Sara Craven - Promise Of The Unicorn

As the youngest ever chairman of the Marchese bank, Angelo spent a lot of his time jetting between the various capital cities of the world, and it was London’s turn to suffer one of his periodic descents.

Even so, Sophie had not seriously considered seeking him out until she’d heard her stepfather mention casually over dinner the night before that he himself would be away from the bank for the entire day, attending some financial conference in the Midlands. It had really seemed to Sophie as if fate was giving her a nudge, and so she’d swallowed pride and misgivings alike, and caught the first train to London after breakfast.

And much good it had done her, she thought crossly. She might as well have stayed quietly at home, and relied on trying to snatch a private moment with Angelo when he attended her parents’ wedding anniversary party in a few days time.

Except that would probably have been harder than trying to get to him here, she knew. Wherever Angelo visited, he was invariably the guest of honour, and there would be many people ahead of her in the queue to monopolise his attention, even for a few minutes.

Under normal circumstances, Sophie would have crossed streets to keep out of Angelo’s way. At their first meeting nine years ago at her parents’ wedding, she’d been frankly in awe of this tall, rather aloof young man with his aquiline features and hooded eyes. The Marchese bank had been lending money to the whole of Europe since the days of Lorenzo the Magnificent, and Sophie had no difficulty in translating Angelo into silks and velvets, with a pearl in his ear and a dagger in his hand, she thought vengefully.

And then, for a while, her view of him had changed, after the day he’d arrived unexpectedly at their country house at Bishops Wharton and found her crying on the terrace steps.

She couldn’t even remember at this distance what her tears had been about. Probably her mother had sensibly put paid to some particularly blatant piece of spoiling on John’s part, and she was bewailing the fact. And then suddenly Angelo was sitting beside her, regardless of moss, or dust or dead leaves, his arm round her, his voice calling her ‘ mia cara ’ and asking what the matter was.

As if it was yesterday, she could remember the silky glide of his sleeve under her cheek as he comforted her, that indefinable air of arrogant command she had sensed subdued for once, as she sobbed out some halting explanation. Remembered, too, the faint scent of his cologne, a subtle musky fragrance he still used, although these days she took care not to get too close, and which had clung to the immaculate white handkerchief he had used to dry her tears.

If he’d been secretly amused by the desolate picture she presented, at least he’d kept it to himself. His usually cool drawl had been oddly gentle as he’d soothed her, telling her there was nothing in her world worth the shedding of a single tear, and that in a day or two she would have forgotten all about it. She’d sat in the circle of his arm, almost mesmerised by the sound of his voice, until at last, worn out with emotion, she’d fallen asleep.

And then, a few days later, a package had arrived addressed to her, and when she’d removed the layers of padded wrapping, she’d discovered to her delight a small glass unicorn, and a note.

She was a Marchese now, Angelo had written, and the unicorn was part of the Marchese family crest. In addition, it was a pledge between them. If Sophie would promise not to cry anymore over trifles, then, one day, when she found something she wanted with all her heart, she could return the unicorn to him, and he would help get it for her, if he could.

Barbara Marchese had disregarded the note, but her brows had risen when she looked at the unicorn Sophie held so proudly. ‘John—it’s Venetian glass, and terribly old. Is Angelo mad? Sophie will break it.’

‘I don’t think so.’ John Marchese had fondly stroked his stepdaughter’s fair hair. ‘Will you, Sophie?’

Mutely, she’d shaken her head. Nor had she. She’d treasured the unicorn, and Angelo had become her god. She’d hero-worshipped him openly, trying vainly to think of something she wanted enough to fulfil the terms of their bargain, because it was so much like a fairy tale, and she wanted the magic to happen there and then.

But gradually, as the years passed, her attitude had changed again, as she began to perceive Angelo not as hero, but as a man, powerful, incredibly attractive and sexually charismatic, and started to make sense of the items she read in gossip columns about him.

She supposed she’d been unutterably naïve, but she’d been at boarding school a couple of years before she finally realised from the frank remarks of some of the senior girls exactly what Angelo’s relationship was with these ‘constant companions’ who appeared and disappeared in his life with such monotonous regularity. And it had been a shock to find that her prince—her fairy godfather—was in fact avidly fancied by many of her contemporaries.

‘Lucky Sophie,’ Camilla Liddell had gloated. She was older than Sophie would ever be, with sleepy knowing eyes. ‘Does beautiful cousin Angelo let little Sophie sit on his knee and cuddle him?’ She’d smiled maliciously at Sophie’s sudden flush, and added some suggestions which had made her skin crawl with disgust.

That night, in her cubicle, she’d cried herself to sleep, the covers over her head so as not to disturb the others, because something precious had been destroyed forever. And when she went home at half term, she’d almost expected to find the unicorn in shining fragments on the floor. It was some small consolation to find it still intact, but nothing was ever the same again. From that day onwards, she was on her guard, and as Angelo himself seemed to have withdrawn to a distance when they next met, the gulf between them had remained virtually unbridgeable ever since.

And that was why she’d hesitated so long about approaching him now, Sophie thought, winding a strand of her pale hair round her finger, as she often did when worried by something. Because it seemed the promise of the unicorn might have been made between two different people altogether—or, indeed, never happened at all—a figment of her childish imagination.

Except that the proof of it was there in her handbag—the unicorn itself, tissue-wrapped and tangible. But would he even remember it? And couldn’t this attempt to enlist his help simply turn into another item on the long list of the times she’d made a fool of herself in front of Angelo?

She groaned inwardly. Maybe it would be better to yield to circumstances and creep away quietly.

‘Sophie?’ A man’s voice, tinged with amazement. ‘My dear, what on earth are you doing here? John isn’t in today. Surely you knew that?’

Sophie glanced up, recognising Leonard Grant, who was deputy in her stepfather’s department.

She swallowed, meeting his puzzled gaze. ‘Actually, it was Angelo I wanted to see. I—I didn’t realise I needed an appointment.’

Leonard gave her a sympathetic smile. ‘Well, as you can imagine, the staff here have strict orders to keep pretty girls who come here asking for Angelo at bay. But that wouldn’t apply to you. You’re family, after all. Didn’t you tell them that? Didn’t John tell you what to do?’

‘Er, no.’ Sophie looked down at the tiled floor. ‘As a matter of fact, he doesn’t know I’m here. You see,’ she added, improvising wildly. ‘It’s a secret—a secret about the anniversary party.’

‘I see.’ Leonard patted her shoulder. ‘Well, in that case I’ll have to see what I can do. I’m sure Angelo could spare you a moment, under the circumstances.’

She watched him go. Well, she was committed now. It was like getting on a roller coaster and wishing you hadn’t, but knowing just the same there was no getting off.