Pride And The Italian's Proposal (Mills & Boon Modern) Page 3

  Besides, Liza reminded herself as she headed back to her flat for a quiet weekend alone, she wouldn’t have wanted to go anyway. If either man had invited her, she would have refused. Politely, but most definitely firmly. The last thing she needed was a man in her life making her feel inferior, unwanted. Undesirable.

  Although, to be fair, Fausto Danti hadn’t been quite that bad. No, she was projecting onto him the feelings she still had about being so thoroughly rejected by Andrew Felton. Liza closed her eyes, determined not to think of the man she’d convinced herself she’d been love with, only to have him laugh at her, and worse.

  It had been a long time ago now—well, eighteen months—and she hadn’t been that hurt. She hadn’t even loved him, not really, even if at the time she thought she had.

  It was stupid to think of Andrew just because Fausto Danti had been similarly snide. Fausto Danti, Liza acknowledged, was a million times more attractive—and therefore a million times less likely to be interested in her. The sooner she got that through her head, the better.

  As one of four sisters, Liza was used to being around people, but she had never minded her own company and she would normally be perfectly content to spend a weekend alone, even if the weather was dire—as cold and rainy an October as there had ever been.

  This weekend, however, the hours seemed to drag and drag. There were no texts from Jenna even though she’d promised to tell her how she was getting on and, with the weather so miserable, Liza decided to stay inside. On Saturday afternoon, with little else to do, she began to blitz clean the flat; two hours into her efforts, when she was sweaty and dirty and covered in dust, her phone finally buzzed with a text from Jenna.

  Liza, HELP! I’ve come down with the worst cold and everyone here is such a snob. I’m soooo miserable. Please, please come and rescue me.

  ‘Check.’

  Chaz let out a groan as he looked down at the chessboard. ‘How did I not even see that?’

  ‘You never see it,’ Fausto remarked dryly. ‘In all the times I’ve played you in chess.’

  ‘Too true. I think we should try another game.’

  ‘Go Fish?’ Fausto suggested and Chaz laughed.

  ‘That’s about my speed.’ He glanced out of the window at the rain streaking relentlessly down the long diamond panes, the view of Netherhall’s park shrouded in gloom. ‘This weather is horrendous.’ He rose from the unfinished game and began to prowl about the elegant confines of the study.

  ‘If you’re going to have a house party in October,’ Fausto remarked, ‘you should expect rain.’

  ‘It’s not that.’

  Fausto leaned back in his chair as he surveyed his old friend. ‘Let me guess,’ he said. ‘It’s the fact that your so-called guest of honour is currently laid up in bed.’

  Chaz turned to him with his usual ready smile, eyebrows raised. ‘So-called?’

  Fausto lifted one shoulder in a negligent shrug. ‘Did you meet her mother?’

  Chaz did not bother to defend the woman in question, which did not surprise Fausto. The woman had been too appalling, with her breathy voice and her avaricious manner, not to mention her revolting cocktails. The same with the younger sister. Gold-diggers, the pair of them, and he certainly knew how to recognise one. Admittedly, he couldn’t fault either Liza or Jenna, although he still had his suspicions. A woman could seem sweet on the outside and be thinking only about money and prestige.

  Look at Amy...

  But he refused to think of Amy.

  ‘So?’ Chaz answered with a shrug, drawing Fausto out of his grim recollections. ‘I didn’t invite her mother.’

  ‘Still, it’s telling.’

  ‘Of what?’

  Fausto toyed with the queen he’d taken off Chaz a few moments earlier, his long fingers caressing the smooth white marble, memories of Amy still haunting his mind like ghosts. ‘They’re not exactly people of...class.’

  Chaz let out a huff of disbelieving laughter. ‘You sound about a hundred years old. This isn’t the eighteen-hundreds, Danti.’

  It was an accusation Fausto had heard before from his friend. People weren’t supposed to talk about class any more, or the fact that someone with a position in society had a duty to uphold it.

  But it had been drilled into him since he was a child, by both his parents—ideas about respect, and dignity, and honour. Family was everything, and always came first—above happiness, pleasure, or personal desire. He’d rebelled against it all once, and it had cost both him and his family greatly. He had no desire to do it again.

  For a second he saw his father Bernardo’s proud and autocratic face, turned haggard and wasted by disease. Fausto could almost feel his father’s claw-like fingers scrabbling for his own. ‘Family, Fausto. Family always comes first. The Dantis have been the first family of Lombardy for three hundred years. Never forget that. Never dishonour it. You carry our name. You represent it everywhere...’

  It was a responsibility he’d shirked once and now took with the utmost seriousness, a burden he was glad to bear, for the sake of his father’s memory. It defined who he was, how he acted, what he believed. He would never forget he had a duty to his father, to his family, to himself. A duty to act honourably, to protect the family’s interests, to live—and to marry—well, to carry on the Danti name, to run the vast estates that bore his name.

  Chaz, he knew, did not feel the same sense of responsibility that he did. His friend wore his wealth and privilege lightly, carelessly, and he did not let himself be weighed down by expectation or tradition—not, Fausto acknowledged, that his parents, currently living in the south of France, cared too much for either. They were new money, a family of socialites, eager to enjoy their wealth. Yet, for all that, Chaz was as friendly and unpretentious a person as any Fausto had ever met.

  ‘In any case, you’re not serious about this woman, are you?’ he asked.

  ‘I don’t know,’ Chaz returned thoughtfully. ‘I might be.’

  Fausto chose not to reply. He couldn’t see his friend marrying such a nobody, beautiful though she might be, but if he wanted to amuse himself with an affair, that was his own business.

  ‘Hopefully she’ll take some paracetamol then,’ he remarked. ‘So you can at least see her before she has to go home.’ Jenna Benton had shown up at the house late on Friday afternoon, soaking wet and sneezing. She’d barely said a word at dinner, shooting Chaz beseeching looks, and had been holed up in her room ever since.

  The other guests Chaz had invited—the usual tedious selection of socialites and trust fund babies—had been as insipid as Fausto had expected. He should have stayed in London and worked through the weekend, but he’d allowed Chaz to convince him to come. Clearly a mistake.

  ‘Perhaps I’ll check on her now,’ Chaz said, brightening at the thought. ‘Make sure she has tea and toast and whatever else she needs.’

  ‘By all means, go and play nursemaid.’ Fausto replaced the queen piece on the chessboard before gesturing to the door.

  Chaz smiled wryly. ‘Are you going to closet yourself in here all weekend? You could have gone into Guildford with everyone else, you know.’

  ‘In the pouring rain?’ Fausto shook his head. That afternoon the other three guests had gamely gone into town, but Fausto had refused.

  ‘I know my sister in particular is hoping you’ll venture out,’ Chaz remarked slyly. ‘She was the one to insist you come along.’

  ‘I’m sorry to disappoint her.’

  Chaz let out a laugh. ‘I don’t think you’re sorry at all.’

  Fausto decided in this case discretion was the better part of valour. As much as he liked Chaz, he had very little patience with his twittering and vapid sister, Kerry. Chaz laughed again, and shook his head.

  ‘All right, suit yourself. I’m going to check on Jenna.’

  ‘Good luck.’

&nbsp
; As Chaz headed upstairs, Fausto rose from his chair by the fire and walked about the room, as restless as Chaz had been a moment ago. Perhaps he would make his excuses and return to London tonight.

  Danti Investments’ London office had been in lamentable shape when he’d arrived last week, a fact which still made him burn with futile fury for its cause. It would take all his time and effort to get it to the productive place it needed to be before he returned to Milan. He didn’t have time to waste enduring the company of people he actively disliked.

  For a second an image flitted in his mind of someone he didn’t actively dislike...someone he didn’t actually know. Corkscrew curls, hazel eyes, a mocking smile, a willowy figure. Jenna’s sister Liza had been occupying too many of his thoughts since he’d first laid eyes on her last weekend.

  It was absurd, because she was of absolutely no importance to him, and yet he kept thinking about her. Remembering the pointed sweetness of her tone as she’d sparred with him, the lively intelligence in her face, the sweetly enticing curves of her slender figure. It was aggravating in the extreme that he kept thinking about her, especially when he had no desire to.

  When he married, it would have to be to a woman of appropriate status and connections back in Italy, from one of the ancient families he’d known for many years, who held the same values of honour and respect that he did, who knew how to be his partner in running the vast Danti empire. That had been the promise he’d made to his dying father, and he intended to keep it.

  As for other, less honourable, possibilities...he had no desire to get caught up in some run-of-the-mill affair that would undoubtedly run its short and predictable course, and in doing so become messy and time-consuming. Sexual gratification could be delayed. Work—and family—were far more important than such base needs.

  The sonorous chimes of the house’s doorbell echoed through the hall and Fausto stilled, wondering what unexpected guest might be making such a late appearance. He waited, but no one came to answer the door; Chaz had to be busy with Jenna, and the staff were no doubt occupied elsewhere. The doorbell rang again.

  With a hurried exhalation of annoyance, Fausto strode out of the study. It was most likely only a delivery man or some such, but he hated rudeness or impunctuality, and not answering the door was both.

  The large entrance hall was empty as he walked through it, towards the front door. Rain streamed down the windows; it really was a deluge out there. Barely reining in his impatience, Fausto threw open the door with a scowl—and then blinked at the bedraggled figure standing there, looking woebegone and forlorn and very, very wet.

  He gaped for a second before his mouth snapped shut and he stared at her, eyebrows creasing together, his mouth drawn down into a disapproving frown.

  ‘Liza Benton,’ he stated coolly. ‘What on earth are you doing here?’

  CHAPTER THREE

  OF ALL THE people to answer the door. Liza blinked through the rain streaming down her face at the sight of Fausto Danti glaring at her so predictably. He didn’t seem like the kind of man who lowered himself to answer doors, so Liza had no idea why he was standing here before her, looking down his nose at her just as he had before.

  What she did know was that she was freezing cold and dripping wet, her clothes sticking to her skin, her hair in rat’s tails about her face as she shivered visibly. When she’d answered Jenna’s summons and arrived in the village of Hartington by train, she’d been told Netherhall was only five minutes’ walk from the station. It was more like fifteen, and thirty seconds after she’d started it had begun to bucket down with rain. So here she was, soaking wet and staring at Fausto Danti. Perfect.

  ‘I’m here to see Jenna,’ she said with as much dignity as she could muster, which she feared wasn’t all that much. ‘She texted me and asked me to come because she wasn’t feeling well.’ It sounded lame to her own ears. Why had she hared off so impetuously after receiving Jenna’s text?

  She’d grabbed her purse and coat and been at the train station in less than twenty minutes, without a thought or care in the world. It was only now, as Fausto Danti regarded her with such chilly hauteur, that she realised how ridiculous—and possibly scheming—she must seem. It wasn’t as if Jenna was at death’s door. She had a cold. Did Danti think she’d come here for him? Liza squirmed inwardly at the humiliating possibility.

  ‘By all means, come inside,’ Fausto said and he stepped aside so Liza could enter, dripping muddy water all over the entrance hall’s gleaming parquet floor. She felt entirely at a disadvantage—wet, cold, dirty and, worst of all, uninvited. And all the while Fausto Danti lounged there, his hands in his pockets, his expression one of unveiled incredulous condescension.

  ‘I’m sorry to come unannounced like this,’ Liza said stiffly. ‘But Jenna sounded completely miserable, and I didn’t want her to be alone.’

  ‘She is hardly alone.’

  Any other man, Liza reflected, any normal, polite, kind, well-brought-up man at least, would have graciously dismissed her apology and insist that she needn’t have made it. He would have ushered her in, offered her a cup of something warm and told her she could stay as long as she liked. She was quite sure that was what Chaz Bingham would have done. Why couldn’t he have answered the door? Or his blasted butler? Surely he had one.

  Anyone but Danti. Anyone.

  ‘You are very wet,’ Fausto observed.

  ‘It’s raining.’

  ‘You didn’t take a cab?’

  ‘It wasn’t raining when I left the station,’ Liza returned with some asperity. ‘And I was told it was a five-minute walk. And,’ she flung at him for good measure, sensing it would annoy him somehow, ‘I’m not in the habit of wasting money on cabs.’

  ‘It would have been five pounds, at most,’ her adversary returned mildly, ‘but I take your point. Why don’t you come into the study? There’s a fire in there and you can dry off.’

  This unexpected kindness appeased Liza somewhat, but she was still miffed by his high-handed manner and, moreover, stepping into a study with him felt a bit like entering the lion’s den without either weapon or armour. Besides, she wanted to see her sister.

  ‘I’m here to see Jenna,’ she said, aware that an irritating note of petulance had entered her voice. Fausto raised his eyebrows, his mobile mouth quirking in the smallest of mocking smiles.

  ‘You can hardly see her sopping wet. Besides, Chaz is with her now, and I’m quite sure you don’t want to interrupt whatever tête-à-tête they might be having.’

  Liza frowned at him, trying to gauge his tone. No, she didn’t want to interrupt them, but the sharpness in Fausto’s voice made her feel uneasy and defensive. What was he implying? Another stupid antiquated reference to gold-digging?

  ‘Very well,’ she said, not wanting to pursue the point, and she followed him into a pleasant wood-panelled room where a fire was burning cheerily. Fausto gestured her towards the blaze and as she started towards it, anticipating its wonderful warmth, his hands came to rest on her shoulders.

  She stiffened in shock as an electric awareness pulsed through her, starting from the warmth of his hands on her shoulders and racing to every extremity with disturbing force and speed.

  ‘Your coat,’ he murmured after an endless unsettling moment, and Liza closed her eyes in mortification. He just wanted her coat. What had she been thinking—that he was making a move on her? As if...! Surely she knew better than to think such a thing. She prayed he hadn’t noticed her humiliating reaction.

  ‘Thank you,’ she muttered, and she shrugged out of the wet garment. She turned, and the sight of Fausto Danti with her battered, sopping jacket in his hands, his expression rather bemused, made her suddenly laugh out loud, that moment of unsettling awareness thankfully dissipated.

  He raised his eyebrows in query. ‘What’s so funny?’

  ‘The sight of you with my poor coat in your hand
s. It just looks rather...incongruous.’

  He glanced down at her coat, five years old and bought off the bargain rack, and then with a shrug draped it over a chair. His hooded gaze swept over her, his face as inscrutable as ever, but all the same Liza was conscious of her very wet clothes; without the protection of her coat, she realised they were clinging rather revealingly to her body, and she plucked uselessly at her sodden jumper.

  ‘You should change,’ Fausto said abruptly. ‘Did you bring any spare clothes?’

  ‘No,’ Liza admitted. ‘I—we—won’t be staying.’

  His eyebrows lifted once more. ‘It’s already six o’clock in the evening. You can hardly be returning to London tonight.’

  Liza shrugged, defensive again. ‘Why not? It’s not as if we’re in the sticks out here. There are trains running to London all the time.’

  ‘Not from Hartington. They stop at four in the afternoon. And in any case I’m sure Chaz won’t hear of it. He hasn’t spent any time with Jenna yet.’

  ‘If she has a cold...’

  ‘I have no doubt some paracetamol and a bit of TLC will perk her right up,’ Fausto replied, his tone so dry that Liza prickled again. Why did he have to sound so cynical? What was he accusing Jenna of—just wanting Chaz for his money? It was an ugly idea, as well as a ludicrous one if he’d spent two minutes with her sister. ‘I’ll fetch you some clothes,’ he stated, and turned towards the door.

  ‘I can borrow Jenna’s—’ she protested, but Fausto silenced her with a look.

  ‘Nonsense. You can’t remotely be the same size.’

  Liza blushed at that, for the truth was Jenna was far curvier than she was, as well as a good four inches taller. Still, it annoyed her that Fausto presumed to know their sizes. Before she could make any further protest, however, he was already gone, the door clicking decisively shut behind him and leaving Liza alone in the room.