Virgin: Wedded At The Italian's Convenience. Diana HamiltonЧитать онлайн книгу.
her after that quelling put-down, his hands in the pockets of his overcoat, he walked away. Behind her, Lily heard someone say, ‘I heard that! Want me to go and give him a slapping?’
‘Meg!’ The spell broken, her wits returning, Lily swung round to face her old schoolfriend. At almost six foot—towering a good ten inches above Lily’s slight frame—Meg was a big girl in all directions. No one messed with her—especially when she was wearing an expression that promised retribution!
Her cheeks dimpling, Lily giggled. ‘Forget it. He obviously thought I was a beggar.’ A rueful glance at her worn old dufflecoat, shabby cord trousers and unlovely trainers confirmed that totally understandable conjecture. ‘All I lack is a cardboard box and a dog on a piece of string!’
‘All you lack,’ Meg asserted witheringly, ‘is some sense! Twenty-three years old, bright as a button, and still working for next to nothing!’
For nothing, these days, Lily silently corrected her friend’s assessment of her financial situation. ‘It’s worth it,’ she stated without hesitation. She might not have the most glamorous or financially rewarding job in the world, but it made up for that in spades in the satisfaction stakes.
‘Oh, yeah?’ Unconvinced, Meg took her arm in a grip only an all-in wrestler could hope to escape from. ‘Come on. Coffee. My treat.’
Five minutes later Lily had put the bad-tempered stranger and the weird effect he’d had on her out of her mind. She soaked in the welcome warmth of Ye Olde Copper Kettle at one of its tiny tables, cluttered with doilies, a menu penned in glorious copperplate, and a vase of unconvincing artificial tulips. She placed the collecting tin with its smiley face on the edge of the table and removed her sodden woolly hat, revealing flattened, dead straight caramel-coloured hair. Her triangular face lit up as the stout elderly waitress advanced with a burdened tray, and she sprang to her feet to help unload cups, sugar bowl, coffee pot and cream jug, asking, ‘How’s your grandson?’
‘On the mend, thanks. Out of hospital. His dad said that if he so much as looks at another motorbike he’ll skin him alive!’
‘Teach him to treat country lanes like a racetrack,’ Meg put in dourly, earning a sniff from the waitress, who otherwise ignored her, smiling at Lily, nudging the collecting tin a fraction away from the edge of the table.
‘Not good collecting weather! This place has been like a morgue all morning. But I’ll be at your jumble sale next week if I can get time off.’
Lily’s piquant face fell as she watched the older woman depart. The twice-yearly jumble sale, held to raise funds for Life Begins, looked like being a washout. She voiced her concern to Meg. ‘This is a small town, and there’s only so often you can recycle unwanted clothes, books and knick-knacks. So far donations have been poor—mostly stuff that everyone’s seen and left behind before.’
‘I might be able to help you there.’ Meg poured coffee into the dainty china cups. ‘You know Felton Hall’s just been sold?’
‘So?’ Lily took a sip of the excellent coffee. The Hall, situated a couple of miles further on from her great-aunt’s cottage, had been on the market since old Colonel Masters had died, six months earlier. It was the first she’d heard of the sale, but Meg ought to know, working as she did for a branch of a nationwide estate agents based in the nearest large town. ‘How does that help me?’
‘Depends if you’ve got the bottle to get up there before the house clearance people get their feet over the threshold.’ Meg grinned, vigorously stirring four spoonsful of sugar into her cup. ‘The contents were sold along with the property. The Colonel’s only son works in the City—probably owns a penthouse apartment, all functional minimalism, as befits a high-flying bachelor—so he had no interest in his dad’s heavy old-fashioned stuff. And the new owner will want rid of it. So if you smile sweetly you might get your hands on some half-decent bits and bobs for that jumble sale. Worst-case scenario is they shut the door in your face!’
Paolo Venini parked the Lexus in front of the latest addition to his personal property portfolio and eyed the Georgian façade of Felton Hall with satisfaction. Situated on ten acres of scenic, nicely wooded countryside, it was ideal for the ultra-exclusive country house hotel he had in mind.
All he had to do to start the ball rolling was get the county preservation people on side. The initial meeting was scheduled for tomorrow afternoon. It should go his way. He had minutely detailed plans for the interior conversion to hand, drawn up by the best listed building architect in the country. Only he wouldn’t be around to head the meeting himself.
His sensual mouth compressed he let himself in through the imposing main door. He was edgy. Not a state of mind he allowed, as a rule. His adored mother was the only living soul who could breach his iron control, and late last night her doctor had phoned to tell him that she had collapsed. Hospitalised, she was undergoing tests, and he would be kept closely informed. The moment his PA from his central London office arrived he’d head back to Florence to be with his frail parent.
Never lacking for life’s luxuries, nevertheless she’d had a rough ride. Losing her husband, father of her two sons, ten years ago had left her bereft. Losing her eldest son and her daughter-in-law Rosa in a tragic road accident a year ago had almost finished her. Antonio had been thirty-six, two years Paolo’s senior. Eschewing the family merchant bank, he’d been a brilliant lawyer with a glittering career in front of him—and what had made it even worse was the fact that Rosa had been eight weeks pregnant with the grandchild his mother had longed for.
Madre’s talk—once she’d got over the initial shock of the tragedy—was now centred around Paolo’s need to marry and provide an heir. Her desire to see him married. His duty to provide her with grandchildren to carry on the name and inherit the vast family estates.
Much as he aimed to please her, giving her his attention, his care, his filial love, it was a duty he had no wish to fulfil. Been there, done that. One embarrassingly disastrous engagement, from which he’d emerged with egg on his face, and one marriage that had lasted a mere ten months. One month of blinkered honeymoon bliss followed by nine of increasingly bitter disillusionment.
He would like to give his parent what she wanted, see her sad eyes light with happiness, watch the smile he knew the news of his imminent marriage would bring, but everything in him rebelled against going down that road again.
Unconsciously his frown deepened, lines slashing between the golden glitter of his eyes as he entered the vast kitchen regions, searching for the makings of a scratch lunch. Penny Fleming should have been here by now. He’d phoned his London PA first thing, instructing her to set out for Felton Hall immediately, having packed enough for a few days. He couldn’t leave until he knew she was here and fully briefed about tomorrow’s meeting.
Aware that an ear-blistering tirade was building on the tip of his tongue, ready to be launched at Miss Fleming’s head the moment she crossed the threshold, he scotched the idea of lunch and took a carton of orange juice from the haphazardly stocked fridge. After he’d left the solicitor’s this morning he should have hit the shops for something more appealing than the pack of dodgy-looking tomatoes and a lump of pale, plastic-wrapped cheese that looked as unappetising as it undoubtedly was, which he’d misguidedly purchased from a service station on the drive up here yesterday evening.
Well, Penny Fleming would just have to shop for her own needs—if she ever got her butt up here! He slammed the fridge door closed with a force which would have sent the thing through the wall in a house less solidly built, then expelled a long breath.
Edginess brought about by his frail parent’s collapse, his need to be with her, his frustration at having to hang around, had already made him even more cutting then was usual when that beggar had jumped in front of him. He’d have to make an effort not to read the full riot act to his PA when she finally turned up.
Trouble was, his temper was never sweetened by delay, by less than immediate and superhuman effort in those he employed, or by fools and layabouts!
It was worth a try.