‘So—tell me.’
‘Ten pence,’ she marvelled. ‘I’m not sure it’s worth such a vast sum. I was just wondering how people managed in the past when candles were all the light they had.’
‘With their eyesight in ruins, perhaps,’ Raf said drily. ‘But they would have used many more, I think. Great, glittering chandeliers and banks of candelabra. It would have been—amazing—spettacoloso.’
‘Also a hell of a fire risk.’
‘That too,’ he agreed. ‘But, I wonder again, bella mia, what you were truly thinking.’
She put her book aside, her smile swift and taut as she rose. ‘Right now, I think I should check on supper.’
Which had turned out far better than she could have hoped, the sausages looking brown and succulent, their surrounding batter golden and well-risen.
‘Toad-in-the-hole,’ she announced as she placed the dish in front of him.
‘Santa Madonna,’ he said with disbelief. ‘Tell me the name again.’
She complied. ‘Also bubble and squeak,’ she added demurely, indicating the bowl of potatoes fried with cabbage and chopped onion.
His eyes were alive with laughter as they met hers across the glow of the candles. ‘I think you are winding me up, carissima.’
‘Not at all.’ She paused. ‘Although it isn’t the gourmet food you’re accustomed to, signore.’
He took a substantial helping. ‘I have no complaints, believe me, signora.’
It was the most companionable time they’d spent together. For the most part, they talked about food—their likes and dislikes—and some of the best and worst meals they’d ever eaten, although Raf won hands down here with a pungent description of some of the more exotic courses he’d been served in the Far East, making Emily shudder and gurgle with laughter at the same time.
‘You understand now why I might find toad-in-the-hole disturbing.’ He refilled her wineglass.
‘It’s only fresh fruit for dessert, I’m afraid.’ She began to collect the used dishes together. ‘And not much choice at that. You can have an apple or an apple.’
He pretended to consider. ‘I think I would prefer an apple.’
As he followed her into the kitchen with the dirty plates, Emily, putting cutlery in the sink, glanced through the window and gave a squeak.
‘I can see a light.’ She pointed. ‘Several lights—down there in the distance. Glory hallelujah, I think the power’s back on. Try the switch.’
‘I must do this?’ He sounded rueful. ‘Candlelight is gentler, bella mia. It has more—atmosphere.’
But not the sort she necessarily wished to encourage, Emily realised, her throat tightening.
‘On the other hand,’ she said, ‘I don’t want to end up with ruined eyesight.’
‘No.’ His hand moved to the switch and the kitchen surged into a sudden brightness that broke any spell there might briefly have been. ‘I shall go to check on the boiler—ensure that tonight the radiators are hot in the morning.’
‘And the water,’ she reminded him. ‘You won’t want any more treks upstairs with heavy pans.’
‘Ah,’ Raf said softly. ‘But even that had its compensations.’ He took an apple from the bowl on the counter top and disappeared off to the cellar, leaving Emily’s sense of apprehension growing by the minute.
It was one thing to repeat to herself that she’d already experienced the worst he could do to her. However, believing it was something else again.
And she was nervous about filling the hours until bedtime. Scared that she might find herself watching him again in the lamplit silence and that he might interpret the confusion of her thoughts in his own way.
Because she wasn’t sure she was the same person as the outraged defiant girl of two nights ago, who’d fought not just his possession of her but the treachery of her own senses, and achieved a kind of victory.
Since their marriage, she thought, she’d taught herself quite deliberately to regard Raf as a stranger—an occasional guest to be accorded a polite welcome on arrival, then more or less ignored until his departure.
During the first year, of course, she’d been showered by joint invitations from local people, eager to offer hospitality to the newlyweds. ‘We do so hope we’ll meet your charming husband this time,’ had been the general theme. But she’d refused them all, mendaciously citing Raf’s hectic work schedule as an excuse.
‘We are not a couple,’ she’d wanted to say so many times. ‘We are two separate people trapped in a situation.’
And, as his visits had diminished, it had become easier to think about him less. Even to pretend that he did not really exist as a man. That he was just a disembodied voice on a phone, or a name on a letter.
But now, in the space of forty-eight short hours, he’d placed himself centre-stage in her awareness in every possible way. And it wasn’t just a sexual thing either. In some strange way she was beginning to accept his presence—becoming used to having him around. There’d even been moments over supper when, however reluctantly, she’d actually found herself enjoying his company.
If only I wasn’t married to him—or if the marriage had stayed in name only—maybe we might have been friends, she thought with an odd wistfulness. Then remembered that he’d once offered friendship, which she’d rejected too. What she could not seem to recall was—the reason for her refusal.
But that’s in the past, she told herself decisively. It was tonight she needed to be concerned about, now that Raf had made it clear he intended to take full advantage of his sexual prerogative.
She needed to devise some way of holding him off, and quickly too. Yet, somehow, she didn’t think that simply inventing a headache would work, while pretending she had her period would simply cause complications later.
Maybe some version of the truth would serve her better, she thought unhappily. An attempt to convince him, somehow, that he was wasting his time with her and that he should give up whatever game he was playing and go back to his mistress.
But would he see it that way?
‘Why are you staring into space, cara?’
His voice behind her made her start violently.
She turned, flushing. ‘I was just thinking I’d leave the washing-up until morning,’ she said evasively. ‘I—I’m feeling horribly tired.’
‘Davvero?’ Raf’s expression was sardonic as he disposed of his apple core in the kitchen bin and rinsed his fingers under the tap. ‘Then, as soon as we have had coffee, we will go to bed, mia bella.’
Emily bit her lip. ‘That—isn’t what I meant.’
‘No,’ he said. ‘That, at least, is the truth.’ He
