomfortably. Some instinct made her look across the room and she realised that, hemmed in as he was, Rafaele Di Salis was watching her, his dark face expressionless.
And she’d already turned away before she remembered she’d intended to stare back.
She was on edge for the rest of the evening. Someone—some stranger outside herself—moved through the groups of people, smiling and talking, but was unable to recollect a single word that had been said.
However there was nothing wrong with her eyesight. And it seemed that Simon had been perfectly correct about Rafaele Di Salis’s ability to attract the women in the room. In particular, Jilly Aubrey seemed so attached to his side that it would probably need a surgical operation to remove her. Which proved, Emily told herself waspishly, that there was no accounting for taste.
It seemed to have been a good party, however. Everyone was saying so as they reluctantly departed. In the hallway, someone produced a sprig of mistletoe and kisses were freely exchanged amid laughter and cheering. Emily had to submit to her fair share, smiling with spurious brightness as she did so. But Simon was not among the claimants.
‘I didn’t see the Aubreys leave.’ She tried to speak casually as the door closed behind their last guests.
‘They went nearly an hour ago,’ Sir Travers returned. ‘Apart from the girl Jillian,’ he added disapprovingly. ‘She stayed on, having persuaded to Rafaele to drive her home later.’
Now why does that not surprise me? Emily thought ironically.
The clearing up after the party was accomplished swiftly and efficiently by Mrs Penistone and the extra staff hired for the evening, and eventually Emily was able to go up to her room, but not before she’d slipped unobtrusively through the dining room to the conservatory beyond and unlocked the door.
She could only hope that the housekeeper would not decide to carry out a last-minute double-check.
Or was that really what she was hoping for? Because, if she was honest, she felt almost sick with apprehension as she undressed and took a quick shower.
Reluctantly, she put on the bra and thong and took a wincing look at herself in the mirror. She didn’t look or feel in the least sexy, she thought wretchedly. Just uncomfortable and—in-credibly stupid. But if this was how Simon wanted her…
All the same, she was glad to cover up by zipping herself into her dark green velour robe.
Why was she hesitating? she wondered, as she brushed her hair into a silken cloud on her shoulders. Tonight was a turning point in her life—the magic time when she would belong at last to Simon—the man she loved—and it would be beautiful—wonderful, because he would make it so for her.
And, drawing a deep breath, she slipped out of her room, closing the door behind her with immense care, and went silently down the shadowed stairs to keep her rendezvous.

CHAPTER TWO
EVEN now, three years later, Emily could remember every detail of that short journey. Could recall the brush of the stair carpet under her bare feet, the way the shadows had seemed to distort even the most familiar objects and the soft creaking and groaning as the old house settled for the night.
With every step she’d expected lights to blaze on and her father’s voice demanding to know what she was doing.
She supposed she’d have to say that she couldn’t sleep and was going to the kitchen to heat some milk. He’d believe her, because she’d never given him cause to do otherwise. Or not until now, she’d thought, her throat closing.
More than once she’d been tempted to turn back. To take refuge in her room and find some excuse that would placate Simon for her failure to show.
But I love him, she’d reminded herself almost feverishly. I should be wanting to make him happy, not pacify him.
When she was in his arms, she would feel differently. She was sure of it. Convinced that this little knot of coldness in the pit of her stomach would dissolve into something altogether warmer and more receptive.
And yet…
She’d have been lying to herself if she hadn’t hoped that her first time with Simon would have been more meaningful in some way. More romantic than these hasty and covert moments ahead of her.
Although, as she’d gathered from the conversation of her more sophisticated school friends, usually the first time was no big deal. Merely something that needed to be got out of the way, so that more pleasurable experiences could follow.
There was also the vexed question of birth control. Emily reckoned uneasily that she was the only girl in the sixth form not to be on the pill. But would Simon have guessed this and made his own arrangements, or would she have to pretend everything was all right—and risk the consequences?
She swallowed past the tightness in her throat. Her father would be angry and disappointed with her, of course, but as she and Simon were planning to be married anyway, would it really be so awful if the wedding date had to be moved forward because she was pregnant?
Well, the short answer to that was yes. Because it was the last thing she wanted to happen.
The situation would be much easier to handle if Simon’s career wasn’t currently on hold, she thought forlornly. How could he cope with a wife and baby without a regular salary or a home of his own?
Her father might offer him something, she supposed, but she wouldn’t count on it. Not if he had Simon foisted on him as a son-in-law before they’d even had a chance to become properly acquainted, let alone friends.
Taking a deep breath, she opened the door to the conservatory and slipped inside like a small, quiet ghost.
It was one of her favourite places in the house, its warmth like a blanket, enveloping her in comfort. She stood still for a moment, eyes closed, breathing the raw earthy smells and listening to the familiar muted hum of the heating system.
There was no other sound. No movement either. And Emily realised with something very like relief that Simon wasn’t there.
But perhaps she should allow him a few minutes’ grace, she thought reluctantly. After all, she couldn’t go to bed leaving the outside door unsecured, yet she certainly didn’t want him arriving late either, rattling at the lock and wakening the entire household in a frustrated attempt to gain access.
Oh God, I should never—never—have agreed to any of this, she groaned inwardly, sinking down on a bench next to the miniature palms and peering at the face of her watch in the gloom. I’m not the stuff conspirators are made of.
She sat tensely, hands clasped in her lap, willing the moments to pass more quickly.
When she saw Simon next, she would pretend it had never happened, she told herself. She’d tell him her father had been on the prowl, and she hadn’t dared leave her room. Hope that he hadn’t had a wasted journey.
She was just getting to her feet when she realised that the door to the garden was opening silently to admit the dark figure of a man.
For a brief second she froze in the realisation that it was too late to slip away.
This is Simon, she reminded herself urgently. This is the man you love and want. And it’s time to commit yourself to that love, once and for always.
She drew a breath, then went to him, running, flinging herself into the arms that instantly closed about her as she lifted her face for his kiss.
But, instead of the passionate demand she’d expected, he was almost restrained, keeping his ardour well in check, and Emily was grateful for it.
Eyes shut, she gave herself up to the pleasure of the cool, gentle brush of his lips against hers, his exploration of the soft contours of her mouth as if this was strange, uncharted territory to him.
As if…
And in that same moment, she knew with total clarity that this was wrong—all wrong. That the hard male body she’d pressed herself against so ardently was taller, leaner than Simon’s, and altogether more muscular. That she was not being held and kissed as Simon held and kissed her. And that this man even smelled differently, Simon’s familiar brand of aftershave having been replaced by something infinitely more subtle and expensive.
But only too recognisable, just the same…
Oh, God, she whimpered in silent horror, as realisation dawned. Oh, God, it’s—him.
Gasping, she tore her lips from his and pushed at him violently.
‘Let go of me.’ Her voice was shaking. ‘Let go of me at once, damn you.’
‘You mean this entrancing welcome is not intended for me, after all?’ Rafaele Di Salis asked mockingly. ‘I am desolate.’
But he relaxed his clasp sufficiently for Emily to take an uneven step backwards, out of range. At the same time, he clicked the switch by the door and the overhead light went on, catching her in the act of scrubbing violently at her mouth with her hand in an attempt to remove any lingering traces of his kiss.
To cover her confusion, Emily went into attack mode. ‘What do you think you’re doing—creeping into the place like a burglar?’
His brows lifted sardonically. ‘Are you saying that you mistook me for a thief—and not Simon Aubrey?’
‘Simon,’ she said curtly, ‘need not concern you.’
‘Ah, but he does, Emilia. Because I fear that he will not be able to keep his appointment with you tonight, after all.’
She stiffened. ‘He told—you that?’
‘No.’ Rafaele Di Salis shrugged. ‘I told him so, when I encountered him in the garden a short while ago.’
She gasped. ‘You were spying on us?’
‘I had just returned from driving Signorina Aubrey home and heard him crashing through the shrubbery as I walked back to the house. He is fortunate there are no dogs on the premises, or he would have woken the whole household—including your father.’ He allowed a significant pause. ‘I persuaded him that his visit was—inappropriate and he left.’
She said chokingly, ‘And what gives you the right to interfere in my affairs?’
‘You mean there have been others?’ He tutted. ‘And I would have sworn that Simon Aubrey was the first.’ He glanced round. ‘And I must tell you, cara, that this is hardly the most comfortable setting for so momentous an event as losing your virginity.’
For a long moment Emily was incapable of speech, aware that every inch of her skin was burning with embarrassment.
At last she said hoarsely, ‘You are—disgusting.’
He laughed. ‘No, merely practical. Besides, your would-be lover seemed in no mood for a tender seduction when I met him just now. Frankly, he appeared ill-tempered. And, when I arrived at his uncle’s house earlier, it was clear there had been a family disagreement of some magnitude in which he was involved.’
‘That is none of your business!’
‘I agree,’ Rafaele told her cordially. ‘Which is why I made an excuse and left at once, without the coffee I had been promised.’
She glared at him. ‘Or anything else, presumably. Is that why you decided to ruin my time with Simon, signore—because you’d missed out with Jilly?’
He said gently, ‘That, mia cara, is a vulgarity not worthy of you.’ He paused. ‘I look on your father as my friend, Emilia, and I would try to prevent anything that would distress him. And the discovery that you had agreed to a secret liaison under his own roof would be a serious blow to him. You must know that. Your young man should have more regard for your honour.’
Emily flung back her head. ‘It so happens, signore, that Simon and I are engaged to be married. We were meeting tonight to—to discuss our plans for the future, and not for the sordid reason you imagine.’
His stride towards her was so quick and purposeful that she didn’t have a chance to step backwards. And, before she could defend herself, his hand had snaked out and pulled down the zip on her robe almost to the waist. The edges fell apart, revealing to his gaze the flimsy black triangles that barely concealed her nipples.
He said contemptuously, ‘It seems I am not the only one with a sordid imagination, signorina. Let me tell you that you are too young and far too lovely to require such tawdry adornment. You disappoint me.’
‘How dare you?’ Her voice was a strangled croak as she struggled to cover herself again, her fingers made clumsy by haste and shame. ‘Oh, God, how dare you—touch me? Insult me? You call yourself Daddy’s friend? He’ll throw you out of the house when I tell him…’
‘When you tell him—precisely what?’ Rafaele Di Salis cut impatiently across her stumbling words. ‘What you were doing here? Why you were dressed as you are?’ He shook his head. ‘No, Emilia, I recommend that you hold your peace about tonight, as I shall. Now, go to your room,’ he added almost wearily. ‘And I will lock up here.’
She did not wait to argue, but fled. In the quiet of her room, she threw herself across the bed, burying her face in the covers, as shock and misery overwhelmed her.
I want to die, she told herself passionately, a sob rising in her throat. Just to die. Because then I’ll never have to see Rafaele Di Salis again.
But, for the time being, she had to go on living—enduring the terrible memory of his condemnatory gaze and the harsh dismissal of his words.
And, somewhere among all of that, was the realisation that Simon had tamely given up and gone home, which, she discovered wretchedly, didn’t seem nearly as bad.
She spent a miserable and restless night, with the covers pulled over her head, and it was a pale, hollow-eyed Emily who went reluctantly down to breakfast the next morning to confront her tormentor the best she could. She’d rehearsed a number of dignified and cutting speeches in case he should make some ill-chosen reference to the night’s events, but they proved unnecessary.
Because he wasn’t there, and when she forced herself to ask her father about their guest’s non-appearance, she was breezily informed that Rafaele Di Salis had left first thing that morning to catch a flight to New York.
‘Isn’t that rather sudden?’ She managed to pour her coffee with a reasonably steady hand.
Sir Travers looked surprised. ‘No, my dear. Raf always planned to leave immediately after Boxing Day. Didn’t I mention that?’
‘Actually, no,’ said Emily.
‘Well, he’s gone, anyway.’ Her father paused, then smiled. ‘And he asked me to pass on his good wishes for your future happiness.’
‘How kind,’ Emily said woodenly, and applied herself to her scrambled eggs.

Strange, Emily thought, shifting uneasily in the big chair, that even after the passage of three years, she should have this—instant recall, as if it had all happened yesterday. But maybe unpleasant memories stayed longer in the mind than the cheerful variety.
Not that there’d ever been any really joyous moments to glean from any part of her strange relationship with Raf Di Salis.
The celebration would come when he signed the papers to set her free. And allow her, at last, to marry her first love and put all the pain of separation and misunderstanding behind them.
Her mouth tightened as she remembered how, in the aftermath of that disastrous night, she’d waited in mounting desperation to hear from Simon. But forty-eight endless hours had passed without a word and, as the time lengthened, her pride would not allow her to contact him and demand to know what the hell was going on.
She’d been in the village, parking her bicycle outside the general stores, when Jilly Aubrey had emerged.
‘Well, hi,’ she drawled, giving Emily the usual disparaging once-over. ‘Where’s that gorgeous Italian who was staying with you? I want to invite him to our New Year bash, if he’s going to be around.’
Emily gave her a cool look. ‘I’m afraid you’ll be disappointed. He’s gone, and he won’t be coming back for New Year, or any other time.’ If my prayers are answered…
Jilly shrugged. ‘Don’t sound so pleased, honey, because you’re in the same boat. Simon’s staying on in London, according to Mother.’
‘London,’ Emily repeated before she could stop herself.
‘You mean you don’t know?’ Jilly’s eyes glinted with malice. She lowered her voice confidentially. ‘Dad found out over Christmas that he’d been borrowing money from Ma again, and there was a massive explosion, chez nous. Fall-out everywhere, my dear. So pretty Cousin Simon’s been sent off to seek his fortune, or find a job that will enable him to pay a few of his debts, anyway. If such a thing exists,’ she added with a faint sneer. ‘Whatever, he won’t be allowed back until he’s gainfully employed, so I’d look around for another boyfriend if I were you.’
‘But I’m not you,’ Emily said quietly. ‘I believe in Simon and I’m prepared to wait.’
The other girl shrugged again. ‘More fool you,’ she retorted. ‘Don’t say you weren’t warned.’ And she walked down the street to her car and drove away.
Simon could have told me, Emily thought forlornly as she queued for her stamps at the post office counter. In fact, he should have told me.
And we didn’t even get the chance to say goodbye because of that bloody Rafaele Di Salis.
Even the slightest mention of his name seemed to have the power to make her burn with rage and humiliation, although she’d done her damnedest to put him out of her mind.
But she was still haunted by the way he’d looked at her that awful night, and it was galling beyond belief that he should be the first man to see her even semi-naked.
One of her first acts after his departure had been to wrap that horrible underwear in newspaper and add it to the incinerator in the garden where the last of the dead leaves were burning.
Gone, she’d told herself. Over and done with. Only, somehow, it didn’t seem to be that simple, and she didn’t know why.
She tried to give her thoughts a more positive turn as she cycled back to the house, telling herself that it was a good thing that Simon was looking for work—the first step towards the future they were planning. Although it didn’t mean, of course, that her father would fall over himself to give them his blessing. But it was a start.
And as for Jilly’s remarks—well, Emily decided, she shouldn’t give them credence. Simon’s cousin had been spiteful over their relationship from the start. And her disappointment over Raf Di Salis hadn’t sweetened her disposition either.
Over dinner that evening, she said, ‘We aren’t having visitors for New Year, by any chance, are we?’
‘No one. Why, is there someone you wish to invite?’ her father asked.
‘No,’ Emily said too vehemently. ‘Absolutely not. I was just—checking, that’s all.’
Sir Travers examined the wine in his glass. ‘Did you hope, perhaps, that Rafaele might be joining us?’
‘On the contrary,’ Emily denied quickly.
He gave her a long, steady look. ‘Why do you dislike him?’
‘Does there have to be a reason?’ Her tone was defensive.
‘I suppose not,’ he said. ‘But I would prefer it if you were friends.’ There was a quiet, almost stern note in his voice that Emily knew of old. ‘I expect him to be a regular guest here, and as his hostess, my dear, you will make him welcome.’
Emily’s heart sank, but she managed a neutral, ‘Yes, of course.’
At the same, she surreptitiously crossed her fingers that there would be no return visit from the Count until she was safely back at school.
And it seemed her luck was in, because Raf Di Salis continued to stay away and Emily found the latter part of her holiday truly enjoyable, in spite of Simon’s absence.
She was packing to return to school when she eventually heard from him. Simon was back at High Gables just to collect his things, having found work with an import/export company in the City.
Over a snatched lunch at the village pub, Simon explained that, although he was starting at the lowest level, the job could be a stepping stone to real money.
‘And I could travel,’ he told her exultantly. ‘The company has branches all over the world.’ He paused, then put his hand over hers. ‘And in a few months I’ll be earning enough to come back for you.’
Emily smiled and tried to be thrilled for him, but there was a bleakness in her heart that she could not explain. It occurred to her that his words had a hint of afterthought about them. That maybe if he hadn’t had belongings to collect from his uncle’s house, she might not have heard from him at all.
Also, there seemed to be a tacit agreement between them not to mention the Boxing Night party, and although she was prepared to accept this, she still felt she deserved an explanation, if not an apology.
After all, Simon must know that he wasn’t the only one to suffer the embarrassment of an encounter with Raf Di Salis that night. Wasn’t he even curious?
But she swiftly told herself she was being unfair. His life was undergoing some sweeping changes, and part of the reason he was undertaking them was for her.
She watched him drive away, clinging to his promise to call her every weekend.
He will come back to me, she whispered to herself, as she waved to him. He will come back. I—I know it.
But clearly not immediately, because he was far too busy. And gradually the phone calls crammed with news of his successes at work, and the friends he was making, began to dwindle away until they stopped completely.
At Easter there was no sign of him, and Emily, hurt and bewildered, could not bring herself to ask for news when she met any of the Aubreys. And, a week or so later, she was completely devastated when the announcement of his engagement to a girl called Rebecca West appeared in The Times.
‘He’s done well for himself,’ her father commented curtly over breakfast. He passed the newspaper to Raf Di Salis, who was staying with them again. ‘Her father’s Robert West, of course, the South African media tycoon.’
The Count returned some non-committal reply, but Emily was aware that he was watching her across the table. Which made it utterly essential that she stayed in her seat, eating her toast as if it was all that mattered, when what she really wanted was to escape to her room and give way to the tears tightening in her chest.
But she could not—would not break down in front of Raf Di Salis, of all people.
I hate him, she thought childishly. I hate him for being here. For—knowing how I must feel, because he might just pity me, and that would be unbearable.
But when Simon eventually did return, he had no wife with him, tycoon’s daughter or not. It was Emily herself who had been married for over two years. And she was hesitant at first when Simon rang and asked if he could see her.
‘Nothing heavy, Em,’ he persuaded. ‘Just a chat about old times over a drink.’ He paused. ‘Unless your husband would object.’
She said curtly, ‘He’s not here to express an opinion,’ and the die was cast.
Simon had been frank about his engagement, which had been broken after only a few months.
‘It was never right with Rebecca,’ he said. ‘And I always knew it. Her father encouraged me because her previous fiance had a cocaine habit, and I seemed marginally more acceptable.
‘Plus it had also been made clear to me that your father had very different plans for you. That, all along, he intended you for his aristocratic Italian financier and I had no chance. By asking Rebecca to marry me, I was trying to prove to myself that I didn’t care. That I’d moved on. And when I heard you’d actually married Rafaele Di Salis, I felt almost justified.’
He shook his head. ‘But it was hopeless, because I knew in my heart that nothing would ever change the way I felt about you.’
He shot her a keen glance. ‘People in the village say that he’s hardly ever around. That you rarely see him.’
‘No,’ she said. ‘Apart from the gossip columns and the pictures in glossy magazines.’
He didn’t pretend to misunderstand. ‘Doesn’t that hurt you?’
She shrugged. ‘No, why should it? I didn’t marry for love and, as soon as I’m twenty one, the trust will end and I can get a divorce.’
He was staring at her as if he’d never seen her before. ‘My God, Em.’ His voice was barely a whisper as his hand closed round hers. ‘Are you saying you’re going to be free quite soon—and that you and I might get a second chance?’
She disengaged herself gently. ‘I can’t possibly say that. It’s far too soon and too much has happened.’
He said quietly, ‘I want you back, darling. I should have stayed and fought for you, but I had so little to offer. But now I’ll move heaven and earth to get you back, so be warned.’

And now he has me back, Emily told herself. And we can consign the last three years to well-deserved oblivion, and—be happy.
Starting now, she thought, as she heard the chime of the front doorbell. She uncoiled herself from the chair, smiling in anticipation as she walked across the room and out into the hall, where Mrs Penistone was admitting the newcomer.
‘Simon, how nice.’ She offered her cheek for his kiss, aware of the housekeeper’s faint disapproval. In the older woman’s eyes, Emily was still a married woman even if her marriage had never been conducted on conventional lines. ‘Penny, we’ll have lunch in half an hour.’
‘Yes, madam,’ was the dour reply as Mrs Penistone retreated.
Simon followed Emily into the drawing room and closed the door behind them.
‘Darling,’ he said fervently and took her in his arms, kissing her passionately. As he raised his head at last, he smiled down at her. ‘All intruders dealt with?’ he asked breathlessly. ‘The divorce papers safely signed?’
Emily freed herself gently and moved to one of the sofas. ‘Not—exactly.’
‘But surely they brought them?’ Simon seated himself beside her.
‘Probably. I didn’t ask.’ She hesitated. ‘You see, I’ve decided against a divorce.’
‘What?’ The word seemed to explode into the air. ‘What the hell are you talking about? Are you saying you’ve changed your mind about marrying me?’
There was a sharpness bordering on anger in his voice that she’d never heard before.
‘Of course not.’ She stroked his cheek with a placatory hand. ‘It’s nothing like that. It just occurred to me that it would be much quicker and simpler if I got an annulment. So I opted for that instead.’
Simon drew a deep, unsteady breath. ‘And you told them this? You—actually said it to your husband’s lawyers?’
‘Naturally.’ Emily paused. ‘I can’t say they were best pleased, but I convinced them I was in earnest and they’ve now gone off to break the news to their lord and master.’
There was a silence, then Simon said hoarsely, ‘Have you gone mad? Are you completely off your bloody head? You’ve sent a message to a man like Raf Di Salis that you want rid of him on the grounds of non-consummation?’ His voice rose. ‘Tell me this is a joke—please.’
Emily’s brows snapped together. ‘I couldn’t be more serious. It’s a far more honest way of ending this travesty than a divorce—especially the no-fault variety Raf is pushing for.’ She lifted her chin. ‘He should think himself lucky. After all, I could be citing all the women that he has slept with since our marriage.’
‘Well, you certainly didn’t want him, so why the hell should you care how he spends his nights?’ Simon got to his feet and began to pace the room restlessly, his face like thunder. ‘For God’s sake, Em, call the lawyers back. Tell them you’ve had second thoughts, before it’s too late, and that you’ll sign anything they want.’
‘Why should I?’
He said bluntly, ‘Because when Di Salis hears you’re asking for an annulment, it will be like a red rag to a bull. And you don’t want him angry, Em. Really you don’t.’
For a moment Emily remembered Signor Mazzini’s warning about throwing down the gauntlet and felt chilled. But she rallied, saying with an assumption of lightness. ‘Poor Simon. What on earth did he do three years ago to scare you so?’
He flushed angrily. ‘He didn’t do anything, in the way you mean. He didn’t even say much—because he didn’t have to. It’s just—the way he is. Maybe you haven’t seen the ruthless side of him, Em’, he added. ‘But it’s there, just below the surface. And I wouldn’t deliberately upset him any more than I’d poke a sleeping tiger with a stick.’
‘But why should he be upset?’ Emily shrugged. ‘He certainly doesn’t want me either, so why the hell should he care how the marriage ends, just as long as it does?’
‘Because I don’t think it’ll be that simple. Not with him.’ Simon paused. ‘God—you didn’t mention me in all this, did you?’
Emily’s frown deepened at the anxiety in his voice. ‘Not by name, but I made it clear I planned to remarry. I’m not ashamed of that. Or of you, for that matter.’ She took a deep breath. ‘And I also think it’s time that Count Di Salis realised he can’t always have his own way.’
She paused. ‘And now let’s have a drink. I asked Penny to put some champagne on ice to celebrate the morning’s achievements, but maybe you’d prefer a large Scotch instead.’
‘Make it a treble,’ Simon said moodily. ‘And have one yourself. Because I’m telling you now, Em, before this business is finished you’re going to need it.’

CHAPTER THREE
‘I WON’T see him,’ Emily said stormily. ‘I will not.’
‘And just how,’ Simon asked, ‘do you plan to avoid him?’
‘I don’t know. But I’ll find some way.’ She looked at the piece of paper crumpled in her hand. ‘As soon as I received his letter I wrote back, making it perfectly clear that I wouldn’t meet him under any circumstances. That any discussion must be conducted only through our lawyers.’
‘Hell’s bells.’ Simon sounded startled. ‘Surely you don’t expect old Henshaw to handle this kind of thing? It would be the death of him.’
‘Of course not,’ Emily returned irritably. ‘He’s Raf’s cotrustee, for heaven’s sake. Thinks the sun shines out of him. No, I was planning to hire some big-hitter from London. Someone who won’t run scared of the great Count Di Salis.
‘And now—today—I get back from shopping,’ she added furiously, ‘to find this—this bloody telephone message, saying that he’s arriving in England in forty-eight hours time and I can expect to see him the following day.’
She swallowed. ‘What’s worse, he actually dared to tell Penny that he couldn’t wait to see me again, and now she’s being all arch and asking which room she should prepare for him, and what would he like for dinner?’
‘I didn’t know she was such a romantic,’ Simon muttered.
Emily glared at him. ‘He flirts with her,’ she said stonily. ‘Outrageously.’ She shook her head. ‘Oh, God, Simon, what am I going to do? And please don’t say “I told you so.”’
Simon was silent for a moment. ‘Have you called him back?’
She shook her head. ‘I came straight here to ask your advice.’
Simon chewed on his lip. He seemed, Emily thought, as much on edge as she was herself.
‘Why not get in touch with him?’ he said at last. ‘See if you can head him off by agreeing to his quickie divorce.’
‘Never,’ she said fiercely.
‘But what other solution is there—apart from running away, of course?’
Emily lifted her head and stared at him. ‘Simon,’ she said. ‘Darling, you’re a genius.’ She nodded, her eyes narrowing. ‘When he arrives, I just won’t be there. Penny can tell him quite truthfully that I’ve gone away for an indefinite period and left no forwarding address.’
Her mouth curled. ‘The world of finance is bound to collapse without him, so he won’t want to hang around, waiting for my return. Apart from anything else, it would make him look very silly,’ she added reflectively.
‘And, as soon as he’s out of the way again, I can get the annulment started.’ She gave a small exultant laugh. ‘Everything beautifully sorted.’
‘But where will you go?’ Simon asked. ‘You haven’t got long to decide.’
‘Somewhere that he won’t even dream of looking.’ She thought for a moment, her bottom lip caught in her teeth. ‘I can’t use my passport, of course. I’m sure he could trace me. So it will have to be some incredibly unlikely place in this country.’
There was another silence, then Simon said slowly, ‘Actually, I might be able to help you there. Some people I know have a weekend cottage in Scotland—a village miles from anywhere called Tullabrae. They rent the place out when they’re not using it.’
‘Scotland?’ Emily repeated. ‘I don’t suppose Raf even knows where that is.’ She looked at him, her eyes sparkling. ‘Is it empty at the moment?’
Simon looked towards the window, at the expanse of wintry sky, and pulled a face. ‘Almost certainly, I’d say.’
‘God, it could save my life.’ She thought rapidly. ‘I could rent it for two weeks. That will give Raf plenty of time to give me up as a bad job and go back to Paris or Hong Kong or wherever he’s operating from at the moment.’ She put an eager hand on his arm. ‘Could you contact them for me—make the arrangements? Tell them I’ll pay cash.’
He looked down at the carpet. ‘Yes—I suppose so.’ His tone sounded strange. ‘If that’s what you really want.’
‘Well, of course it is.’ She was puzzled. ‘It sounds ideal. And as you say, I haven’t much time.’
He made no reply and she looked at him, frowning a little. ‘Darling, is something wrong? You’ve been odd ever since I got here.’
‘I’m sorry.’ He summoned a smile. ‘It’s just—Scotland in January. The weather could be tricky.’
‘All the better,’ Emily said triumphantly. ‘Count Di Salis prefers his snow in the Italian Alps, designer style. The domestic kind won’t appeal to him at all.’
For a moment he hesitated, then got to his feet. ‘Then I’ll email them now. Make the deal.’ He paused at the door. ‘Shall I ask Tracey to bring you a hot drink? I won’t specify the flavour, as everything tastes like dishwater.’
Emily wrinkled her nose. ‘Thanks, my love, but no thanks.’ She hesitated. ‘Have you told your aunt and uncle yet that Mrs Whipple left? I bet they’re devastated after all these years. I know how I’d feel if Penny gave notice.’
‘I haven’t said anything yet. They’re having such a great time on their trip, I don’t want to spoil things. And I’ll hire someone else before they get back.’
Left alone, Emily looked around her. The drawing room at High Gables had always been a gracious room, with its beautiful Chinese carpet and pastel furnishings, but since the housekeeper’s departure it was beginning to look shabby and unloved. Bare too, she thought, with faint puzzlement. The Georgian candlesticks were missing from the mantelpiece and the bow-fronted cabinet containing Celia Aubrey’s prized collection of Meissen figurines seemed half-empty.
It still seemed incredible that Mrs Whipple should have left while her employers were on their holiday of a lifetime, visiting relatives and old friends on a leisurely trip that would take them all round the world.
And even worse that her place had been taken by Tracey Mason, even temporarily, who’d been sacked as a barmaid from the Red Lion for poor timekeeping and general laziness.
And with no one to keep an eye on her except Simon, who was house-sitting in the Aubreys’ absence and running his own import business from High Gables at the same time.
But, although he might jib at Tracey’s coffee, manlike, he probably didn’t notice unpolished furniture and smeared windows, or tally the amount of breakages.
I hope he does look for a permanent replacement for her soon, Emily thought with a sigh, because the house is beginning to look really sad now.
As though its pulse had stopped beating. And that wouldn’t have happened in Mrs Whipple’s day.
Much as Emily had grieved for her father, she’d been determined, after his death, to see that the Manor remained just as it had been, with all the gracious charm he’d loved, setting her face resolutely against any suggestions of further modernisation. And, although it galled her to admit it, Raf Di Salis had accepted her stance and allowed her to have her way.
She got up restively and went to the window. I don’t want to give him credit, she thought, but in this case I have to. He’s fulfilled his part of the bargain. And I—I haven’t made waves. Or, not until now.
She sometimes wondered if she hadn’t been pressured into becoming his wife—if he’d simply acted as her trustee—whether they could have managed some semblance of a working relationship.
In the months before the bombshell of her father’s terminal illness had burst on her, she might not have welcomed Raf’s visits but she’d almost become accustomed to them.
And when she’d been summoned home from school in the middle of the summer term to the news that Sir Travers had suddenly collapsed, she’d been almost glad to find him there and had come almost insensibly to rely on his quiet, almost impersonal kindness in the trauma of the weeks that followed.
An inoperable brain tumour, the doctors had told her, their faces compassionate. And only a matter of time…
‘I’ve changed my will,’ Sir Travers said one afternoon when she was sitting with him. ‘You’ll still inherit everything I have to leave, my dearest, but not until you’re twenty-one and better able to cope with that kind of responsibility.
‘In the meantime, however, I’ve created a trust and your affairs will be administered by Leonard Henshaw.’ He paused. ‘And also by Rafaele.’
The breath caught in her throat. ‘Oh, no, surely not.’ The protest was instinctive. ‘Mr Henshaw I can understand, if you think this trust is really necessary, but Count Di Salis is—practically a stranger,’ she added stiltedly.
‘I thought that lately you’d become friends.’
‘Hardly that, although he’s been—helpful.’
‘Nevertheless, this is my decision and it will stand.’ He paused. ‘There is one more thing. As my heiress, you could find yourself the target of unscrupulous people and I wish you to be—properly shielded.
‘I have discussed this with Rafaele and he has a suggestion to put to you.’
Her heart seemed to stop. ‘What—what kind of suggestion?’
‘He intends to ask you to become his wife.’ He saw the shock in her pale face and put his hand over hers. ‘Naturally, he would not expect it to be a marriage in the—conventional sense,’ he added awkwardly. ‘Because you’re still young for that kind of commitment, even if you wished it.’ He paused. ‘Do you wish it?’
‘No,’ Emily managed.
Not with him, she thought wildly. Never with him.
‘Then, as your husband, Raf would simply become your legal protector for the duration of the trust.’ The drawn face smiled a little. ‘Keeping the wolves at bay, my darling.’
And who’ll keep him at bay? She thought it, but did not say it.
‘And when the trust ends?’ she questioned tautly.
‘Naturally, you would both be free to go your separate ways. I have his word on that.’
Her voice was strained. ‘But this can’t be what he wants either.’
‘Perhaps not,’ her father said. ‘Let’s just say it’s his way of repaying an old debt.’ He paused. ‘Emily, I can’t force you to marry Raf Di Salis, but I need to know that when I’m gone, you won’t be alone. For my peace of mind, I beg you to accept his proposal. Do this for me, darling—please. I can rest easy only if I know you’re being cared for.’
The hoarse words were like nails being driven into her coffin. She said tonelessly, ‘If it’s—really what you wish…’
‘It is.’ He patted her hand. ‘Go to him, my dear. He’s waiting for you in the drawing room.’
Raf was standing by the window when she entered. He looked at her, his face expressionless.
‘Your father has told you what I wish to ask?’
‘Yes.’
‘So—will you be my wife, Emilia?’
‘Yes,’ she said again.
She thought he was going to come towards her and was suddenly assailed by a vivid memory of his arms holding her, his lips caressing hers. She froze and immediately felt foolish, because he hadn’t moved at all. In fact, it was almost as if he’d taken a step backwards, she thought in confusion.
His tone was wintry. ‘Then it is settled. You have given your word to me and to your father, which I think is more important.’
She lifted her chin. ‘Yes.’
‘And he explained the terms of the contract between us? Just nod or shake your head.’ His voice bit. ‘Spare me another monosyllable.’
Her eyes flashed angrily, but she gave a reluctant nod.
‘You clearly expect to be obeyed,’ she said coldly. ‘I hope you don’t require to be loved and honoured too.’
‘I am no believer in miracles.’ He walked across the room to the door. His faint smile was ironic. ‘Now, shall we go to your father and share our good news?’
Remembering, Emily bit her lip. It was the marriage, she thought, that had finally sealed the impenetrable barrier between them.
She had tried to play the minor role in his life assigned to her quietly and dutifully, but it had never been easy—had made her tongue-tied and wary when he was around. And oddly resentful when he wasn’t.
And, although he’d adhered strictly to the terms of their arrangement, she’d always been aware of a strange tension between them and felt nervous and on edge whenever she was obliged to be alone with him.
So—I have no intention of ever being alone with him again, she thought, staring at the bare trees outside. And very soon now I won’t even have to think about him.
And she wouldn’t be looking back at the past now, she told herself, if Raf hadn’t forced himself back into her consciousness like this.
She glanced down at her watch, wondering what on earth was keeping Simon all this time. Maybe the cottage wasn’t available after all, but there would be others.
And maybe she was wrong to involve him. After all, he’d had one run in with Raf Di Salis already and could well be targeted again, when her husband came looking for her. Perhaps it was the thought of that which was making him so morose—and odd.
She was on her way to the door to say she’d changed her mind when he returned.
‘The booking’s all made, starting from the day after tomorrow. The caretaker in the village will be informed and have the place ready for you.’ He gave her a sheet of paper printed with a detailed description of the cottage and how it could be reached. ‘The nearest station is Kilrossan,’ he said. ‘Let Mrs McEwen know the time of your train and you’ll be met.’ He paused. ‘I made the reservation in your maiden name. I hope that’s all right.’
‘Entirely appropriate,’ she said. ‘Under the circumstances.’
She was half-expecting him to offer to go with her. She would refuse, of course. Her marriage vows might be totally meaningless, but, unlike Raf Di Salis, she intended to keep them, even for the short time that was left. And, to give Simon his due, he seemed to accept this, even if he didn’t completely understand.
But then, she thought, I’m not sure I understand myself.
She said, ‘I’d better go home and start packing. Although I’ll have to be careful or Penny will get suspicious.’
‘Tell her what she wants to hear,’ he said. ‘Let her think you’re going off to meet your husband, but that it’s all to be a huge surprise.’
‘Now why didn’t I think of that?’ She went to him, lifting her face for his kiss. ‘Will you be all right—if Raf comes asking questions?’
‘He won’t,’ he said. ‘His pride would never stand for it.’
‘I’ll miss you. Let me know as soon as the coast’s clear and I’ll come back.’
‘And I’ll miss you too.’ His mouth was suddenly hot and passionate on hers. It was the first real sign of emotion he’d shown that morning and Emily tried to respond with equal ardour. But it wasn’t easy when she felt so apprehensive, and eventually she freed herself gently.
‘I’m sorry, darling. I can’t seem to think of much beyond getting away from here.’
As they walked to the door, his arm round her shoulders, she said, ‘By the way, what’s happened to the candlesticks?’
‘Candlesticks?’
She pointed at the fireplace. ‘The lovely silver ones that used to stand right there.’
Simon shrugged indifferently. ‘Aunt Celia probably put them away before she left. They’ll turn up.’
She looked sideways at him. ‘You sound miserable again.’
He looked past her. ‘Scotland’s a long way and two weeks can seem like for ever.’
‘They’ll soon pass,’ she said. ‘Then we’ll be together again. And for always this time.’
As her car moved down the drive she turned to wave, but there was no one there and she realised that Simon had gone back in the house, closing the door behind him.
As if, she thought, he could not bear to see her go. Yet, instead of being pleased, she found suddenly that she was shivering. And wondered why.

So far, so good, thought Emily as the express train ate up the miles between London and Glasgow.
Getting away from the Manor had been altogether easier than she’d expected. Penny had swallowed her ludicrous story about meeting Raf in London and beamed at Emily’s blush, even though it was inspired by guilt rather than anticipation of a blissful marital reunion.
And yet the housekeeper knew that Emily and Raf had never so much as shared a room when he stayed at the Manor.
Unless she thinks he pays me secret visits when the lights are out, Emily thought, grimacing inwardly.
In fact, the only time Raf had ever entered her bedroom at all had been on their wedding night. And that for the briefest possible time.
Her father had died, quite peacefully, only a week after she’d become engaged. And the wedding had taken place just over a month later, a quiet register office ceremony with Leonard Henshaw and his wife as the only witnesses.
Afterwards, they had flown to Italy for what was supposed to be their honeymoon.
‘It is the convention,’ Raf said simply when she tried to protest. ‘And anyway, I would like to show you my home.’ He paused. ‘Is that—agreeable to you?’
She swallowed. ‘Won’t it be very hot in Rome at this time of year?’
‘There is a pool,’ he said. ‘Do you like to swim?’
She had a sudden vision of the pool at High Gables and Simon splashing her, laughing in the sunlight.
She turned away. ‘I used to. Not any more.’ And thought she heard him sigh.
But she had to admit that the house just outside Rome was beautiful, if a little gloomy, with its marble floors and old-fashioned furniture. It was older even than the Manor and larger too, with a labyrinth of passages and rooms, many of them with ornamental ceilings and frescoed walls, and most of them in need of attention.
It also required a considerable staff to run it and, to Emily’s embarrassment, they were all lined up waiting to welcome her in high excitement.
If they only knew, she thought bitterly, that their new Contessa is a total fraud.
And a worried fraud at that, for she seemed to have been assigned the most enormous bedroom, with the largest canopied bed she’d ever seen, and the maids who unpacked for her were exchanging conspiratorial smiles as they arranged her prettiest white nightdress across the embroidered coverlet.
Emily felt her throat tighten in fright. In spite of Raf’s assurances, it seemed obvious that the scene was being set for the ritual deflowering of the latest Di Salis bride.
And her nervousness increased when she discovered that, as well as doors to a dressing room and a large bathroom, there was also direct access to an adjoining and equally imposing room, which bore all the signs of male occupation. And realised that, although this door had an ornate lock, there was no key to go with it.
Dinner was served much later than she was accustomed to and, while the food was delicious, she had little appetite for it and none at all for the wine which accompanied it.
She needed, she thought, to stay very, very sober.
And, even if she wasn’t hungry, to make the meal last as long as possible.
‘You look tired,’ Raf commented, as the cheese course was being cleared.
‘A little,’ she returned cautiously. She was actually dead on her feet but she wasn’t going to admit as much.
‘It has been a long day,’ he said, confirming all her worst fears by adding, ‘I suggest you go to bed.’ He paused. ‘Can you find your way back to your room?’
‘Of course,’ she said too quickly, in case he offered to escort her.
‘If you get lost, call out and eager rescuers will immediately appear.’ He smiled at her. ‘You are an object of fascination for the entire household, you understand.’
‘Yes,’ she returned tautly. ‘I—gathered that.’
Raf was leaning back in his chair, his lean fingers playing with the stem of his wineglass.
‘You looked very lovely today, mia cara,’ he said quietly. ‘Your dress was charming.’
‘It—it wasn’t new. I wore it when Daddy took me to Ascot one time.’ She remembered with a pang how joyously she’d chosen the slender cream silk shift just skimming her knees.
She added stiffly, ‘I hope you don’t mind.’
‘If you had worn it a hundred times, you would have looked no less beautiful.’
The conversation was taking altogether too personal a turn, she decided, and pushed back her chair, pretending to yawn.
‘I think maybe you’re right and I should call it a day.’
He rose too. ‘Then I wish you goodnight.’
She murmured something in reply and went, trying not to hurry too obviously. At least he hadn’t attempted to kiss her, she thought, as she went up the wide sweep of staircase. Nor was he following her.
But she breathed more easily when she reached her room and, having stumblingly dismissed the maid who was waiting to assist her, showered and cleaned her teeth in the palatial bathroom, then put on the nightdress that Penny must have substituted for the satin pyjamas she’d intended to bring and climbed up into that monster of a bed.
It was a very comfortable monster, she discovered, and the linen was scented with rose-water. But she couldn’t relax. She kept watching the communicating door, asking herself what she would do if it opened, and dreading the moment when she might be called on to make a decision.
But, just when she’d resolved it was safe enough to put out the lamp and get some sleep, she heard a faint noise and looked up to see Raf standing there in the open doorway. He was barefoot, his jacket and tie discarded and his shirt half-unbuttoned, revealing the strong column of his throat and the dark smooth skin of his chest.
For what seemed an eternity they stared at each other. Emily sat transfixed, her heart thudding erratically, her mouth suddenly dry, aware that one lacy strap had slipped down from her shoulder, but not daring to adjust it. Just waiting for him to say something—do something.
But when he moved, it was simply to put out a hand and steady himself against the doorframe. For a terrible moment she thought he was drunk and tensed involuntarily. However, when he spoke his voice was crisp and clear, without slurring.
‘Emilia, my household has—expectations about tonight and its usual significance, which may have caused you concern.
‘I wish to say that you have no need to fear that I will break my word to you. Today’s ceremony changed nothing and our marriage is still a business arrangement which can—will remain in name only, as you wish. Then, when you are twenty one, you will be free to live your own life and—find happiness.’
He made her a slight bow, then he was gone, closing the door firmly behind him.
For a long time, Emily recalled, she’d sat quite still, gazing unseeingly into space, aware only of the still-flurried race of her heart. And when, eventually, she’d reached for the lamp switch, she’d discovered that her hand was shaking uncontrollably.
Just as it was trembling again now, at this moment, as she picked up the carton of coffee in front of her and drank.
Why am I doing this to myself? she asked with a kind of desperation. Remembering all this—stuff. It must be the most pointless exercise of my entire life. Because it changes nothing. It can’t…
But perhaps it was something she needed to do, if only to convince herself that the stance she was taking was completely justified. That her relationship with Raf Di Salis had been null and void from the beginning and that it was hypocritical to pretend otherwise.
Although she could quite see that it would be a blow to Raf’s amour-propre to be forced to admit openly that his wife was not among his numerous conquests.
In fact, he’d been prepared to go to considerable lengths to present a very different picture of their relationship, she recalled, wincing.
It had been the morning after the wedding and it seemed to Emily that she’d only just managed to drop into a restless sleep when she had been woken by a hand on her shoulder and opened heavy eyes to see Raf standing beside the bed.
She’d sat up, pushing back her hair, instantly defensive.
‘What do you want?’ Her voice was husky.
His mouth tightened. ‘To give you this.’ He held out a small leather box. ‘Open it,’ he directed.
She obeyed and gasped when she saw the beautiful square sapphire enclosed by small diamonds that it contained.
‘An engagement ring?’ She frowned in bewilderment. ‘Isn’t it a little late for that?’
‘It is a family tradition,’ he said quietly. ‘This ring is given by each Count to his bride on the first day of their honeymoon as a sign that she has pleased him. I wish you to wear it.’
Her face flamed. ‘No way.’
‘Then I must insist. It will make your situation here much easier if it is thought that we make each other happy. Or that you make me happy.’ He looked at her mutinous expression and sighed. ‘Emilia, I have spared you the intimacies of marriage to me. Its formalities, however, you will endure, and this is one of them. Do I make myself clear? Now put it on.’
She acceded reluctantly, hoping that it would not fit. But the sapphire slid easily over her knuckle as if it had been made for her alone.
‘Are there any other degrading medieval customs I should know about?’ she asked haughtily.
‘If I think of any, I will tell you.’ He paused. ‘Now go back to sleep.’ He added wryly, ‘You will not be disturbed again.’ And left her.
To her own astonishment, she fell asleep within minutes and it was nearly midday when she awoke next time.
She bathed and dressed hastily, conscious all the time of the unfamiliar weight of the sapphire on her hand and its distasteful significance. And it took nearly all the courage she possessed to present herself downstairs, knowing she would be under scrutiny, however discreet.
Raf’s butler, a stately individual called Gaspare, was waiting for her in the hall to conduct her out on to the terrace at the rear of the house where Raf was seated at a table under an awning.
‘Carissima.’ His voice was warm and filled with laughter as he got to his feet and came to her. Under Gaspare’s indulgent gaze, he took the hand that wore his ring and kissed it, then bent, brushing her cheek with his lips.
It was the lightest of touches, but she flinched just the same and saw his eyes harden.

Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.
Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».
Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию (https://www.litres.ru/sara-craven/the-forced-bride/) на ЛитРес.
Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.