The Italian Prince's Proposal. Susan Stephens
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hardly daring to breathe as they stood just inside the door to Miranda’s bedroom. It felt as if the conversation downstairs had been going on for ever while their father satisfied himself as to their visitor’s identity and then invited him into the house, but at his signal they started down the stairs.
Emily was dressed in her customary relaxing-at-home-uniform of blue jeans and a simple grey marl tee shirt. Her well-buffed toenails, devoid of nail varnish, were shown off in a pair of flat brown leather sandals, while her long black hair was held up loosely on top of her head with a tortoise-shell clip.
In complete contrast, Miranda had somehow found enough time to coat the area around her large green eyes with copious amounts of silver glitter, add blusher to her cheeks and staggeringly high platform shoes to her seemingly endless legs.
Surely there could be no mistake, Emily thought, giving her twin the final once-over before they reached the sitting room door. Signor Bussoni would immediately presume it was Miranda he had seen on stage. ‘Relax,’ she whispered, taking hold of her twin’s wrist. ‘It’ll be all right.’
‘Then why are you shaking?’ Miranda remarked perceptively.
‘Girls? What’s keeping you? You’ve got a visitor.’
‘We’re coming now, Dad,’ Emily called back, hoping she sounded more confident than she felt. She had no idea what she was up against, and had nothing to go on but that disconcerting voice. For all she knew it might be Herman Munster hiding behind that impressive physique and those super-sleek clothes.
‘Come on, love. What’s the hold-up?’ Popping his head round the door, her father drew her into the room. ‘Your mother will have tea ready in about fifteen minutes,’ he said. ‘You two know each other,’ he added, with an expectant smile.
Emily felt as if her powers of reason had vanished. Her mind’s eye wasn’t simply unreliable, it was positively defective, she decided, gazing up into a man’s face that was almost agonising in its perfection. Thick ebony-black hair, cut slightly longer than was customary in England, was swept back and still tousled from the wind. Conscious he would think her rude, she forced her gaze away, only to discover lips that were almost indecently well formed and the most expressive dark gold gaze she had ever encountered.
Restating his name with a slight bow, Alessandro viewed the two sisters standing one behind the other. ‘Miss Weston,’ he murmured.
Lurching forward in response to Emily’s none too subtle prompting, Miranda extended her hand politely. ‘Delighted to see you, Signor Bussoni,’ she said, letting out an audible sigh when Alessandro raised her hand to his lips.
‘And I you,’ he said in a voice as warm as the sunlight that had tinted his skin to bronze. ‘But, forgive me, it is the other Miss Weston I have come to see.’
‘The other Miss Weston?’ Miranda squeaked, looking helplessly behind her to where Emily was standing rigid, wishing the ground would swallow her up.
‘Indeed,’ Alessandro said in a voice laced with humour. ‘You did invite me, Miss Weston,’ he said, looking straight at Emily.
Shock rendered both sisters speechless, and for a moment no one moved or spoke. If their own parents couldn’t tell them apart, how could Signor Bussoni? Emily wondered tensely. She breathed a sigh of relief as her mother breezed into the room.
‘Ah, Signor Bussoni, what a pleasure it is to have you in our midst.’
‘The pleasure is all mine, I assure you,’ Alessandro said, inclining his head towards the older woman in an elegant show of respect.
‘I see you’ve met my girls.’ Looking from Emily to Miranda, she clearly couldn’t contain herself another moment. ‘Have you heard Miranda play yet?’ she said expectantly. ‘The violin,’ she prompted, when Alessandro stared at her blankly. ‘Her interpretation of the Brahms” Violin Concerto” is second to none, you know. She won a competition with that piece.’
Emily’s face flared hot as she realised that her mother was completely oblivious to the tension building around her.
‘The violin?’ Alessandro’s face betrayed nothing but polite enquiry, but beneath the surface his mind was working overtime. Had he been hoist by his own petard? His plan had seemed audacious enough, but this family appeared intent on embroiling him in something even more ambitious. He glanced again at the girl her mother had called Miranda. Her provocative clothing and extravagantly made up face marked her out as a showgirl…but apparently she was a classical violinist. And then his gaze switched to the fresh-faced beauty he had come to see…the angel with the faintly flushed cheeks and the incredible jade-green eyes who masqueraded as a showgirl by night…To say the contrast intrigued him was putting it mildly. But what the hell was he getting himself into? Taking another look at Emily, he found he could not look away. He would have carried right on staring, too, had it not been for her sister’s protestation providing him with a distraction.
‘Oh, Mother, really,’ Miranda said now, looking at Emily to back her up.’ Signor Bussoni doesn’t want to hear about all that—Emily, say something.’
Emily, Alessandro mused, running the name over and over in his mind and loving its undulating form, its perfect proportions, its old English charm…Emily, Emily—Her mother fractured his musings with terrier-like determination.
‘Emily won’t stop me telling Signor Ferara all about your wonderful talent, Miranda. If no one speaks of it, how will you ever play that violin you so loved in Heidelberg?’
‘Mother, please,’ Emily cut in gently. ‘I imagine Signor Bussoni’s time is very precious. He’s come here to talk about recording contracts for Miranda’s band. I’m sure there will be other occasions when he can hear her play the violin.’
‘Oh…’ Mrs Weston hesitated, looking from one to the other in frustration.
‘That would give me the greatest pleasure,’ Alessandro agreed. ‘But it was you I heard singing last night,’ he stated confidently, turning to Emily, his bold gaze drenching her in the sort of heat she had only read about in novels.
‘Emily took over for me because I caught a cold and lost my voice,’ Miranda confessed self-consciously. ‘As a rule, no one can tell us apart.’
‘I see,’ Alessandro said, nodding thoughtfully as he studied Emily’s face. He would have known her anywhere…even if there had been five more identical sisters lined up for his perusal.
Emily tried hard to meet his stare, but he disturbed her equilibrium in a profound and unsettling way.
‘Singing is just a hobby for me,’ she started to explain. ‘You would have signed up the band right away if Miranda had been onstage—’
‘Possibly,’ Alessandro murmured, confining himself to that single word while his eyes spoke volumes about his doubt. He couldn’t have cared less if Emily had a voice like a corncrake…and beauty was in the millimetre, he realised, as he filled his eyes, his mind and his soul with the face and form of a woman he desired like no other. Emily Weston was everything he wanted…everything he needed to set his plan in motion. No, much more than that, he realised, and only managed to drag his gaze away from her when the telephone shrilled and everyone but he made a beeline for the door.
‘Let me,’ Emily’s father insisted calmly, easing his way through the scrum.
‘Won’t you sit down, Signor Bussoni?’ Mrs Weston said awkwardly.’ Miranda, go and fetch the tea tray.’
‘Do you mind if I—?’ Swaying a little, Miranda stopped mid-sentence and passed a hand over her forehead.
‘You’ve still got a fever. You really should go to bed,’ Emily observed, taking hold of her twin’s arm. ‘You’ll never get better if you don’t rest. I’ll see her upstairs,’ she said, turning to her mother. ‘If you’ll excuse me for a moment, Signor Ferara?’ she added to Alessandro. ‘I’ll come down and serve the tea,’ she promised, ushering her sister