Savour it.
He took another mouthful of champagne, savouring that too.
‘To you,’ he said again. ‘To the new, beautiful Elisabetta.’
His voice was liquid over the syllables. Then, abruptly, his brows drew together.
‘How did anyone think to call you Lizzy?’ He said the short form of her name disparagingly.
Lizzy’s eyes flickered uncertainly. ‘I’ve always been Lizzy,’ she said.
‘And yet you were also always Elizabeth—Elisabetta.’ There was a sudden edge in Rico’s voice, which softened as he repeated the Italian form of her name. Then his brows drew together again, questioningly, frowningly. ‘Was it your sister who did it to you?’
The edge was back in his voice.
‘Did what?’ Again her eyes flickered uncertainly.
‘Was it your sister who turned you into Lizzy?’
‘I don’t understand,’ she answered, puzzled and uncertain. ‘I’ve always been called Lizzy. Frizzy-Lizzy, because of my hair. Or Busy-Lizzy, usually.’
‘Did she keep you busy, waiting on her hand and foot?’ His voice was dry.
‘Maria?’ Lizzy’s brow furrowed, confused ‘Maria was the best sister anyone could ever have.’ She felt her throat tighten dangerously. ‘She was truly a golden girl. Everyone loved her. She was so beautiful. She was tall, and slender, and she had long, long legs, and her hair was like honey, and hung straight to her waist, and she had beautiful blue eyes, and even when she was at school the boys were all over her, and when she became a model she was even more beautiful, and no wonder a prince fell for her—’ She halted abruptly.
Rico picked his words carefully.
‘Maria was pretty—very pretty. But she was…’ He paused. Bimbo, Luca had called her. Cruel and callous. And yet Ben’s natural mother had, indeed, possessed the kind of eye-candy looks that gave rise to that harsh dismissal.
‘Hers is not the only kind of beauty,’ he said.
But if Maria’s sister had grown up being told that only candyfloss blondeness was acceptable, that the kind of ultra-slim figure that suited models was the only ticket in town, then no wonder she’d never tried to make anything of the looks she had. No wonder she’d settled for being Busy-Lizzy, living in the shadow of her sister.
‘So who called you Busy-Lizzy?’ The edge was back again.
‘That was Maria,’ she said with a half-laugh, making herself do so. ‘But she didn’t mean it in a bad way. She used to say it to me in exasperation. Because I never—’
She halted, reaching for her glass of champagne and taking a deliberate sip to cover her silence.
‘Never what?’ probed Rico.
What had happened to her? What had made her see herself as ugly? He had thought it might be her sister, and yet she denied it. So what, then?
He wanted to know. Wanted to find out what had been done to her, and by whom.
‘Because you never what?’ he prompted again.
He wanted answers. Wanted to understand. So that the poison in her would come out once and for all. Never to return.
‘I never stopped,’ she answered.
‘Stopped what?’
‘Being busy, I suppose. Being useful.’
‘Who to?’ he asked in a low voice.
He saw her fingers tighten around the stem of her flute.