THE END
Following is an excerpt from ALL SHE WANTS FOR CHRISTMAS by CLARE CONNELLY.
CHAPTER ONE
IT WAS SO, SO much worse than she’d anticipated.
Elizabeth couldn’t help the gasp of horror that escaped her lips as she slowly cast her lavender blue eyes over the now-dilapidated ruins of the once-grand Bashir Hall.
“Oh, Marianne,” she said weakly, pressing her manicured fingers into her mother-in-law’s forearm. “I can’t believe it.”
Marianne, to her credit, maintained her effortless expression of poise. Not a single hair in her elegantly styled chignon was out of place. “I’m afraid it’s quite a state, darling. Nothing that can’t be fixed, with time, of course.”
Elizabeth’s laugh was manic. “Time? What time? Oh, God! The Ball is in less than a month. I have sponsors coming out of my backside, A-list guests from all over Europe confirmed to attend, and a venue that’s almost completely burned to a crisp.”
Lady Marianne Sanderson lowered her darkly tinted Gucci sunglasses onto her face. It had less to do with shielding her eyes from the cold late November wind that was buffeting the whole of Somersetshire, and more to do with needing a disguise for her inspection. Her late son’s wife (even now, almost five years after his death, it was still impossible to think of dear Alastair as ‘late’.), Bessie, was looking thin. Too thin. She’d always erred on the side of ethereal, wispy beauty, but there was a frailty to her now that brought a small frown to Marianne’s pink lips.
With her Danish heritage, Elizabeth was as stunningly beautiful as always. Even in the depths of one of the coldest British winters on record, her skin had a honey glow to it. Her eyes were the brightest blue she’d ever seen, and her hair, naturally as blonde as gold, she wore long. Marianne supposed it was fashionable, but it looked like it would take a lot of effort to keep it so beautifully maintained, and yet Elizabeth never failed to look elegant and somehow neat, despite the long, hair that fell half way down her back in big, loose waves. No, it was the slender figure that worried Marianne. Life as a single parent was wearing her daughter in law down, and she worried now that she should have been doing more to help.
“You’ve taken on so much, Bess. Are you sure you won’t relinquish some of the organisational control?”
Elizabeth glared at Marianne with staunch, ferocious pride, as Marianne had known she would. “No. This is Alastair’s legacy, and nobody but me is qualified to oversee it.” A becoming blush hinted at her cheeks, as she added, quickly, “Except you and Rupert, of course.” Her parents in law were the only people in the world who felt Alastair’s loss as keenly as she did. The only people who still grieved his passing as though it were a fresh hurt. Even Rose, their beautiful daughter, thought of Alastair as a being of fascination rather than affection. He was an abstract concept. The man who had given her life, but who she had never known. His photograph was beside her bed, and she was told stories of him every night, before falling into the land of nod, but she’d never heard his laugh. Never seen the way his whole face lit up with mirth as he launched scathing reviews of the political pieces in the weekend Guardian. The very kernel of vitality that had died with Alastair was missed most by three people, and Elizabeth was one of them.
“I’ll sort it out,” she said with a confidence she was far from feeling. Her eyes scanned the stately home once more, arresting on a badly charred beam across the sixteenth century tiled floor.
Marianne hated being the bearer of bad news, or at least reality, but she was forced to tuck her hand through the crook of Elizabeth’s designer-coat clad elbow now. She tapped on it slowly, warningly. “It’s a disaster, Bess. It will take a lot of time to repair. The damage is structural, and it’s through the whole darn place.”
Elizabeth nodded. “I know.” She threw the older woman a small smile then turned to survey the country fields that had long-surrounded the estate. “There’s always a marquee…”
“On Christmas Eve? Your guests will not thank you, dearest.” Marianne grimaced at the very thought. In the four years since its inception, The Alastair Sanderson Ball had become a premiere event on the society calendar. It was an affair that was synonymous with glamour and style, comfort and country charm. A marquee on a snow-drenched field would simply not do.
“What a dratted mess,” Elizabeth commented unnecessarily, and it was such a close approximation of Alastair’s well-worn expression that Marianne couldn’t help but smile.
“We’d been meaning to replace the wires for years,” Marianne observed, stepping away from Elizabeth to inspect a tumble of blackened electricity cables.
“I should have done it,” Elizabeth demurred. “It just felt strange to change a damned thing about the place now Al’s gone. Stupid sentimentality. Can you imagine how cross he’d be?” She winced. “He loved this place.”
“He loved you, Elizabeth, and you know as well as I do that he could never have been cross with you.”
It was a fact. Alastair and Elizabeth’s relationship had been one of calm respect and an affection borne out of the deepest friendship. They’d never quarrelled. Neither had so much as raised their voices at the other. It had been a perfect union, but for the terribly short duration.
“Well, I’m sure he’d have pointed out how ludicrous I was being to put off making any changes to his beloved Bashir House.” She shivered as a gust of freezing cold tore through the home, making a pane of glass rattle precariously in its sooty frame. “Marianne, let’s go. I’m not sure we’re safe here.”
To underscore her point, a section of the wall at the other end of the parlour crumbled and fell to the flagstone floor, spreading chalky dust throughout.
“Right you are, dearest.” Marianne nodded, linking arms with her daughter in law once more and moving quickly towards the opening. The tape left by the first responders to the blaze was still strung along the perimeter of the home, and Elizabeth lifted it gingerly, waiting for Marianne to ease herself underneath it before following suit.
Outside, the weather was even wilder than when they’d arrived. The sky was thick with heavy grey clouds, and rain was surely not far off.
Marianne’s jet-black Range Rover was only a stone’s throw from the house; Elizabeth’s convertible just behind it.
“A fleet of lovely little cars at your disposal, and I still can’t believe this is the car you choose to drive,” Elizabeth teased as Marianne climbed into the beast of a thing.
“If it’s good enough for Her Royal Highness, it’s certainly fine for me.”
Elizabeth’s grin changed her whole face, making it seem lit with a thousand bulbs somehow. “Yes, it’s just so very big, and you’re so very… neat.”
Marianne shrugged her slender shoulders. “I like it. You should see the way people get out of my way on the Motorway.”
Elizabeth shook her head with a rueful laugh. “You’re turning into a hoon, I know it. The next thing you’ll be telling me, you’ve lined up to watch a filming of Top Gear.”
“Top what, darling?”
Elizabeth shook her head, distractedly. “Just a show.” But now, her attention was firmly elsewhere. Elizabeth could have saddled up a multi-coloured unicorn for all she cared. In the distance, she could see dark plumes of smoke rising. There was only one other house for miles; perhaps the only house grander than Bashir House. In fact, its proportions and lineage had made Bashir House look like a servants’ hall, at times.
“Marianne, didn’t you tell me cranky old whatsisface had sold Ravens Manor?”
Marianne cast her eyes towards the palatial home. “Yes. About a year ago.”
Elizabeth leaned through the window, her eyes earnest. “Who to?”
Marianne pressed her lips together in a gesture Elizabeth knew meant she disapproved. “An Italian chap, I believe. Hell bent on destroying the grounds, and himself, by all accounts. He’s turned the old horse paddocks into a race track for his Italian speed cars. You can imagine how the locals view him.�
� She shrugged. “I can’t quite bring his name to mind, darling, but you’d know him, of course. He’s one of those stinking rich old-money types. I think the family business is shipping, or real estate, or something. Darn it, why can’t I recall?”
“His name doesn’t matter,” Elizabeth breathed on a whoosh of excited realisation. “Don’t you see? Ravens Manor could accommodate our affair. It’s gorgeous, grand and enormous. It’s near enough that none of the guests and suppliers will be too inconvenienced by the transfer. It’s perfect!”
“You’re forgetting that it belongs to someone else. What if he doesn’t want five hundred strangers trampling through his gardens and home on Christmas Eve? Most people don’t, you know, Bess.”
Elizabeth waved her hand through the air, causing her diamond bangle to make a tinkling noise. “That’s not important. I’m sure he’ll come around once he understands the importance of the work we do.”
Marianne scanned her daughter in law’s face dubiously. She really was incredibly beautiful, even more stunning than she knew, for Elizabeth didn’t have a vain bone in her perfectly honed body. At twenty-six, she was older now, and wiser, than the joyous twenty year old Alastair had brought home. Life had given her some hard knocks, as it had done them all, but there was an irrepressible sweetness in her nature that conveyed itself through her sparkling eyes, and full, pink lips that were always quick to turn up at the edges in a captivating hint of a smile.
“I’m sure you’ll persuade him, Bess. Only take care. The word around the village is that he’s quite a prickly sort. Not at all well-tempered. You might have your work cut out for you.”
“I don’t care. It’s important. I’ll make it work.”
And, as Marianne watched Elizabeth slip into her bright red sports car, waving her slender hand out the window in a gesture of farewell, she was absolutely sure that the young woman would achieve it. Her tenacity was never in doubt, particularly when it came to honouring Alastair’s memory. Marianne just hoped remembering wasn’t all the living that Elizabeth was capable of doing these days.
A young woman of twenty-six needed more in life than the grief and tragedy of burying a spouse.
*
The housekeeper at Ravens Manor was every bit as imposing as such a house deserved. The woman was tall and wiry, with round-rimmed spectacles perched on the tip of her autocratic nose. Her skin, so pale it was luminescent, was covered in a road map of spidery veins, and her grey hair was dragged up into a severe top knot. Her eyes, dark brown and suspicious, raked over Elizabeth in a style that was clearly designed to intimidate.
She got the message. Intruders were not expected, and certainly not welcome.
Despite having grown up in a perfectly ordinary middle-class family, marriage to dear Alastair, or Lord Sanderson to the rest of the world, had given her five years of pretending to fit in with these hoity toity snobs. She dressed the part, not because she particularly liked getting around in expensive suits and dresses, but because it aided her charity work if she seemed able to parry on a level with the country’s elite. Besides, Alastair had left her with a disgusting fortune in a Swiss bank account. Only the thought of Rosie’s future kept her from giving it all to his foundation.
Elizabeth returned the housekeeper’s impertinent inspection, slowly moving her stormy blue eyes from the tip of the woman’s lacquered, flat shoes, up her stockinged legs, so slender they were almost skin and bone, to the drab house coat and apron, finally arresting on the older woman’s face.
“I’m here to see the owner.”
The housekeeper’s lips twisted in a small, sceptical smile. “The Signore does not like to be disturbed.”
Elizabeth knew how he felt. She loathed unexpected company. Her home life and time with Rose were sacrosanct. She felt a pang of compunction, and might have backed off, but the ball was just around the corner and she needed to discover an alternative venue.
“It is important. Please go and advise him that Lady Sanderson would like a moment of his time.”
The Sandersons had held a country seat in the area for centuries, and the name engendered great respect in the local community. Elizabeth did not mind invoking it now. The effect was immediate. Cranky Housekeeper actually forced a smile through her thin lips, making a small hiss of approval at the same time. “Lady Sanderson, of course. Won’t you come in and wait? It’s frightfully cold this afternoon.”
Elizabeth didn’t lower her defences. Lady Sanderson was the part she had assumed, and she needed to maintain her character. Though her feet were pinched in the slim Louboutin heels she’d slipped on that morning, she didn’t so much as wince as she strode confidently into the magnificent entrance hall.
And it was magnificent.
Truly, unmistakably extravagant.
If she had to guess, she’d say the recent acquisition of the property had led to extensive renovations and repairs. Everything gleamed with a shiny newness, despite the fact the home had been, in part, constructed under the reign of Henry the VIII.
“Signore Casacelli has undertaken the remodelling of the home. Where possible, the architect has retained original features, but much of the interior has been replaced. Though with the greatest sensitivity to the period and décor that is appropriate, of course.”
“Of course,” Elizabeth agreed quietly, running her hand over the intricately carved timber banister at the base of the wide staircase.
“If you’ll excuse me, Lady Sanderson, I’ll go and advise the Signore that you’re here.”
“Yes, thank you.”
Elizabeth’s throat was parched, and she didn’t have anything with her. She swallowed, and realised that she was actually nervous. If this Signore Casacelli denied her request, then she’d really be in a spot. She ran her fingers down the white leather pencil skirt she was wearing and straightened her coat. She couldn’t resist fluffing her hair with her fingers, too. She wanted to look her best when meeting this man who held the future of this year’s Gala in his hands.
“Who are you?” She spun around, inexplicably guilty, at the sound of the deep, accented question.
It must have been the mysterious Signore Casacelli, if the hovering housekeeper’s look of pride and awe was anything to go by.
A tiny voice in Elizabeth’s head was telling her not to stare, but her eyes didn’t seem to heed its warning. This man was quite possibly the most devastatingly handsome person in the entire history of the world. Even if he hadn’t been standing half way up the staircase, he would have had a height and physical strength worth noting. The fact he was wearing only a pair of snugly fitted denim jeans did little to ease the rampant way her heart was beating against her breast. The jeans were low-slung, and sat on his body like a second skin, displaying his long, muscled legs, and a bulge in his crotch region that she had to drag her eyes away from. But it got worse from there! His chest wasn’t flat and pale, it was all bronzed and sculptured, defined pecs that made her fingers tingle with a desire to touch. It was completely, terrifyingly unexpected.
She cleared her throat and moved her attention to his face, but even that was breath taking. Strong, angled cheekbones, a chin with a perfect dimple, curved, full lips and even white teeth, and eyebrows that seemed to frame his amber coloured eyes, making him look both imposing and desirable at the same time. His hair, she had to guess, would have been shoulder length, and wavy. It was hard to tell as he wore it pulled up in a loose topknot.
“I…” She tried to speak but her body, so reliably disinterested in the opposite sex, was having some kind of sensual meltdown in response to this veritable Greek God come to life.
“I said,” he spoke slowly, only a hint of amusement in his eyes at her obvious discomfort. “Who are you?”
“Who am I?” She frowned, running her fingers through her hair, combing it back from her face. The slightest hint of the fragrance of her shampoo travelled the distance to Antonio and he felt an odd kick of awareness at the scent of coconuts and limes.
&
nbsp; “Yes. And, more importantly, what do you want?”
Elizabeth blinked, trying to take control of her wayward senses. “Is there somewhere we can speak? In private?”
Antonio was intrigued. He’d fled to Ravens Manor to lick his wounds. It was the last place his brothers would think to look for him, given his famous hatred for the British winter, and what he wanted most in the world was to be alone. The shock of discovering his mother’s depth of deception had left him reeling, and adrift. Yet it had been a long time since he’d enjoyed the pleasure of a beautiful woman. Over a month, at least, since the shocking revelation that Umberto Casacelli, who had loved and raised him, had not actually been his father. He could think of worse things than being alone with this rather sexy woman for a while.
He watched from narrowed eyes as her fingers unconsciously toyed with the enormous diamond bauble she wore on her ring finger. He got it. She was married. Attractive, and married. And attracted to him. Just the kind of woman he should avoid.
If he had to use one word to describe her, it would be expensive. Everything from the hairstyle that screamed, ‘Beauty Salon Dishevelled’, to the clothes that were obviously from a high-end designer, to the six inch spike heels that made him wonder about what her height would be without them. He was intrigued by her, despite the fact warning bells were sounding in his mind.
“I’m hungry. Come into the kitchen and we can speak privately.”
The housekeeper, Agnes, who had come with the house, was hovering behind him. Presumably she thought it a discreet distance, but her presence, always lingering, obsequiously waiting to be of service, was starting to wear thin.
“You’re not needed, thank you,” he addressed her coolly.
“Yes, sir.” She disappeared so swiftly and silently, he wondered if she was actually a little bit magical.
Antonio took the steps slowly, and Elizabeth watched. Her whole body was alert and energized, as though an electrical current was running just beneath her skin. Once he reached the hallway, he moved towards her. In fact, he stood so close that his naked torso was brushing against the expensive wool of her coat.
The Tycoon's Secret Baby: Forbidden lust. One stolen night. A secret baby! Page 16
