The Last Heir of Monterrato

‘Yes—yes, it did.’ His undone bow tie lay blackly around his neck, where the top button of his shirt was open. ‘Thank you for your part in it. I know you don’t find these things easy.’

Lottie bristled. Why was he thanking her as if she was just another member of his staff? And what did he mean about her not finding it easy? Had she looked as awkward as she had felt?

Sitting very straight, she hid behind a mask of dignity. ‘Well, I hope I conducted myself appropriately.’

Rafael’s dark eyes turned in her direction at the frostiness of her voice.

‘Obviously I want to do everything I can to help the Seraphina Foundation. Now that I know it exists, that is.’

‘Yes, of course.’ He ignored the barb. ‘It was a worthy performance.’

Worthy performance?

Heat swept through her body at his derisive, arrogant comment. Taking a deep, controlling breath, she felt the bodice of her gown tighten around her, pushing her breasts upwards.

Rafael looked away.

‘And how would you describe your performance, then?’ she asked.

Rafael’s eyes swung back, eyes dangerously dark beneath the sweep of his lashes. ‘I did what I had to do.’

‘Oh, you did that all right, Rafael. You were lapping up the attention of those fawning women, weren’t you? Why don’t you admit that you loved every minute of it?’ She threw the acid words at him. ‘That awful Eleanora woman was virtually climbing inside your trousers and you did nothing to stop her.’

His very Latin shrug of the shoulders had Lottie digging her nails down into her palms. Without using a single word he had managed to convey not only his disregard for her opinion but his contempt for her feelings. Her remarks had been so petty that they weren’t even worthy of a reply.

Lottie was still struggling with silent, impotent rage, berating herself for letting this hideously jealous harpy escape, when she heard Rafael getting up from his chair, muttering something softly in Italian under his breath.

‘Look, Lottie, why don’t we just agree that we have both done our best, that the evening was a success, and leave it at that? Now it’s late and you need to go to bed. It’s important you don’t get overtired.’

Lottie glared at him, fury stinging the backs of her eyes. It was important that she didn’t get over-stressed, overwrought, over-bubblingly, seethingly angry too. But he didn’t seem to care about that.

‘And I take it I will be going to bed alone?’

The words escaped before she could stop them and her hand flew, too late, to her mouth. She already knew that Rafael wouldn’t be coming to her bed that night. He had made that perfectly clear without the need for any words. Why on earth was she demeaning herself by asking him to say it out loud?

But the shock of her question was totally eclipsed by the devastation of his answer.

‘Yes. I have been meaning to talk to you about that. Obviously you are going to need your own space in the palazzo. I have arranged for a suite of rooms in the south wing to be made available to you. Your things will be moved there tomorrow.’

Lottie felt her anger seep away, only to be replaced by an emotion a hundred times worse. Like a tidal wave of heartache it swamped her, leaving her feeling weak and breathless and alone—terribly alone. So this was how it was to be. This was Rafael’s vision for their future. She was to be locked away for the duration of her pregnancy—exiled like a swelling Mrs Rochester—in the south wing. And after the baby was born...? Who knew what he had planned? Presumably something even more hideous. An island somewhere so remote that he would be able to pretend that she didn’t exist at all?

She raised eyes so heavy with sadness that they could hardly bear to look at him, desperately trying to find something in the tight mask of his face, the cold blackness of his eyes, that she could take some comfort from. But there was nothing. Just the twitch of a muscle beneath the scarred cheekbone.

‘The south wing, you say?’ Her voice was barely more than a whisper in the cavernous quiet of the room.

‘That’s right. I thought that would be for the best.’

‘The best for whom, exactly?’

‘For you—for both of us. For all concerned. I think it’s important we lay down the ground rules right from the start. So we both know where we stand.’

‘Oh, I think you have done that, Rafael.’ Lottie bit down hard on her lip to try and stop it trembling. ‘Rest assured. I know exactly where I stand.’

Stumbling to her feet, she snatched up a handful of the oyster silk of her gown, turned and fled from the room.

CHAPTER ELEVEN