Marguerite Kaye - The Truth Behind Their Practical Marriage

‘Judging by Signor Giordano’s reaction to you, I’d wager he’d happily keep the best table in the house free each and every day in the hope that you might turn up. It’s the same in Café Piccioli where you have your breakfast. Did you know that the waiter reserves your seat for you? I saw him yesterday, before you arrived, shooing someone away who dared to sit down at your preferred table.’

‘I didn’t realise. I expect I over-tip hugely.’

‘I expect that they would give you your coffee and pastry for free, simply to have you gracing the premises.’

Estelle coloured. ‘I wish you wouldn’t say things like that. Do you think I play on my appearance to get preferential treatment?’

‘Of course not.’

She took a draught of her wine, placing the glass carefully on the table before fixing him with a firm gaze. ‘I am not a piece of art to be stared and gawked at, you know.’

Wondering what particular nerve he had inadvertently hit, Aidan was surprised into a bark of laughter. ‘I meant it as a compliment.’ Seeing her unconvinced, he risked covering her hands with his own, across the table. ‘You’re right to reprimand me, though I stand by what I said. Your beauty is quite dazzling, and whether you like it or not, people will be drawn to—to gawk at you. But I didn’t invite you to lunch because I wanted to bask in your shadow. I was enjoying our conversation, and I wanted to get to know you better. It’s the truth, Estelle, and if you don’t believe me, ask yourself why I brought you here and not shown you off in one of the ristorante where the great and the good eat. Look around you. You will attract a few fleeting glances, but once the food is on the table, that’s all people here are interested in.’

She smiled reluctantly. ‘In that case, I shall eat here every day.’

‘Don’t you mind eating alone?’

‘I’d become accustomed to it at Elmswood Manor. That is—was—my home in England.’

‘It sounds very grand.’

‘Some of it dates back to the reign of William and Mary, though it’s been much adapted and altered over the years.’

‘Have you lived in England long, then?’

Estelle, who had been staring down at her plate, frowning, stared at him blankly, so that he repeated his question. ‘Since I was fifteen. I don’t mind,’ she added, ‘eating alone—that’s what you asked me—I don’t mind it. I much prefer it, in fact, to eating with strangers.’

‘And once again,’ he said, wondering what she’d really being thinking about, ‘that’s put me in my place.’

Estelle’s frown cleared. ‘I don’t mean you—though you are undeniably a stranger to me. Isn’t it odd, I feel as if I’ve known you for far longer than an hour or so. But then that’s most likely because I’ve talked more to you in this last hour or so than to anyone since I left England—made conversation, I mean, proper conversation, as opposed to the usual pleasantries about the weather.’

‘Would you believe me if I told you I feel the same?’

‘Surely you have made some friends here, after all this time?’

‘Some of my fellow mathematicians are amenable enough. But I’ve preferred my own company, by and large,’ Aidan confessed, surprising himself. ‘Until now.’

‘So have I,’ Estelle said. ‘Until now.’

A tense little silence ensued, as they smiled awkwardly, their hands resting on the table, just a few inches from each other. He wanted to touch her. Just to cover her hand with his, as he’d done a moment ago. It was almost as if he was compelled to touch her, drawn to her, as he had been from the moment he’d first set eyes on her.

‘Finito?’

Estelle started at the proprietor’s interruption, snatching her hands from the table. As Signor Giordano whipped away the empty plates with a flourish, she tried to collect her thoughts. What had just happened there? She realised it wasn’t just Aidan’s conversation she was enjoying, it was him. She hadn’t ever felt like this before, but there was no mistaking it for what it was—attraction, and a very visceral, intense one at that, which was unmistakably reciprocated.

‘Stracciatella,’ Signor Giordan announced, setting the bowls down. ‘Egg soup made with beef stock and thickened with ground almonds.’

Estelle picked up her spoon. ‘It smells delicious.’

‘Delicious,’ Aidan echoed.

He smiled, and her tummy gave an odd little lurch in response. She smiled back foolishly, and their gazes held for a long moment, long enough for her tummy to flutter again, for her skin to prickle with heat. ‘I must write this receipt down for my sister,’ Estelle said, because she felt she had to say something. For heaven’s sake, he really wasn’t at all handsome. Though he did have the most irresistible smile. ‘Do you have any siblings?’

‘I have one older sister, Clodagh. She seems to think that gives her the right to organise my life, despite the fact that she has a husband and three children of her own.’

‘But you adore her, really, don’t you?’

‘Oh, yes.’ Aidan grinned. ‘Never more so than when we’re a thousand miles apart. Actually, I don’t mean that. She has my best interests at heart, it’s just that…’

‘Her idea of what that constitutes and yours don’t necessarily align?’

‘There speaks the voice of experience. Is—remind me of your eldest sister’s name?—is she cast in the same mould?’

‘Eloise. And, yes, she is, in a way, though I can’t blame her, for she had to stand in for our mother practically from the moment Phoebe and I were born.’

‘Clodagh had to step into the breach too. Our mother died when I was a babe, not more than two years old. I hardly remember her.’

‘Do you see much of her?’

His face clouded. ‘Not so much these days. She has three boys to raise, so she has enough on her plate. I tend to leave her to it. She lives just outside Wicklow, about fifty miles from Cashel Duairc.’

‘Cashel Doo-ark?’ Estelle mouthed, frowning. ‘Dark Castle?’

‘Brooding, or gloomy, would be a more accurate translation, though the name refers to a previous castle on the site.’

‘Is it your home, then? Do you actually live in a proper castle?’

‘Oh, yes, replete with a lake and turrets, battlements and even a dungeon. Pretty much everything save a moat.’

‘And a resident ghost, no doubt?’

The wine he had been pouring slopped on to the table as his hand suddenly shook. Aidan set the jug down, mopping up the mess with his napkin. ‘Too many to mention.’ He took a draught of wine. ‘Ah good, here comes our next course,’ he said with palpable relief.

‘Pappardelle sulla lepre,’ Signor Giordano announced with a reverence which was entirely justified by the aroma rising from the plate, the gamey smell of hare mingling with wine, garlic and tomatoes.

Aidan was embarrassed, she decided. A mathematician ought not to believe in ghosts, but his dark and gloomy castle obviously harboured something that defied logic and reason. She longed to question him, but she didn’t want to embarrass him further. Picking up her fork and spoon, the first mouthful of the hare ragu made her forget all about ghosts. Her toes curled with pleasure. ‘Delizioso . ’

‘I couldn’t agree more,’ Aidan said, smiling once again, raising his glass.

‘You haven’t even tasted it yet.’

‘I wasn’t referring to the dish.’

‘Food can be delicious, wine can be delicious, but you can’t describe a person as delicious, that’s ridiculous.’ Though what was ridiculous, Estelle told herself, was to blush at such an odd compliment.