Marguerite Kaye - The Truth Behind Their Practical Marriage

‘Would it be impertinent of me to ask what it is you’re looking for?’

‘Not impertinent but irrelevant, since I’ve had to accept that I am unlikely to find it.’ She shook her head impatiently. ‘I sound like a malcontent, when I am very much aware that I’m extremely fortunate to be able to do nothing at all, if I choose. You know I can’t imagine how we came to be talking about me again.’

‘Because you’re far more interesting than me?’

‘I cannot agree with you there. I know everything there is to know about me, and almost nothing about you, save that you are a mathematician—and I’ve never met a mathematician before. What is it about the subject that you find so fascinating?’

‘The fact that there is a rational answer to every problem,’ Aidan replied promptly. ‘No ambiguity, no doubt, no guesswork. Find the key, and the problem is solved.’

‘If only life were like that!’

‘My thoughts exactly.’ The dark shadow of the one question he knew now that he’d never resolve dampened his spirits for a second, but Aidan closed his mind to it. Looking down into the expectant face of the lovely Miss Brannagh, it was an easy thing to do. He felt he ought to pinch himself, just to make sure he wasn’t dreaming, but if he was, he didn’t want to wake up. Though for a man who might be dreaming, he’d never felt so alive. It wasn’t only her looks, though she was quite beautiful, with her heart-shaped face and big hazel eyes, lips that really were the colour of cherries, and that hair—true Titian red. Beautiful—yes, she most certainly was that, but it was her earthiness—dreadful word—which made heads turn as she walked past. Her figure was voluptuous. Her smile was generous. She possessed a certain vibrancy, like the warmth of the setting sun. She positively glowed with life. And she seemed determined to live it too. She could not be more different from…

‘You much prefer order, then, Mr Malahide? Mr Malahide?’

‘Order?’ He nodded furiously. ‘Indeed I do. And certainty, and logic. Predictable outcomes. Recognisable patterns—that’s where mathematics and music cross paths. Are you really interested?’

‘I truly am.’

She sounded as if she meant it. Though he had not meant to launch into a lecture, it seemed he had done just that when, coming to a halt he looked back with astonishment at the distance they had walked. ‘I did warn you I’d bore you.’

‘You didn’t. I was hanging on your every word. What’s more I actually understood at least half of what you said. You make it all sound so obvious.’

‘Well that’s because it is, when you have the key, as I said.’ Aidan grimaced. ‘Sadly, what I’ve discovered is that while I’m very good at using the key to unlock the problem, I don’t possess the creative vision, I suppose you’d call it, to actually discover the key myself. Studying here, in the shadow of some of the great, ground-breaking mathematicians, has forced me to acknowledge my limitations.’

‘I think you underestimate yourself. You’ve explained it to me in a way I can understand, and what’s more, you made it sound almost interesting.’

‘That’s an achievement, all right,’ he agreed, laughing. ‘Any time you find yourself with a spare hour or two, let me know and I’ll bore you some more. You’d be astonished how much more sense the world makes when you understand the mathematics that underpin it, from nature to the artefacts in the Uffizi that you so despise.’

‘Shh, that is our secret.’ Miss Brannagh glanced theatrically over her shoulder. ‘And I don’t actually despise art, I just don’t understand why people get so passionate about it.’

‘Aren’t you passionate about music?’

‘Yes, but it is a personal pleasure. I don’t feel the need to bore all and sundry on the subject.’

‘Well that’s me put firmly in my place.’

Her hand flew to her mouth. ‘I didn’t mean…’

‘I’m teasing you.’

‘Oh! We used to tease each other mercilessly at home, but I’m afraid I’ve rather lost the knack, Mr Malahide.’

‘Call me Aidan, and I promise to help you rediscover your ability to tease and be teased.’

‘Then you must call me Estelle, and I would caution you to be careful what you wish for.’

He grinned. ‘Oh, I think I’m prepared to take that chance. Now, here we are at last.’

Aidan watched her anxiously as they were seated in the rustic, verging on basic osteria , the proprietor raising his brows theatrically when he saw Estelle preceding him into the cool of the dark little room, silently mouthing Bella.

‘As I said, it’s an unpretentious eatery.’

To his relief, she saw the charm in the old-fashioned inn. ‘I love it. It’s the sort of place where you just know the food is going to be excellent.’

‘There’s not much choice. Not any choice, really. We eat whatever Signora Giordano has concocted from what was fresh in the market today. And we drink the wine from Signor Giordano’s father’s vineyard,’ Aidan added, as the proprietor approached with a terracotta jug and two thick glasses. ‘How are you, signor ?’ he asked, in Italian.

‘God has spared me for another day,’ Signor Giordano replied in his usual lugubrious manner, his attention fixed on Aidan’s guest. ‘ Signorina , you have brought the sunshine into our dining room this afternoon.’

He flicked a cloth over the already clean-scrubbed wooden table, before pouring the wine and rattling off the day’s menu, beaming when Estelle asked for clarification, beaming even more widely when she smiled her approval.

‘Your command of Italian is a great deal better than you led me to believe,’ Aidan said when they were finally left alone with a basket of crusty bread, a dish of Tuscan olive oil and a platter of pinzimonio , raw vegetables which today included red peppers, cucumbers, radish and chicory.

Surveying the platter hungrily, Estelle merely shrugged. ‘In essence Italian, French and Spanish are very similar.’ She picked up a baton of peeled cucumber, salted it and dipped it in the olive oil before biting into it. ‘Everything here tastes of sunshine.’

The oil glistened on her mouth. Fascinated, Aidan watched as she picked up her wine glass, took a sip, licked her full bottom lip, then carefully selected a slice of pepper, repeating the process. It had been so long since he’d experienced any sort of desire, it took him a moment to recognise it for what it was. Her kisses would taste of olive oil and wine. Making love to her would be a feast of sensation, a long, lingering delight of soft, giving flesh and hot, hungry lips and caressing hands. Not a duty. Not a means to a desperate end. A pleasure, pure and simple.

‘Aren’t you hungry?’

Appalled by the carnal turn his thoughts had taken, Aidan grabbed a piece of bread and tore it in half, sweat prickling his back, the physical proof of his desire pressing uncomfortably against his leg. ‘Pacing myself,’ he muttered, taking a swig of wine.

‘Affettati misti.’ Signor Giordano presented the next platter with a flourish. ‘Buon appetite.’

‘Salami with fennel,’ Aidan deduced, inspecting the platter. ‘More salami, that one with green peppercorns. Prosciutto , naturally, and some bresaola , which is smoked beef— signora is serving us some real delicacies. May I help you to some?’

‘You may help me to a little of all of it, thank you. How on earth did you discover this place? I would never have found it. Do you think they will mind if I come back alone?’