The Undoing of de Luca

Ellery’s flush deepened. ‘This carpet,’ she returned with icy politeness, ‘is a nearly three-hundred-year-old original Aubusson. I have to disagree with you. It’s most certainly worth saving.’

‘Not like some of the other things in this place, I suppose?’ Amelie returned, her gaze moving rather pointedly to the empty patches on the wall, the wallpaper several shades darker there than anywhere else.

If it was possible, Ellery’s flush deepened even more. She looked, Larenz thought, magnificent. He’d first thought her a timid little mouse but now he saw she had courage and pride. His lips curved. Not that she had much to be proud about, but she certainly was beautiful.

She rose from her place at their feet in one graceful movement, retrieving the bottle of vinegar and tucking the dirty cloth back into the pocket of her apron.

‘Excuse me,’ she said stiffly and walked quickly from the room.

‘Bitch,’ Amelie said, almost idly, and Larenz felt a little flash of disappointment that she had gone.

Ellery’s hands shook as she rinsed out the rag and returned the vinegar to the larder. Rage coursed through her, and she clenched her hands into fists at her sides, pacing the huge kitchen several times as she took in great cleansing breaths in an attempt to calm her fury.

She’d handled that badly; those two were her guests. It was so hard to remember that, to accept their snide jibes and careless remarks. They thought paying a few hundred pounds gave them the right, yet Ellery knew it did not. They gave mere money while she gave her life, her very blood, to this place. And she couldn’t bear to have it talked about the way that callous crane of a woman had, wrinkling her nose at the carpets and curtains; Ellery knew they were threadbare but that didn’t make them any less precious to her.

She’d disliked Amelie Weyton from the moment she’d driven up the Manor’s long sweeping drive that afternoon. She’d been at the wheel of a tiny toy of a convertible and had gone too fast so the gravel had sprayed all over the grass and deep ruts had been left in the soft rain-dampened ground. Ellery had said nothing, knowing she couldn’t risk losing Amelie as her customer; she’d rented out the manor house for the weekend and the five hundred pounds was desperately needed.

Only that morning the repair man had told her the kitchen boiler was on its very last legs and a new one would cost three thousand pounds.

Ellery had swayed in horror. Three thousand pounds? She hadn’t earned that kind of money, even with several months at her part-time teaching job in the nearby village. Yet the news should hardly surprise her for, from the moment she’d taken over the running of her ancestral home six months ago, there had been one calamity after another. Maddock Manor was no more than a wreck on its way to near certain ruin.

The best Ellery could do was slow its inevitable decline. Yet she didn’t like thinking like this, couldn’t think like this, not when holding on to the Manor sometimes felt akin to holding on to herself, the only way she could, even if only for a little while.

Most of the time she was able to push such fears away. She focused on the pressing practical concerns, which were certainly enough to keep both her mind and body occupied.

And so Ellery had kept her focus on that much-needed boiler as Amelie had strolled through the house as if she owned the place.

‘This place really is a disaster,’ she’d said, dropping her expensive faux-fur coat on one chair; it slithered to the floor and she glanced pointedly at Ellery to pick it up. Biting down hard on the inside of her cheek, Ellery had done so. ‘Larenz is going to have a fit,’ Amelie added, half to herself. Ellery didn’t miss the way the woman’s mouth caressed the single word: Larenz. An Italian toy boy, she surmised with disgust. ‘This is a step—or ten—down for him.’ Her eyes glinted with malicious humour as she glanced at Ellery. ‘However, I suppose we can rough it for a night or two. It’s not like there’s anything else around here, is it?’

Ellery forced a polite smile. ‘Is your companion arriving soon?’ she asked, still holding the wretched woman’s coat. When Amelie had emailed the reservation, she’d simply said ‘and guest’. Ellery presumed this guest was the aforementioned Larenz.

‘Yes, he’ll be here for dinner,’ Amelie informed her idly. She turned around in a slow circle, taking in the drawing room in all of its shabbiness. ‘Good heavens, it’s even worse than the photos on the website, isn’t it?’ she drawled, and Ellery forced herself not to say anything.

She’d chosen photographs of the best rooms for her website, Maddock Holiday Lettings. The conservatory, with throw pillows carefully covering the threadbare patches on the sofa and the sunlight pouring in, bathing the room in mellow gold; the best bedroom, which she’d had redecorated with new linens and curtains.

It had set her back a thousand pounds but she’d been realistic. You couldn’t charge people to sleep on tattered sheets.

Still, Amelie’s contempt of her home rankled. This venture, letting the Manor out to holidaymakers, was new, and Amelie, in fact, was only the second guest to actually come and stay. The other had been a kindly elderly couple who had been endearingly delighted with everything. They’d appreciated the beauty and history of a house that had stayed in the same family for nearly five hundred years.

Amelie and her Italian lover just saw the stains and the tears.

‘And they’re making a few more while they’re at it,’ Ellery muttered under her breath now. She pictured the scarlet splash of red wine on the Aubusson once more and she groaned aloud.

‘Are you quite all right?’

Ellery whirled around; she’d been so lost in her thoughts that she hadn’t heard the man—Larenz—enter the kitchen. He’d arrived only a few minutes before dinner had been served and Ellery hadn’t really had time to greet or even look at him properly. Yet she’d seen enough to form an opinion: Larenz de Luca was not the toy boy she’d expected. He was much worse.

From the moment he’d arrived, Amelie had flirted and fawned over him, yet Larenz had been impervious and even indifferent to the attentions of the gorgeous, if rather emaciated, Amelie, and every careless or callous remark or look had grated on Ellery’s nerves, which was ridiculous because she didn’t even like Amelie.

Yet she hated men who treated women like playthings just to be enjoyed and then discarded. Men like her father.

Ellery forced such negative thoughts away and nodded stiffly at Larenz. He lounged in the doorway of the kitchen, one shoulder propped against the frame, his deep blue eyes alight with amusement.

He was laughing at her. Ellery had sensed it before, when she’d been scrubbing at the stain. He’d enjoyed seeing her on her knees, working like a skivvy in front of him. She’d seen the smile curl the corner of his mouth—his lips were as perfectly sculpted as a Renaissance statue’s—and the same smile was quirking them now as he watched her pace the kitchen.

‘I’m perfectly fine, thank you,’ she said. ‘May I help?’

‘Yes, you may, actually,’ he returned, his voice a drawl with only a hint of an Italian accent. ‘We’ve finished the soup and we’re waiting for the next course.’

‘Of course.’ She felt colour flare in her face. How long had she been wool-gathering in the kitchen while they waited for their meal? ‘I’ll be right out.’

Larenz nodded but he didn’t move, his eyes lazily sweeping over her, assessing and dismissing all in one bored glance. Ellery could hardly blame him for it; she was dressed in a serviceable black skirt and a white blouse with a sauce stain on the shoulder, and the heat from the kitchen was making her sweaty. Still, his obvious contempt aggravated her, and was so typical of a man like him.

‘Good,’ he finally said and pushed off from the doorframe, disappearing back into the dining room without another word.

Ellery hurried to check on the chicken simmering on the stove. Fortunately, the tarragon cream sauce hadn’t curdled.

Back in the dining room, Amelie and Larenz sat unspeaking. Larenz looked relaxed, sprawled in his seat, while Amelie seemed tense, drumming her nails once more, the little clicks seeming to echo through the silent room. She had, Ellery saw, caused another divot in the ancient tabletop.

Amelie had barely touched her soup but Ellery saw, to her satisfaction, that Larenz had completely cleaned his bowl. As she reached for the empty dish, he laid a hand on her wrist, shocking her with the unexpected touch. His skin was warm and dry and it sent a strange, not unpleasant, jolt right down to her plimsoll-encased toes.

‘The soup was delicious,’ he murmured, and Ellery jerked her head in the semblance of a nod.

‘Thank you. Your main course will be out shortly.’ Nerves caused her hands to tremble and the bowl clanked against his wine glass as she took it, making her flush and Larenz smile lazily.

‘Careful. You don’t want to spill another glass of wine.’

‘Your glass is empty,’ Ellery returned tartly. She hated that he’d seen how he affected her—and why should he affect her? He was incredibly attractive, yes, but he was also an arrogant ass. ‘I’ll refill it in a moment,’ she added, and turned back to the kitchen.

Dumping the dishes in the sink, Ellery hurried to serve the plates of chicken, sauce and the roasted new potatoes she’d left crisping in the oven. Quite suddenly, she felt utterly exhausted. She had an entire weekend of catering meals—and enduring Amelie’s snide remarks and Larenz’s speculative looks—ahead of her, yet all she wanted was to go upstairs and hide under the covers.

Behind her, the boiler clanked mournfully and Ellery gritted her teeth. She had to bear it. The only other option was to sell Maddock Manor, and that was no option at all. Not yet, at least. The Manor was the only thing she had left of her family, her father. Sometimes, as impossible and irrational as she knew it was, the Manor felt like the only thing that validated who she was and where she had come from.

She was keeping it.

Two hours later, Larenz and Amelie had finally retired upstairs. Ellery scraped the remains of their meal—Larenz had finished both his main course and a generous slice of chocolate g?teau, while Amelie had barely touched any of it—into the bin and tried to ease the persistent ache in her lower back. What she really wanted was a long soak in a very hot bath, but the repair man had already told her that such a venture would push the boiler past its limited endurance. She’d have to settle for a hot-water bottle instead, which had been her companion most nights anyway. Now that it was late October, the cold stole into the Manor and crouched in corners, especially in the draughty, unheated room where Ellery slept.

Sighing, she stacked the rinsed plates in the dishwasher and mentally ran through her to-do list for breakfast. Part of the weekend package was a full English fry-up, yet she was quite sure Amelie Weyton ran only to black coffee in the mornings.

Larenz, on the other hand, probably required a hearty breakfast that he’d tuck into with relish while never putting on an ounce. Quite suddenly, Ellery found her mind wandering upstairs, to the best bedroom with its antique four-poster—the new silk hangings had eaten up most of her budget for the room’s redecoration—and the birch logs she’d laid in the hearth that morning. Would Larenz light a fire so he and Amelie could be cosy in bed together, the flames casting dancing shadows over the bed and their entangled bodies?

Or perhaps they would have another source of heat—she imagined them there, among the pillows and blankets, Amelie’s limbs twined around Larenz, and felt a sudden dart of completely unreasonable jealousy.

She could not possibly be jealous. What was there to be jealous of? She despised the pair of them. Yet even as she asked herself this, Ellery already knew the answer. She was jealous of Amelie having someone—anyone—but especially someone as attractive and, face it, as sexy as Larenz de Luca. She was jealous of them both, and the fact that neither of them would be alone tonight. Like she would.

Ellery sighed. She’d been living at Maddock Manor, attempting to make ends if not meet, at least glimpse each other, for six long, lonely months. She’d made a few friends in the village, but nothing like the life she’d once had. Nothing like the life she wanted.

Her university friends were all in London, living the young urban lifestyle that she’d once, ridiculously, enjoyed. Even after only half a year it seemed as faded and foggy as a dream, the kind where you could only remember hazy fragments and surreal snatches. Her best friend, Lil, was constantly urging her to come back to London, even if just for a visit, and Ellery had managed it once.