Scandalous Secret, Defiant Bride

‘Well, in certain circles it would—but, no, I suppose you can be excused—since you’re Italian.’

His chuckle was rich and deep. ‘How nice of you to say so, although I’m not quite sure whether I should be flattered or offended by your remark.’

‘You must interpret it as you like—but I truly meant no offence.’

They went outside and walked along a flagstone path that separated the flower beds leading to an arbour. A white lace table cloth covered a small, round, wrought-iron table on which delicate china tea things and cakes had been set out. Max pulled out a chair for Christina and Lorenzo poured the tea before excusing himself and disappearing along the path and into the house.

‘That’s Lorenzo, by the way, my steward, secretary and—’

‘General factotum by the look of things,’ Christina was hasty to add. ‘He seems to know how to lay a perfect tea table as well as take care of his secretarial duties.’

Sitting across from her and resting one foot atop his other knee, Max unbuttoned his jacket and leaned back in the chair. Relaxed and comfortable, he looked across at his companion, transfixed as he stared at her seated against a backdrop of vibrant climbing red roses. Having removed her bonnet and with her luxuriant hair tumbling over her shoulders and her green eyes glowing from between the thick fringe of black lashes, she presented such a captivating picture that he was torn between the urge to shove the table and its crockery away and pull her into his lap, and the equally delightful desire simply to relax and feast his eyes on her.

He was unable to believe she was here with him after so many years. Ever since she had been taken away from Castello Marchesi, without fully realising what had happened he had carried his dream of meeting her again in his heart, and the fact that the boy had become a man had not diminished that dream.

Chapter Three

‘Would you like a cake?’ Max said, picking up a plate and offering Christina one of the dainty confections Lorenzo had purchased at the village bakery earlier.

Christina took one and put it on her plate. She smiled, diverted by his ever-present courteous formality, even when she wasn’t being particularly nice to him. A lazy somnolence had descended on the garden and the perfume of roses—red, white, pink and yellow—was heavy and sweet.

‘Why do you stare at me?’ she asked, settling back in her seat and taking a bite out of her cake, finding it virtually impossible to ignore the tug of his eyes and voice.

‘Because I’ve never met anyone quite like you.’

‘Are you always so…?’

One black arched brow lifted in mild enquiry. ‘What?’

‘Forthright? Why do you always seem to be on the verge of laughing at me?’

‘Not at you, Miss Thornton. For some unfathomable reason you amuse me—and because I happen to like you.’

‘I’m surprised.’

‘Why?’

‘Because there have been times when I have been less than polite to you. In fact, I’ve been positively beastly.’

‘I agree, but you’re forgiven.’

‘That’s gracious of you to say so, but I really was quite horrid to you when we first met.’ Christina glanced at him and smiled, shaking her shining head as the memory of how she had looked and what he must have thought assailed her, and when she met his eyes she saw that he remembered it too.

‘You mean when you were cavorting semi-naked in the lake.’

‘Yes. I was quite shameless,’ she murmured, finishing off her cake and licking the sticky sweetness off her fingers, unwittingly unaware of how this simple childish gesture warmed Max’s blood.

‘I agree, you were. You see, life in Italy has the Italian woman living under close scrutiny of family members. Her acquaintances with the opposite sex are selected and chaperoned, and if she were to be seen swimming almost naked with two young men, her reputation would be ruined and she would in all probability see out the rest of her life in a convent.’

A note of reproach hardened his voice and Christina wondered why, but quickly dismissed it as of no importance. ‘Dear me! I find that a bit extreme, but then—I’m not Italian,’ she remarked airily. ‘You seem very at home here, Mr Lloyd.’

‘Max—please call me Max.’

‘Very well. Mister Lloyd does seem rather formal, and I positively refuse to call you Count. You must call me Christina. Tell me what it’s like where you come from?’

‘In Tuscany?’

She nodded.

‘It’s very beautiful. Enchanting. Timeless. It is a different way of life altogether. You have to see it to appreciate it.’

‘What is it you do there?’

‘Why should I do anything? Being a count, I might be extremely rich and not have to work.’

‘You don’t strike me as a gentleman of leisure—no matter how rich you are.’

‘You’re right. I’m not. I like to be busy.’

‘So, what do you do?’

‘I grow grapes—as my family has done for centuries.’ He went on to talk about his vineyards, of which he was inordinately proud. He was full of enthusiasm and talked vividly about the Tuscan climate and the effect it had on the grapes, and how the weather could be one’s best friend or a grape grower’s worst enemy, and how they prayed for warm, dry summers before the vendemmie, the grape harvest, in the autumn. Christina proved to be an avid listener.

‘So you are very rich,’ she remarked when he fell silent.

‘My prosperity is largely due to my ancestors and in particular to my grandfather. He was a superb businessman.’

‘I suspect you take after him.’

‘I’d like to think so.’

‘How interesting you make it sound.’

‘It is. I—would like for you to see it,’ he said, watching her expression carefully. ‘Would you like to?’

She nodded emphatically. ‘But it’s just not possible.’

‘It might be. You would be made most welcome, Christina,’ he said, using her name for the first time and sending an unexplainable thrill of pleasure through her.

‘Are you married?’ she asked impulsively, wanting to know all there was to know about this strange foreign man who had unexpectedly appeared in their midst.

‘No.’

‘Are you likely to be?’

‘Why?’ he asked, his dark eyebrows drawing together over his incredulous blue eyes. ‘Would you like to marry me?’

His question spoken in jest caused her to laugh out loud and brought a sparkle to her eyes, yet somewhere deep inside her she could feel the first stirrings of discomfort. ‘Of course not. What I mean is,’ she said when he shot her a thoroughly amused look, ‘is there a woman in your life—someone special?’