she’d apparently given him. Knowing full well that she’d neglected to buy him anything at all, and that this was her father’s doing, Emily stammered an awkward response, blushing vividly under his ironic gaze.
He himself had presented her with a dozen exquisite hand-kerchieves, trimmed with handmade Italian lace.
Correct and so—bo-ring, Emily decided. A duty present if ever there was one, which made her feel slightly better about the book.
But she was grateful when he absented himself during the afternoon to go for a long walk, leaving her alone with her father to play backgammon, an annual needle-match with no quarter given, or expected.
‘So what do you think of Rafaele?’ her father asked suddenly as she set up the board for the game.
She shrugged. ‘I try not to think about him at all,’ she returned nonchalantly, reaching for the dice box.
For a moment she thought her father had frowned, but decided he was simply wearing his deep-concentration expression in honour of the event’s solemnity.
‘You’ve improved,’ he announced later as Mrs Penistone came in to draw the curtains and bring the tea.
Emily pulled a face at him. ‘You let me win,’ she accused as she put the board and counters back in their leather case.
‘Nonsense,’ he said robustly and got up to poke the fire.
The moment his back was turned, she became aware that the housekeeper was beckoning to her, and she followed her from the room.
‘Is something wrong?’
‘There’s been a special delivery for you, Miss Emily—at the back door.’
Mrs Penistone was looking roguish. ‘Brought by a nice young man.’
‘Oh.’ Emily coloured as the older woman produced a small flat package tied up in Christmas wrap. It had to be from Simon, she thought, her heart beating faster, so she would take it to her room and open it in private.
On her way along the gallery upstairs, she took the tiny card from its envelope and read the scrawled message. ‘For Emily—my fantasy girl. S.’
Unable to control her curiosity any longer, she tore away the wrapping and paused, staring down at what lay in the folds of paper.
It was underwear, she realised, but not like anything she had ever worn in her life. There was a bra consisting of two triangles of filmy black gauze joined by narrow ribbon and a matching thong.
For a moment she felt confused. So far, Simon’s courtship of her had been deliberately restrained, even though there were times when his slow kisses made her ache with frustration. He’d always said he was prepared to be patient—that she was worth waiting for.
Until now. Until this—astonishing volte face. Was this—really—how Simon thought of her? she wondered, her skin warming. How he saw her? And if so…
‘Emilia.’
She hadn’t heard the door of the Gold Room open, let alone the sound of his approach, yet there was Rafaele Di Salis, standing right in front of her. And, jolted out of her reverie, she started violently, her slackened grasp allowing the tiny scraps of lingerie and the accompanying card to fall to the carpet between them.
For a moment, Emily stood, stricken. Oh, God, she moaned under her breath, diving frantically to retrieve them. But Rafaele Di Salis was there before her, straightening with the bra and thong dangling incongruously from a fastidious forefinger.
His brows lifted. ‘A gift from an admirer?’ His tone was coolly dispassionate.
‘I don’t think that’s any of your business,’ she returned curtly. If she’d blushed before, she was burning now from head to foot. Oh, why hadn’t she waited until she was safely in her room to open her parcel? For him, of all men, to see Simon’s present. ‘May I have them back, please?’
‘Certamente.’ He dropped them back into their wrappings with an almost disdainful flick of the hand.
Emily bit her lip. All she really wanted to do now was walk away from him and die in a place where her corpse would never be discovered. On the other hand, she didn’t want her father to receive a full description of the incident, she realised resignedly. So—something would have to be done.
She said stiltedly, ‘I—I thought you were out walking.’
He shrugged. ‘Your father suggested I return in time for tea. He said it was quite an occasion.’ He glanced down at the bra and thong, his mouth twisting. ‘I see he was right.’
‘They were intended as a joke,’ she said quickly. ‘But I don’t think Daddy would find it very funny.’
‘Then, perhaps, we should not distress him by mentioning it.’
‘No,’ she said. Adding reluctantly, ‘Thank you.’
She waited, but he made no attempt to move, and she was aware of his gaze resting on her reflectively.
She cleared her throat. ‘I—I know what you must be thinking…’
‘No,’ he said quite gently. ‘You do not.’ And handed her the card with Simon’s message. ‘As a matter of fact, I too am enjoying a fantasy,’ he went on. ‘But mine does not involve clothing—of any kind.’
He gave her a cool, impersonal smile and walked on, leaving Emily gasping as if she’d been winded.
She spent a long time in her room, trying to summon up the courage to go down and face the tiny sandwiches, the featherlight scones with cream and the huge elaborate Christmas cake that Mrs Penistone had provided. Because she’d be expected to sample all of them under the sardonic gaze of their guest, and any loss of appetite would be noted and commented on by her father.
Which, in turn, would provide further opportunities for that appalling—that vile Rafaele Di Salis to amuse himself at her expense, she realised stormily.
Because that was all it had been. Yet another dubious joke, but one which he’d had no right to make.
Except that a girl who’d just received a secret gift of suggestive underwear from her boyfriend could hardly be prim about some mild sexual teasing. But, however she rationalised it, the memory still made her squirm uncomfortably.
I just wish he’d complete his business with Daddy and go, she told herself as she put the underwear back in its wrappings and buried it deep in a drawer, then went slowly and reluctantly down to the drawing room.
‘Well?’ Simon breathed into her ear. ‘Are you wearing them?’
Emily looked down at herself—at the demure white silk shirt with its deep Puritan-style collar, and the ankle-length velvet skirt in shades of dark blue and turquoise.
‘Er—no.’ She made her tone placatory. ‘They didn’t seem quite right—not under this.’
‘Well, maybe,’ he conceded moodily. ‘Tell me something, Em. Don’t you ever get tired of playing Daddy’s little girl?
