The Forced Bride. Sara Craven

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      ‘All the better,’ Emily said triumphantly. ‘Count Di Salis prefers his snow in the Italian Alps, designer style. The domestic kind won’t appeal to him at all.’

      For a moment he hesitated, then got to his feet. ‘Then I’ll email them now. Make the deal.’ He paused at the door. ‘Shall I ask Tracey to bring you a hot drink? I won’t specify the flavour, as everything tastes like dishwater.’

      Emily wrinkled her nose. ‘Thanks, my love, but no thanks.’ She hesitated. ‘Have you told your aunt and uncle yet that Mrs Whipple left? I bet they’re devastated after all these years. I know how I’d feel if Penny gave notice.’

      ‘I haven’t said anything yet. They’re having such a great time on their trip, I don’t want to spoil things. And I’ll hire someone else before they get back.’

      Left alone, Emily looked around her. The drawing room at High Gables had always been a gracious room, with its beautiful Chinese carpet and pastel furnishings, but since the housekeeper’s departure it was beginning to look shabby and unloved. Bare too, she thought, with faint puzzlement. The Georgian candlesticks were missing from the mantelpiece and the bow-fronted cabinet containing Celia Aubrey’s prized collection of Meissen figurines seemed half-empty.

      It still seemed incredible that Mrs Whipple should have left while her employers were on their holiday of a lifetime, visiting relatives and old friends on a leisurely trip that would take them all round the world.

      And even worse that her place had been taken by Tracey Mason, even temporarily, who’d been sacked as a barmaid from the Red Lion for poor timekeeping and general laziness.

      And with no one to keep an eye on her except Simon, who was house-sitting in the Aubreys’ absence and running his own import business from High Gables at the same time.

      But, although he might jib at Tracey’s coffee, manlike, he probably didn’t notice unpolished furniture and smeared windows, or tally the amount of breakages.

      I hope he does look for a permanent replacement for her soon, Emily thought with a sigh, because the house is beginning to look really sad now.

      As though its pulse had stopped beating. And that wouldn’t have happened in Mrs Whipple’s day.

      Much as Emily had grieved for her father, she’d been determined, after his death, to see that the Manor remained just as it had been, with all the gracious charm he’d loved, setting her face resolutely against any suggestions of further modernisation. And, although it galled her to admit it, Raf Di Salis had accepted her stance and allowed her to have her way.

      She got up restively and went to the window. I don’t want to give him credit, she thought, but in this case I have to. He’s fulfilled his part of the bargain. And I—I haven’t made waves. Or, not until now.

      She sometimes wondered if she hadn’t been pressured into becoming his wife—if he’d simply acted as her trustee—whether they could have managed some semblance of a working relationship.

      In the months before the bombshell of her father’s terminal illness had burst on her, she might not have welcomed Raf’s visits but she’d almost become accustomed to them.

      And when she’d been summoned home from school in the middle of the summer term to the news that Sir Travers had suddenly collapsed, she’d been almost glad to find him there and had come almost insensibly to rely on his quiet, almost impersonal kindness in the trauma of the weeks that followed.

      An inoperable brain tumour, the doctors had told her, their faces compassionate. And only a matter of time…

      ‘I’ve changed my will,’ Sir Travers said one afternoon when she was sitting with him. ‘You’ll still inherit everything I have to leave, my dearest, but not until you’re twenty-one and better able to cope with that kind of responsibility.

      ‘In the meantime, however, I’ve created a trust and your affairs will be administered by Leonard Henshaw.’ He paused. ‘And also by Rafaele.’

      The breath caught in her throat. ‘Oh, no, surely not.’ The protest was instinctive. ‘Mr Henshaw I can understand, if you think this trust is really necessary, but Count Di Salis is—practically a stranger,’ she added stiltedly.

      ‘I thought that lately you’d become friends.’

      ‘Hardly that, although he’s been—helpful.’

      ‘Nevertheless, this is my decision and it will stand.’ He paused. ‘There is one more thing. As my heiress, you could find yourself the target of unscrupulous people and I wish you to be—properly shielded.

      ‘I have discussed this with Rafaele and he has a suggestion to put to you.’

      Her heart seemed to stop. ‘What—what kind of suggestion?’

      ‘He intends to ask you to become his wife.’ He saw the shock in her pale face and put his hand over hers. ‘Naturally, he would not expect it to be a marriage in the—conventional sense,’ he added awkwardly. ‘Because you’re still young for that kind of commitment, even if you wished it.’ He paused. ‘Do you wish it?’

      ‘No,’ Emily managed.

      Not with him, she thought wildly. Never with him.

      ‘Then, as your husband, Raf would simply become your legal protector for the duration of the trust.’ The drawn face smiled a little. ‘Keeping the wolves at bay, my darling.’

      And who’ll keep him at bay? She thought it, but did not say it.

      ‘And when the trust ends?’ she questioned tautly.

      ‘Naturally, you would both be free to go your separate ways. I have his word on that.’

      Her voice was strained. ‘But this can’t be what he wants either.’

      ‘Perhaps not,’ her father said. ‘Let’s just say it’s his way of repaying an old debt.’ He paused. ‘Emily, I can’t force you to marry Raf Di Salis, but I need to know that when I’m gone, you won’t be alone. For my peace of mind, I beg you to accept his proposal. Do this for me, darling—please. I can rest easy only if I know you’re being cared for.’

      The hoarse words were like nails being driven into her coffin. She said tonelessly, ‘If it’s—really what you wish…’

      ‘It is.’ He patted her hand. ‘Go to him, my dear. He’s waiting for you in the drawing room.’

      Raf was standing by the window when she entered. He looked at her, his face expressionless.

      ‘Your father has told you what I wish to ask?’

      ‘Yes.’

      ‘So—will you be my wife, Emilia?’

      ‘Yes,’ she said again.

      She thought he was going to come towards her and was suddenly assailed by a vivid memory of his arms holding her, his lips caressing hers. She froze and immediately felt foolish, because he hadn’t moved at all. In fact, it was almost as if he’d taken a step backwards, she thought in confusion.

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