The Forced Bride (2 page)

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—astonishingvolte 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—thatvile 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