The Last Heir of Monterrato

‘Stop it, Rafe, you are being ridiculous. It wasn’t your fault. It was nobody’s fault. No one could have foreseen what would happen.’ She reached out to touch him, desperately wanting to be able to ease his misery, but Rafael turned away and her arm was left lowering in mid-air.

‘I am to blame, Lottie. I am responsible for Seraphina’s death. And nothing you can say will change that.’

* * *

The grand ballroom glittered for the occasion, its enormous chandeliers twinkling above the heads of the noisily chattering guests seated around the dozens of tables. Waiters moved expertly between them, pouring the finest Monterrato wines into crystal glasses, serving course after course of delicious food. In the background huge floral arrangements lined the walls and a pianist played soft classical music. And seated side by side at the top table were the host and hostess.

Lottie thought the evening was never going to end. She was struggling, really struggling to keep up the façade, when the whole time all she could think about was her earlier conversation with Rafael. His words were going round her head in a continuous loop, muffling the polite questions of the guests on their table, tripping up her hurried answers.

She had been totally amazed by Rafael’s bitter confession that he felt responsible for Seraphina’s death, was consumed with guilt for what had happened. Why had she never realised this before? But then why would she have done? He had always flatly refused to discuss anything to do with Seraphina. And, judging by the way he had sharply dismissed her from his office, he deeply regretted having discussed it now.

She had tried her hardest to play her part, to do her duty—standing beside Rafael with her beautiful oyster silk evening dress sweeping the ground as they greeted the guests, shaking endless hands, air-kissing expensively perfumed cheeks, smiling politely enough for a rictus grin to set in. More than once she had witnessed the raising of a finely shaped eyebrow, the pout of a recently sculpted lip, as the glamorous and good had politely filed past, no doubt itching to get out of earshot and start whispering amongst themselves about the surprise reappearance of the Contessa.

Well, who would have predicted that?

Lottie cast her eyes around the guests at their table now: a well-known politician, an Italian ambassador, a hugely wealthy investment banker, and their immaculately groomed wives. She wished they would all go home. The wives had soon lost interest in her, turning their attention instead to the gorgeously handsome Conte, each one vying for his attention with decreasing subtlety as the alcohol flowed and the evening wore on.

The banker’s wife, Eleanora, seemed particularly determined to flaunt her charms in his direction, leaning forward to touch his hand, purr into his ear, making sure he had the most advantageous view of her expensively acquired cleavage.

Lottie quietly loathed her for it—loathed all of them as she watched them flirting with her husband. But mostly she loathed herself for caring, for allowing her inner green-eyed monster to make an appearance and having it point out to her so eloquently that Rafael should have married one of these glamorous, rich, titled women. How could she ever have been expected to compete with them? Their marriage had been doomed from the start.

To make matters worse, a sideways glance confirmed that Rafael looked particularly stunning tonight, in a dinner suit and black bow tie. Nobody could wear clothes like Rafael, but it wasn’t just that; it was his magnetism, the effortless unleashed sex appeal that lay beneath the starched white shirt that turned the eyes of every woman in the room in his direction.

He had been perfectly polite to her all evening—when the attentions of these parasitic women had allowed—but Lottie could sense the cool reserve, the hastily erected impenetrable barrier between them. She could see it as clearly as if it were made of steel.

Finally the evening was over and the last of the guests were escorted to the door to be whisked away in their chauffeur-driven limousines. Lottie was exhausted, but she didn’t want to go to bed. She wanted to find Rafael, to talk to him some more, to go over what he had told her and make him see that none of it was his fault.

She found him back in the ballroom, striding tall and dark amongst the post-party debris, thanking the waiting staff individually by name and politely dismissing them. Lottie watched from the doorway as, alone now, he pulled out one of the gilded dining chairs and sat down heavily, stretching out his legs and placing his hands behind his head as he leaned back.

‘Rafe?’

Instantly pulling himself upright, he turned to look at her, the chair creaking beneath him. ‘Lottie. I thought you had gone to bed.’

‘Not yet.’ Weaving her way between the tables, Lottie selected a chair and sat down next to him. There was an awkward silence as she rearranged the skirt of her gown. ‘I thought the evening went well.’