Scandalous Secret, Defiant Bride. Helen Dickson
Читать онлайн книгу.
very perceptive of you, Mr Lloyd,’ she answered. Tossing him a cool glance, she swept past him into the drawing room, removing her bonnet as she went.
‘Come in, why don’t you?’ he said, chuckling softly, amazed by her daring, not to mention her cheek. Looking at her retreating figure appreciatively, the small train of her dress rustling softly over the carpet, after speaking quietly to Lorenzo in Italian, he followed her and closed the door. ‘Welcome to my humble abode,’ he said, his mouth quirked in a half-smile.
Christina stopped in the centre of the room and turned to face him. ‘There’s nothing humble about your dwelling that I can see, Mr Lloyd—unless, of course, you’re used to something on a far grander scale.’
‘Tell me, Miss Thornton,’ he said, moving to stand in front of her, ‘do you make a habit of calling on gentlemen alone?’
‘Of course not, but I had to come—and with good reason.’
Max’s eyebrows lifted in mute enquiry.
Christina locked her gaze on his. ‘Who are you really? You told me that Lloyd was your mother’s maiden name and that you prefer to use it to avoid complications and to be inconspicuous when you are in this country. So, how are you known in Italy, I would like to know?’
He answered her with slow deliberation. ‘Max—which is short for Maxwell.’
‘I know that. And?’
‘Count—Count Marchesi.’
Her eyebrows shot up. ‘Count? I am impressed.’
His smile widened. ‘I thought you might be.’
‘And why would Count Maxwell Marchesi want to rent a cottage in this out-of-the-way little village in Cambridgeshire masquerading as Mr Lloyd?’
‘I am not masquerading, and I told you I am here to reacquaint myself with old friends and to spend some time in Cambridge.’
‘That may be so, but why go to all the trouble of renting a house? You could have stayed in a hotel in Cambridge.’
‘I prefer the country.’
‘You prevaricate, Mr Lloyd.’
‘I am entitled to. It is, after all, my business where I stay. Had I wanted to stay in Cambridge then I would have done so.’
‘I am convinced there is more to it than that. What is your real reason for coming to Leyton?’
‘There has to be another reason?’
‘Yes, I’m certain of it. What did you want to speak to my parents about yesterday? You don’t know them and, as far as I am aware, you have never met them before. Whatever passed between the three of you upset them terribly. In fact, I’ve never seen my father so upset, or my mother for that matter.’
‘Then I am sorry about that. It was not my intention to cause them distress,’ he said with such sincerity that Christina found herself believing him and wondering if she was barking up the wrong tree. However, she went on regardless.
‘So? Will you tell me?’
‘Have you asked your parents?’
‘Yes. They were non-committal.’
‘So am I.’
‘They dance around the issue—just like you’re doing now.’
‘I cannot tell you.’
‘You mean you won’t.’
‘Both.’
‘Does it concern Peter—or me?’
‘I’ve told you, you must ask your parents. And now no more questions—and it’s too nice a day to be sitting inside. Let me offer you refreshment. You are my first visitor and I would like to welcome you to my home—temporary though it is.’
Christina shook her head. ‘Thank you, but I have to get back.’ She was thinking that James might call and she didn’t want to miss seeing him, yet she was curious to know more about Mr Lloyd—Count Marchesi.
‘Nonsense. I refuse to take no for an answer. Come,’ he said, striding to the door. ‘Lorenzo has prepared tea and cakes for us in the garden.’
‘How very civilised.’
‘We Italians pride ourselves on the warmth of our hospitality.’
‘But it isn’t tea time.’
‘Does it matter?’
‘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