was glaring at the heavy panelled door when it finally opened and Lottie hurried in, all breathless apologies and pointed lack of eye contact. Reaching behind him for the bell that rang down in the kitchens, he waited in cold silence as she walked the interminable length of the table to join him. He watched from beneath the sweep of lowered lashes as she carefully sat down, sliding long legs under the table, shaking open her napkin to cover her lap.
Tearing his eyes away, he seated himself beside her at the head of the table, steadfastly refusing to acknowledge just how adorable she looked. Her hastily washed and dried hair had resulted in a cloud of tumbling blonde curls that she had loosely twisted into a knot on top of her head, and already escaping tendrils were framing her delicate features. A short jersey dress, its colour a darkest purple, hugged her slender curves in a way that already had the blood racing around his veins.
Lifting a heavy crystal decanter, he started to fill Lottie’s glass, watching as her slender fingers curled nervously around the stem. Then, raising his own glass between them, he saw Lottie automatically doing the same. What exactly were they toasting? With her meltingly clear blue eyes mercilessly trained on him he felt for the bedrock of bitterness to help him counter their effect and found it in the pit of his stomach, where it had sat ever since she had left him.
‘Your good health.’
It was hardly the warmest of toasts. Lottie looked at his darkly glowering face over the rim of her wine glass. She knew he was angry that she was late for dinner; he had already been in a bad mood when he had woken her up from her unexpected nap, banging on her bedroom door, demanding to know what was keeping her. But her promise of ten minutes had proved impossible to achieve and, torn between nervousness at keeping him waiting and a desire to make herself look at least half decent, the latter had won.
Though now she wondered why she had bothered. It would appear that her hastily applied makeover had simply darkened Rafael’s already coal-black mood.
‘Yes—salute.’ After taking a small sip, Lottie put down her glass and concentrated on straightening the already straight silver cutlery, wondering just how she was going to get through this ordeal.
Almost immediately two waiting staff appeared, and in the flurry of dishes being revealed from under domed silver lids and food being expertly served onto their plates Lottie was able to ignore, at least for the moment, the ill-tempered man at her side.
When the staff finally left he pointedly waited for her to pick up her knife and fork before doing the same.
‘I suggest we eat this now, before it is completely ruined.’
He really was determined to be relentlessly bad-tempered, wasn’t he? This evening was going to be horrendous.
But the meal was delicious and, seated beside Rafael in this magnificent cavernous room, drinking mellow red wine from the ancient, vaulted cellars beneath them, Lottie could feel herself being transported back to the life of wealth and privilege that she had torn herself away from so violently two long years ago. Rafael’s world. And even though he was casually dressed now, in jeans and a soft cotton shirt open at the collar, he still looked every inch the master—every inch the Conte di Monterrato.
The conversation was limited, with Lottie’s attempt at small talk falling on stony ground and Rafael seemingly too intent on eating his meal to discuss the weightier subject, though it hovered between them like an uninvited guest at the meal.
Instead Lottie found herself surreptitiously watching him, drawn to the shape of his mouth as it moved, the sweeping line of his jaw, now shadowed with a stubble that covered some of the bruising, the way dark curls fell over his forehead when he lowered his head, only to be pushed back with an impatient hand. In the flickering light of the candelabra set on the table between them his injuries were much less visible, and he looked alarmingly like the old, impossibly handsome Rafael.
The meal finally over, Rafael suggested that they go into the salon and, reluctantly relinquishing her hold on a crumpled linen napkin, Lottie followed him across the marble hallway into the warmth of the relatively modest room. Coffee and cognac were waiting for them on a low table in front of the fire and they seated themselves side by side on the antique sofa. Rafael started to pour her a balloon glass of brandy but Lottie shook her head. She had had enough alcohol; she could feel it seeping into her bones, threatening to muddle her senses. Coffee was a much more sensible idea.
Wrestling with the heavy silver pot, she poured coffee into two china cups and passed one to Rafael. Then crossing her legs, she tried to settle herself beside him, one hand holding a rattling cup, the other one tugging her dress down over her thighs.
‘So, have you thought any more about my suggestion?’
The truce was obviously over, and the air was immediately filled with the magnitude of his question.
‘Of course I have.’ She turned to face him, the sofa springs twanging beneath her. ‘And I must say that I don’t appreciate the emotional blackmail.’
Rafael spanned the fingers of one hand across his temples, shielding his eyes as if it pained him even to look at her. ‘I was merely pointing out that you have a strong maternal instinct. There is no need to be ashamed about that.’
‘I’m not ashamed!’
‘So you are not denying, then, that in theory you would like to have a baby?’ Suddenly he was giving her the full force of his gaze again.
‘Yes...no. That is not the point.’
‘Because if you would, Lottie, now is your chance to do something about it. I’m sure I don’t need to tell you that with the fertility problems you have suffered your chances of having a child with someone else might well prove...challenging.’
‘And yours would be non-existent.’
It was a cruel jibe and Lottie could feel the heat of it slash across her cheeks. But she wasn’t going to take it back; he deserved it.
‘Touché.’
He owned the few dark seconds of silence and Lottie felt increasingly bad with each one that passed.
‘So we are both in the same situation. And that has to be all the more reason to make the right decision now.’
Lottie placed her cup back down on the table. He had an answer for everything, didn’t he? Except Seraphina. He never wanted to talk about their baby daughter. Well, now she was going to make him.
She sucked in a deep, empowering breath. ‘Do you ever think about Seraphina?’ The out-breath of words whistled between them like a bullet. And she knew her aim had been sure by the immediate clench of Rafael’s jaw.
‘Of course I do.’ His voice was sharp but he still couldn’t hide the emotion behind it. Neither could the shuttered look in his eyes that were fixed on her face. ‘How can you even ask such a question? Seraphina was my baby too, in case you’ve forgotten.’
The vulnerability had gone, immediately replaced with the more familiar animosity, but she had caught a glimpse of it—heard him say her name. Seraphina. Spoken with that beautiful Italian intonation. It was all she could do not to ask him to repeat it, over and over again, until she was full to the brim with it.
She looked down from his injured face to the hand that was resting on his muscular thigh, the back of it crisscrossed with the scars and scratches from his accident, reminding her yet again just what he had been through.
Impulse made her reach towards it, tentatively rest her own pale hand over the top of it. ‘Maybe I have. I’m sorry.’
The connection between them was immediate, tingling with the sharp pinpricks of recalled intimacy, until Rafael quickly pulled away, running the same hand through his hair as if to cleanse himself of her. He moved slightly in his seat as he took control again.
‘I know we can never replace Seraphina, nor would we want to, but there is nothing to stop us having a healthy child, Lottie. I want you to understand that.’
‘Rafe...’