The Italian's Rags-To-Riches Wife. Julia James

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      The expression on the visitor’s face might have made her laugh, but Laura was too taken aback by his presence to find it humorous. What on earth was someone like this doing here—and of all things looking for her? Someone who was not just utterly out of place here, but—she swallowed silently—who was just jaw-droppingly good-looking. Night-dark hair, night-dark eyes, and a face cut with the same chisel Michelangelo must have used. His skin had a natural tan to it, she registered, and as for his clothes…

      They went with the swish car; that was obvious. They screamed designer—from the superb fit across his shoulders to the pristine whiteness of his shirt, the crisp elegance of his tie and the lean length of his trousered legs and the polish on his leather shoes. These clothes had not been made in England—not even by a top Savile Row tailor.

      They were as foreign as he was.

      The final element clicked into place. It was his voice, she realised. It was accented. Perfect, but accented. Italian, she thought, her brain still reeling. That was what he looked like. And even as the word gelled in her head, another emotion went through her.

      Instantly she suppressed it. No, it was just a coincidence, that was all.

      It had to be.

      For a moment longer she just went on staring at him, as he stared back at her, that look of appalled disbelief still in his face. Something about it finally got to her, penetrating her own complete shock at what on earth a man so bizarrely inappropriate for the rain-swept West Country was doing in front of her house.

      She felt her expression stiffen.

      ‘Yes,’ she said brusquely. ‘I am Laura Stowe. And you are—?’

      She waited pointedly, but the man simply went on gazing at her, not bothering to veil the expression in his eyes. It was more than just surprise.

      It was a look she had long been familiar with. She’d been getting it from men all her life. The look that told her, as if it had been written in letters six feet high, that so far as they were concerned she simply didn’t count as a woman.

      She never had.

      Her grandparents, she knew, had been relieved. What they had feared most was a repeat of the fate that had overcome their beloved daughter, born so late in their lives, cherished so closely.

      Until her one rash venture abroad had ruined her life.

      Her grandparents had never overcome the shame of their daughter being an unmarried mother, nor the stigma of their granddaughter’s illegitimacy. Despite their love for her—the more so after her mother had died—Laura knew her grandparents had never come to terms with it. It had never been mentioned, but it had been there all the time, like a stain on her skin. An embarrassment to be coped with, endured—and hidden.

      Wharton was a good place to hide from the world. Remote, secluded, hard to find. But now she felt unease snake through her. Someone had found it. Someone whose apparent nationality was the most unwelcome she could think of.

      But surely, surely that was just a coincidence?

      Laura stood, staring at the man who was a million miles out of place here. The familiar look she was so used to seemed more pronounced in his dark eyes—but why wouldn’t it be? she thought. A man that ludicrously handsome would never surround himself with any females who weren’t his absolute equal in looks.

      The beautiful people.

      The old phrase formed in her mind, suiting itself totally to the man standing on her porch. The beautiful people—glamorous, rich, moving in rich, glamorous circles, in a glittering, fashionable world. A world as far away from hers as Mars.

      But this wasn’t Mars, this was Wharton, and it was her home, and Laura was determined to find out what this man was doing here.

      She stepped forward under the porch, pushing her hood back.

      ‘Perhaps you didn’t hear me. I’m Laura Stowe. What was it you wanted?’ she repeated. Her voice was clipped.

      The eyes flicked over her again. The same reaction in them, but now with something more—something that didn’t have to do with her appearance. Unease tensed her spine again. What was going on? Who was this man and why was he here?

      Tension made her speak again. More brusquely than was polite, but that was the way it came out.

      ‘If you can’t state your business, I must ask you to leave.’

      She saw the dark eyes flash—he didn’t care for being spoken to in that way. Well, it was too bad. He’d turned up here out of the blue, asking for her, and now, when she’d answered him, he wasn’t saying anything.

      The sculpted lips tightened.

      ‘I have a matter of significance to impart to you,’ he said shortly. ‘Perhaps you would do me the courtesy of opening the door so that I may talk to you indoors?’

      Her hesitation was visible. A sardonic look showed in his dark eyes.

      ‘You will be quite safe, signorina,’ he said.

      Dull colour mounted in Laura’s cheeks at his words. She didn’t need smart jibes to tell her she was safe from any untoward advances by men.

      ‘This door is locked,’ she told him. ‘Wait here.’

      Allesandro watched her turn and stomp off along the weed-strewn drive, towards the corner of the house, before disappearing out of sight. For a moment he just stared after where she had gone.

      Dio, the girl was a fright! How the hell had Stefano produced offspring so dire? He’d been a good-looking man himself, and he’d hardly have bothered to seduce this girl’s mother if she hadn’t been pretty—so where had all that genetic legacy disappeared to? As for her personality, it matched her appearance. Ungracious and unmannerly.

      He turned back to stare at the still obdurately closed and locked front door. A flurry of raindrops blew in on him, and another heavy drop landed on his shoulder from one of the several leaks in the roof. He felt his mood worsen even more.

      After what seemed an interminable amount of time the door finally creaked open, and Allesandro stepped inside.

      Immediately, the smell of damp assailed him. For a moment he could see nothing, then he made out a dim hallway, with a dark, cold flagstone floor, and an old chest set against the wall and a grandfather clock. The door closed behind him, cutting out some of the damp and cold, but not a great deal.

      ‘This way,’ said the female he had come a thousand miles to find.

      She was still wearing those unspeakable corduroy trousers, and the absence of the hooded jacket had not improved her appearance, as her top now consisted of a baggy hand knitted jumper with a hole in one elbow and overlong sleeves. Her hair, he noted without surprise, was atrocious: a lank mop that was roughly tied back with a piece of elastic.

      She took him through a baize door and into an old-fashioned kitchen, warmed, he noted thankfully, by an ancient range.

      ‘So, who are you, and what is it that you want to tell me?’ demanded the girl.

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