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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 girl. S.’
Unable to control her curiosity any longer, she tore away the wrapping and paused, staring down at what lay in the folds of paper.
It was underwear, she realised, but not like anything she had ever worn in her life. There was a bra consisting of two triangles of filmy black gauze joined by narrow ribbon and a matching thong.
For a moment she felt confused. So far, Simon’s courtship of her had been deliberately restrained, even though there were times when his slow kisses made her ache with frustration. He’d always said he was prepared to be patient—that she was worth waiting for.
Until now. Until this—astonishing volte face. Was this—really—how Simon thought of her? she wondered, her skin warming. How he saw her? And if so…
‘Emilia.’
She hadn’t heard the door of the Gold Room open, let alone the sound of his approach, yet there was Rafaele Di Salis, standing right in front of her. And, jolted out of her reverie, she started violently, her slackened grasp allowing the tiny scraps of lingerie and the accompanying card to fall to the carpet between them.
For a moment, Emily stood, stricken. Oh, God, she moaned under her breath, diving frantically to retrieve them. But Rafaele Di Salis was there before her, straightening with the bra and thong dangling incongruously from a fastidious forefinger.
His brows lifted. ‘A gift from an admirer?’ His tone was coolly dispassionate.
‘I don’t think that’s any of your business,’ she returned curtly. If she’d blushed before, she was burning now from head to foot. Oh, why hadn’t she waited until she was safely in her room to open her parcel? For him, of all men, to see Simon’s present. ‘May I have them back, please?’
‘Certamente.’ He dropped them back into their wrappings with an almost disdainful flick of the hand.
Emily bit her lip. All she really wanted to do now was walk away from him and die in a place where her corpse would never be discovered. On the other hand, she didn’t want her father to receive a full description of the incident, she realised resignedly. So—something would have to be done.
She said stiltedly, ‘I—I thought you were out walking.’
He shrugged. ‘Your father suggested I return in time for tea. He said it was quite an occasion.’ He glanced down at the bra and thong, his mouth twisting. ‘I see he was right.’
‘They were intended as a joke,’ she said quickly. ‘But I don’t think Daddy would find it very funny.’
‘Then, perhaps, we should not distress him by mentioning it.’
‘No,’ she said. Adding reluctantly, ‘Thank you.’
She waited, but he made no attempt to move, and she was aware of his gaze resting on her reflectively.
She cleared her throat. ‘I—I know what you must be thinking…’
‘No,’ he said quite gently. ‘You do not.’ And handed her the card with Simon’s message. ‘As a matter of fact, I too am enjoying a fantasy,’ he went on. ‘But mine does not involve clothing—of any kind.’
He gave her a cool, impersonal smile and walked on, leaving Emily gasping as if she’d been winded.
She spent a long time in her room, trying to summon up the courage to go down and face the tiny sandwiches, the featherlight scones with cream and the huge elaborate Christmas cake that Mrs Penistone had provided. Because she’d be expected to sample all of them under the sardonic gaze of their guest, and any loss of appetite would be noted and commented on by her father.
Which, in turn, would provide further opportunities for that appalling—that vile Rafaele Di Salis to amuse himself at her expense, she realised stormily.
Because that was all it had been. Yet another dubious joke, but one which he’d had no right to make.
Except that a girl who’d just received a secret gift of suggestive underwear from her boyfriend could hardly be prim about some mild sexual teasing. But, however she rationalised it, the memory still made her squirm uncomfortably.
I just wish he’d complete his business with Daddy and go, she told herself as she put the underwear back in its wrappings and buried it deep in a drawer, then went slowly and reluctantly down to the drawing room.
‘Well?’ Simon breathed into her ear. ‘Are you wearing them?’
Emily looked down at herself—at the demure white silk shirt with its deep Puritan-style collar, and the ankle-length velvet skirt in shades of dark blue and turquoise.
‘Er—no.’ She made her tone placatory. ‘They didn’t seem quite right—not under this.’
‘Well, maybe,’ he conceded moodily. ‘Tell me something, Em. Don’t you ever get tired of playing Daddy’s little girl? You’re past the age of consent, so isn’t it time you grew up and started being a woman? My woman, in fact?’
She gasped. ‘I thought we’d agreed to wait.’
‘And I’ve been waiting, for God’s sake. Have a heart, honey. I’m only human and I’m getting sick of walking away from you with just an ache in my guts.’
Her cheeks warmed and she looked round in embarrassment. ‘Simon—keep your voice down. People will hear you.’
‘What are they going to hear? That I want you? That’ll come as no surprise to anyone in the neighbourhood—except your father, maybe.’ He moved fractionally closer. ‘Isn’t there some way we can be together, sweetheart?’
‘You mean this evening?’ Emily was incredulous. ‘But I’m my father’s hostess. I can’t just—disappear. Besides, I’m under orders to make sure that our house guest meets everyone,’ she added with a touch of bitterness.
‘You mean the tall Mediterranean job who’s been roaming round the village lately?’ Simon snorted. ‘I wouldn’t worry about him.’
‘But I have to worry. I was in trouble yesterday for spending time in my room when I should have been dancing attendance on him. Daddy actually ticked me off about it, when I was on my way up to bed.’
She sighed. ‘So now I’m supposed to compensate for yesterday’s rudeness by looking after him tonight. Making sure he’s not bored—keeping his drink freshened and all that stuff.’
‘You could have a problem there,’ Simon informed her. ‘Because all the women in the room are clustered round him, drooling. You’d probably have to kill to reach him.’ His voice sank to a persuasive whisper. ‘Sweetheart, this is a big house. There must be somewhere we can go—just for a while?’
Emily bit her lip. Was that how he wanted their first time together? she asked herself, troubled. A snatched encounter in some empty bedroom with the threat of discovery hanging over them?
She said quietly, ‘Simon, I can’t. My father’s bound to miss me and we can’t take the risk.’
‘Later, then. When the party’s over and everyone’s gone.’ His voice was urgent. ‘I’ll give it a couple of hours, then I’ll come back across the garden, so leave the conservatory unlocked for me, hmm?’
He paused. ‘Please, darling. It would mean so much to know you’re ready to trust yourself to me.’
Emily hesitated miserably, then nodded. ‘If—that’s what you want.’
His grin was triumphant. ‘Oh, you’ll want it too, my pet, I promise you that. And wear my present, eh?’
Emily moved away, aware that her mouth was dry and her heart thudding uncomfortably. Some instinct made her look across the room and she realised that, hemmed in as he was, Rafaele Di Salis was watching her, his dark face expressionless.
And she’d already turned away before she remembered she’d intended to stare back.
She was on edge for the rest of the evening. Someone—some stranger outside herself—moved through the groups of people, smiling and talking, but was unable to recollect a single word that had been said.
However there was nothing wrong with her eyesight. And it seemed that Simon had been perfectly correct about Rafaele Di Salis’s ability to attract the women in the room. In particular, Jilly Aubrey seemed so attached to his side that it would probably need a surgical operation to remove her. Which proved, Emily told herself waspishly, that there was no accounting for taste.
It seemed to have been a good party, however. Everyone was saying so as they reluctantly departed. In the hallway, someone produced a sprig of mistletoe and kisses were freely exchanged amid laughter and cheering. Emily had to submit to her fair share, smiling with spurious brightness as she did so. But Simon was not among the claimants.
‘I didn’t see the Aubreys leave.’ She tried to speak casually as the door closed behind their last guests.
‘They went nearly an hour ago,’ Sir Travers returned. ‘Apart from the girl Jillian,’ he added disapprovingly. ‘She stayed on, having persuaded to Rafaele to drive her home later.’
Now why does that not surprise me? Emily thought ironically.
The clearing up after the party was accomplished swiftly and efficiently by Mrs Penistone and the extra staff hired for the evening, and eventually Emily was able to go up to her room, but not before she’d slipped unobtrusively through the dining room to the conservatory beyond and unlocked the door.
She could only hope that the housekeeper would not decide to carry out a last-minute double-check.
Or was that really what she was hoping for? Because, if she was honest, she felt almost sick with apprehension as she undressed and took a quick shower.
Reluctantly, she put on the bra and thong and took a wincing look at herself in the mirror. She didn’t look or feel in the least sexy, she thought wretchedly. Just uncomfortable and—in-credibly stupid. But if this was how Simon wanted her…
All the same, she was glad to cover up by zipping herself into her dark green velour robe.
Why was she hesitating? she wondered, as she brushed her hair into a silken cloud on her shoulders. Tonight was a turning point in her life—the magic time when she would belong at last to Simon—the man she loved—and it would be beautiful—wonderful, because he would make it so for her.
And, drawing a deep breath, she slipped out of her room, closing the door behind her with immense care, and went silently down the shadowed stairs to keep her rendezvous.
CHAPTER TWO
EVEN now, three years later, Emily could remember every detail of that short journey. Could recall the brush of the stair carpet under her bare feet, the way the shadows had seemed to distort even the most familiar objects and the soft creaking and groaning as the old house settled for the night.
With every step she’d expected lights to blaze on and her father’s voice demanding to know what she was doing.
She supposed she’d have to say that she couldn’t sleep and was going to the kitchen to heat some milk. He’d believe her, because she’d never given him cause to do otherwise. Or not until now, she’d thought, her throat closing.
More than once she’d been tempted to turn back. To take refuge in her room and find some excuse that would placate Simon for her failure to show.
But I love him, she’d reminded herself almost feverishly. I should be wanting to make him happy, not pacify him.
When she was in his arms, she would feel differently. She was sure of it. Convinced that this little knot of coldness in the pit of her stomach would dissolve into something altogether warmer and more receptive.
And yet…
She’d have been lying to herself if she hadn’t hoped that her first time with Simon would have been more meaningful in some way. More romantic than these hasty and covert moments ahead of her.
Although, as she’d gathered from the conversation of her more sophisticated school friends, usually the first time was no big deal. Merely something that needed to be got out of the way, so that more pleasurable experiences could follow.
There was also the vexed question of birth control. Emily reckoned uneasily that she was the only girl in the sixth form not to be on the pill. But would Simon have guessed this and made his own arrangements, or would she have to pretend everything was all right—and risk the consequences?
