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